by Cassia Leo
I cover my mouth and nose as I stare at the guy on the toilet. Normally, seeing an addict slumped over after a fix would not alarm me. Nodding off immediately after a large dose is just another day in the life of a heroin junkie. But this guy didn't nod off. This guy is dead. And it’s not only his gray skin that’s a dead giveaway.
Death has an odor.
The warm, coppery fragrance of fresh blood can trigger flashbacks for people who’ve survived gruesome assaults. But the odor of death, that vaguely acidic and sickly sweet smell, sticks to the inside of your nostrils and embeds itself in your memory.
My father died of a heroin overdose eleven years ago, but I remember the day I found him in the garage, slumped over in the driver’s seat of his truck as if it were yesterday because I’ll never forget the smell.
I should call Danny Hefner’s suite, or the receptionist at the front desk, to report this unfortunate event before the stench intensifies. But the curious thing lying on the bathroom floor stops me.
The silver hard-shell suitcase the guy brought into the suite with him is open, and I’m staring at stacks of what appears to be at least a couple hundred thousand dollars cash. On top of the money lies a plastic bag filled with unopened hypodermic needles and mini Ziploc baggies of black tar heroin.
Glancing at the guy’s face, my stomach clenches as the congealed vomit in the corner of his mouth is dislodged. A yellow chunk mixed in with some saliva dribbles down his cheek and disappears inside his ear canal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to picture my father’s mottled gray skin as I decide what to do.
I can leave the drugs in the bathroom — incontrovertible evidence of what killed this guy — and walk out of Area 69 with the suitcase. My Ford F-150 is parked near the back exit.
It’s a Monday night. This place isn’t exactly hopping with sexually repressed husbands tonight. I already have a fake ID, and this junkie paid for me until eight a.m. That’s eleven and a half hours from now. By then, I could be in New Mexico…assuming I don’t stop to sleep.
What am I thinking? I can’t steal hundreds of thousands of dollars from a dead stranger. This man has a family.
Oh, God. A family… What if this is mob money?
If I steal this much money from a crime syndicate, there’s no turning back. I’ll have to leave my entire life behind. No more contact with any of my friends or family for the rest of my life. For a few hundred thousand dollars?
No. I can’t leave everything behind. I have to stay in Vegas and help my mom get clean, even if she did kick me out on my ass like yesterday’s trash. It’s the drugs that have turned her against me. She wasn’t like this before Dad died.
I open my eyes and stare at the suitcase.
I can’t force my mother to get clean. She has to decide to do that herself.
A soft sob escapes my lips and reverberates against my hands as I keep my mouth covered.
I’ve been waiting for my mom to clean up her act since I was fifteen. Seven years of lies, evictions, and harassment from her creepy boyfriends and she’s no closer to getting sober than I am to paying off my student loans.
I’m tired of waiting for her to take rehab seriously.
I’m tired of making excuses for her, explaining to people how my father’s death destroyed her emotionally.
I’m tired of flaking out on my plans with friends so I can stay home to make sure she doesn’t overdose.
I’m tired of spending half my paycheck on student loan debt for a degree I never got because I had to quit college and get a job so my mom wouldn’t get evicted again…only to have her kick me out the moment I lost my waitressing job.
I’m so tired of living this sad semblance of a life.
Before I can stop myself, I grab the bag of drugs off the pile of money and toss it onto the bathroom counter. I zip up the silver hard-shell suitcase and attempt to lift it, quickly realizing it’s too heavy.
“Shit,” I whisper, turning away from the dead guy to stare at the wall as I think.
If I have to make a run for it, this suitcase will be an anchor. I don’t want to use the telescoping handle to roll it out of here.
The blonde in the suite next to mine, Millie, has a strict rule of no overnight clients. If she hears someone moving in the hallway, she’ll definitely come out to chat. Unfortunately, I have no choice. I’m not strong enough to carry something this heavy to my truck.
I crouch down to grab the telescoping handle, making a mental note to start lifting weights tomorrow.
But the moment my fingers curl around the black plastic handle, a loud buzzing noise behind me makes me jump to my feet. I yelp as I bang my forehead on the corner of the towel rack.
Spinning around toward the sound, I see a black iPhone on the counter next to a Zippo lighter. I’m still rubbing the developing knot on my head when it vibrates again.
My heart jackhammers against my chest and the pulsing ache in my forehead makes it difficult to concentrate. I should ignore the phone, but it could be time sensitive information. What if it’s someone at the front desk saying they’re on their way here with his credit card?
No, that’s not how it works. The front desk holds onto the credit card until the end of the session, to make sure the client doesn’t leave without paying.
Ignore it, Izzy. Nothing good can come from touching this guy’s phone.
I let out a deep sigh as I tear off a piece of toilet paper from the roll. As I do this, I notice a tattoo on the upper part of the guy’s right arm. The intricate artwork depicts curtained shreds of skin. Behind the ribbons of tattered flesh is an eagle perched atop a globe. Above the eagle are the letters USMC. Below the globe, it reads, Est. 1775.
My father had a similar United States Marine Corps tattoo on his right arm, minus the gruesome torn flesh. I force myself to look at the guy’s face, this man who possibly survived a war in another country only to lose the war in his mind. This could be my father if he’d turned to drugs in his twenties instead of his thirties.
I ignore the ache in my head and the tears in my eyes as I use the toilet paper to grab the phone off the counter. Glancing at the screen, I see two message notifications from someone named King. But when I swipe my finger across the message preview, the phone gives a tiny vibration, and the following words flash on the screen: Face ID not recognized.
I gasp as I realize his phone just scanned my face. Is that information stored on the phone?
Fuck.
I shake my head as I realize there’s nothing I can do about that. Unless…
I point the screen at the guy’s face and turn it back to me just in time to see: Face ID not recognized. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and try not to vomit as I use the toilet paper to lift the guy’s eyelids as I point the screen at his face again.
The phone unlocks and opens up the text message conversation I’d swiped my finger across.
King
Today 4:02 PM
It’s done.
Today 8:07 PM
ETA?
Today 8:39 PM
If you don’t text me your ETA, I’ll have to tell your dad you bailed.
Considering the amount of money in this man’s possession, that last message seems less like the words of a concerned friend and more like a thinly veiled threat.
Before I could stop myself, I scroll through the previous texts exchanged with King to suss out my dead client’s texting style. The tone of the earlier messages seems to imply this guy is both scared and resentful of King. Based on the fact the last text message inferred they don’t share a father, maybe King is the dead addict’s stepbrother.
Using more acronyms than I’m comfortable with — to mimic my dead client — I tap out a response to King.
Me
Made a stop. Feeling fresh AF. OMW. ETA 10 min.
King
Stay put. I have your location. Be there in less than 30 min.
Holy shit.
My hands begin to tremble from a su
dden surge of adrenaline as I realize I have just a few minutes to pack up my stuff and get the hell out of here.
Even if I don’t take the money, I can’t stay. If this King guy knows I saw all that money in that suitcase, he probably won’t want to leave any witnesses to this obviously illegal activity. If I have to get out of here, I might as well get out with the money.
My stomach vaults into my throat at the prospect of stealing something so valuable. I’ve never so much as stolen a stick of gum. What would my dad think of what I’m about to do?
Sometimes, in life, the most difficult path is the only path that makes any damn sense. When that happens, you put on your big girl pants and hit the dirt. Don’t let anything or anyone distract you.
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat at the memory of my father’s words. Then, I pull up my big girl pants.
Grabbing my backpack out of the closet, I rip my shirts and jeans off the hangers and stuff the clothes inside. I slide my arms through the straps of the backpack and take my purse off the hook inside the closet. Slinging the bag diagonally across my chest, so I still have both hands free, I grab the second-most important thing in this room besides the cash: my guitar case.
As I open the door to my suite, I lean my head through a small crack to see if anyone’s in the hallway. Except for the faint rhythmic sound of moaning from a suite on my left, I can hear and see no one in the vicinity.
I grab the handle on the suitcase and head out into the corridor, carefully and quietly closing the door behind me. With one hand firmly gripped on the black plastic handle and my other hand wrapped around the handle of my guitar case, I walk briskly toward the white and red illuminated exit sign at the end of the hallway.
Deliver me… Deliver me o’ light at the end of the tunnel.
I hold my breath as I pass the door to Millie’s suite, silently hoping that she doesn’t hear the faint squeak of the suitcase wheels as they struggle beneath the weight of approximately fifty pounds of cold, hard cash. I let out a stale breath as I pass the suite next to Millie’s, but my relief is premature and short-lived.
“Where are you going, Miss Brianna?”
The sound of Millie’s husky voice sends a jolt of fear through my every nerve ending. My breathing quickens as my lungs attempt to keep up with my racing heartbeat.
I turn around slowly, opening my mouth as my brain scrambles for a logical reason why I would be moving out on my first night here. But the moment Millie sees my face, she clutches her hand to her flat chest and gasps.
“Girl, what happened to you? Did he hit you?”
For a moment, I’m beyond confused, until I remember banging my forehead on the towel rack.
“Y-yes!” I proclaim, seizing on this obvious explanation for why I would be leaving so soon. “He—He banged my head against the—the headboard. And, hey, I like it rough, but not that rough. You know what I mean?”
What the fuck are you talking about, Izzy? Get a grip, or this is going to blow up in your stupid face.
Millie’s sparkly red lips are pursed, though I’m not sure if it’s in disapproval of my client’s behavior or mine. “Nuh-uh. Millie does not play that,” she says, her brown skin shimmering as she exits her suite as if she’s going to give my client a piece of her mind.
“No!” I shout, then I quickly lower my voice again. “No, please don’t go in there. He… He just passed out. I think he’s drunk—or something. I don’t want him to wake up until I’m gone. Please.”
She narrows her eyes at me for a split second before her face softens and she opens the door to her suite again. “Okay, missy. I’ll give you a twenty-minute head-start, then I’m calling Danny.”
My shoulders relax as I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Millie. I owe you big time for this.”
She glances at the metal suitcase. “Fancy suitcase. Did you come in with that?”
I flash her a tight smile as I begin turning away from her, readying myself to make a mad dash for the exit. “Yep. It belonged to my dad. He’s dead. Okay, I’d better get going. Thanks a bunch, Millie!”
“Mm-hmm. You take care now, Miss Brianna.”
I don’t have time to glance over my shoulder and check if that note of skepticism in her parting words is visible in her facial expression. I need to get the fuck out of here.
I burst out the back exit and my muscles tense as a warm breeze unsettles the wispy blonde hairs around my face and raises goosebumps on my bare shoulders. I feel so exposed out here with all the windows looking out onto the back parking lot and my hands fully occupied. The eighty feet of asphalt between here and my silver truck may as well be a minefield.
This time, I don’t hold my breath or tread softly. I race toward the truck, utilizing the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a power-up in a video game.
When I reach the truck, I dig inside my purse for my key fob and fumble a bit as I deactivate the alarm. Wrenching open the driver’s side door, I quickly pull the door on the extended cab ajar. In one swift motion, I grab the side handle on the suitcase and use that adrenaline to heave it into the compartment.
As it drops with a thud onto the lightly-padded seat, I feel a searing pain from the right side of my neck down to my shoulder. I may have pulled something, but I don’t have time to even think about that. I toss my guitar case on top and hastily shut the cab door.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, I toss my purse onto the passenger side and slam the door shut. I jam the key into the ignition, and my tires squeal as I gun it out of the parking space.
I don’t have time to be quiet anymore. It’s been at least fifteen to twenty minutes since King sent that text saying he would be here in thirty.
As I drive around the pink one-story building with the cracked stucco and the green and purple neon Area 69 Brothel sign, my right hand reaches into my purse to retrieve my phone. I navigate to my phone app and tap the first name on my favorites list.
The sound of the ringing is loud and clear through my truck speakers as it connects to the Bluetooth on my phone. It rings a second time as I arrive at the driveway leading out of Area 69 onto Highway 95.
Except for the single streetlight across the road, and the oncoming headlights, it’s pitch black out here in the middle of the Nevada desert. You could toss a dead body fifty feet down the road and no one would see it until sunrise.
The phone stops ringing, and Tiff answers my call just as the approaching headlights pull into the brothel parking lot.
“Shh. Just a minute,” I reply, to quiet Tiff.
I want to turn away from the vehicle, just in case it’s King, but my curiosity gets the best of me. My eyes follow the black SUV as it approaches on my left. The passenger seat is empty.
By the time I turn my attention to the driver, I’m looking at him through the driver’s side window instead of the windshield. The glass is too darkly-tinted to see through.
I look away quickly before he decides to look in my direction, and I peel out of the parking lot, heading east on Highway 95 as fast as I can.
My heart is pounding so hard and fast, I can feel it in my fingertips. When I’m at least a quarter of a mile from the brothel, I hold the phone closer to my face, though I don’t need to, considering the call is coming through my truck speakers.
“I did something, Tiff,” I whisper.
“What? I can’t hear you. Are you okay?”
“I can’t talk. Just…” A knot forms in my throat as I realize I’m actually saying good-bye to my childhood best friend. “I’m… I’m just tired of Vegas. I need to get away. I… I might come back, and I might not. But I’ll call you if I… I gotta go.”
“Iz, you’re scaring me. If you’re in trouble, you know how to tell me,” she prompts me to give her one of the code phrases we’ve agreed on.
“Tell my mom I left the dog outside” is for when I’m on a bad date, and I need her to call back pretending to be my mom, who’s supposed to tell me to get home and put
the dog inside the house.
“Tell my mom I left some clothes in the washer” means I’m on a good date and I may spend the night with the guy.
“Tell Jolene I’m not in trouble” means tell my mom I had to leave, but don’t tell her where I’m going. Only Tiff knows the one place I’d go if I ever decided to leave Vegas.
“Tell Jolene I’m not in trouble,” I say, my words landing with a thud as heavy as that damn suitcase. “I love you, Tiff.”
I end the call before she can reply. Then, I turn off the phone, lower the driver’s side window, and toss it out onto the highway.
I glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of my own reflection: messy blonde ponytail, hollow cheeks, mascara smeared around hazel eyes that look as dark as the road ahead of me.
I look away quickly, watching in the mirror as the tiny electronic speck of my phone disappears from the range of my rear lights. But as I turn my attention back to the dark stretch of highway in front of me, the muscles in my chest tighten with fear and heartbreak.
I left my necklace in the nightstand. The necklace my father gave me. The necklace with my real name etched into the heart-shaped charm.
3. King
June 10th
No amount of inspections, route clearance formations, or protective gear can prepare you for the moment your vehicle hits an IED.
Jameson! Jameson!
Sarge! Sarge, can you hear me? Sarge!
The voice sounds hollow and distant through the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
The moment my eyelids flutter, sand pours into my eyeballs. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I make my first attempt to move. My left arm is pinned to my side by something that feels suspiciously like a body. I can move my right hand just enough to use my fingers to clear the dust from my eyelids.
