The Stanger

Laughter sounds outside the hall and the sound of footsteps drawing closer to my door registers. Someone fits a key in. There's a pause. I imagine Tina's brows pinching together in a frown that mirrored mine when I came home. The handle moves and Tina's flushed face comes into my line of vision.

When she sees my position on the floor, her eyes shoot wide. "Christ!"

She rushes to me, wrapping thin arms around me and pulling. She pulls me to a sitting position, rushing out, "What's wrong? Shit--are you okay?"

I spot another presence by the doorway. The girl catches my gaze, a concerned look flashing across her eyes. Tina turns to her. "Good night, Ann. Will call tomorrow." The girl nods, slowly walking away, no doubt wondering what the hell's going on.

Tina lowers me gingerly into our worn sofa, propping me up against the ratty cushion. I take the Kleenex she hands to me, dabbing at the remainder of my tears. "Ann," I begin after a while. "Is going to have some questions tomorrow."

Tina waves that off. "Tell me what happened?"

"So I made 25 grand."

She stills, eyes widening.

"But I lost it all. Like"--I snap my thumb and forefinger--"that."

Her face goes white. "What?"

I look away. "He found me."

She doesn't need to ask who.

"Are you saying he took everything?"

"Yes."

"Oh, June," she whispers, drawing back to slump against the opposite sofa, like hearing the news just drained her. "You have to move. I mean States, or even countries because this is getting out of h--"

"No," I burst suddenly. "I'm not leaving. I won't give him the satisfaction. I'm going to stay in this city and when I make enough money, I'm going to f*cking sue him."

"And how are you going to do that?"

To her question, all I hear is Mathew's amused voice saying, 'And what are you going to do?'

My blood heats. I've had it with people thinking I'm some spineless idiot!

"The same thing that gave me that amount of money to begin with," I say. "I'm going to double--no triple it, and before you know it we'll be toasting cocktails in yachts and leaving this gods forsaken place behind."

"And what did you do?" she asks.

Feeling my face heat, I shrug. "Danced...for someone."

She watches me blankly for a few beats, then she leans in. "What are we talking here, June? You danced for someone, as in, some ballet shit, or you...danced for someone." Her voice lowers, "You stripped?"

I nod.

Her eyes round. "Oh, my God! Finally! Welcome to my side of the world. I'd be proud if that shitface ex of yours didn't rob our joy--literally. Which club did you spot in? Going by the amount you were paid, I'll say The Inner Square. There aren't a lot of clubs more exclusive than that."

"The Enclave," I supply.

"What!? How the f*ck did you manage to get in there?"

Another shrug. "Flashed my rack to the bouncer."

She nods in approval.

Then she tilts her head. "But that doesn't explain how you got a spot to dance for one of the members--without any prior experience working there or anywhere else. The club has really strict rules."

I watch her try to connect the dots.

When she does, a mask of horror dawns on her face. "You scammed the club?? June, you can't go back there!"

Alarm grips me. "Why?"

"Because you stole from the club."

"But I didn't--"

"Yes, you did." She leans forward to brace her elbows on her knees, massaging her temples. "You could get hit with a lawsuit."

"Mierda," I whisper.

__

I don't get enough sleep that night. Once the first rays of sunlight teases through my blinds, I'm up like a whip, bundling into my bathroom.

Spitting lather into the sink, I draw back to take in my appearance. There are shadows beneath my eyes and a bruise had started to form on my chin, whether it's from my scuffle with the man from the club yesterday or from Mathew, I'm not sure.

Turning this way and that, I scrape my auburn hair away from my face. Though I can't give all the credit of my haggard appearance to the shitfest that is my life. Part of the reason I couldn't get a proper sleep was because of him.

The stranger.

The man with the body of a god and the attitude of a devil. I'd gone into the shower yesterday and couldn't stop replaying the events of the club. I'd dreamt of that gravelly voice telling me what to do...

Which should scare me.

More than anything, I want control.

I have so little of it.

I resume brushing my teeth. Later I brave the cold shower, gritting my teeth at the landlord's frugality. With each spray of water, my brain does a deep dive into my circumstances, scrounging up a to-do list: Find another apartment (in case Mathew comes sniffing around again), Don't get hit with a lawsuit, Ditch the waitressing job and take up proper pole-dancing lessons. Get food.

The last is added mentally when I traipse into the kitchen. Empty cabinets stare back at me. I scowl through the rumbling in my stomach.

"Tina!" I yell after throwing on a hoodie and a pair of sweats. "Going grocery shopping!"

No answer. She must be passed out on her back. Dancing for hours against a cold pole could do that to a person. And don't I know firsthand how that feels? A flash of heat zips through me at the memory of grinding against a cool pole.

Distracting myself, I open up more cabinets only to close them shut. Tina's nights are always packed, it's a miracle she was able to be there for me yesterday. Feeling grateful, I decide to stock the kitchens without asking for a split.

Grabbing my keys--house keys (ha! Think I've got a car? When I've got me 'ol legs) I exit my apartment and lope down the stairs.

The weather is balmy and the air is fresh from the rain that fell the night before. The sound of traffic and the general chaos of city life blasts the air, a background noise as I traipse into the nearest store. Grabbing a cart, I stare longingly at the shoe section before wheeling the tramp to the food aisle.

I hum under my breath as I lift a pack of cereal from the shelf. When an old woman slowly wheels a cart into my aisle, I send a her a nod of greeting. We shop in silence. I'm just about to grab another item off the shelf when my heart flies out of my chest.

I spot a towering man with face piercings and I struggle to calm my breathing when the unfamiliar male passes by. Not Mathew. Not Mathew.

While I'm on the verge of a possible mental break down, the older woman watches me. Her eyes suddenly turn sympathetic. Felling a flush of embarrassment rise up my neck, I look away.

"Hello, dear."

I turn around to meet a pair of old, friendly eyes.

"Could you help me with these?" She motions to the shelf.

"Oh, sure." I draw level with her, snagging off some ancho chiles and pasilla chiles.

When I hand them to her, she smiles, holding up an item. "I'm not sure which one to use."

"For what, ma'am?"

"I would love to change the cuisine a little bit. My employer wouldn't like that, he'd think I was working myself, but I'm fed up with the ham and cheese. I was thinking of Tamales."

I brighten instantly. "Oh, I love Tamales."

She mirrors my smile. "Perfect. Was thinking about preparing Moles as well"

Unable to stop talking now I'm excited--a trait my brothers endlessly tease me for--I say, "I love Moles, though it's a bit difficult to prepare. There are about a hundred ingredients! Well, you don't always got to buy everything. My mama would just switch up some of the more expensive ingredients with some cheapies. As long as you have the important spices, you're good to go. The rest are easier to find and more affordable."

She watches me with am oddly satisfied gleam. "You do know your Moles."

"Yes, and a whole lot more," I admit with a flush. "My mother was very particular about her dishes and, well, I was a really attentive apprentice."

If possible, her smile widens the more. "Would you love to be an apprentice again?"

"What?"

"An apprentice. I recently issued a hunt for an assistant." She shrugs frail shoulders. "I'm not going to remain young forever."

I start to smile, but still when I see her eyes taking in the bruise on my chin.

When next she looks at me, I'm floored at the pity in her gaze. "Let me help you," she says lowly. "I don't want to insult your intelligence by lying to you, the truth is I don't need extra help--God, my employer makes sure I have enough of that. I want to help you."

I take an involuntary step back, the air suddenly thick. "What?"

"I saw the way you reacted each time men walked past. I know that look," she admits in a whisper. "You ran in with the wrong lot, got some painful scars and had to pick up the pieces on your own. And to top it off, you're barely getting by." She looks into my cart pointedly. When she meets my gaze again, she asks, "Did you have a child from it?"

My stomach clenches. She thinks I'd been r*ped. "I..." My mouth dries.

"I could use a help who really knows her way around the kitchen. My employer is wealthy. I could negotiate a pay of no less than ten grand a month for you. It would barely scratch his bank account, and he'd be open to the idea once he knows it's for a good cause. What do you say? Come work for me."

I... don't know what to say.

If I agreed to this, I would do so under false pretenses--again. Like I hadn't learned my lesson from the club. And then there was my conscience. I would be callously taking advantage of a situation that left most people broken, in exchange for money. Guilt tightens my throat.

But, Dios mio, I need the money very badly.

The old woman looks at me patiently, kindness in her eyes. The clawing feeling around my throat increases. I give a jerky nod. "I--yes...I'd love to come work for you, and your employer."

A bright smile stretches her lips immediately. "Perfect," she says again in that happy way. "Marcus would love to meet you."