Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
I pick up my pace, my dollar store flip-flops snapping, toward the broken buzzing sign that flashes only three letters of the word OFFICE.
My landlord Victor sits inside. He’s got a teardrop tattoo under one eye, a spider web on his elbow, and a four pack a day habit that makes everything around him smell like mentholated hell itself.
He’s got bleach blond hair and these odd silver-blue eyes. He reminds me of Machine Gun Kelly only at Megan Fox’s height.
Oh, and he’s always throwing in Spanish words when he talks. There’s nothing Latino about him but whatever, I’m not here to delve into his cultural appropriation.
“Where the fuck you been, mujer? Rent’s late.” He takes a drag of his cigarette, which he holds pinched between two fingers like a joint. “Don’t make me put your shit on the curb.”
“I’m so sorry. My brother just got back from…”
He glares at me. “Cállate. This look like story time at the fucking library, or what? I don’t give a shit about the story. Just give me my fucking money.”
He holds his hand out as he takes a step into me, making me back against the wall, giving me the eye, up and down, up and down, like he’s turned on by my fear and disgust.
I grab the wad of bills from my purse and shove them into his hand. But instead of taking them right away, he runs the back of his knuckle up and down my forearm. Mixed in with the smell of the cigarettes is the stale sharpness of cinnamon gum.
It’s all I can do to stifle a shudder as my gag reflex activates.
“All you gotta do is be nice to me, mujer. You don’t gotta be a fucking genius to understand, right? Tail like you ain’t common around here. You’re fresh.” He takes a final drag on his cigarette, and then stubs it out on the wall next to my face. “If you’re nicer to me? I’ll be nicer to you. Fuckin’ quid pro quo.”
My body recoils. I turn my face away, wondering what’ll happen if I’m forced to knee him in the balls. “Victor. Take the rent money and let me go.”
“Pushy, pushy,” he snarls, and grabs the wad of cash from my hand. “Fine. You think I give a fuck? Go.”
I scurry away, nearly tripping over the filthy rug in front of the door. But just as I’m about to dart outside, I hear him snap his dirty fingers. “Mira, mira, cutie. I almost forgot. You had a visitor yesterday.”
I stop in my tracks, clenching my hands into fists as a pulsing starts in my ears. Nobody knows I live here. Nobody here even knows my real name. I turn back over my shoulder. “What visitor?”
He shrugs his shoulders and eases back down into his office chair, which squeals under his weight. “Do I look like fucking Sherlock Holmes to you?”
God, I hate him. “Don’t make me use my mace on you again, Victor.”
That makes him laugh, makes his belly heave. “Ándale. I like a girl that wants a fight, no but for reals, though. He didn’t tell me his name. Dark hair, diamond earring. Sick ass Mercedes with the good tint. Legit bad motherfucker, you feel me?”
Oh god, no. “And?”
“He gave me five hundred to let him into your place.”
I feel the room start to spin around me. “I don’t suppose you said no.”
“What the fuck you think, mujer?” He takes another drag of his cigarette, long and slow and sinister. “That’s real fucking money. So I said sure.”
I spin back around and stomp toward his messy desk. “You said sure? It’s my apartment, Victor.”
“Yeah, but it’s my fucking building. And you were late on the rent,” he sniffs a little, and rubs his nose, like coke addicts do.
The tendons in my legs lock my knees straight, my stomach turning on itself. “Did he take anything? Did he say anything?”
Victor shakes his head. “Don’t think so. I didn’t babysit him. But he left you this. Gave me another twenty to make sure I handed it to you myself.”
He slides an envelope across his desk.
I snatch it away, ears buzzing, hands trembling, feeling like I’m going to either faint or throw up.
Without another word, I book it to the limo. I don’t go to my place. I don’t worry about my things or my belongings or my clothes. Or, the other thing…
I jump into the back seat of the limo with hands shaking.
“Drive. Fast. Now,” I manage, looking out the back window.
Edward must see the terror in my eyes, because almost as soon as I’ve said the words, the tires are peeling and we’re barreling toward the highway again.
“You okay?” he asks once we’ve gotten onto Cass Avenue.
No. No. Not even close to okay. “I’m…” I swallow hard to stop my voice trembling, but it’s no use.