by Malone, M.
Trouble, you miserable bastard, you always find me.
I step out into the road to cross to their side of the street, pulling the hood of my jacket up and over my face.
A horn blares and a taxi screeches to a halt a few inches from me.
The driver’s side door opens and the cabbie steps out. “What the hell? Look where you’re going!”
I glance at him and then back to the couple. Oblivious, they turn down a side street and out of sight. If I wait any longer, I’ll lose them. I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours and if I don’t make sure the girl is all right, then I won’t be able to sleep again tonight.
Knowing, seeing, is the only thing that gives me some peace.
I run across the street, leaving the cab driver gesturing and cursing behind me. By the time I turn the corner, the street is dark. Empty. Then I hear it.
Crying.
He has the girl pressed up against the wall behind a dumpster. She’s struggling, pushing at his shoulders while he’s working the dress up her legs. He has his other hand over her mouth. Her stiletto shoes are a few feet away, abandoned.
The chemo didn’t work, Tank…
The first blow stuns him and all the color drains from his face as he doubles over clutching his gut. My mom’s words from earlier today ricochet through my mind, shredding my sanity as surely as bullets.
Experimental treatments…
He raises his arm to protect his face or maybe to strike back, I don’t know. I hit him with a rib shot, plowing my fists into him over and over. With every connection, I feel stronger.
I can’t afford that…
After a while, I don’t hear anything. I don’t see anything. There’s just me, some random dirtbag in an alley and the sensation of fists hitting flesh. All I can do is feel. Sometimes I think this is the only time I can feel anything anymore.
A whimper pulls me from my adrenaline frenzy. The girl is slumped against the wall, one hand on the grimy stone behind her as she watches me with horror in her eyes.
Slowly, I remember where I am. My breath puffs in front of my face, a cloud of white in the frigid night air. The guy is slumped on the ground, his face a bruised, pulpy mass.
I hold out a hand to help her up and she cringes back. My knuckles are scraped and bruised and my hands are covered in blood. I look like something from a horror movie. I put my hands down and move back so she’s not crowded.
“It’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
She nods but continues to regard me with wide, watchful eyes. I’m not sure who she’s more afraid of, me or the would-be-rapist bleeding next to the dumpster.
Even more, I’m not sure I want to know.
“Go. Get out of here.”
She stumbles to her feet and leans down to grab her shoes. Then she turns back. “What about you? Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about me.” She doesn’t move, just stands staring at me, her gaze dropping to my bloody hands, so I yell, “Get the hell out of here!”
She runs off this time and doesn’t look back. I’m glad because there’s nothing she can do for me.
I’m beyond saving.
* * *
By the time I make it back to my car, I can already hear sirens in the distance. The girl probably called the police. They usually do. I’ve learned not to hang around any longer than necessary. A siren screams past just as I’m driving away.
It takes me about ten minutes to get home. There’s an open space right next to my motorcycle so I park and cut the engine. My breath forms white clouds in front of my face. Still I don’t move to get out yet.
Once I’m inside, I’ll be alone with my thoughts again. So I sit in my car in the dark parking lot, trying not to think about anything.
There’s no one to greet me when I enter my apartment. I live alone. No pets and I don’t even have any plants that need to be watered. That’s always been the way I liked it.
My life is a perfect storm lately, a confluence of everything I fear the most all happening at once.
My mom’s cancer is back and she needs some rare, expensive surgery that her crappy insurance won’t cover. The contract is on the counter in the same place I left it before I went out tonight. I pick it up and read the words that will change my life.
It was never really a choice, was it?
My father may have pushed me into a corner but this isn’t a reunion, it’s emotional blackmail. When my mom’s life hangs in the balance, the only choice is the one that keeps her alive. There’s not much else I can do for her now. I’m helpless and I hate that feeling.
I drop the contract. There’s a rust-colored smudge where my fingers gripped the white paper. Blood.
The worst of it came off with a wet wipe in the car but my hands are still filthy. I walk into my room and strip, dropping everything into a pile in the corner. In the bathroom, I turn on the water and step in the shower before it even has a chance to warm up.
Water rushes over me and then swirls in a dirty red-tinged pool around my feet. Thoughts of what I’m washing off threaten so I grab the bar of soap on the ledge and scrub all over.
Tomorrow, I’ll send the signed contract back to the lawyer. It’s time to get this over with.
When I get out, the air in the bathroom is cold sending a chill over my skin. I wrap the towel around my waist and then rub my hair with another one. I’m clean finally, although I know the feeling won’t last.
I can wash the outside but there’s nothing I can do for how I feel on the inside.
Some stains are permanent.
Chapter Four
Emma
The next day, I step out of my car and hand the valet the keys. He looks at my twelve-year-old economy car with barely veiled disgust.
Even I have to admit it looks ridiculous in front of this fancy hotel. The valets here probably make more in tips each day than this car is worth.
The elevator bank is behind the reception desk so I skirt the people standing in line and step directly into an open car. I’ve delivered letters to Mr. Marshall a few times now so I know where to go.
Patrick trusts me to deliver them and that feels good. He only gave me this job because he knew my dad and he feels sorry for me. Still, I’m determined to prove to him he made the right decision. That he can trust me.
The woman who answers the door of Mr. Marshall’s hotel suite perks up when she sees me. She’s usually here when I visit.
“Miss Shaw. Hello, again. Mr. Marshall is expecting you.”
It was such a surprise the first time I came when Maxwell Marshall greeted me himself. Working for Patrick these past six months, I’ve learned a lot about the über rich. Very rarely do they sit and chat with the help.
But Mr. Marshall is different. He always seems genuinely pleased when I come by. He actually reminds me of some of the older people at the nursing home where my grandma spent her last days. They were so excited to talk to anyone who would listen.
It always broke my heart to see them like that, starved for contact, so grateful for companionship they’d accept any they could get.
I’ve been visiting him each week now, even when I don’t have a delivery. I’ve seen the looks I get from his staff. No doubt they wonder what a grizzled old billionaire and a young college student could have in common. But surprisingly, there’s a lot.
For one thing, family.
My parents are gone and Mr. Marshall is trying to reconnect with his estranged relatives. I didn’t ask too many questions but I’m pretty sure Tank Marshall is the one giving him the most trouble.
Each week that Tank comes in to the office, I bring Mr. Marshall a package that makes him look sadder and sadder.
Tank seems like the arrogant type so I shouldn’t be surprised. But I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t at least give an elderly grandparent the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Marshall has mentioned several times that all he wants is to reconnect with his family.
He turns when I enter the room, w
heeling himself over next to the couch.
“Miss Shaw. It’s always a pleasure. I hope you have time for some tea. How are your college applications coming?”
He looks good today. The deep hollows in his cheeks have filled out some and the tufts of white hair on his head have all been brushed in the same direction.
I slip my coat off and sit on the edge of the couch. “I’m still considering my options. Everything is so expensive. I took your advice and applied for some grants. I got some but not enough. So, I’ll start searching for internships next. Maybe I can get one that pays something and offers college credit. Two birds, one stone.”
He leans forward, a wide smile on his face. “Excellent news! I’m glad my thoughts on the matter were helpful.”
I look around expectantly.
Suddenly he laughs. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
We’re interrupted by the frantic scratching of nails on carpet. Buddy, his five-year-old bulldog, races across the room and crashes into my leg. He looks up at me in excitement, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“Buddy! Where have you been?”
Mr. Marshall watches us with amusement. “My assistant was giving him a treat. I know the real reason you love coming here so much and it’s not to see this grumpy old man.”
I can’t hide my smile as I scoop up Buddy and settle his plump bottom on my lap. He wiggles against me unable to contain his pleasure at the cuddle.
I scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me, boy?”
He contents himself nuzzling in my hand for a while and then once he’s convinced I don’t have food, he curls up in my lap with his head on his paws.
“He always seems to know when you’re coming. Animals do have a sixth sense, don’t they?” Mr. Marshall says.
“Yes, they do. Oh, I brought some documents from Mr. Stevens.” I hand over the sealed envelope I’ve carried in my oversized handbag.
I can only hope this one won’t dim the smile on his face. He’s in a jovial mood and I would hate to see it ruined.
“Aaah, I see my son has finally responded.” Mr. Marshall gazes at the papers he’s withdrawn from the envelope with satisfaction.
“Your son?”
He slides the papers back in the envelope and deposits it on the edge of the coffee table. “Yes, Tanner Marshall.”
“Tank is your son?”
He looks up at my shocked inquiry. “Yes, strange I know. I’m not sure how an ugly bastard like me managed to produce so many fine-looking young men but somehow I did.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Oh, that’s not what I meant at all, sir.”
I was actually shocked because Mr. Marshall is so much older. I had assumed he was a grandparent or a distant cousin looking up his long-lost relatives. Patrick never discusses the particulars with me, which I understand completely. Dealing in estate law, part of his job is to be discreet.
“But he is a good-looking boy, isn’t he?”
I look up when I realize he’s talking to me. “Tank? Yes, he is.”
Honestly good-looking seems like a tepid way to describe someone like Tank. It’s not that he’s handsome, exactly. His features are too stark and far too masculine to be considered conventionally attractive.
He’s, well … larger-than-life, seems to be as good as I can do.
“My other sons have proven much easier to deal with so far. Tanner, he always was difficult.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sure he’ll come around.”
“I don’t have much time left. Time has gotten away from me. Although I suppose everyone thinks that. I’ve made a lot of mistakes but this, this is something I can fix. I just need him to give me the chance.”
“Your son, he’s a very forceful man. I don’t think he’s used to taking orders from anyone. He definitely doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”
He wheels himself next to where I sit on the couch. “You sound like you know him well.”
I shake my head. My words made it sound as if we’re friends, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
He’s an arrogant guy who probably flirts with every girl he comes in contact with and he seems to have a preoccupation with whether or not I eat dinner. My knowledge of him goes no further than that.
“No sir. I didn’t mean to give that impression. He’s just friendly when he comes in the office. That’s all. If you don’t mind me saying, your son is a bit of a flirt.”
That seems to delight him. “Oh yes. He’s definitely my son. I’ve been a sucker for a pretty face more than a few times in my life. It’s amazing what even a smart man will do for the right woman.”
He regards me for a few moments and then wheels himself over to the window. Then he turns himself around so he’s facing me again.
“I’m going to make you an offer, Miss Shaw. You are in the unique position of being able to help me with something I want more than just about anything else.”
“Well, I’ll try to help if I can. What do you need me to do?”
“Have you ever heard of lobbying?”
I nod. I’ve never been interested in politics but I paid attention in Civics class.
“Yes, lobbyists are paid to promote certain interests. They speak on behalf of certain causes to influence lawmakers.”
“Exactly. They’re spokespeople carrying a message. I need you to carry a message for me. A very important one. You’re a pretty girl, Miss Shaw. Most men are willing to listen when a message is carried by a lovely face.”
He steeples his hands in front of him. His eyes roam over me and for the first time in his presence, I’m uncomfortable.
“Convince my son to meet with me and I’ll pay you more than enough to cover all your schooling.”
“Mr. Marshall. I don’t think–“
“One million dollars,” he interrupts.
I put my teacup down on the table gently. My hand is shaking. I’m waiting for the punch line but when I look up at him, his eyes are clear and his expression completely open.
He’s serious.
“That’s utterly ridiculous. Why would you pay so much … for what? For me to carry a message?”
Buddy whimpers suddenly and I realize I’ve curled my nails into his fur. I soothe him with a gentle caress and a pat. He settles back down.
“Well, it’s a little more than that. I’m understating the situation when I say my son refuses to meet with me. It would be more accurate to say he loathes me and would prefer to pretend I don’t exist. If you can change his mind, then I’ll consider a million to be a bargain.”
“There’s a chance given some time he’ll come around on his own. Don’t you think you should just, I don’t know, wait?”
“Time. The one thing I don’t have any more of.” His eyes cloud and I remember then that he is sick.
And I feel an unmistakable tug of pity.
“I’m not sure what you think I can do. But I’ll ask him.”
“He’ll respond better if he doesn’t know the suggestion is coming from me.”
It feels so sleazy, the thought of trying to convince Tank to come see his dad without him knowing why. It’s not like we’re friends. How would I even bring that up in conversation?
But we’re talking about a lot of money. It could mean the difference between working two jobs for years trying to earn tuition money and going to college in a few months.
It could mean moving out of the house and into a place of my own. No more struggling.
No more Jon.
“I realize this is unorthodox but this is a job offer, Miss Shaw. No more, no less. It’s a legitimate job offer that can give you the money you need to fulfill your dreams. Veterinary school is expensive. You could finish your studies with no debt hanging over your head. No worries. Think of the possibilities.”
His eyes gleam and there’s a maniacal light in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Suddenly, it’s all too much. Too much pressure and too much to think about.
“I
’m not sure I can do what you’re asking. Not that Tank would listen to me anyway. I’ll let you know.”
I set Buddy gently on the couch before I stand and gather my things.
He dips his head in acknowledgment. “Fair enough. All I want you to do is try. There’s no harm in that.”
* * *
Later that evening I’m still chewing on Mr. Marshall’s offer. I don’t have much time to think though because my car wouldn’t start again and I had to ask Ivy for a ride to my second job.
Now I’m late.
As I trot across the gravel parking lot toward the back entrance of the Black Kitty, my tote bag bounces against my side. The neon sign isn’t lit up yet.
Without the blinking sign it could almost pass for a regular bar instead of a strip club.
Lou, the bouncer, holds the door open for me. “He’s in a bad mood tonight. Try to stay out of his way. And he told me to tell you the new uniforms start tonight.”
He is Paul Lattimer, the owner of the Black Kitty and a first-rate dirtbag. He thinks because he owns this club that he owns all of us who work here, too. But as much as I’d like to tell him to shove it, I need this job.
I let out a long sigh. “Great. Just what I needed. Thanks for the warning.”
The lights on the stage are already on and I give an absent wave to Carina, one of the bartenders, as I pass by on my way the dressing room. I drop my tote bag on the bench in front of my locker and tug my shirt out of my jeans.
There’s nothing quite like the hustle and bustle backstage before a show. Undressing in front of other people is still a little weird honestly but after a few months working here, it doesn’t faze me like it used to. I never thought I’d be accustomed to the sight of half-naked girls walking around wearing nothing more than a thong and some pasties, but such is life.
This is my new normal.
“Are you almost ready?” My friend Sasha sits down on the wooden bench next to me.
As usual, she’s decked out in a long evening gown and her hair is styled in intricate little braids that frame her face perfectly. The smell of the hot lemon water she drinks before every performance wafts up from the small paper cup in her hand. She looks different tonight. Tense.
