by Scott, Raven
Copyright © 2020 by Raven Scott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
1. Illya
2. Illya
3. Illya
4. Illya
5. Theo
6. Illya
7. Theo
8. Illya
9. Illya
10. Illya
11. Theo
12. Illya
13. Illya
14. Theo
15. Illya
16. Illya
17. Illya
18. Theo
19. Theo
20. Illya
21. Illya
22. Theo
23. Illya
24. Theo
25. Illya
26. Illya
27. Theo
28. Illya
29. Theo
30. Illya
31. Theo
32. Illya
33. Theo
34. Illya
35. Theo
36. Illya
37. Illya
38. Theo
39. Illya
40. Illya
41. Theo
42. Illya
43. Illya
44. Illya
About the Author
1
Illya
Counting my tips carefully, I set my bills in order from most crumpled to least, ascending, and a tiny smirk quirked my lips. The notes had obviously seen too much of the inside of a wallet, but I wasn’t complaining because they’d go right into my savings jar at home. Pleasantness spread across my chest, but I knew this feeling would only last until Saturday night when my patrons realized they had to go to church on Sunday. They’d start feeling guilty for going to a strip club, buy their wives nice flowers, get their kids a football, and act like they hadn’t seen their pastor here the night before.
Which was ironic and kinda sad and pathetic, but, hey, it was money in my pocket.
Immorality at its finest.
“Illya, mija, I thought you would be gone by now.” Roge’s thick Mexican accent slithered up my spine, and I turned away from my money to smile at him. Short and squat, his beady eyes watched me intently from deep in his face. It wasn’t surprising to me a man like him surrounded himself with hot, half-naked chicks half his age. He treated all the girls like a creepy step-dad that wanted to bang us but also innocently take us out for ice cream if we were upset. “Don’t you ride a bike? It’s late.”
His roughened and textured skin from years of the sun and age wrinkled when he smiled, and Roge’s narrowed eyes scanned me under furrowed, bushy brows. I knew what Roge would see— some plank of a body topped in dyed pink hair that brought out the green in my eyes. I have curves, but you’re just never gunna see them. No one will.
Natural, brown hair wasn’t going to make me stand out here, so I had to get creative. I wore a full-torso leotard and didn’t have the option to take it off to arouse interest. Of course, being fully clothed in a strip club in itself was unusual, but it often wasn’t enough on its own.
“I’ll be fine, Roge.” I faked a Spanish accent at work just because it got me better tips, this being a border town and all. His smile morphed into a frown. “It’s not like it makes a difference— three a.m. or four a.m. Actually, I think it’s better because people are up and starting to get ready for their commutes and stuff.”
“If you say so. I’ll give you a ride if you need it.” Like I’d ever get into a car with you or show you where I live. Even so, I just smiled and nodded gratefully, and Roge wandered off down the lane, I guess, toward his office in the back. Stripping wasn’t a very difficult job, and I was happy just to be making money at this point. Turning back to my neat stacks, I pulled up a stool and sat down to focus.
“I’ll count it again just to make sure. I’m really bad at math.” Grumbling to myself, I picked up the smallest stack of twenties and carefully plucked off the top bill. Twenty— forty— sixty. Setting it down, I snatched my substantially larger stack of tens and took a stabilizing breath. Seventy— eighty— ninety— one hundred— one hundred ten— one hundred twenty.
This was the hard part, and my brows furrowed in concentration as I grabbed the fives. My brain just didn’t do math— I got languages much easier. Sure, I had to count using Schoolhouse Rock songs, but I also learned six languages easy-peasy. Frankly, I’d gladly give up the ability to multiply high numbers to be able to go anywhere and talk the talk.
Wait, I messed up. Groaning softly, I shook my head viciously and set down my fives to start over. Maybe, I’d be better at math if I hadn’t dropped out of school. Then again, I know enough math to get my GED, so . . . Scowling slightly, the crease between my brows deepened, and I clenched my jaw hard behind thinned lips.
“Illya.” My mind blanked at the call, and I smacked my palm against the table as a frustrated, low shriek burst from my lips.
“What! I can’t count for shit! Come on!” I was louder than I intended, but I’d worked here for months, and everyone knew I sucked at math. Glancing up as my face flamed in embarrassment, I chuffed harshly as Marcella shuffled toward me to pull up a stool. “I’ve been trying to count this for five minutes, okay? Just—”
“Relax. I’ll help you out.” I must’ve had, like, severe dyslexia but for math, not words, and I rubbed my palms up my face and into my hair to groan in dismay. “Ready?”
“Don’t ask me that. I feel like an idiot.” Propping my elbow on the table to hold my cheek in my palm as Marcella started slowly counting my bills while I watched. This ugly sensation clung to my ribs, and I scratched my crown absently as silence rang in my ears. My face twisted in a grimace, and my eyes narrowed on her hands as she started to count while snapping bills from her hand on the table.
Thankfully, Marcella didn’t say anything to distract me while she helped me out, and I clenched and released my jaw absently. She counted all the twenties and tens, and I scooted a little closer when she got to the fives and ones. This, particularly, was my downfall, and I licked my lips heavily as anxiety gnawed at my gut. I was great at a lot of things, but it was simple math that kicked me in the ass. Ugh . . .
“So, your total is two hundred thirty-one dollars. Do you want me to do it again to make sure?” I shook my head hard, and Marcella let out a twinkle of a laugh as she put all my bills in a single stack and handed it to me. Flipping her long, brown curls over her shoulder, she smiled with a bright glimmer in her eye, and flames licked my cheeks as I took the bills. “What are your plans for tomorrow? You’re coming in, right?”
“Tomorrow’s Friday, of course, I’m coming in. I have Monday and Tuesday off, though. Why?” I tucked my bills into my money pouch wrapped around my waist, and Marcella rocked back on her stool to shake her head. Really, it was just a glorified fanny pouch, but I didn’t want to keep so much in something as stealable as a purse or losable as a wallet. “I’m not slated to come in until ten p.m., though, so I’ll probably get some stuff done. I have to go to the store and find something to eat and stuff. My roommate never shops because she buys junk.”
“Okay. I’ll already be here. I get off at one, but I’ll be sticking around anyway.” Nodding in acknowledgment, I stood up and smoothed my shirt over my pouch as Marcella smiled up at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Illya.”
“Yeah. Thanks for your help, Marcella.” Shuffling around her as her smile brightened, I pulled up my jeans over my hip absently. Patting my f
anny pouch to make sure it was there, I felt around for my keys beyond the fake leather. Nodding, my anxiety of doing basic counting disappeared as I pushed open the door to the ‘sales floor’ of the building. The DJ was walking around with a broom and picker-upper-thing, and the catwalks had been turned off in favor of the big lights hanging from the ceiling.
For a strip club, this place was fairly clean. We didn’t serve food, and the drinks were outrageously priced, so people didn’t want to spill them and waste fifteen dollars. Making my way toward the heavy double doors that served as an entrance, I was careful not to touch the chairs and barstools that hadn’t been wiped down yet. The crisp, clear air that filtered through the open door replaced the thickness of sweat and alcohol, and I stepped into the darkest part of the night to inhale deeply.
Life was fucking good right now. Striding leisurely toward my bike, I patted my back for my switchblade and smiled at my own, light steps and pulled my bike chain key out of my pouch. Glancing up at the neon signs that blazed at passing cars tantalizingly, I rolled my lips between my teeth as a sigh bubbled up in my chest.
I mean, working at a strip club wasn’t ideal, of course, but it was a job. Riding a bike everywhere wasn’t ideal, but it cost nothing. Living in a studio on the verge of being quarantined definitely wasn’t that great, but it was a place to live.
There was always a ‘but,’ a silver lining, and things might not be great, but they were good enough. Kneeling down to unlock my bike, I wrapped the chain around the handlebars before backing it up and straddling the seat. My mind whirred slowly as I pushed off toward the street, and I bopped my head absently to glance around. At this time of night, the roads were dead, the lights blinked instead of their usual rotations, and if I got too close to downtown, I’d see a lot of crackheads.
Which was why I always took the back route. I had the added bonus of working out, too, so that was nice.
“Sylvie’s probably going to be waking up right when I get there.” Pursing my lips, I took a breath through my nose as I cruised down the street. I wasn’t sure what was happening with her, but I knew Sylvie was being sneaky again. She was clean and doing well. We had a plan to pay off her drug dealer’s debt, and she had a job as a busser.
But something was wrong, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. If Sylvie relapsed, I was dropping her like a hot potato because fuck that. I dealt with it once. I wasn’t dealing with it again.
2
Illya
Dropping heavily onto my cot to tie my sneaker laces, I glanced over at Sylvie as she draped across her own cot and played Alien Invasion on her phone.
“I’m heading to the store. Do you want anything in particular?” She shook her head, her short bob whipping her cheeks lightly, and my lips thinned under furrowed brows. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I think I’m getting sick. I’m just not hungry.” The bland response was the same one she gave me yesterday, and I simply shrugged it off. Sylvie didn’t eat a lot, but I wasn’t going to be responsible for her whole person. “If you could get me a VitaWater, the green one, that’d be great, though. I’ll pay you back next Thursday.”
“It’s one VitaWater, Sylvie, they’re, like, two bucks. Just don’t forget to pay your half of the electric bill.” She rolled her eyes at me even as a smile stretched her thin lips, and I chuckled softly. “I’m heading out. I’ll see you later.”
“Okay.” Worry sloshed against my ribs when I stood up, and I tightened my fanny pack around my waist and hiked up my jeans as I fought a frown. Heading out of our small efficiency space, I locked the door behind me even though it was about ready to fall off the hinges.
That was the one thing I never did— get involved with drugs. Long after Sylvie kicked her heroin habit, the effects remained, and she wasn’t the same. I stuck with her through it all, but I told her clearly I wouldn’t do it again. Whenever she got the itch, she would tell me, and we’d work through it.
But I knew she stopped going to NA meetings recently. I suspected she’d stopped paying her drug dealer what she owed. I had a sneaking fear this ‘sick’ issue she was having wasn’t actually being sick, but because she’d started using again and was hiding it from me. Hopping down the stairs to the first floor, I ran my hand through my hair roughly in agitation.
I loved Sylvie in a way that only trauma could develop, and we’d gone through so much together that a life without her would be hard. Even so, I’d do it if I had to.
Memories swamped my mind’s eye as I emerged into the brilliant light of late morning, and I unlocked my bike with practiced movements. Both our parents died when we were young, and Sylvie and I met in a group home when we were teenagers. We decided to run away together, which wasn’t nearly as romantic as it should’ve been, and lived on the streets because it was better.
Now, both of us were twenty-eight, and I felt like I was finally starting to get my life together. I saved every penny I could, and it was slow going, but at least it was going.
Sometimes, I wished I could marry a rich guy and meander my life away in bliss and luxury, but I wasn’t going to take the easy way out. My dad once told me that nothing worth earning in life was easy, and I took that to heart. Climbing onto my bike, I reached to rub my chest absently, and my skin tightened and twitched under the friction from my shirt.
“I’ll take the long way to the store.” Truth be told, the grocery store was only six blocks from my apartment, but I wanted to enjoy the day. The air was hot but not sticky, and the sun was hard but not blazing— at least not yet. For the slums of San Diego, not dying of heatstroke was an indicator of a good day. Pushing off to cross over the sidewalk and into the street, I lifted my butt off the seat to ease into a steady pace. Thankfully, there weren’t many hills in this city, and we were far enough from the ocean to avoid getting saturated by salty air.
Honestly, I thought I did pretty well for myself, all things considered. I didn’t have a preferred job, though, and I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. Maybe, eventually, I’d try my hand at something else, but what that was, I really had no idea.
Also, the taxless money was really nice even though it usually amounted to the same as a forty-hour workweek. At least the government wasn’t taking half of it.
“Ugh-h-h . . . it’s such a nice day. Maybe I should ride around for a while after I put all the stuff away.” Snorting, I sat on my bike seat to cruise, and a grim smirk tilted my lips. ‘All the stuff’ was usually just water, dried vegetables, and just enough deli meat for two sandwiches. There was a bread store that sold nearly expired bread for a dollar, which I could put in the freezer. If I was feeling really wild, I could buy myself some peanut butter and a few apples, and my mouth watered at the notion.
Gnawing on my inner cheek as I sailed down the street into a wide turn, I frowned at the grocery store sign hovering above the buildings of a plaza a half-mile away. How did my ride go from fifteen minutes to five? Oh, right. . . I think too much, sometimes. Cars zipped past me, and I glanced around at the somewhat nice, kept up structures around me. This part of town wasn’t as well-endowed as downtown in the east end, but there weren’t many terribly awful spots, either. Of course, if I rode a little way south, I’d end up in a hive of drug addicts and dealers, but they mostly stayed on their side of town.
The more they stuck together, the less inclined the cops were to bust them.
Turning into the grocery store parking lot opposite a small strip mall, I clung close to parked cars to avoid getting hit by someone backing out or pulling in. The bike rack was by the dumpsters on the side of the building, and I bopped my head as I silently went over my pitiful list.
“I should grab some cat food just in case.” Just as the grumble passed my lips, I rounded the front of the store only to grind my heel into the ground. Sylvie stood by the dumpster, in full view, with a guy that looked slimier than a used car salesman. Fumbling to pull my phone out of my pack, I swiped open the camera and zoomed in as a fire sparked in my ch
est. Glaring at my phone screen, I hit the ‘Record’ button while she handed this guy what looked like thirty dollars.
And, there, right on the screen, he passed Sylvie a little baggie of what I recognized as black tar heroin despite being wrapped in paper inside the dime bag. They weren’t even discreet about it. Neither checked around to look for witnesses, and I clenched my jaw hard as betrayal seared my throat. Seething silently, I blew smoke out of my nose, and I videoed Sylvie stuffing the baggie in her pocket before heading around the back of the store.
I was, generously, fifty feet away, and even with my terrible math skills, I knew that was close enough for them to notice me out of the corners of their eyes.
“What the fuck? What the fuck, Sylvie?”
The guy waited around a moment before following Sylvie, and my lip curled in disgust. No wonder she wasn’t eating— she was using again! I had this shit on video! There was no way she could deny it now. Her lack of appetite had started a few days ago, so she must’ve used at least twice. Sylvie wasn’t one of those people that used five times a day, maybe four or five times a week, when she was at her worst.
But this was worse than her worst. My heart pounded hard against my ribs, and I stuffed my phone angrily back into my fanny pack to jerk my bike to the stand.
