Criminal // Fiona Apple

Using the fob Emily gave me, I open her garage door and pull my car under the house. I was right. My Charger looks like shit next to her high end vehicles. I'm glad she doesn't have a McLaren or some outrageous Bugatti. Then I'd really look like a fool parking my ten year old car next to her million dollar baby.

I take a second to breathe, gripping my steering wheel as tight as possible to relieve tension. I'm tied in fucking knots and I shouldn't be. I'm a professional. This is a job, not my life. It's temporary.

I can do this.

Of course, I wouldn't be this stressed if Emily hadn't started the rumor train with her tweet last night. Hashtag No more lonely nights my ass.

Blowing out a deep breath, I exit my vehicle and grab my shit, two duffel bags and a backpack. I press the button on the elevator leading upstairs and wait.

And wait.

And fucking wait.

What the hell? I've pushed the thing sixty times and nothing. The doors don't open and I don't hear any gears grinding to bring the car down. Silence.

Not knowing what else to do, I grab the remote fob and open the garage door. I drag my bags up to the street level then climb the front steps to literally knock on Emily's door. I don't have her phone number. Guess old mother dearest doesn't want Emily getting up in my DMs. The mom never actually said that, but when we mentioned contact information, Anita Brooks gave us a look that screamed, absolutely fucking not. So now I have no way to contact the girl and tell her to open up. Walking to the front door is a risk, especially after our plan to keep me out of view for the next several days to deal with Emily's tendency to overshare on social media as evidenced by her text vomiting last night that she's getting a roommate.

Seriously, fuck my life.

But she's left me with no choice, no way inside that isn't within public view and no way to contact her. There isn't even an intercom device near the elevator. Odd considering her mother would never think of carrying her own bags up to the main floor, according to Emily herself. With no other options, I knock. Loudly.

Strangely enough, instead of an open door in response to my knock, my phone rings. And because I'm technically on the job already now that I'm at the house, I have my earpiece in place. I answer the call immediately, wondering if Emily somehow got my number and can't be bothered to open the door.

"Hello," I can't help the exasperation in my voice.

"Why are you knocking on the front door? This is supposed to be under wraps, not a display for the neighborhood's busy bodies." Clinton barks into the other end. "I thought we discussed damage control after Roomiegate last night."

"Are you on the CCTV watching me right now?"

"Obviously. You should have used the elevator."

I rub my face to keep from barking back at my boss. "I tried. Nothing happened and the elevator never came so I marched my stuff up the drive and to the front door." I bang on the door again, as hard as I can, refraining from shouting for the girl to let me in. That wouldn't be a good look either.

"She'll never hear you. She's out by the pool with her music blasting in her ears."

"Perfect. I guess I'm climbing the fence. Really putting the security to the test, aren't we?" Not to mention the potential public display if someone is watching. Those telephoto lenses today's photogs have are no joke.

Irritated beyond belief already while not even fully moved in or on the job, I drop my bags and step back, looking for a way inside.

"Go back down." Clinton sounds equally irritated. "I'll tap into her system and send the elevator down."

"You can do that?" I start to grab the bags again just as the front door swings open.

"Oh, it's you." Emily leans against the door jam, crossing her arms. "I wondered when my sentence would begin."

"Looks like she's got you," Clinton says in my ear before disconnecting.

It takes everything in my body, mind and soul not to react to what greets me at the door. Emily is in a teeny, tiny, black bikini with a matching mesh cover up draped over her shoulders, not doing its only job to cover her up.

"You disabled the elevator." I bend down to grab my stuff again. When I have everything and look up, I find a knowing smirk on Emily's face.

"Sure did."

"Why?"

She shrugs.

Shrugs.

What is wrong with her?

"You do realize that after last night and now this, you've created the exact issue we're trying to avoid, don't you?"

She finally steps aside to let me in. I'm struck once again by the enormous painting of her in the entryway, staring down at me. Succubus. I shudder.

"Who's we?" she laughs, passing me and walking up the staircase to the second floor. "I'm not trying to do anything. Just having a little fun. I was bored."

"Are you often bored?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the stairs and not on her bikini covered ass directly in my line of sight.

"Usually. Unless I'm filming."

I nod even though she's still got her back to me. My eyes are now on her delicate feet, red toenails padding down the hallway to her room as I follow.

"And is the result of boredom typically a provocative post to all of your followers?"

She turns her head slightly to glance back at me, a crooked smile on her red lips. Her hair is damp from the pool and piled on her head in one of those I-don't-care-how-I-look buns that always make the girl look hot.

"Maybe." Her voice sounds sultry, suggestive.

I swallow. My hands are full so I can't make the suddenly needed adjustment to my pants.

"See you around," Emily says as she slips into her bedroom. Her door shuts with a snick releasing me from the trance I was in.

I'm in so much fucking trouble.

***

By dinner time, I'm all unpacked. Settled in, on the other hand, will not be a thing during this assignment. I can't 'settle' in this house for multiple reasons. Meaning, I'm fighting a battle on two fronts: the public against Emily and Emily against herself.

How else should I describe this shit show? She's in self-destruct mode if I've ever seen it, and I'm completely unqualified to stop her. She needs a therapist. Or a team of them. I can only do so much. Wrestling her to keep her from posting her salacious shit is where I draw the line. If it comes to that, she's on her own. Self-destruct away, Princess. Not to mention that in every interaction I've had with her, I'm also fending off innuendo. Could be jokes, could be a hostile work environment. But with someone of her Hollywood status, I don't have the luxury of lobbing those accusations.

I'm tired from the move and shuffle of my belongings even though there was zero heavy lifting involved. I'm basically living the hotel life with the furnished room Emily had available. I figure I'll have a shelf in her fridge to keep my food, although her highness probably has a personal chef prepare all of her meals just so.

Although, there was nothing regarding a chef or much household staff, other than someone who comes in to clean, in our details so maybe she orders in her meals. Her assistant might be the one to take care of food orders, but Mrs. Brooks put the poor girl on temporary leave, unpaid. Which means I'll be doing the ordering because I've got to vet every interaction the girl has with other humans.

Now that I'm curious about the meal situation, and irritated that I didn't press the issue with Clinton when we worked on the details, I head downstairs to look through the kitchen. I'd rather use deductive reasoning than have another conversation with Emily. Once per day is more than enough if I can help it.

The room I picked overlooks the front of the house but the kitchen is at the back. I wander down the stairs and past the Succubus, which still gives me the chills, and through the main living areas of the house. The more I look around, the more I agree this house isn't Emily at all. It's cold and modern, more museum-like than home. The smooth surfaces of the kitchen, a mix of marble and metal, is the coldest of all.

Which is where I find Emily perched on the countertop eating a bowl of cereal, dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt–this one with a giant broken heart graphic on the front. I don't want to admit to myself how relieved I am that she's no longer in the bathing suit. And I guess the cereal answers my doordash question. She doesn't look as trashed as she did a few days ago but that might be due to the sunrays she caught laying out by the pool this morning.

Emily looks up from her bowl, a drop of milk on the edge of her lip, and winks.

Crossing my arms, I glance around the room but don't see any other food preparations in sight.

"Thought you didn't hang out in the kitchen."

"I don't, but a girl's gotta eat."

"What are you eating?" I'm curious about her choice of cereal. Sweet and sugary like a little kid? Simple Cheerios with sliced strawberries? Maybe granola with dried fruit. Cereal choice says a lot about a person if you think about it.

"Hmmm," she looks me up and down. Like mother, like daughter I guess. "I can think of something I'd like to eat but sadly it's not on the menu."

I fight the urge to turn and walk away. I'll never get this woman to follow protocol if I can't get her on my side. But what I'm about to say might cause more damage to the desired dynamic than leaving would.

"Sounds like something your mother might say."

Emily pales and shuts up, turning her focus back on her cereal. "Is that really so shocking? Doesn't everyone expect me to be just like her? Or more like her than I am?"

"No, princess, I don't think anyone expects you to be like her. In fact, I have a feeling most people hope you aren't." I meant my reaction to be condescending after the innuendo she made, but what I end up saying sounds more sympathetic than I planned.

Emily shoves a giant spoonful of food into her mouth, chewing as she stares off into the distance. Her modern kitchen overlooks the backyard pool and a surprising view of the ocean, considering our distance from the shore and the other buildings I figured would obstruct it.

"I know most people tremble in her wake," Emily says after swallowing her food. "But I actually prefer dealing with her compared to most people."

I recognize this window for what it is. She's opening up to me. Which kind of shocks me because I'm no one she trusts yet. But at the same time, she puts literally everything out there on social media. Why should I be surprised when on day one in her home she tells me like it is.

I lean against the counter across from her, silently encouraging her to continue speaking. She releases a deep breath and does just that.

"I can predict the outcome with her. No surprises there, as opposed to every other human on the planet who throws me for a loop constantly. I know I'll feel shitty after dealing with Mother dearest, so I'm not shocked when I do."

Holy shit. "Sounds awful."

She chuckles before grabbing another bite. While chewing, she hops off the counter and moves through the open patio doors before plopping onto the closest lounge chair.

"I guess you have to understand the disorder timeline to get it," she says, throwing her arms over her head and closing her eyes.

"What's a disorder timeline?"

She peeks at me through one eye before squeezing them shut again.

"Every Hollywood kid has one. First there's an eating disorder, because children in the industry are either too fat or way too fat. No one's fine just how they are, right?" She ticks off a finger, "So you start weekly therapy, which turns to twice a week when you're still too fat. Then there's the obligatory stint at a 'rehab facility' if that's what you could call it."

Emily ticks another finger. "Religious awakening, legal plot for conservatorship." She opens her eyes and looks at me. "Mine happened to coincide with a petition for emancipation from my legal guardian—aka Mother Dearest. Denied." She throws both hands up. "But so was hers. So now, my inheritance is tied to my good behavior and the lack of relative scandal."

"Literally a scandal with one of your relatives?" I ask because with this family, especially with who Emily's mom is, I could see it.

But Emily shakes her head. "There's an acceptable scandal, and then there's me. It's all relative."

Without another word, Emily slides out of the lounge chair, grabs her now soggy bowl of cereal and heads upstairs.

While I'm left wondering if I just met the real Emily.

Let the games begin...the cohabitation olympics! Javier has his hands full, but trust me so does Emily. I'm buzzing for their drama, and you will too.

When I was listening to alt girl rockers, this specific song hit different and screamed Emily (through Javier's eyes) and cohabitation day is the perfect fit.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

See you soon!!