Jemma
WHILE PICKING UP AFTER BRYAN, I ask myself why I'm still with him.
But I know the answer. It's the same one as it was a year ago. It's better than being homeless. Some people are strong enough to survive alone on the streets. I doubt I'd last a week.
I remind myself of that as I fill up a trash bag with the empty beer cans that litter the coffee table. I don't know why I bother, since tomorrow he'll cover the table again. I skipped a few days of picking up once, and he hardly noticed. He just knocks the empties on the floor to make room for fresh ones.
Bryan claims to work too much to have time to clean, nevermind that he hasn't actually told me what he does. The money was decent for a while, though, and combined with my earnings from the club, we've been able to keep my aunt's apartment. I try not to think about how much she'd disapprove of him, of how we live. She'd always kept this place spotless before she died.
She tried teaching me her routine, but honestly, I didn't care about learning to clean. Or anything, really. Seeing your parents being brutally murdered will do that to a girl.
It seemed fruitless, all her endless dusting and fighting with the vacuum only to do it all over again the next day. Truth is, I hardly cared about leaving my room back then. Cleaning imaginary spots off an already shiny table seemed like an utter waste of energy.
One of the cans is half full and I think about downing it. I hardly drink anymore, not since the memories began to break through the drunken haze.
The only reason I turned to alcohol in the first place was to numb my brain enough to avoid the nightmares. Now it's pointless. Plus, it pisses Bryan off if I drink for the hell of it, since it's a waste of his precious beer.
I sink onto the lumpy, faded couch and scrunch my nose at the stale, sour yeast smell that wafts up from the fabric. He probably passed out, spilled his beer all over it, and didn't bother to clean it up.
The half-full trash bag drops to the floor as I scrub my face with my hands, trying to find the energy to keep going with all this shit.
The sun is setting, the apartment growing darker. The only light on is the small bulb over the stove, but I don't care. The shadows help me avoid facing reality—something I'm good at now. I have the night off from Lucky Devils, even though I know we need the money an extra shift would bring in.
As I watch the last gleam of sunlight fade away and shadows fill the room, the memory of him comes back. My heart pounds and a warm flush spreads across my skin.
He'd never been there before, that much I know. I would have noticed him. I don't know who he is or if I'll ever lay eyes on him again, but apparently I made an impression. The bouncer, Tony, caught me in the parking lot as I was leaving and gave me a hundred-dollar bill, saying it was from a man who didn't give his name. But from the description I managed to pull out of Tony, I know it was the tall, handsome stranger with dangerous eyes.
I didn't mention it to Bryan when I got home. I tossed my velvet bag on the counter for him to rifle through as usual, then stealthily tucked the crisp hundred-dollar bill and the sketch of the man into the bottom of my tampon box. Call it instinct or intuition, but it's better that he doesn't realize someone thinks I'm worth more than a few dirty, crumpled ones tossed at me—and definitely better that he doesn't know I have extra cash.
Knowing the money is stashed away makes something that feels a lot like hope flicker in my chest. Like maybe I can get away from Bryan sooner than later.
One day, I'll leave him. Lately, it's a promise I make to myself on a weekly basis, even though it's nothing more than a hollow fantasy. He claims to love me, and on the good nights it's easier to remind myself of that.
On the bad nights, I want to run. To head out the front door and never stop running.
But Bryan won't ever let me go.
As if I didn't already know, he constantly reminds me that I have no one to run to and nowhere else to call home. That if I ever think of leaving, I'll just wind up living on the streets with the rest of the freaks. I'm the crazy girl that has a panic attack whenever I hear a dog bark. The girl that should be loaded up on anti-psychotics, if she could afford them. The girl with no family. The one that even two years of therapy and a team of psychiatrists couldn't fix.
The door to our apartment opens, the streetlamp filling the room with an orange glow.
"Why the fuck aren't any lights on?"
His surly tone makes my heart flutter, and I stand up quickly, grabbing the trash bag from the floor. It's his mess, but that's never stopped him before from bitching at me for not getting it cleaned up by the time he comes home.
"I didn't notice it getting dark," I tell him, not meeting his eyes. "I've been cleaning."
He stalks across the room and turns on a lamp, irritation wafting off him like a trail of tainted air. My twisted mind jumps to the only benefit that ever comes from his bad moods—rougher treatment in the bedroom. I wonder if he'll be willing to do it tonight.
At one point, I thought he was the most attractive man I'd laid eyes on.
But now? His clothes are wrinkled and out of style, hanging unappealingly on his lanky form. His hair is too long, unkempt, and his face is half covered in patchy stubble. He looks like he's trying to be a hipster, but he's too cheap and lazy to bother with an actual effort.
When he tries to be sweet and tender—usually to try to persuade me into doing something against my better judgement—it makes my stomach curdle. I don't want his words of affection and lingering kisses. They aren't genuine, and I don't need the charade.
If he's angry, though, I get to enjoy it. Gone are the fake tenderness and sugary talk. When he's really mad, he's harsher with me, sometimes even pulling my hair or squeezing his fingers around my throat.
Shame fills me and look down, focusing on the coffee table to hide my face. It's bad enough I'm fucked up in the head, but in my physical desires, too? Getting off on someone rage-fucking you probably isn't healthy. I don't need a therapist to tell me that.
I dig through the trash on the table, trying to separate the cans from the fast food wrappers. At least I can sell the cans to the aluminum recycling place and squirrel the money away. It's not much, but it's a small sliver of hope to add to the tiny pile of funds I've secretly stashed away.
"Hurry up and finish," Bryan orders, flopping down on the sagging couch. "Then get me a cold beer. Just one. That should give you plenty of time to get ready."
I straighten with surprise. "Get ready? For what?"
"Since you did so good last night, I need to take you with me," he says, as if that explains everything.
A seed of worry plants itself in my gut and takes root. I draw in a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even. "Take me where?"
"It's just business, Jemma," he says with a huff, as though I've wildly inconvenienced him with my simple question. "Can you get me that goddamn beer now, or are you just going to stand there gawking at me?"
Without replying I go to the fridge and retrieve a beer. It's the last one, and when I tell him as much, he lets out a short laugh. The noise filled with disappointment or bitterness. It's the sound of smug elation.
"Don't worry about my supply," he tells me, snatching the can from my hand with a satisfied sneer on his lips, "after tonight, the beer will never run out."
I'm glad the dim lighting in the living room masks my skepticism because I can't help but roll my eyes. I've heard it all before. Bryan's always fantasizing about get-rich-quick schemes. None of them pan out, of course, because there's no magic money tree. Not that he ever tells me about his failures, but it's hard to miss when suddenly we're short on rent money and he's sulking around the apartment with a wounded ego.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I decide to press the issue. He's never invited me along on any of his so-called business deals. I cast a glance at him. "So, why do I need to come with you?"
His eyes find me in the dark, and as he stares at me, dragging his gaze down my body and back up, I realize I no longer find the move attractive.
Not from him. Not for a long time now. Him looking at me like that used to mean we were going to tumble into bed together.
Now it makes me uneasy, as if he's assessing my value. Next thing I know, he'll be pulling out a scale and running a tape measure around my waist every week. Gotta make sure his investment stays in tip-top shape so she can keep shaking her ass.
"I need my best girl on my arm," he says, pitching his voice into the tone he used to use with me all the time back when we first met, the tone he uses to get his way.
"Right," I say, already moving toward the bedroom.
I don't even bother to point out how gross it sounds that I'm his best girl, as if he has a whole brothel full of women to take his pick from. My silent compliance is better than fighting, and going with him tonight has got to be better than cleaning this pigsty of an apartment.
I close the bedroom door with a soft click and rest my forehead against it. It takes three breaths before I work through my animosity enough to focus on the task he's given me.
I have no idea what he expects of me tonight, and I can't help but think of the cryptic phone calls and odd hours he keeps. I'm pretty sure whatever he does isn't on the right side of legal. I know about the gritty criminal empires in the city, and I've heard the gruesome rumors about the powerful men who run them. Bryan is thirsty enough to want to work for them, to pull a few small con jobs or get entangled in some other shady scheme.
But if my presence tonight means that money flows in his direction and our bills get paid, then I can handle it. I can't screw this up, even if I don't know what it is. Bryan's already in a mood, and I'm not stupid enough to push him.
So, I pull on my favorite dress. The capped sleeves aren't trendy, and it's a modest length, ending an inch above the knees, but it hugs my body and gives my lithe figure the appearance of curves I don't really have. With the right bra, I can even create an appealing amount of cleavage for the sweetheart neckline.
It was bought for cheap, like everything I own—five dollars on the bargain rack at the local thrift store. Its simple elegance caught my eye, but I hardly have a reason to wear it. When I bought it, Bryan asked me what it was for. I said it was for going on interviews because I wanted to get a better job than working at Lucky Devils.
He scoffed and told me I'd wasted money.
Still, even if he doesn't appreciate it, I know others do—I've felt other men's eyes on me when I wear this dress. The looks I get are of a different caliber than the stares I receive on stage. Their eyes don't say 'take me in the back room and grind on me.' In this dress they say, 'Daaamn, girl… I'm gonna treat you to a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant before I take that pretty dress off.' I slip on my black ballet flats and sweep a brush through my hair before pinning it back into a smooth French twist, then dig out the small cosmetic case with the few luxury items I splurged on last year during an after-Christmas sale and put a light dusting of the expensive makeup on my face.
I never use it for my shifts at the club, but I need the extra confidence boost tonight.
The last step is putting on the one piece of nice jewelry I own. It's a pendant necklace, a small emerald surrounded by real diamonds. It's the only piece of my mother I have left. It was her favorite necklace, given to her by my dad for their ten-year anniversary.
After I clasp it around my neck, I finger the small emerald pendant and admire how it lays against my skin, accentuating both the hollow of my throat and the neckline of the dress.
It looks almost as beautiful on me as it did on my mom. The sting of unshed tears burns at my eyes and nose. God, how much I miss her. And my dad, too. I need to go visit their gravesites, I haven't been there in almost a year.
Bryan bangs on the door, startling me out of my thoughts. I quickly sniff several times and blink back the moisture welling in my eyes, gently dabbing them with a tissue to avoid smearing my fancy makeup.
I grab my jacket and open the door, presenting myself to him. "Is this good?"
"It's fine," he says, walking away without so much as an appreciative glance. "We need to hurry. You're making us late."
I'm really tempted to grab an empty beer bottle from the side table and throw it at his head, but his reaction wouldn't be worth the brief satisfaction.
Instead, I follow him silently into the night, locking the door behind us, and by the time I get to his small twenty-year-old car, he's already cranked the ignition the three times it takes to get it started. It sputters to life and beneath the uneven noise of the rattling engine, there's a small whine coming from under the hood.
"Sounds like it needs a new timing belt," I tell Bryan as I get into the car and buckle up.
If I had the tools, I could change it myself. In fact, this rusting junk heap could keep me busy for days. If someone had taken a car in this shape to the garage my dad worked at, he'd have to told them to save their money and sell it for scrap.
Bryan snorts at my comment. "Yeah, it doesn't matter. After tonight I'm getting a new car."
I do a double-take, blinking at him in surprise. "The job's that big?"
We've never had that kind of money. Not new car money. Not even close. I give him an enthusiastic smile, hoping if I seem supportive of his latest hustle then maybe he'll tell me where we're headed and what part I'm supposed to play.
"Yeah, it's that big. But don't worry about it—just do everything I say, and it'll all go down like I planned."
"Okay," I say, even though his allusive reply and the undercurrent of nervousness I sense beneath his smug bravado are far from reassuring.
Bryan rarely confides in me about his shady schemes, and most of the time I'd rather not know anyway. Tonight, though, I wish he'd give me a few details at least, like why I need to be along for the ride. But he's clearly not feeling generous enough to read me in, and if I keep pressing the issue, I know it'll just lead to a fight.