“We’re buying this dump and turning it into upscale apartments.” She shields her eyes from the sun with a flat hand as she looks up. “I was told this was a ‘you’ project,” Amy adds.
I can be like her. I want to. Lowering my sunglasses, I try to glimpse my old window, narrowing my eyes. “This place is awful, and I love that idea. It is a me project,” I say. “I lived here when I first came here. The management is horrendous. This is prime real estate. I always envisioned it as an apartment complex. It’s going to need a lot of work.”
“That’s something you’d be willing to spearhead?” Amy asks, her high heels clicking against the pavement. I try to keep up as she asks me questions about management. I answer as best I can. Amy doesn’t judge me for knowing, for living here. She doesn’t see Destiny when she looks at me. These people fully invited me into their world without pause. Sure, Amy is on the payroll, but it doesn’t mean she has to be kind to me. “We can find someone else if you’re not comfortable.”
“I’ll do it. I don’t know what it will require of me, but I’ll do it.” This isn’t cleaning or serving cocktails, or something I can fake, but damn, do I want to learn. “You’ll help?”
Amy’s smile is wide, white, and sincere. “Of course, I will. Let’s get us a motel.”
We walk through the front door, and I notice the same front desk girl from the day I left. Her gaze turns fearful when she takes us in. We don’t belong here, and she knows it. She thinks we are the feds here to shut the place down. When I turned tricks, it was something I constantly worried about. I don’t know how Marty stayed off the radar this long. She doesn’t recognize me, not even for a split second am I Destiny from the top floor. Adrenaline hits as I realize I really can erase my past.
“Where’s Marty?” I ask.
She hikes a thumb over her shoulder. Her nails are dirty, and her she looks high on something. “We have a meeting scheduled with him,” Amy adds. “We’re with A Team Investments.”
“He didn’t tell me,” she stutters. “He’s in the office. Let me tell ‘em you’re here.”
My breathing speeds, rising and falling when I think of Marty. How I thought he was doing me a favor by letting me live here in exchange for cleaning. It wasn’t fair. He needs to pay for not only what he did to me, but for all the other women living here trying to scrape by in an unfair world. Amy leads as we walk into a small office with stained walls that reeks of cigarette smoke. “Marty Riser? Owner of Mountain Aire Motel?” Her voice commands attention. I half expect her to whip out a pistol and handle things the way Jesse does, but she asks if he’s gone over the paperwork she sent.
I remove my sunglasses and put them into my purse. Unlike the girl at the front desk, I want Marty to know who I am. “I got em,” Marty says. “This motel has been in my family for two generations. It’s a legacy and you think you can come in here and gentrify it up? Turn it into the likes of every other hipster building on this street?”
It’s the last one left, which is why I was so excited to be able to live here.
“What if I say no?” Marty glares at Amy. He’s shaking a piece of paper. “And who is this? The new owner? I want to meet this person, not a representative of some huge conglomerate.”
Amy steps aside. “Meet Drew Astor.” I’m a little shocked at the use of the last name with my first, but not enough to ruin this moment.
I extend my hand. “You might know me by a different name, but that doesn’t matter anymore. This is my building now.” Marty’s eyes grow large, his eyebrows raise, and he starts sweating. I know the game, and exactly how to play it. “You’ll take the very generous offer, or I tell the feds to breathe down your back. Marty, you got away with murder, quite literally for a long time, and it’s time karma swung your way.”
His neck works as he swallows, and he narrows his eyes now that the shock is wearing off. “How?” he asks. “How is this possible?” I’m shaking inside, pulling courage from places I never possessed until right now. This is why I’m here. This is why it’s my deal. I have the power to grant the Astors this property and I’ll lay down my life before I let it slip away. I owe them. “Do you understand?” I ask.
“Blackmail and extortion are illegal!” Marty says, the paper in his hand creasing where his fingers clutch it. “That’s not the way this is going to go.”
Amy laughs. “Actually, it’s exactly the way this is going to go.” Her green eyes meet mine. “Tell me what went on here while you lived on the top floor, Ms. Astor. Give me details. Gory details. Juries love gory details.”
I stand a little taller. “He forced me to clean every dirty room without pay, in exchange for room and board, all while I was struggling to escape a bad situation.”
“Not illegal,” Marty rasps, licking his top teeth like he’s winning.
“How about the men you sent to my room and gave them a discount formyservices and took that off my rent? That sound like it’s on the up and up? I have receipts and messages, Marty.”
He crosses his arms. “You’re not an Astor,” Marty says. It’s weird that he’s familiar with the name and I hadn’t ever heard it, but that shows how naive I used to be.
A booming voice that sends a chill up my spine says, “Don’t talk to her like that.” Jesse.
My heart races as he saunters forward, suave and glorious. His domineering presence signals the time for talking is over.
“If what Drew says is true, if you turn down this offer, you won’t just be losing this motel, you’re losing your life.” The threat is clear and hangs in the stinky air like a sharp-edged promise. My breathing speeds because now I know how exacting his promises are. “Ask Mr. Riser again. Last ask this time.”
Marty is sweating—beads of warm perspiration rolling down his fat, red face catching on his oversized mustache. His whole body is shaking. I open my mouth to speak, then close it again, enjoying the tension more than I should. It’s like a power up. Marty pisses his pants, wetness spreading from his crotch to each thigh like the wings of a dank butterfly on his jeans. He knows who Jesse is and is familiar with what his threats mean.
“Do you understand?” I ask, stepping forward to grab the paper from his hand. It’s the page where signatures go. “Marty,” I add.
He nods. “Of course. Of course. I’ll sign right now. I know the motel will be in the best of hands.” With a shaking hand, he grabs a pen and scrawls across the bottom of several pages of the contract.
“Initial that one,” Amy says, watching him like a hawk.
Marty complies.