He couldn't leave her on the street. He couldn't take her to a hospital. She wasn't dying, just heavily intoxicated, and the paparazzi would have a field day with the admission records. He had exactly one option left. Owenhailed another cab.
He shoved her inside, gave the driver his own address, and pulled his phone out to text Brenda. "Running late. Keep the meter running. I have your cash. " He looked at Evelyn. She was out cold again.
The CEO of his company was currently drooling slightly on the vinyl seat of a taxi, headed toward a neighborhood she probably didn't know existed. "You're going to fire me for this tomorrow," Owen muttered to himself. He leaned his head against the window and watched the glittering skyline fade into the gritty neon lit streets of his reality. Owen's apartment building was a brick structure that hadn't seen a renovation since the late '9s. It smelled perpetually of boiled cabbage and industrial floor cleaner.
He lived on the second floor, a walk up because the elevator had been broken for 6 months. Getting Evelyn up the narrow carpeted stairs took 10 minutes of grueling physical labor. She wasn't fighting him, but her body was dead weight. He practically carried her up the last flight, his muscles burning. He unlocked his door and pushed it open.
"Hey, Mr. Davies," Brenda whispered from the small kitchenet. She was a college student in sweatpants, packing up her laptop. "Hey, Brenda, sorry I'm late. " Owen dragged Evelyn inside and deposited her roughly onto the faded brown sofa in the center of the living room. Brenda's eyes widened, taking in the barefoot woman in the torn emerald gown.
"Is she okay? " "She had a rough night," Owen said, pulling his wallet out. He handed Brenda two $20 bills and a five. It was all the paper money he had to his name. My asleep okay. Out like a light.
Coughing stopped around 9. Brenda pocketed the cash, still staring at Evelyn, who was now muttering into the sofa cushions. Do you need me to? No. Go home, Brenda.
It's late. Text me when you get back safe. As the front door clicked shut, the apartment fell dead silent, save for the hum of the ancient refrigerator. Owen stood in the middle of the room, loosening his tie. He looked at the billionaire on his couch.
His living room was littered with Maya's crayons, a plastic dinosaur, and a stack of overdue utility bills on the coffee table. Evelyn Mercer did not belong here. It looked like a museum exhibit had been dropped into a landfill. Suddenly, Evelyn shot up from the couch, her hands clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with panic.
Owen pointed down the short hallway. First door on the right. She bolted. Owen heard the bathroom door slam, followed immediately by the harsh, violent sound of her being sick. He sighed, rubbing his temples.
He walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of tap water, and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet. He waited 10 minutes. The sounds in the bathroom eventually stopped, replaced by the sound of the sink running. Owen walked down the hall and knocked on the door. "Miss Mercer, go away! " came a horse miserable voice.