Page 5 of Pistol Whipped

My rainy day—yes, I get the joke—fund.

The one I’ve been keeping secret.

He’s off the bed and moving, coming at me with his shoulders hunched.

“What the fuck is this?!” he screams. “Have you been fucking hiding this from me?!” He shakes the envelope in my face. “What the fuck, Rain?!”

I step back, only to miss the doorframe and end up with my spine glued to the peeling paint of the wall instead and a boyfriend I’m not even sure I like anymore looming over me.

“I told you the landlord was raising our rent! And you’ve been fucking holding out on me this whole time?!”

Trey crowds my personal space. His hot breath hits my cheeks, and it stinks of tequila. I very nearly retch, or maybe I almost inhale, because sober and drunk Rain want very different things.

“Where’d you get this much cash, anyway? You whoring yourself out? You turning tricks like the corner girls, huh, Rain?”

I don’t have time to answer before I hear it. The crunch of his fist hits through the wall centimetres from my ear. The money, my money, so neatly stored a second ago, flutters around us both.

I don’t dare move or speak. But inside I’m screaming. Kicking and screaming while Trey scrabbles for every single bill. He even drops to his knees and crawls around the floor like the desperate creature he is. Maybe we’re both desperate, because seconds later I’m crawling too. But I never get the chance to pocket even a single bill before my wrist is snatched up between his tattooed fingers.

“I don’t fucking think so, baby.”

The term of endearment is not comforting in the slightest.

“If you want somewhere to sleep tonight, you’re going to let me take every last cent,” he hisses, and my fingers freeze.

Grams always said there was a disconnect between my brain and my mouth.

“You’re real quiet on the outside Rainy-girl, but inside, I know you’re screaming,” she used to say to me anytime I got annoyed or frustrated. Anytime I felt anything really. She was the only person who could tell what I was feeling. Except when I sang.

Then everyone knew.

Good thing I don’t sing anymore. Or Trey would know how close I am to dying inside while I watch him pick my money off our shitty broken floor. He stuffs most of it into his pockets, while some of it is still clutched in his left hand.

“At least now we’ll make May’s rent.”

We will. And I’ll be stuck now for who knows how long. It took me over a year to amass that amount of money, and it’s gone, along with my dreams of leaving Trey, of leaving Flynn’s, of leaving The Neck. All I can do is stare after it as Trey gets to his feet.

“Oh, and Rain, don’t think I forgot about your little temper tantrum tonight. That guy you were running from left a little note for you.”

He thumbs in the direction of the folded piece of paper still sitting on our bed.

“The guy looked like he had money. God knows, you could probably use some.” He laughs to himself like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard, only to return to the terrifying monster he was moments ago. “Whatever he’s offering you, take it.”

His cheerful statement belies the threat of “or else” that sits at the end of that sentence. It doesn’t bear saying out loud. It’s laced into every syllable. Only, I can’t keep up with the mood switches in his brain, because he’s all smiles again, “I’m crashing at Resa’s. Go see Mr. Moneybags but make sure you’re back in time for your shift tomorrow.”

He leaves, and only when the door slams behind him do I start screaming.

Chapter 4

Ocean Avenue

Rain

Not all of The Neck is a complete shithole. It’s just so rare that I come to the part that isn’t, that I tend to forget it exists.

I’m not saying it’s a big part. It’s basically just one street. Unsurprisingly, it’s Shorefront Street, so-called because it runs parallel to Calder’s oceanfront park. From the glass-fronted skyscrapers to the luxury condos with high-end brunch spots at their base, every building along this street offers stunning views out over the ocean. The only thing I can guarantee is that none of these buildings have windows that face the opposite direction, because then the rich motherfuckers that spend their days down here and their nights up in The Head would have to actually face the truth. That their palaces of chrome are built on the backs of our suffering.

I should have known this is where I’d find Lou. Not that I’d been looking for him. He was always so fucking cock-sure, so smug, so certain that the world owed him the power and money he craved. Judging by the tall column of a building in front of me, it seems like he finally got his wish.