by Geri Glenn
“It is. I work forty hours a week.”
He taps his pen on the pad in front of him, and then scribbles something on the top of my resume. “Sarah, I’m going to be very honest with you.” He places the pen on top of the stack of papers in front of him, arranging it in perfect alignment with the top of the pages. “I don’t think you’re the right fit for this company. We need someone to work all shifts, both days and evenings, and we certainly need someone with a little more flexibility than you seem to be able to give us. Between your other job and your child, I don’t see how we can even schedule you for half of the cashier shifts we need filled.”
My cheeks burn as he speaks, my heart sinking to the floor. This is the third job in two weeks to give me this same spiel. Not enough availability, not enough time to dedicate to a thankless job with shit pay.
The thing is, though, I would gladly take this job and its shit pay if it meant keeping food on the table for my baby girl and keeping a roof over our heads. How do the single moms of the world do this? How do they raise their children in loving homes, provide them with all they need, and still manage to work a full-time job? I just don’t get it.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, rising from my seat and extending my hand to him. He takes it in his, giving it a weak shake, his eyes already straying to the next resume in the pile.
“Good luck, Sarah,” he says as he closes the door to his office behind me.
Anger and resentment churn in my belly. God, why can’t I catch a fucking break? I’ve been trying so goddamn hard, but I’m left powerless as everything around me is crumbling into a heap at my feet.
I fight back the tears as the taxi drives me home. Refusing to allow my despair to get the better of me, I pop my earbuds into my ears and flip through my phone until I find a playlist filled with angry rock music.
A text comes through from Ryker, but I don’t bother opening it. It can stay unopened, along with the other three he’s sent me, and the two voicemails he’d left, until I have the headspace available to me to deal with that club.
The drive home through the city’s traffic takes twenty minutes and my last thirty dollars. I don’t even have enough to give the guy a tip.
It’s late in the morning, and I don’t have to pick Millie up from daycare for at least another four hours. I’d taken an entire day off of work from the shoe store for this, which means I’m losing an entire day’s pay—for nothing.
Walking up the front walk to my house, I ignore the overgrown lawn and the weedy flowerbeds. When Mouse and I had first found this house online with the offer of a rent-to-own situation, we’d been ecstatic. I was newly pregnant with Millie and madly in love with a man I expected to spend the rest of my life with. Together, we’d made this house our home. He’d taken the grass from weedy to lush and full, and I’d put in flowers and shrubs along the front porch. It was cute. Quaint. Now it looks neglected and unloved. I know the feeling.
I haven’t even made it inside yet when the roar of a motorcycle approaches. Stopping, I let my head drop back and my eyes fall closed. I’m not ready to deal with Bosco right now. I just want to go inside, take off these fancy clothes, get into something comfy and attack the tub of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer.
As the motor dies, I turn to face him, but it’s not Bosco. Ryker swings his long leg over his ride and gives me a lift of his chin. “I texted you.”
Holding up my phone, I reply, “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Called you too.”
I shrug. “I haven’t had a chance to check my voicemail.”
Ryker watches me for a moment, and then nods his head, apparently coming to some sort of conclusion about me. “Let’s talk inside.”
I don’t bother to hide my sigh. “Ryker, look, I’ve had a shit day. I’m not really up for company right now.”
His jaw ticks as he takes my words into consideration. “I’ve been tryin’ to get a hold of you for over a week. The way I see it, we can talk inside, away from your nosey ass neighbors, or we can have our chat right here and let those fuckers watch. Your choice, but this chat is happenin’ now.”
My shoulders sag as I realize there’s no getting rid of him. “Come on inside.”
Bosco
Stepping up to the podium, I arrange the microphone and look out into the large crowd of drug addicts and alcoholics. “Hi, my name is Scott.”
The resounding, “Hi, Scott,” echoes through the enormous church basement.
“I’ve been sober going on five years now,” I tell them. “My drugs of choice are cocaine, heroin, and ecstasy, but in the prime of my addiction, I’d have taken just about anything that would get me high.”
This isn’t the first time that I’ve shared my story at a Narcotic’s Anonymous meeting; I’ve done it more times than I can count. Most of the people in this room have heard it multiple times, just as I’ve heard theirs, but if sharing what I’ve gone through in life would help even one person today, the pain of reliving it would be worth it.
I’ve been coming to this same group every Tuesday afternoon for the last five years without fail. I’ve never missed a meeting, and I plan on keeping that perfect attendance up as a way to remind myself just how far I’ve come, and how easy it would be to slip back into my old life.
“When I was fifteen, my twin brother, Spencer, died from cancer. He was my best friend, my biggest fan, and a royal pain in my ass.” Quiet laughter rises from the crowd. “When Spencer was sick, I was pissed at the world. Here I was, healthy and living the life of a privileged teenage boy, and my brother was always in and out of the hospital, sometimes too sick to even have visitors.
“The cancer ate away at him for more than two years, until he was just a shell of the brother I grew up with.” I pause and take a deep breath. My brother’s death is something I doubt I’ll ever get over, and talking about it is a form of torture, but it’s part of my story, and something I need to deal with to remain on the wagon.
“After Spencer died, my parents were devastated. I was devastated. My mom and dad didn’t really know how to cope with that loss. I mean, what parent does? My dad started drinking more and spent a lot of time out in the garage, away from me and my mother. She spent her days and nights in her bedroom. I could hear her crying in there sometimes, but she kept the door locked and I wasn’t welcome to come in.
“When I was sixteen, I met this group of guys down at the skate park. They were kind of bad news and I knew that, but they were amazing on a skateboard, and I guess a good distraction from the shit I had going on back at home.
“These guys had connections, and it was with them that I tried weed for the first time. It was fun, ya know, but not something I was planning on doing all the time. We just did it for a good time, maybe a couple of times a week or whatever. Then one day, one of them had some cocaine. I’d just had a huge fight with my dad. He’d caught me taking a ball cap out of my brother’s bedroom and kicked me out of the house. I was angry and sad, and I took that cocaine, not realizing that it was going to be the first of many hits I would take over the next four years.”
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I don’t stop with my story. “I dropped out of school, stole from my family, and got in a lot of fights. Eventually, it got to the point where I couldn’t function if I didn’t have a hit to get me through the day.
“I was arrested twice for possession with intent to sell, and sentenced to thirty days in a juvenile detention facility. That place was as rough as they come. There were some mammoth fucking dudes in there, and they weren’t messing around. I had to fight to survive in that place, which got my sentence increased to ninety days.
“I turned eighteen the day I got out. My parents didn’t pick me up and I had no cash. When I finally got home, my parents had moved out. I haven’t seen them or spoken to them since then. I don’t know where they are or if they’re even still alive.”
A girl in the front row is watching me intently, taking in every word. I’ve never s
een her here before, and her arms still show signs of the track marks she’d made to inject herself with drugs.
“My buddies were gone by then too. Some were in jail, some had gone off to college. A couple of them had died. I couldn’t afford cocaine anymore, so I started in on heroine. For two years I lived on the streets, panhandling for money, and spending whatever I made on my drug habit. I was alone, hungry, angry, and miserable, but that still wasn’t my rock bottom.”
The girl chews at her fingernails, her eyes never straying from me as I spill my story.
“My rock bottom happened when a friend of mine, that I’d met on the street, was assaulted.” I watch as her head comes up. “She was walking to a place we’d agreed to meet up at and three guys jumped out at her and beat her to a pulp. They stole everything from her, even her shoes. And then they raped her.”
Tears brim the edges of the girl’s eyes as she watches me, and I don’t miss the slight tremble of her body. “My friend died that night, and I was too strung out to even notice she wasn’t there when she said she would be. I found her hours later, naked, alone, and dead. My rock bottom came when I put my fingers on her neck, trying desperately to find a pulse, and my fresh track marks were all I could see.
“As I sat there in the grass, staring at my dead friend, all I could think about was my brother, about how fucking pissed at me Spencer would be if he could see me now. I thought about the fact that he had died and I had lived, but I was pissing it all away on drugs and living this life that nobody would wish on their worst enemy.
“It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, along with the help of a couple very kind social workers, but I got my life back. I’ve been clean for five years, and I don’t plan on ever going back to that life. I joined an MC, and now I have a family, somewhere I can truly belong. Life is good now. I miss my brother and I miss my parents, but I do not miss the drugs that almost ruined my life.”
I step down from the podium to the sound of applause, nodding and shaking a few hands as I pass. I take a seat behind the girl and listen as the next few people tell their stories. I watch as her body trembles slightly and as her foot bounces, her body never entirely still.
As the meeting comes to an end, everyone stands, and I know it won’t be long before people approach me to talk more about what I’d told them today. Leaning forward, I speak softly so only the girl can hear.
“How many days has it been?”
She jumps at my voice and turns her wide eyes on me; the circles beneath them resembling deep bruises. Her gaze darts away, focusing instead on something over my shoulder. “This is the second day,” she admits, her voice hoarse.
My heart breaks for her. She can’t be any older than nineteen, and from the look of her tattered clothes and dirt smudged face, I can only assume she doesn’t have any place to live. She’s alone and scared.
“Scott,” I say, thrusting out my hand.
She stares at my offer of friendship as if she expects it to blow up in her face. Slowly, gingerly, she puts her small hand in mine. “Rachel.”
I offer her a smile and lean a little closer. “Rachel, what do you say we go across the street and I’ll buy you some lunch? Maybe talk a little bit.” She looks uncertain as she takes me in, her teeth nibbling on her lower lip. Throwing my hands up, I add, “No catch. I’m hungry, and you look like you could use a friend. What do ya say?”
Her eyes search mine, and I’m glad that she seems uncertain. It’s reassuring to know that she expresses caution when it comes to strangers, no matter how hungry she is. Finally, she nods.
Without another word, I stand and start walking out the door. I don’t bother to look back to see if Rachel’s following me. If she doesn’t want my help, I won’t force it on her. She needs to be ready if she’s going to make the change and claim her life back. For the first time, I’m in a position to help someone do that, and after seeing her reaction to my story, I really hope that someone is her.
Sarah
“A bar?” I ask, my nose curled at the thought.
As much as I hate it, retail has always been my job of choice. The shifts are generally during reasonable hours, the commute is usually fairly decent, and with my lack of anything but a high school diploma, there’s not a whole lot of other options out there for me.
“Not just any bar,” Ryker claims. “A club bar. One we own and control. One where you can pick and choose your shifts, take days off if Millie’s sick, and where the tips will go a long way to helping you get back on your feet.”
That would solve my whole availability issue I seem to be having, but still, I don’t know that working in a bar, surrounded by a bunch of drunken, grab-happy men is something I want to do. “You said Club Chrome, right?”
Ryker nods. “Look, I know it’s not an ideal job for a mother, but Pimp runs that place like a well-oiled machine. He takes care of his ladies, and the men there won’t let anything happen that you don’t want to happen. The patrons know not to mess around with the Chrome girls, or Pimp’ll have their head on a spike.”
Pursing my lips, I consider the offer. On one hand, Chrome is only open late at night, well after Millie’s asleep. I could get a babysitter, work my shifts, and be home in plenty of time to get a little sleep before she wakes up for the day. On the other hand, I’ve seen the type of outfits those girls wear to earn themselves some extra tips. After having a baby, I don’t know that my body has any business in leather shorts or crop tops.
“Let me think about it,” I concede. “I’ll need to figure out childcare for Millie before I can commit to anything.”
Ryker’s smile is warm. “No problem. After having Maddox, I know exactly what you mean. Charlie and I don’t get to do a lot of the things we used to before he came along. Just don’t take too long, okay? Pimp needs someone now, and he won’t keep the position open forever.”
He holds up the stack of envelopes in his hand and waves them in the air. “As for these, I’ll take them with me. We’ll get you paid up for the month so you don’t have that shit hanging over your head. If you need help again next month, you fuckin’ phone me and we’ll sort it out. Yeah?”
I release my breath on a sigh. “Yes, Ryker, I’ll call. And thank you. I hate taking the charity, but I really do appreciate the help.”
Ryker stands and places a hand on my shoulder. “This ain’t charity, darlin’. It’s family havin’ family’s back.” He walks toward the front door and calls over his shoulder, “Don’t take too long thinkin’ on that job. Think of it this way, you might actually have some fun workin’ there.”
As the door closes behind him, I flop back in my chair. Fucking Bosco. I knew he’d go right to the club with my money troubles, even though I’d asked him not to. If I’m being honest with myself, though, I’m glad he did. Ryker swooping in here like my own personal tattooed fairy godmother took a heavy burden off my shoulders.
Standing from my seat, I head upstairs to get into a more comfortable outfit. Would working at Chrome really be that bad? Ryker’s right about Pimp. Even I know the lengths he’s gone to to protect his girls. I’d need to get a babysitter.
The friends I’d had from high school have all got lives of their own now, so they’re out. They’re off in college and living the life of happy twenty-one-year-old girls. Over the course of my pregnancy, we’d drifted apart; our lives headed in completely different directions. The last time I’d seen any of them was at Mouse’s funeral.
There’s that Sanders girl down the street, though. She’s old enough to babysit and loves Millie. She’s even offered to watch her on several occasions.
As I pull my shirt over my head, I realize that I’ve already made my decision. Why bother killing myself thinking about it when in my mind, I’d already made the choice. Snagging up my phone, I send Ryker a text.
Sarah: I’ll take the job. I can start Friday.
That gives me three days to arrange a sitter for Millie and dig through my pre-pregnancy clothes to find something
to wear. The club itself has skimpy shirts with the logo on them, but I’d need my own shorts and skirts.
Ryker’s text is almost immediate. Ryker: Good girl. Pimp will be in touch.
Looking in the mirror, I lift my shirt a little and turn sideways. My body isn’t the same as it was before I had Millie. My boobs are bigger, sure, but they don’t point in the same direction that they used to. I guess that’s a hazard of breastfeeding. My stomach isn’t nearly as flat as it once was, and the stretch marks ride high above my belly button.
Who cares? It’s a job, Sarah. Money. Do it for Millie, if not for yourself.
Dropping my shirt, I step away from the mirror. I’m overthinking this whole thing. This job will make it possible for me to finally function without the worry of going bankrupt hanging over me. What Ryker has offered me, in his fairy godmother in leather type of way, is a way out. A way to prove to myself, and maybe even to Millie, that we can do this on our own.
Bosco
Rachel tears into her burger, barely chewing her mouthful before taking another bite. I silently pick at my club sandwich and fries, and let her enjoy what I’m sure is her first hot meal in a while. When she’s finished, a flush creeps across her freckled cheeks and she keeps her eyes trained on the table in front of her, unable to meet my gaze.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask her, keeping my voice hushed, not wanting to embarrass her any further.
Her gaze flicks to me and she looks away again, bringing her napkin up to wipe her mouth.
“You can tell me, ya know.” I push my unfinished plate toward her, hoping she’ll take the fries I hadn’t eaten. “I lived on the streets for a long time. I know what it’s like to be hungry.”
This time, when her eyes meet mine, she forces herself to hold them there. “I, uh...I had a sandwich a couple days ago. A man from one of the churches was handing them out.”
I stay quiet, hoping she’ll offer me more without too much digging on my part, but she looks back down at the table, her cheeks still flushed. “I’m gonna have some pie,” I say after the silence has stretched on too long. “You want some pie?”
