“That easy?” I say, trying to keep tears from my eyes.
He chuckles. “I said you had to throw the fight, not that you can make it look easy. We need a show tonight, Jesse. Believable. You don’t lose, remember?” His eyes are transfixing, a hazel color with flecks of sunlight mixed in.
“I have to let you kick my ass,” I deadpan.
He tips his head to each side. “You can kick mine a little first.”
I shake my head. “This seems like an impossibility for someone like me.”
“You fight with your whole heart. Everyone in the circuit knows it. That’s why I’m here,” he drawls, motioning to the hellscape surrounding us. The scent of decomposing flesh hits us both this time and I wince. I’d be a fool if I said no to this offer, but will I also be a fool if I say yes? It could mean my death.
“How long do you need the fight to last?” I ask, my tone a whisper as I agree to seal my fate.
His friendly grin gets wider. “Okay, here’s the plan.” I watch him speak in wonder. This is a smart human; I can tell by how he chooses his words and strings sentences together. When a man like Riley speaks, men like me listen. I nod along as he tells me the details and my shock intensifies when he says there will be a new truck, holding supplies, and instructions waiting for me here, by this house, after the fight. Someone will make sure it doesn’t get blocked in when tonight’s mayhem brings crowds to The Grot.
It happens quick and slow at the same time. A little like living full throttle and dying simultaneously. The fight and my escape go to plan.Almost.There’s one thing no one counted on, and no one will know. My need for revenge is far greater than my desire to continue breathing. I am willing to play the long game.
Chapter Two
Destiny
The room is a stinking hovel. It’s gutted of everything that is worth anything. Holding a mop in one hand and a half-filled container of bleach in the other, I’m not sure where to start. Believe it or not, this, cleaning this filth, is the best part of my day. The worst is my second job. The one I do at night. I make my plan as I stand at the door. I’ll strip the bed and do my best to avoid the fresh bloodstains on the dingy sheets, and pile them in the cart by the motel door. If there was a photo of a roach motel, there would be a photo of Mountain Aire Motel next to it. It’s cheap, by the hour, and no matter how good the cleaning staff is,ahem,it always has a permanent coat of grime.
It’s honest work, something that’s hard for me to come by these days, plus they give me a room, heavily discounted if I can clean most of the rooms before nightfall. This room was worse than it looked from the outside, it has drug paraphernalia littering the floor, used condoms stuck to the walls, and a knife with something that is dried and brown lining the top of the handle.Great. A murder weapon. I snap my gloves and get to work. Holding my breath as I dispose of the first condom, I think about my room, on the top floor. That’s where most of the long-term residences are. My room is nothing like this.
It is not a hovel. I’ve made it nice. Well, nice by some people’s standards. It has a little table that holds my lighted makeup mirror, one of those fancy shoe organizers that go on the back of the door, and a blue vase on my bedside table. One of my regulars fills it with a bouquet every other Wednesday. One time, close to Valentine’s Day, he brought red roses. It was the first time I’d ever received roses. It was the first time I saw them up close, or even discovered what they smelled like. The best part of my room though, is the small window that overlooks a warehouse. I think it’s part office building because in some of the windows I see desks, but on the top floor, in what I imagine to be a ritzy loft apartment, lives an artist. Last week, he had a wall covered with a sheet or some sort of canvas. He painted a lifelike face for hours and I watched when I wasn’t cleaning, mesmerized at the way he worked with different colors to make shadows—envious he seemed to derive so much happiness from just creating.
Happiness isn’t for whores who clean dirty motels for a place to sleep. That’s reserved for those who are better. I didn’t pick my parents or to be born into the slums, but I’ve always known my place, and this is as good as it gets. When the room I’m cleaning makes my nostrils burn from the scent of cleaners, I step back to admire my work. Better than when I got here, I nod to myself. Locking the door, I return my supplies to the closet at the end of this hallway and lock it, then take my rolling cart down to the basement to do laundry. Callie, the other housekeeper, is already here, sitting on the dryer as her load finishes. This room isn’t heated and every bit of heat matters. She’s chewing bubble gum reading a magazine that was no doubt left inside a motel room. Her sneakers have a hole in both toes, but her uniform is bright white.
“Hey girl,” Callie chirps, face brightening as I join her in this dungeon-like space. It’s cold and wet, with mold coating one side of the wall from a leak that was never repaired properly. At least I have a place to wash my clothes for free, I remind myself as a shiver runs up my spine. I lock the door behind me so no one can get in.
I clear my throat as the scent hits my throat. “How was your day? Reading anything good?” I can’t read, so I rely on Callie for all of the important things.
“Your rooms were raunchy today, too, right?” Callie’s voice raises at the end of every sentence. She told me it’s a thing where she’s from. “Just reading an article on how to make a guy stay after the first date.”
“How?” I reply, loading filthy sheets into a machine and putting in a carefully measured cap of detergent. It’s the only thing Mountain Aire pays for. The rest of the cleaning products are our responsibility. “How do you make them stay?”
“Destiny, baby, they don’t tell you how to make your clients leave their wives. This is real world dating. The real stuff.” I dated in the projects growing up, but Callie said that’s not real stuff. The real stuff is reserved for those better than her and I. “Mostly it says to let them know you’re interested without being too needy.”
“Why wouldn’t you ask for what you wanted?”
Callie was engaged once so I defer to her about most relationship stuff. “There’s a fine line. It’s a balancing act.” It sounds difficult. “If you ask for too much, it pushes them away.” Her eyes turn down in the corner and I know she’s thinking of Patrick, her ex. Her gaze lifts to mine. “How many clients tonight?”
“Three. One ace.” I grab my personal bag of clothes and towels that I hide under the sheets while working and dump it into an empty washer and dump double the soap I’m supposed to use and set it for heavy.
“I don’t have any clients tonight,” Callie says sadly. “I wish I had an ace this week. It’s my nephew’s birthday this weekend and I wanted to get him a game.”
“I’ll buy the game.” My ace tips double the price, so I’ll have extra.
Callie smiles. “You didn’t even pause to consider. You don’t belong here, babe. You never did.” She swallows in between chews of gum. “Your heart isn’t dirty.”
It should be, god it should be.
It’s a nice sentiment, but this is the only place for me. “Thanks, Callie. Can I have the magazine when you’re finished?”
She frowns as she sets it on top of a dryer. “Yeah, babe. Of course. I’ll come find you in the morning for the cash if that’s okay. I could help you read that, too.” Callie shakes a long nail at the dryer. “If you want, that is.” I’ve tried to do it on my own a million times, but letters jumble, and nothing makes a whole lot of sense. I can pick out words here and there, but I need someone to help me.
I nod, reaching to grab the magazine. “Sounds good.” It’s a noncommittal response because I don’t want to put anyone out, definitely not my only friend.