Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Galina

I curled my fingers around the edge of the newspaper, trying to stop my hands from shaking, but it was a losing battle. The black-and-white picture and headline started to run together the longer I stared at them. It was as if what I was looking at mocked me, reminding me that my life had never been easy, that I'd never get the happily ever after I'd read about in books.

Michael Boyd. Thirty-nine years old. Convicted sexual assault and rape felon. Multiple drug counts. Two probation violations. Details not being released as of now, but homicide is being looked into.

T he picture I currently looked at was the same drunk who'd accosted me in the alley. It was a mug shot, one where he looked just as deranged as he had every time I'd seen him in the diner. I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly as memories of that night in the alley played back. With it only being a couple of days since the attack, it was still very fresh, but all my life, I'd learned how to bury those feelings, that fear and anxiousness, the heavy weight that could make you suffocate.

"It's crazy, right?"

I opened my eyes and blinked a few times to look at Laura, who stood beside me. She was staring at the newspaper, her brows pulled low.

"Crazy?" Was she talking about the fact that it was a murder so close, or because she recognized him? I knew she'd seen him harass me. It was hard to miss when he was loud and obnoxious and didn't exactly hide that he was an asshole whenever he'd come in.

She tipped her chin toward the paper. "That's the same asshole who came in here and was a prick to you. I remember what a bastard he was. I can't say he didn't get what he deserved." She pointed to the charges he'd been convicted of.

"Yeah," I said softly and folded the paper up before shoving it under the counter. I didn't want to look at it anymore. Laura blinked a few times as if pulling herself out of her own thoughts.

"I really hate this fucking city most days."

I snorted. "Most days?"

She gave me a tight nod. "Ninety-nine percent of the time, okay."

I laughed softly. I'd only been here a couple of months, and I despised everything Desolation stood for. The only positive thing about this hell was that it helped keep me hidden.

"Anyway," she said. "Good riddance."

I couldn't help but smile warily. I was tired, just really damn tired. I wanted to save up as much as I could so I could move to a better place, a place where I'd reinvent myself, a place where the past wasn't always chasing me.

But that seemed like such a pipe dream and not at all realistic. The truth was I'd probably be dead before my twenty-fifth birthday, and that was being optimistic.

"So…"

The way she paused made me think she was hesitant to ask me whatever was on her mind.

"Total subject shift, but you want to make a little—easy—extra money?"

My interest was instantly piqued, as if she'd read my mind on needing money to get out of here. But my hesitance had risen instantly. Earning money was never easy.

"You wouldn't have to do anything illegal, nothing depraved or that goes against your moral compass." She laughed a little, but it wasn't forced.

"I'm listening," I said slowly, cautiously.

"So I waitress at this bar sometimes, and they're looking for a couple of extra hands." When I didn't say anything, she continued, "It's that Russian bar called Sdat'sya ." I shrugged, never having heard of it. "They are short-staffed, and it's basically just serving drinks to a bunch of old, rich, Russian businessmen."

Old , rich , and businessmen all in the same sentence would always have warning bells going off.

"The tips are incredible, especially the drunker they get," she teased. "One time I made over five hundred in just a night."

I would've said no right away, simply because a lot of red flags shot up when I thought about going to some obscure bar and serving drinks to old, rich men. But the money aspect had me not declining right away. "So what's the catch?"

She grimaced. "Sometimes, they can get a little handsy. But they have staff—bouncers, I guess—who have always made sure nothing gets out of hand. Not unless you want to make a little extra money." She lifted her eyebrows.

Sex for money was what she implied. I slowly shook my head. "I'm not a prostitute, Laura."

She shook her head. "Neither am I. I'm just saying that's some of the stuff you could see—exchanging of money and… yeah, all that."

Now it was my turn to grimace at the thought of crusty old men trying to cop a feel or worse, thinking I'd put out.

"I don't want to pressure you, but I know you need the money just like me." At my no doubt surprised look, she snorted and shook her head. "Come on, you don't have to actually tell me you need money for me to know. You live in Desolation. Enough said."

True enough. Although she'd mentioned at one point the possibility of us living together, I didn't know what my future held. And with Henry and his thugs no doubt coming after me at some point, I didn't want Laura thrown in that mix and dragged down.

I couldn't deny it. She was right, of course. But I had to weigh the pros and cons of putting myself in a position where things could escalate and worsen.

"I just wanted to offer it to you. We are there to serve drinks, not give handjobs… not unless you want," she said on a laugh, and I couldn't help the way my lips twitched in amusement.

A little sliver of reality interjected itself into my thoughts because I knew I couldn't afford to pass up an opportunity like this. I never got chances to supplement my income. And to be honest, any extra income was better than nothing. I'd be closer to leaving Desolation. And maybe if I did a good enough job, they'd let me work other nights there.

"Okay," I said, and she grinned wider. "I don't have anything nice to wear though."

She waved off my words. "No worries. They keep a wardrobe, because they prefer the waitresses to wear certain things to keep up with the aesthetics of the place."

I was feeling a little less sure about this. What kind of place was this where they had expendable clothing all because they wanted to keep up appearances? I understood uniforms, but I doubted this place gave everyone the same drab apparel, especially if they catered to rich and powerful men.

I should've just assumed the night in question would probably end up coming back to bite me in the ass. That's usually how the events in my life went. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

And I was absolutely a beggar at this point.

I 'd left work twenty minutes ago, making quick time as I walked the dark, septic streets of Desolation. I'd been convinced someone would attack again, but fortunately aside from a few catcalls, I was left relatively alone.

Once I was inside my apartment building, I still didn't let go of my canister of pepper spray. The sun would be rising soon, my feet ached, and my head hurt, but I couldn't wholly complain. I'd made decent tips and even snagged some food from the diner so I wouldn't go to bed hungry and wouldn't have to stop at the convenience store for some prepackaged shit. And I had a job lined up that would—hopefully—make me some decent money.

I started taking the narrow, trash-laden stairs, the scent of stale cigarette smoke, old liquor, and the remnants of what was probably piss and vomit lingering in the air. I could hear the heavy bass of rap music playing from one of the apartments on an upper level. A couple was fighting loudly, and in another, there was the sound of glass breaking—normalcy in this building.

Once I got to the landing of the floor my apartment was on, I took a moment to catch my breath before I made my way to my front door.

I rounded the corner, and my steps faltered slightly when I saw my neighbor leaning against the interior frame of his door. A cloud of smoke filled his apartment and spilled out into the hallway, a dirty haze that made my vision slightly fuzzy. He brought his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag from it as he stared at me, the small cloud of smoke leaving his mouth as he exhaled.

He wore a stained, what was once probably white T-shirt, dark pit stains under the arms, a brown ring painting the collar, and a slight gut protruding from underneath the otherwise stretched material. His jeans looked like they hadn't been washed since he got them, and his feet were bare, his toenails too long and too yellow. And the entire time he had his focus latched on to me like a damn leech, refusing to let go.

I averted my gaze quickly and stopped at my door, fumbling with my key for a second before I pushed it into the lock and opened the door. I shut it behind me, turned the deadbolt, and slipped the chain lock in place, then leaned against it.

The domestic shouting sounded louder and right down the hall, and I closed my eyes and thought about what it would be like to be someone else.

But fantasies weren't real. They were fine when you thought you could escape, but once reality slammed back in, that pain was even stronger than before.