Flawed

by Francette Phal

  “What…what am I going to do, Cece?” He’s twenty, yet he sounds like a child. I don’t have the answer. I never have the answer. But I’m good at pulling shit out of my ass. Like a fucking Vegas magician, I think bitterly.

  “I’ll pay them.” I’m ten thousand shy of that twenty-five grand. The fifteen grand is essentially my entire college fund. All that work. Sucking dick, fucking men, sacrificing a little piece of myself every time I spread my legs is going to the quagmire of Dante’s idiocy. “But I swear, this is it, Dante.” And I fucking mean it. I climb to my feet and look directly at him, I need him to know what I’m saying is cancer serious.

  “Cece…”

  “Get better, get a job, go to college, I don’t give a shit, but do something other than being a fucking drain! I mean it, this is the last time I’m putting my ass out on the line for you. You fuck up again and it’s on you.” I walk away before I reveal how my disappointments are slowly turning to resentments and more than likely crawling toward loathing.

  Chapter Nine

  Lacey

  I’m on edge in the week that follows. I’m walking in a thick fog, can’t really see anything around me, and the only thing I hear are my thoughts racing from one end to the other. I’m in a state of unease, panic becomes a secondary emotion. Classes are a blur, and I know I’ve done horribly on a test or two. But I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m sleep deprived, definitely stressed beyond my limits and I’ve become so desperate for the ten grand that I’ve entertained asking Tyler for it. He’ll probably give it to me. I know he has it. But that’s a quick way to ruin a friendship. It’s a lot of money, way more than a year and half of valuable friendship is worth. He’s good people, but even I know a loan of that amount is pushing it. And I don’t want to be like my brother. Like my mother. A fucking leech. I can’t do that to Tyler.

  “Lace, what’s up? You’ve been out of it all week.” It’s Friday night. We’re at his house, in the shed. I’m curled up on the couch, his thigh is my pillow and I have my eyes closed. The smell of weed is thick in the air and it’s not such a bad thing.

  “I want in,” I say suddenly, opening my eyes to look up at him. He’s confused.

  “In on what?”

  I sit up, “I want in on what you’re doing. I want to deal.” I don’t know where the idea comes from, but I’m ready to run with it. If I can’t ask for it, then I can certainly earn it.

  He frowns. “What the fuck…Lace…?”

  “Don’t ask me why, Tyler, I just want to sell what you’re selling. The pills, the weed, whatever you got, I can sell it. I just need a small cut of the money.” I’m not beneath dealing to get the money. It’s another rung down the ladder of my inevitable descent to hell.

  “No,” he says, without thought, without even blinking.

  “No?”

  “I’m not going to let you in on anything.”

  I frown, “Why not?”

  “Because one, I’m greedy, and two, you may not think so, but I know you, Lace, and I know you won’t be able to do it. You won’t be able to live with yourself.”

  “You don’t know what I can live with, Ty,” I say, unable to take the dryness out of my tone. “You don’t know me well enough. I’m not asking for you to let me deal, I’m telling you this is how it’s going to be, otherwise I’m sure your parents and the cops are going to be pretty interested in what you’re doing here.”

  He’s definitely blitzed, but he’s a high functioning stoner, and I don’t realize just how well he functions until I find myself pinned beneath him. It all happens so fast that when I realize exactly what happened, I’m left blinking up at him, completely stunned. I become aware of a few things. Like his thighs bracketing mine and the warmth pouring out of him. His ash-brown hair falls across his forehead and stops just above his blue eyes as he stares down at me with an expression that makes my face warm. He leans down inches away from me, and I’m left with nothing else to look at but his face. “You gonna nark on me, Lace?” he asks in a murmur, his voice a little too low for comfort.

  “Get off,” I buck my hips in an attempt to unseat him but he’s pretty sturdy in his hold for being so slim. “Ty…”

  “You shouldn’t be so quick to involve the cops, considering we both know exactly how you make your money.” My heart lurches painfully in my chest and panic manifests in tingles across my skin.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Deny. Evade. Fucking lie if I have to. But at such close proximity the truth is a little harder to conceal, especially when he’s looking at me like that. Like he’s trying to see what else I’m keeping from him. What I refuse to reveal. His blue eyes narrow and I’m thinking he’s not going to let this one go.

  “Who fucked up this time?” he asks, instead, and I’m the one confused.

  “What?”

  “Your brother or your mother? It’s gotta be one of them. They’re the only ones who can get you this fucked up.”

  “I’m not fucked up.”

  “There are Walking Dead characters that look better than you have all week,” he scoffs.

  “You’re such a fucking prince with the compliments, Ty, please stop, you’re making my panties wet.”

  His eyes light up and he grins, “Yeah? Can I check?” He sets a hand on my abdomen, his fingers playing with the band of my sweatpants.

  “Go any lower and you’ll be pulling back a nub.”

  “Yeah, but at least it’ll be a wet nub…” The crudeness of the joke and the image it conjures makes me burst out with laughter. Side-aching, deep in the gut, good-feeling laughter. I think I might be tiptoeing that thin line of insanity. Nonetheless, I realize if I don’t laugh right now, I’d most likely burst into tears, and that’s something nobody wants.

  After, when I’m much calmer from my random attack of laughter and he’s no longer—thankfully—sitting on top of me, he gets serious again, killing any residual humor on my face. Fucking Tyler and his persistence.

  “You want a piece of my business? Then tell me what’s going on with you. Simple as that.”

  We’re seated next to each other, the sides of our bodies touching. It’s not awkward. But it’s something that doesn’t go unnoticed by me. I turn my head to look at him, “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I’m not sure I believe myself this time. I’m not dealing with local thugs. This is the Russian mob for Christ’s sake. If I didn’t handle it, Dante, and very possibly I, could end up dead by the end of the week. Which is only in a day and a few short hours.

  “You don’t have to always do things on your own.”

  I snort. “It’s the only way I know how to do things.”

  “I’m here for you, Lace, you know that. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask. Say the words and watch him give me the money. But my pride won’t let me. And maybe I value this friendship a little too much to put it in jeopardy. I’ll figure out how to get the cash some other way. I have to.

  ***

  By Saturday, I only have fifteen and a half thousand dollars in my possession. Still very much short from the twenty-five grand Dante owes. Dante is in the living room. He’s been there since last week. A permanent fixture on that ratty couch. I want to say he’s depressed, but if he’s all doom and gloom then what the hell does that say about my current emotional state? The open bridge on Common Street seems pretty tempting right about now. If I head over there, it won’t be to see if I can fly, but rather how fast I can fall. I’m pretty close to shattering already anyway.

  An idea comes to mind. I’m chock-full of ideas, but this one is incredibly stupid and extremely dangerous. But hey, I’m a prostitute. Danger is my middle name. And on top of it all I’m desperate, and just about ready to barter anything just so my brother doesn’t end up dead. I don’t have fancy clothes. I have hooker clothes. You can do a lot of things with thrift store rags. The object is to look as cheap as possible. The thigh-high fishnet stockings are a staple and
the micro-mini dress that I slip on stops two fingers above the stockings. I don’t put on makeup. They won’t be looking at my face. I grab my jacket and a cheap purse I took from my mother’s room. I have a shitload of money on me. They’re wrinkled, dirty stacks of cash. Not twenty-five grand, but enough. I’m hoping it won’t matter after tonight. I take my pocketknife and shove it inside the pocket of my jacket.

  Dante looks at me when I come out. His wounds have healed some, but he’s still in pretty bad shape. I’m still thinking that we should’ve gone to the hospital and lied on the patient forms to at least get him checked out. Maybe, Monday—if we’re still alive by then, maybe we’ll go. He’s quick to take in the outfit. It’s not subtle. He’s frowning, scowling even, and he opens his mouth like he wants to say something. And I’m waiting for him to tell me not to go. Waiting for him to say that we’ll figure out something else together. That we’ll find another way to pay off the money he owes. I’ll listen. I won’t go. I won’t do what I’m contemplating. Something that’s turning my stomach and making my heart feel like it doesn’t want to be in my chest anymore. I wish I hadn’t thought about it; wish I hadn’t come up with this idea. It’ll be a new low. A new soul-sucking experience. I don’t want to do it. Tell me to stay, Dante. Please tell me to stay and I won’t go. I’ll even take him telling me he’ll come with me. Anything, doesn’t matter, I don’t care. I just need this feeling of drowning to go away. I need him to be my lifeline right now.

  “Take…take the car.” He lets me drown. Not even a fucking buoy in the ocean of his fuck-up and my overwhelming despair.

  I feel the sting in my eyes. The burning. And I can’t deal with the tears right now. This isn’t a crying moment. This is a “put on your big girl panties and do what you have to do” moment. I will myself to get it together. “What’s the address?”

  He writes it down. It’s downtown Boston. Little Russia. Fuck.

  “Take care of Mom if she comes back.” That’s all I ask. While I’m about to hand my ass over to however many men it’ll take to make his debt go away, all I want is for him to at least take care of our mother when she comes back. It’s when. Not if. It can’t be if.

  It’s tits-freezing cold outside, the pieces of fabric I have on barely constitute as clothes, but I don’t have to wear it on the bus. That’s a huge plus. Optimism tastes like crap in my mouth when I take in the Corolla though. Maybe I would’ve fared better on the bus because the car isn’t really drivable. It was a piece of junk before, but now it’s a piece of junk with a cracked rear window, shattered driver’s window, and broken taillights. It’s a few dozen traffic violations waiting to happen. I take my chances anyway.

  I’m driving old lady slow, even when I take the ramp for the Pike. I stay in the far right lane, doing forty in a fifty-five while all other cars zoom past me at lightning speeds. It’s really scary and really cold. Blasting the heat with a broken window seems counterintuitive, but what choice do I have? At least I have a full tank of gas. Ah, there goes the optimism again.

  There isn’t any music playing. Just the fractured melody of my thoughts. The computerized voice of the GPS is an intermittent punch in the silence. My eyes stray to the dashboard. It’s nearing an hour and half past five. Not sure if that’s a good thing. He told me not to be a minute late. I’m ninety minutes late. I’m fucked. Traffic doesn’t help. Parking is a bitch and I’m not parked in a towing zone but I bet the car won’t be there when I come back. That’s how it goes. That’s how my life goes. Little Russia, as it has come to be known in recent years, is centered in the heart of Boston, bordering the Massachusetts Turnpike, Boston Common, and the South End. It was once settled by Polish, Romanian, Irish, Chinese, and Russian immigrants, each group subsequently pushing out the last until the Russians took over. But there are still hints of other cultures around, from the Chinese restaurants to the Irish pubs dotting the lines of each street. The address; 1023 Smith Street, is a little deeper in, which means I have to walk. What I’m wearing is a huge contrast to the loose-fitting combat boots I currently have on my feet. But I don’t do heels. Hooker heels or otherwise.

  Dante was right when he said it’s a hole in the wall sort of place. There’s nothing here that would connect it to the affluent Khitrova family. The huge neon green sign on the window that reads: NO CREDIT CHECKS is like a beacon to the financially desperate.

  It’s funny that there’s a bell at the door and it jingles in a welcoming tune when I enter. It’s a small place, and the long counter that separates the room in two is set up with a large bulletproof window. I expected scar face and the goons, and even the taller one—Knox. But there isn’t anyone around. I’m thinking maybe I’ve lucked out. Maybe something happened. A raid…? Maybe they all got shot and now I don’t—

  “You’re late.” He scares the hell out of me. My heart feels like it’s fallen to the floor when I turn around to face him. The curiosity of where the hell he came from is a fleeting one when my eyes land on him. I thought I had over-exaggerated his appearance in my head the last time I saw him. But his striking features are not from my imagination. He is still unequivocally handsome, enthralling even, and it takes a minute to realize I’m rudely staring again. I don’t blush too often so I find the sudden warmth in my cheeks a little unsettling when I meet his gaze. He pulls off the dark and menacing thing pretty fucking well. I’m smart enough to take a step back. He tracks the small movement like a hawk.

  I don’t scare easily, but this guy gives the impression that fear should be the only thing to feel around him. The moisture that forms against my skin doesn’t transfer onto my lips so I have to lick my bottom lip just to be able to talk. “I’m…I’m here now.”

  “The money.”

  “I couldn’t get all of it…but I have fifteen…” Another nervous slide of my tongue across my bottom lip and I note that he takes that in, too. “I can offer you and the others something else...” A gangbang. All of them. An idea that makes me sick to my stomach. But it shouldn’t, right? What’s the difference between five or six guys compared to one? It’s just sex. I’ve been around it since before my C-cups formed. It’s an old hat now. “You can have me to compensate for the remainder of the money.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.” Don’t let him see you sweat. “You and your friends…”

  There’s an imperceptible lift of a brow but otherwise nothing. His impassivity is impressive. The silence that stretches is a violent one, filled with rampaging thoughts. Wondering if he’ll agree or shoot me dead for even offering. I’m always thinking. I can’t seem to turn my brain off.

  “Well?” I prompt when the silence threatens to kill me.

  “Are you worth ten thousand dollars?”

  “I’m worth whatever will make you leave my brother alone.”

  I can’t read him. Nothing beyond the impenetrable marble of his god-like features. Even looking into those haunting blue eyes that seem more sky gray in the dimness of the room than blue, reveal absolutely nothing of what he’s thinking. Dead eyes.

  “Very well.” He kills the optimist in me with that single utterance. And the pessimist looks around for the goons. “Just me,” he says, like I’m an open book. When he walks past me and heads for the door, I don’t have to ask if I should be trailing behind him. His cryptic gaze tells me he expects me to follow. “Not here,” he announces, and I’m glad I won’t be fucked in the middle of the payday loan office.

  “Get in.” It’s a clipped order that I instantly follow, rounding the front of the black Dodge Charger parked in front of the storefront, and quickly hopping inside the passenger seat. The car is crazy impressive. Black and sleek and oozing with unimaginable power. It rumbles beautifully, almost sexily, as it glides down the street. He doesn’t say anything. And I’m not much of a conversationalist. So we sit in uncomfortable silence. Thankfully, it’s not one I’m subjected to for long, as the car comes to a stop fifteen minutes later.

  I’m completely baffled by his sho
w of gallantry but don’t speak on it. Instead, I’m trying to keep my cool and not act like I’m completely without class as we enter the Raspada Hotel. It’s classy territory; swanky. Italian marble flooring, a huge crystal chandelier, and gold-colored elevators decorate the front lobby. Even the people at the front desk look like they wipe their asses with money. I’m completely out of my element here. It’s hard to deflect the dirty looks I’m getting from these people and I’m feeling every inch the price of my cheap outfit. I expect him to take me upstairs. But instead, he leads me to a dimly lit, sparsely occupied restaurant around the corner from the service desk. He walks in like he knows where he is going. As if he’s done this countless times before. He doesn’t even acknowledge the host but rather takes up a table in the back of the restaurant. Maybe he’s a regular and this is his usual table. I’m in my head, thinking, wondering, when he plays a hand again at gallantry and pulls out a chair for me.

  He bends down a little to help me scoot in and my senses come alive when I get a whiff of cinnamon, mint, and a provocative sort of sweetness that puts a foreign fluttering sensation in my belly. I keep my jacket on. No need to draw any more attention to myself. All in a span of a few short minutes, the waiter arrives with two glasses in hand, filling both with icy-cold water. I am not asked what I want to eat. But I guess it doesn’t matter. The food is quick to come like they were expecting him. And again, I’m thinking he might just be a regular here, with how prompt the service is.

  His meal is comprised of a porterhouse steak that’s a little too rare for my taste, but he cuts into with relish. There’s a side of mash potatoes and portobello mushrooms that goes untouched. My pasta looks amazing. And I’m sure that’s lobster mixed in there.

  “You don’t like it?”

  My head snaps up a little too quick and I wince from the pain. “I’m allergic,” I murmur. But even if I wasn’t, I’m not sure I can hold the food down. I don’t do nervous. But suddenly my palms won’t stop sweating, and the little panic attacks I keep having are making me want to bolt. He sets his fork and knife down with care and grabs the napkin at his right hand to wipe his mouth. When he leans back in his chair and takes hold of his glass, it’s to look at me like he’s searching for something. “We can order something else.”