“You broke my nose!” Way to point out the obvious.
“You deserved it, you piece of fucking shit!”
“Leave,” I demand lowly. They both freeze and turn towards me. Neither of them even noticed I was here. It’d be so easy to kill them both. No one would care enough about them to find out who did it.
The man’s beady eyes study me with anger and perversion, his hand still clutching his nose.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, his voice now nasally and stuffed with blood.
“The owner of this house. Now fucking leave.”
He huffs and turns to storm out the front door, muttering obscenities and promises of revenge under his breath the entire time.
Barbie turns to me and gives me a yellow smile. “Thanks, baby.”
It’s honestly got to be one of the seven wonders in the world on how I came from… that. Barbie was once beautiful in her younger years, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. I only figured it out when I found an old picture of Barbie and Billy in their twenties, right when Barbie started getting hooked on drugs. I’m a replica of her former self. Long, curly black
hair, golden eyes and a wide smile. Now, her hair barely falls to her shoulders, the greasy strands thin and wispy. Her skin is full of pockmarks and wrinkles and cracked like cheap leather. And she’s as thin as a rail, though she does retain some muscle mass from the constant scuffling she finds herself in with men and woman.
I suppose that’s one thing I can say about Barbie. Aside from Billy, she doesn’t take anyone’s shit. The man currently nursing his broken nose can attest to that.
“I didn’t do it for you,” I deadpan. Her fake smile washes off, revealing her real face.
“Bitch,” she mutters. Nothing I haven’t heard before. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“You know exactly why, Barbie. Came to collect rent.”
Her shoulders tense. She doesn’t need to say it—I already know. She doesn’t have the money. She smoked, injected or snorted it all. Probably drank it, too.
“What did you steal this time?” I ask casually, referring to the man with a broken nose.
She snarls, her dilated eyes simmering as she rages, “I didn’t steal nothin’! I fucked him nice and hard for that shit. I earned that, and it was mine.”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “If you’re going to sell your body, at least get cash for it. How are you going to eat and pay rent otherwise?” It’s like talking to a brick wall. Not sure why the words even left my mouth. They won’t ever penetrate her drug-addled brain anyway.
She plops down on the chair, and lights up a cigarette, not bothering to respond. Typical. She’d rather act like I never said anything than acknowledge the fact that she owes me money.
“I own this house. I can evict you any time I want. All I need to do is go to the courthouse and serve you the papers, and your ass is out in a month tops,” I threaten, sitting down in the chair across from her.
I take care not to touch any of the surfaces if I can help it. I don’t know what kind of diseases I could pick up. Ryan would kill me if that happened.
“You think because you’re dating you a rich man that you can get away with whatever you want,” she spits, her glazed eyes narrowed into slits. “Shallow Hill is in your bones, little girl. You’ll never be better than me, so quit acting like it.”
“You sound bitter, Barbie,” I state with boredom. “Doesn’t change the fact that I own this house and you owe me rent.”
This house foreclosed when I was a freshman in college. By that point, I had busted my ass since I was sixteen, working in fast food the next town over, and then working part time in a call center when I turned eighteen. I saved every penny, got a credit card and built my credit from the bottom up. When the house foreclosed, I bought it from the bank for an insanely cheap price. It was almost insulting. That money went down the hole. I’ll obviously never profit from it by reselling—no one wants to live in Shallow Hill—but it was worth it. Keeping my mother under my thumb is worth every. Fucking. Penny.
Her hands tremble as she pulls from the cigarette.
“I’ll tell Billy,” she threatens around a cloud of smoke. I raise an eyebrow. She says this every time she’s late on rent. Which is every single month, mind you.
“Billy doesn’t give a shit about you, Barbie.”
“He does when he’s balls deep inside me,” she snaps back. I roll my eyes at her immaturity. Billy doesn’t care about anyone, even when he’s balls deep inside them.
Barbie and I have both seen firsthand what happens when Billy gets angry with someone. We’ve also seen what happens when he grows bored with them, too. Equally terrifying prospects. Neither of us seek him out if we can help it.
“He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, and the second he comes, he’s already forgotten about you.”