Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I rub my arms, trying to coax feeling back into them, as I switch off the sputtering heater. It’s barely producing a weak stream of lukewarm air, so I refuse to waste money on it. It doesn’t take much to get warm. My body is still buzzing with the excitement of last night.
I’ve replayed the unexpected event on repeat for the past twelve hours. Although most of the details are self-explanatory, some fragments I can’t piece together. Such as, how did Dante know my name? The paperwork at my job didn’t have Lucia scribbled across it, and as stated last week, the dental clinic can’t just deny patient–doctor confidentiality.
Too tired to make an indent in my confusion, I press my palms to my eyes until stars bloom behind my eyelids. I didn’t sleep last night. It’s been years since I’ve slept in the open, and I learned fast last night that a mattress on the floor is far nicer than the hard booth of a twenty-four-hour diner.
I should sleep, but I have more pressing matters to attend to first. After pulling my hands away from my face, I pluck the job classifieds I borrowed from the diner from my jeans pocket. They’re crinkled, and the ink is smudged from the rain that soaked through my clothes.
I spread them out on the floor to dry before going over them with a fine-tooth comb. I scan plenty of ads for dancers, but the high pay rate discloses that whirling around on a pole won’t be the sole form of dancing you’ll be required to undertake. I cross those positions out.
If it pays too well, it will cost you your soul. Every stripper knows this.
As I skim advertisements for prostitutes, my teeth grind. I’m desperate, but I can’t go down that route. Not even for him. If I forget who I am, I’ll never be who he needs me to be.
Several disappointing minutes later, I circle a position at a strip club twenty miles from Carlisle. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than selling my self-worth.
With the details stored in my phone, I jump into Safari and search for the closest money transfer branch. It needs to be discreet, like this building, and not ask questions about why I’m transferring a large sum of cash.
I’m exhausted, my muscles still tense from back-to-back orgasms, but when I find a branch not far from my location, I begrudgingly pull my still-damp jacket back on. I can’t rest yet. The money I earned last night isn’t in the right place yet. I won’t sleep until the transfer is successful. The weight of the envelope is too heavy to forget everything I have riding on it.
When I push through the front door of the building, the mid-morning air puffs white clouds from my breaths. The rain has slowed to a mist, but the cold is more honed now. It bites at my cheeks.
Pulling up my hood, I weave through the foot traffic. The streets are wet, and the puddles reflect the headlights of the cars that hiss by. Even though I haven’t lived in this part of Carlisle before, I know the route by heart. All money transfer branches are tucked on the same corners. They’re next to a pawn shop, behind a convenience store, and always under a flickering neon sign.
This one is no different.
The neon sign above the door buzzes as I enter, and the windows are plastered with posters advertising cheap exchange rates and their “fast, safe, and confidential” services.
Inside smells like dirty women and cigars. A woman sits behind a thick pane of scratched plexiglass, tapping at a keyboard with long, manicured nails. She doesn’t look up when I approach. I don’t mind. The more impersonal, the better.
I slide the envelope through the metal tray beneath the glass, then say, “Cash transfer.”
The thick bundle in the envelope demands eye contact. She finally looks at me. Her eyes are clouded with an exhaustion no amount of makeup can hide, and she appears suspicious, but she doesn’t ask questions. She just counts the money with quick, practiced movements, the bills snapping as she stacks them.
“Destination?”
Lips shaking, I recite the offshore account number, which changes every couple of months.
My throat grows scratchy when she asks me to confirm the amount she counted is correct. “Twenty thousand?”
I nod, hopefully that’s all she needs to move this transfer forward.
I breathe more easily when she types the five-digit number into her computer before she mutters, “Processing.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. My damp clothes stick to me as noticeably as anxiety paints my face. This deposit is earlier than planned and more than I was told to pay. I’m hoping it’ll give me a little leeway, though it’s unlikely.
The buzzing in my limbs augments as I watch the monitor on the other side of the glass, waiting for confirmation that my payment has gone through.