“Destiny,” Callie rasps. “Watch yo’ back, baby. Call me with your schedule for tonight.” I’m always as safe as I can be as a prostitute without a pimp living in a motel. I have Callie, and she has me. It’s a dangerous world we live in, and safety is one thing we don’t indulge in because we can’t. Callie takes her cart and locks up behind herself as I listen to the whir of the machines, lulling me into a retrospective space. The magazine pictures are filled with beautiful people. The ones with good genes and lucky birthright. They have gleaming skin and exude worthiness. It doesn’t make me feel bad about myself though. I’m not scorned, or angry about my station in life, I’ve moved past that to acceptance.
The article about keeping a man is glaring up at me, and try as I might, I can’t unscramble the long words. I can’t apply the knowledge to my life, anyway. I’d have to date a real man to know what they meant. I know that being fucked in the back of a rusted VW Bug isn’t a real relationship. The projects didn’t have any other options. If a boy called me sweet thing and gave me a black eye, that meant he was my boyfriend. I was his. The concept of a man wanting more than sex is mind-boggling. I switch over my clothes and start a new load of sheets when I see my mop. I need a new head. Last time I bought the wrong kind, and I told myself next time I’d bring the whole damn thing to the store to make sure I was buying the right one. I check my digital watch and figure out how long I have before my wash is finished. Numbers and time are something I’ve always been able to discern. I have plenty of time before my first client, so I lock up, mop in hand, and head for the store a few blocks away.
The wind isn’t the face-burning kind. Not yet anyway. That comes in winter when the ice is just as offensive as the snow that streams from the sky. It’s brisk, so I pull up my hood, keeping my face down, I walk at a quick clip, making sure to study my surroundings. There’s a man standing out front of the warehouse building next door. He’s tall and lean, with tattoos crawling down both arms like dark blue skin. He doesn’t see me approaching because I’m one of those invisible people. We blend into the background. I’m safer this way. The man winces against a gust and his hair lifts in the wind. I spot a letter tattooed behind his ear. I clutch the mop and steel my nerves as his gaze lingers left, falling directly on me. A laser-tight hone, like he’s been searching for me.
He nods at me, throwing one arm up. My heart thumps loudly and my stomach turns with unease. What does he want? I nod back and take another quick step, if he tries something I can defend myself with the mop handle. “You’re right on time,” he says, and I recognize a slight accent. One that mars him, marks him as less. “Come, I’ll show you up.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “What do you mean?”
Glancing at my mop, he hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m Jesse,” he says tentatively. “I hired you to clean my apartment. From the handy app.” His gaze lingers on my face, blue eyes searing into mine. A bolt of lightning striking me from the heavens would feel less jarring.
It only takes two seconds for me to understand that this lie is necessary. I might not be pretty or smart like the shiny women, but I’m shrewd. Opportunistic. It’s how I stay alive. I nod my head and offer a small smile.
“Of course. I was thinking of the wrong address when I saw it at first. I thought it was across the street,” I say, remembering how oddly the buildings are numbered on this street. “I’m afraid I’m short on supplies,” I say, holding up my mop proudly. The only reason he noticed me, I realize.
“I have everything you need upstairs,” Jesse says. “Like I mentioned in the message.” He frowns, wrinkles creasing his forehead. “Ready?”
I nod meekly and follow him into the building that I’ve only ever seen from my small motel window. I know who he is the second he slams the penthouse button.Jesse is the artist. I want to tell him how much I loved the face he painted, but obviously I can’t mention anything of the sort without looking like a stalking freak. “I’m having a party, or an art show to be more specific. Some people who are really important to me will be here,” Jesse says. He taps one finger against his leg. “I’d clean it myself, but I need a second pair of hands to make it happen on time.” He’s good at hiding his accent. It didn’t even slip in the second sentence. I’m almost flattered I’m the reason he’s hiding it. The fake cleaning lady.
“We’ll get it shining in no time,” I reassure him, but also add, “What kind of art show?”
Jesse turns a moment before the elevator pings open. “The kind that shows art, and hopefully sells it.”
His eyes glint, and I know he’s teasing me, but instead of speaking again, I smile and nod. Reading faces is important in my line of work. It’s one of the only tells if violence is coming. Johns always have a tell when they’re up to no good. I don’t take on many new clients because fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, my schedule stays full. That’s not to say I trust all of my Johns. I don’t trust anyone fully, but I know enough to know when to keep my trap shut.
Following Jesse into his apartment is surreal. I’ve seen it from my small motel window, but never understood the full scope of its size. It’s enormous, with tall ceilings. Skylights litter the roof, so sunlight pours in warming the space. My room is dark and cold, and this is like a sun kissed palace in the sky. He rattles off tasks as he points to a counter filled with cleaning products. I nod and get to work. At least this isn’t a skill I have to pretend to know how to do. Setting my dirty mop on the floor feels wrong, but I pick up his duster and get to work. There’s only one interior door, in the back, which goes to his bedroom and the bathroom. Everything else is open, all one giant space. My sneakers squeak on the polished concrete floors, so I take them off and set them by the front door. They’re dirty and look out of place here.
As I scrub a baseboard adjacent to his kitchen, I see him on his phone in the living space. He’s texting someone furiously, then looking at me. I’m caught staring, so I avert my gaze. From my peripheral, I see him turn back to his phone. I scrub thoroughly and decide to only focus on my cleaning. I need to avoid Jesse at all costs. About halfway through the job, I look at my watch and notice the time. I’m also thanking the good Lord that whoever was supposed to clean his apartment didn’t show up. There are pieces of artwork lining the floor, leaning against the wall—not hung. The wall where he was painting the huge face is bare. I mop in front of it, careful not to brush the canvases to get up some tiny orange paint splatters.
Jesse’s voice looms over me like a threat. It’s loud, he’s close. “What’s your name? I know it’s not Melissa.” He clears his throat, and I spin, holding his fancy mop out in front of me like a weapon. “I’m not mad.” He holds his hands up, palms facing me. He’s not a threat. That’s what that gesture means, but his face is unreadable. He has the casual air of someone who inflicts pain, but with a comedic edge. What is that called? A defense mechanism or an offensive move? “You have cleaned the fuck out of this place, and it looks amazing. It’s just that Melissa texted to apologize for not showing up, so I know you aren’t who I thought you were.” He must read indecision on my face because he adds, “Don’t lie to me.”
My mouth feels dry, and I ready myself to run in case it gets ugly. “I… I’m Destiny, and I am a cleaner, just not the one you hired. Obviously. It was a right place, right time sort of thing. At least it seemed that way.” Pressing my lips together, I add, “I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.”
He shakes his head, wide jaw chiseled and set. “Might as well finish the job so I can pay you for the full work. If you’re following strangers into random apartments, you must need the money.”
“It’s not a random apartment.”Oops. I didn’t mean to say that.“I mean, yes, I need the money. Thank you.”
Jesse narrows his eyes, one brow lifting a bit, making his face lethally attractive. “Not random?”
I’m disarmed in every way possible. “I live next door.”
“At the motel?” His brow raises even more.
“Yeah, it’s gross, I know.”Make excuses, Destiny.“I’m working on getting out of there.”
“Where are you from then? Are you new to the city?”
My hand gripping the mop is sweating. Nerves. I never get nervous. Not in this way. What’s happening? “A few months new. I came here from… a bigger city.”
“Your accent,” he says, neck working as he swallows. “Where is it from?” I can’t hide mine as well as he hides his.
“Where is your accent from?” I counter.
Jesse presses his lips together in a firm line. “I don’t have an accent.”
I smile. “Okay. Mine is from Dirt Downs. The sketchy side.”
He slips his hands into the pockets of his oversized jeans. “Is there a side of Dirt Downs that isn’t sketchy?” A wisp of a smile plays on one side of his mouth.