by J. A. Huss
Carlos is still looking annoyingly patient when I shrug off his thug and finally get myself together. “Fine. Don’t ask them. I will get what I want one way or another. But I cannot even imagine the pain they would feel at losing another child. The way they lost poor Scotty was terrible enough. The things that could happen to you…”
He sucks in air through his teeth and I almost pass out thinking about everything that’s wrapped up in those four sentences.
Focus, Devil says. Calm down, tell him what he wants to hear, and focus on negotiating.
Fuck. What the hell would I ever do without the devil to guide me?
I sit. I take deep breaths. I study Carlos as he sits there and looks smug and satisfied. I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and say, “Look. I’ll pay you back, OK? I promise. But I can’t do it in two weeks. Just give me time.”
“How much time?” Carlos asks.
Start high, Devil says. You can always go down.
“Six months?” I say.
Carlos laughs. “Three weeks.”
Don’t panic, Devil says in my ear. Just renegotiate.
“Three months,” I say.
“One month.”
“Two months,” I say. “Come on, Carlos! Please! You know that’s fair!”
It’s never gonna happen, but two months is enough time to come up with a plan. Like hire a hit man to take him out, or something.
Now you’re thinking like a sinner! I mean a winner! Devil says. Smartass.
“Six weeks,” Carlos says. And then he pounds his fist on the table and makes all the silverware jump. “That’s it! Six weeks. And if you don’t have it…” He stands, comes over to me, takes my hand, lifts me up from my chair, presses himself close to me, placing his hand on the inside of my thigh, shoving his fucking face into my hair and smelling it, whispering into my ear, “Well, you should just feel very lucky that I have a soft spot for you, Madison Clayton.” Then he takes my hand and shoves it onto his crotch. He has an erection. “But that soft spot is not here.” He presses my hand hard into the fabric of his trousers so I can feel the outline of his dirty fucking dick and I grimace.
Then he pushes me away, snaps his fingers and says, “Take her home.”
And then Other Guy grabs me by my arm, this time not being careful with me, and drags me back into the house and straight out the other side into the courtyard where the car is parked.
“Vamonos. Entra,” he says, pointing to the passenger seat.
I get in. And in doing so, I just… give up. What’s the fucking point?
“Ponte el cinturón,” he says.
I put the stupid seat belt on while he closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side to get in. “My life would get exponentially better if you killed me in a car crash on the way home, ya know.”
Other Guy laughs and says, “Te rindes demasiado fácil,” as he starts the car.
“Fuck you!” I answer back. “I try harder than anyone!”
“No,” he says. “Solo prueba hasta que falles. Entonces te rindes.”
“Dude, you don’t even know me. And you’re one to talk, anyway. You work for that asshole.”
“Sí, pero… tengo planes.”
Hmmm. “What kind of plans?” I ask as we pull through the gate that surrounds the Castillo compound.
“Solo soy un tipo que tuvo la oportunidad una vez. Vendiendo tequilla…” He goes on in Spanish like that for a while.
I wait ’til he’s done and then say, “Tequila sales, huh? Where was that?”
“Acapulco.”
“Is that where your family is?” I ask.
“Sí. Y volveré pronto para conseguirlos.”
“Get them and go where?”
He shrugs. “No lo se.”
“Well, that’s kind of a stupid plan if you ask me.”
“No lo hice.”
I don’t respond right away. This guy is hallucinating if he thinks he’s just gonna hang out with Carlos Castillo as his henchman for a while, make some money, and then take off and go back to his family. “Sorry, buddy, but you’re in the same spot as me. Stuck.”
Other Guy shrugs, then turns his head to look at me and says, “Maybe. But at least I keep my cool and do what I’m told until I have better options. You just lose your temper every chance you get.”
His perfect American English surprises me. And his opinion pisses me off. “Like I said,” I say, crossing my arms. “You don’t even know me.”
“You’re wearing a sexy white dress and red stripper shoes, Maddie Clayton. I know everything about you.”
I laugh. Hell, he laughs too. Because that’s the line Tyler used on Logan right before he clocked Other Guy in the jaw and knocked him out.
“Did you know that guy?” he asks. “The one who hit me?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I know him.”
“He’s your boyfriend?”
“No.” I huff. “Fuck no. If there’s one person I hate more than Carlos, it’s that douchebag.”
“Hmmm.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask.
“I dunno. He seemed to like you a lot. Seems like a good guy to have on your side. I don’t remember the last time anyone was able to knock me out like that. Just saying.”
“Fuck that. I don’t need him. He’s not dependable, anyway. Fucker comes and goes. Never shows up when I need him.”
“He showed that night.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t know it was me.”
Other Guy gives me a weird look. “What?”
“He was my brother’s best friend.” And then I let out another sigh, but this time it’s sad. “Back when I had a brother, that is. And when he died, Tyler couldn’t even bother to show for the funeral.”
“Oh, well, that sucks. Was he out of town?”
“Well, yeah. Sorta. He was deployed somewhere. In the military.”
“...Okay. So, he couldn’t come. But you hold it against him?”
“I already have a therapist, man,” I snap. Which is a lie. Because Plumeria Brown can kiss my ass. “I don’t need your armchair psychology bullshit. OK? The fact is, he never showed. And I called him, and sent him letters, and the last letter was like… a desperate plea for help. And he just fucking sent it back!”
I kinda yell that last part. Other Guy actually jumps in his seat, sorta surprised at my anger. Then he points to me and says, “Ese es tu problema. Tienes mal genio.”
“I do not have a fucking temper!”
He’s quiet for a long time after that. So I just curl up against the door, press my head against the window, and close my eyes.
“Where do you want to be dropped off?”
I pull myself fully awake at his question. The fucking Nevada sun is coming up and I’m all sweaty as I squint out the window and try to figure out where I am.
Vegas. We’re back in Vegas.
“Why the fuck didn’t we just fly? Doesn’t Carlos Castillo own a plane?” I ask.
“He’s afraid of flying,” my new driver/counselor/bff says.
“Classic,” I mutter under my breath. Carlos is actually crazy. Fab.
“Where to?” he asks again. “Tu casa?”
“No,” I say. “I need to get my car. If it’s still there at all. And I gotta figure this shit out. I don’t fucking—Shit. Just drop me off at Pete’s.”
We fight the morning traffic near the Strip and then Other Guy pulls into the alley behind Pete’s and stops the car. Pretty much exactly where they picked me up… two days ago? Jesus. Christ. My roommates are gonna be wild with worry.
I look over at my driver and say, “You got a name? So I can stop calling you ‘Other Guy’ in my head?”
He smiles. He’s a couple years older than me, I decide. Nice-looking guy if you like that thug look. And then he reaches for his wallet in his back pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me.
It says, Ricardo Ramirez. Vendedor, Castillo Tequila, Acapulco División. With a Mexican phone number
underneath his title.
“That’s me,” he says. “Call me Ricky.”
“OK. Ricky.” I smile, because that’s how you be friendly, and then say, “Thank you,” because that’s how you be nice.
He says, “De nada. Now go show your tits and make lots of money. Because you only have six weeks to figure this out. And if I have to kill you when your time’s up, it’ll bum me out. You remind me of a girl I used to date.” He winks.
I get out of the car and slam the door. Asshole.
I’m walking to the back door of Pete’s, just about to pull it open, when the horn honks and makes me jump. I look over my shoulder and see Ricky leaning over into the passenger seat with the window down. “Don’t let pride get you killed, Maddie,” he yells.
“Fuck off,” I mutter. then go inside.
I decide pretty much immediately that Pete’s is even more depressing in the daytime than it is at night. There’s like five customers, two waitresses who look bored out of their minds, a bartender who’s sitting on a stool drinking coffee as he watches the morning news, and a girl on stage who swings around the pole like she’s planning her grocery list.
Pete’s. My last resort. Shit. But I can make money here. I know I can. I was doing so well a few weeks ago.
Before Tyler came into your life, Devil says.
“Please stop talking.” I sigh, exhausted.
Anyway, I’m never seeing him again, so my luck should get better immediately.
I take a deep breath and resign myself to doing what needs to be done as I walk up the stairs to Pete’s office and knock on the door.
“Come,” he calls.
I open the door and find him hunched over his desk, furiously typing on his computer. “What?” he says. Like I’m annoying him.
“Um, Pete?” I say. “It’s me, Scarlett. I need to ask—” But he whirls around in his chair and lowers his glasses so quickly, I stop.
“Scarlett,” he says.
Pete isn’t scary. Like at all. He’s more like your favorite grandfather with a little weird uncle mixed in. He’s got a white beard and bushy white eyebrows and I bet he’d make an awesome Santa. If that wasn’t creepy as fuck, which it is.
He lets out a long sigh when I stay quiet and fidget under his intense gaze. “I already know.”
“Know what?” I ask, looking down at my feet, suddenly aware that I’m dressed up like a whore.
“Carlos Castillo?” Off my surprised expression he says, “Raven told me. I’m amazed to see you standing and walking and breathing. What are you into, kid?”
“I’m just… I’m a little strapped for money these days and—”
“You owe Carlos Castillo money?” Pete asks.
I shrug. I mean, the answer of course is no. But… “Yeah,” I say instead. “It’s a long, stupid story. So I just wanted to know if I could work here during the week too. To try to get back on track.”
He crosses his arms over his barrel chest and looks down, apparently thinking about this. “You ever think of doing some multi-level marketing?”
“What?”
“You know, sell leggings. Or that stupid lipstick everyone talks about online. The plumper kind?”
I squint my eyes at him. How does he know about that stuff? I guess he owns a strip club though, so I shouldn’t be that shocked. “Um… no,” I tell him. Which is a lie. I did that already and it was a giant waste of time and money. According to my pyramid-scheme boss, I’m not “friendly enough” to sell makeup. “Please, Pete. I just need a few more nights, ya know? I’ve got a little following here.” Another lie. Tyler was my only fan. Tyler. Who I fucked. Tyler. Who thinks he’s fallen in love with me, even though that’s insane. Tyler. Who I’ve known my whole life. And who is evidently richer than Croesus now. No. No. Fuck that. I’ll work here twenty-four seven before I take that asshole’s money.
Pete sighs long and loud. “Well, the nights are pretty full. We’ve got some celebrity porn stars doing sets through the holidays and I can’t screw with that. You can do mornings.”
I unconsciously look over my shoulder, thinking about how dead it is out there.
“No,” Pete says. “It doesn’t get any better. You won’t make much, but girls are always coming and going. And I like you. You’re smart. And you don’t come in wasted from the night before. So tell ya what. Do mornings for now. I’m tossing Charlotte,” he says, nodding toward the door, “she’s lost her enthusiasm. And then I’ll see what I can do about juggling some things around to get you some evening work. Okay?”
Mornings. Stripping at Pete’s.
I have turned into a Las Vegas cliché.
“Sure,” I say, feeling sick, but swallowing it down. “I can do that. Thanks, Pete.”
“Tomorrow then,” he says. “Be here at seven.”
“Seven? AM?”
He shrugs. “We got a breakfast crowd. It’s only like a dozen people, tops. But this city never sleeps, remember. And neither do we. Well, we do, from five to seven for cleaning, but then we’re back at it. Remember, seven in the morning is some guy’s seven at night.”
“Okay,” I say, resigned to my fate. “I’ll be here.”
He nods, and I take that as my cue to leave. But just as I turn to walk out, he says, “Hey, Maddie?”
Just hearing my actual name in this place makes it all real. “What?” I answer, my focus on getting the hell out of this office as quick as possible.
“Be careful.”
No shit. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll figure it out.” And then I leave and pull his door closed behind me so he can’t say anything else.
It hits me then—I have no car. And I mean that literally because I’m pretty sure it got stolen the other night along with my purse.
So I go to the bartender—I’ve met him a few times when the regular weekend guy had the night off—and say, “Can you call me a cab?”
“Sure,” he says.
“And can I borrow a hundred bucks to pay for it?”
He laughs. “What the fuck?”
“My purse got stolen,” I say, confident that’s not a lie, but not really caring much. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow. I’m the new morning girl,” I say, nodding up at Charlotte, who is just kinda leaning against the pole on stage, like she forgot where she was.
It takes a few more promises to get that money, but I do get it. And then I go outside and wait in the glaring sun for the cab. Feeling dirty. Like I lost my soul this morning. Like I might never find it again, even if I do manage to drag myself up out of this hole I’m still digging.
And then… everything hits me. Tyler. Halloween. Scotty. That last letter I sent, practically begging him to answer me. And how he broke my heart when he sent it back unopened with that message.
“Please stop sending me letters.” I say it out loud, just to keep it fresh. Just to keep the memory of us the other night where it’s supposed to be. Tucked away in a mental box that says do not open.
Do not talk to him. Do not trust him. Do not fall for him. Do not ever let that man back into your life.
But the tears come anyway. Because there was a time when I loved Tyler Morgan. When I thought he was the only person who could ever make things right again.
And that last night we were together… I felt that again. I felt that connection I once had with him. Before Scotty died. Before he took off and never came back. Before he started making promises he never intended to keep.
And yeah, it was a stupid childhood crush on my brother’s best friend. But… I loved him once.
I won’t make that mistake again.
When I get home the girls are all awake, looking red-eyed and beat. Annie spends ten minutes asking me, “What the fuck? Just what the fuck?” because apparently I’ve been gone for almost three days.
But I’m too sad, and defeated, and ashamed of what I’ve become to even bother listening.
So I offer them a teary shrug and walk away. Lock myself in my room. Fall onto my bed. And cry mysel
f to sleep.
Chapter Four - Tyler
“No, I feel great! Why?” That’s me, answering Dr. Eldridge, my shrink, who just asked, “Are you nervous?”
We’re sitting by the pool at Evan and Robert’s house. Normally I go see Dr. Eldridge at her place, but Evan’s been hovering over me like a watchful mother hen since I got out of the hospital a couple of nights ago. He’s making me stay with him and Robert for now. Making me. That sounds so… Nobody makes Tyler Morgan do shit Tyler Morgan don’t wanna do!
But… I do need a place to stay while they repair my apartment, which is gonna take a while, and Evan’s all worried that I’m gonna do something else “bat-the-fuck-shit-crazy,” as he called it. So…
(I’m still not a hundred percent sure that the Mandarin Oriental isn’t going to try to bring arson charges against me. Evan kinda managed to… tweak… the fire inspector’s official report, and I did offer to pay for the damages out of pocket so we don’t have to fuck around with the insurance company, but the management people at the corporate office I talked with were real bitches about it. People can be such fucking babies.)
So anyway. Dr. Eldridge agreed to come see me here at Evan and Robert’s because Robert asked her to, and he’s super-charming and shit. But right now, I just want to get this little session with the good doctor over with. I’ve got some serious amends-making to get to. So when she asks, “Are you nervous?” I do my best to put on a face that lets her know I’m not.
“No, I feel great! Why?”
“Because,” she says, “your knee has been bouncing for the whole session and I’m worried that you’re going to start biting your fingertip off. The nail seems just about gone.”
I take my hand with its now-bloody fingertip from where I’ve been chewing and place it on my jackhammering knee to make it stop jouncing.
“Nope. I’m gooood,” I say, super smooth and convincing.
“Are you still feeling suicidal?”
“What?” I’m honestly shocked by this. “I’ve never felt suicidal. What makes you think I feel suicidal?”
