The pain on his face was instant, followed by his mouth falling open, although no sound came out—at first.
“Don’t touch me,” I warned him, trying not to think about the last time a man had touched me and how it had been so different—tender . . . timid.
Frat boy’s vocal chords exploded, sending out a sound I imagined a dog would make after being hit by a car. I released his hand and he pulled it towards his chest, cradling it with his other hand.
“Why you holding your hand like it’s a little babydoll, Tony?” Mikey asked, handing off two filled shot glasses to a couple of girls plastered up against the counter, wearing tops similar to the one I was wearing, although their excess spilt out in a way that would have made me blush had I not been quivering from Tony’s hand snaking down my skin.
“My hand!” Tony screamed. “Mikey, she busted my hand up something fierce.”
Mikey laughed and after winking at his customers with the ample assets, he wiped his hands with a dishtowel. “Come on, ya sissy.” He tilted his head my direction. “She’s a girl. Stop acting like she just pounded your hand with a hammer.”
Beads of sweat were bursting from Tony’s skin, a pallid white blanketing his face.
“Oh, boy,” Mikey said, leaping over the counter. “I’ve seen that face before. He’s going down.”
The herd of customers circling Tony scattered just as Mikey got to him, breaking his fall. “Tracy!” Mikey called out to the newcomer who’d just crawled under the bar, wearing the same outfit I was, minus the boots and cami. “You’re late!”
“I’m here, ain’t I?” she called back, tying back her crimson hair into a knot, shouldering past me without making any kind of acknowledgement. “Quit busting my balls.” She grabbed a shot glass at the same time she reached for the bottle closest to her. Liquid overflowed the glass before she tossed it back, slamming down the glass and pouring another one.
“I gotta run Tony to emergency,” Mikey called back to her, not noticing or caring she was pouring her third shot—perhaps one of the employee perks he’d forgotten to mention, not that it was one I’d benefit from. “You got things here?”
The glass at her lips, she waved her hand dismissively at him, shooing him through the crowd. “Yeah, yeah. You can count on me.”
I watched Mikey hoist the comatose Tony over his shoulders and weave through the crowd packed into the hallway, the regret of my action sinking in. A simple hand smack could have sent the same message—leave me alone—why couldn’t I have settled for that? I tried to drown out the answer, not wanting to be reminded that there was destruction flowing in every molecule of my makeup.
“You taking Marie’s spot?” Tracy asked, crossing her arms in a way that led me to the conclusion her and Marie had been friends and she was not happy I’d slid into her spot.
I nodded, ignoring the hands waving around the counter, their voices charging up in volume. I crossed my arms too, trying to look tough, like I belonged in a pair of painted-on leather pants, serving whiskey to tourists, smack dab in heathen-central.
She smiled, shaking her head. “First night, poor thing.” She looked up, her eyes pointing at the first man she saw.
“Whiskey,” he called out, smacking a bill down on the counter. “One for me and one for you,” he smiled at her, leaving nothing to the imagination as to what was going through his.
Tracy flipped a couple of glasses on the counter, tilted a bottle on its side, pocketing the bill at the same time. She handed him his shot, clinking glasses before tipping them back. She slammed the glass down, grasped the man’s face with her hands, and locked her lips over his like he was headed off to sea for a year long deployment. Pushing him away a few seconds later, she turned to me, licking her lips. Pouring another shot, she tilted it my way. “Here’s to popping your cherry at the Rue St. Jersey.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
RUE ST. JERSEY
Had I still been Mortal, I would have been draped over the nearest chair, hoping death would find me before I had to work another night at this place. As it was, my head was throbbing, and not for the same reason the majority of the Rue St. Jersey’s patrons could claim.
The place had vibrated with music and been sucked dry of every drop of alcohol a little before five in the morning. When Tracy had told me we work until the alcohol runs dry, she’d meant it. Had I been asked to guess how long it would take to run out—after viewing the lines of kegs and rows of bottles we’d opened with—I would have said one month, maybe two. But alas, the Rue St. Jersey’s customers were thirsty and their pockets had been full.
“Ninety-one, ninety-two,” Tracy mumbled, sitting with legs spread on the counter with the tip jar’s contents blanketing her lower half.
“Almost one hundred dollars?” I asked. “That’s pretty good.” I finished wiping down the sink and tossed the rag to the side. Fifty dollars a piece, plus whatever hourly rate Mikey was paying me . . . not bad.
Tracy held up a finger while she counted two more bills. “Eight hundred and ninety-four.” She shoveled the money to the side. “Pretty good. I think the customers like the new girl.”
“Wait,” I said, gripping the counter. “Did you just say eight hundred and ninety-four Euros?” I felt my mouth drop open.
She nodded and lit the cigarette dangling between her lips. “That’s four hundred and forty-six, no . . . forty-seven a piece.” A smile curled up one side of her mouth. “And my eighth-grade teacher said I’d never amount to anything if it had anything to do with math.” She began counting out the bills into two separate piles. “Adding cash is completely different than adding beans.”
I still couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. If this was any indicator of the kind of money I’d be making on a nightly basis, I’d only have to subject myself to four or five nights a month in this place. My first stroke of luck in awhile.
“Closed so early?” Mikey erupted from the hall, motioning with both arms to the empty room.
“Sorry, bub,” Tracy replied, not looking up from the stashes of cash. “Looks like you’re going to need to up your booze order with the new girl in town. Didn’t have a moment of peace from the time I got here. Ran out a couple hours earlier than usual.”
“Shouldn’t there be three piles?” Mikey asked, leaning against the bar. “Don’t I get a share of that?”
Tracy humphed. “Do you see an ice skating rink anywhere around here?”
“You expecting an answer?” Mikey asked, righting a barstool with the tip of his shoe.
“Yes,” she snapped.
“No, then.”
“Exactly. Since hell hasn’t frozen over yet . . .”
Mikey snorted. “You’ve always had a way with words, Trace.”
“Bite me.”
“How is he?” I asked, diverting my attention to lifting another overturned stool. The passing of hours and the image of Tony’s face twisted in pain had shifted my anger to remorse.
“I ain’t seen anything like it,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “His hand looked like it was stuffed with pea gravel on the x-ray—every bone busted. They admitted him, not quite sure what to do yet.”
I felt sick. I’d turned the boy’s hand to pea gravel—as Mikey had so graphically described—all because he’d copped a feel.
Was no one safe around me? Would I have to sequester myself to a remote corner on the edge of the Milky Way?
“Don’t worry, you won’t get in any trouble,” Mikey said, mistaking the look on my face. “There’s no way Tony was going to confess to a girl busting him up. He told ‘em he punched a wall . . .”
He was covering for me; I somehow felt worse. “I’d like to cover his medical bills,” I said, knowing it was an inadequate gesture, but not knowing what else I could offer. So what if I had to work a few more nights this month?
Mikey waved his hand dismissively. “Already taken care of. Besides, I would have paid twice as much to see Tony get his butt whooped by a girl.”
“Here’s your share, California,” Tracy said, shoving the roll in my hand. “Go blow it all in one spot.”
“She will.”
“Always do,” Tracy snarled at Mikey, retrieving a trench coat from behind the bar. She slipped on the jacket before sliding off the leather pants and stowing them in a cupboard. She slid back into the four inch clear platforms and cinched the belt of her jacket.
“Time to head to your other night job?” Mikey asked as Tracy passed him, ramming jewel-crusted sunglasses over her eyes.
“You couldn’t afford me.”
“I couldn’t afford the bills from the therapy I’d need after.”
From the jesting in their voices, I would have guessed they were joking, but knowing Tracy had on a scarf of fabric covering her boobs and a pair of underwear—hopefully—under her jacket, I wondered if she really did have another night job. They didn’t call it the red light district for nothing.
“Good job tonight,” Mikey said, tilting his head at me. “I’ll see you tonight. Be here at seven.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, eager to escape from the stagnant air.
“Hayward,” Mikey called out as I was entering the hallway. “Who is he?”
I tensed, calling back, “Who’s who?”
“The boy that broke your heart.”
More tensing. “Excuse me?”
“You got the look of a girl who’s had her heart sliced out of her chest. Is that who you were looking for earlier?”
“No,” I lied. “There’s no one.”
I licked the envelope, puckering at the flavor, and wrote Appartement F on the front before slipping it under the manager’s door, hoping four hundred and forty-seven Euros would buy me a couple more days until I could come up with the rest of the rent. I tip-toed down the hall, knowing Pierre—the fattest, baldest Frenchman in the country—was likely still dozing from the painkillers he liked to double-up on before going to bed . . . but then again, this was me we were talking about and UnLucky should have been my surname. I quickened my pace, checking over my shoulder to make sure the door didn’t open.
I hurried up the staircase, leaping over the fifth and sixth steps which were rotten away—from the looks of it, it had been decades ago—ignoring the wall running along the staircase decorated with packages of prophylactics thumb-tacked, nailed, stapled, and taped to it. My neighbors might have been shady and not passed a background check if one was required to live here, but at least they were generous and condoned safe sex.
I opened my door, never having worried about locking it because—let’s face it—I didn’t have anything worth stealing and I could hold my own if an intruder was crazy enough to enter a place like this looking for something valuable.
The door creaked, groaned, then screamed open. I wanted to curse at it for making such a racket, but I knew it would be the last audible response I’d be given for awhile, at least until my shift started tonight. I could feel the memories avalanching their way back into my mind, the noise, smells, and distractions of the Rue St. Jersey no longer present. I bee-lined for the air-mattress in the corner, hoping I’d be able to find sleep before the memories took me to a point where sleep was not attainable. I closed my eyes and began to hum, hoping it would occupy my mind just enough.