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The sleeping room’s empty. My bunk is already filled with crap: clothes, straighteners, makeup. The girls are like vultures, and any spare space is immediately covered in their belongings. I smile to myself as I slip past the dividing cloth and through the next doorway, into the communal room.
Ora’s sitting in front of the TV. She looks exhausted like she worked all night but wasn’t able to get back to sleep. That’s not unusual. Sometimes the girls are straight up so tired and used up and wired on caffeine and pills that they sit around, smoke endless cigarettes, and stare at Mexican dramas for hours on end until it’s time to start all over. I think of them like zombies when they get into that zone, and all I could ever do was try to get them to go to sleep.
“Hey, you,” I say, coming around the couch. “Long time, huh?”
Ora blinks once, twice, and a smile blooms across her face. “You came back.” Her smile hesitates. “You’re not back for good?”
I shake my head. “Just a visit.”
She gets up and gives me a hug. She smells like sweat and tobacco. The scent is so achingly familiar. “Look at you, bitch. You look all fancy now.”
I laugh a little. “I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt.”
“Right, but new jeans, and I think that shit’s designer.” She starts grabbing for the tag but I bat her hand away.
“Where’s Mira? I want to surprise her.”
Ora’s face falls at the mention of Mira’s name. “Ah, you know, she’s working right now. You gotta wait around. Could be a while.”
“Can you tell her I’m here? I only have a few more minutes before I have to run.”
She chews on her lip. “I dunno. Maybe it’s not such a good idea right now? Maybe you can come back next week and see her? That’s good, you should do that.”
“Ora.” I glare at her. “Go get Mira.”
She stomps a foot. “You can’t order me around, girl.”
“You don’t know that. I’m staying with Maxim Novalov now, remember?”
She opens her mouth to argue, but Ora’s not the brightest in the world. I don’t have any power at all—I never have. My whole life’s been one long joke, and the punchline is my own weakness. But she clamps her jaw shut, curses at me in Spanish, and storms off.
I sit down to wait. My stomach’s a mess of nerves and I don’t like the way Ora just reacted. It felt as though she doesn’t want me to see Mira, and that can’t be a good thing. I’m worried as hell, and my knee bounces up and down, the whole rickety couch shaking with my anxious energy.
After a few minutes, the door opens. Mira rushes in wearing her whoring outfit—basically a pair of short shorts and a tank top that doesn’t leave much to the imagination—and throws her arms around me.
I hug her back. God, it feels so good. She smells like herself—cherry Chapstick and Diet Pepsi. “I missed you,” I say, nuzzling against her.
“I missed you too. Ora says you’re real bougie now.” She pulls back and studies me.
My stomach sinks when I get a good look at her.
Her face is a mess. Both her eyes are bruised and swollen. Her lips are bloodied and cracked, and her right cheek looks like it was kicked more than once. Bruises cover her arms and shoulders, and she’s favoring her right leg like the left one hurt too much to stand on.
“Mira,” I say, mouth hanging open. “What the fuck?”
“Shit, this?” She smiles, waving a hand at herself. “Bitch, I’m fine. Don’t worry about this.”
“They hit you.”
“Nah, nobody hit me. It was a client. Real nasty guy. He pushed me down some steps.”
I gape. Down some steps? That’s the most cliché excuse I’ve ever heard in my life. Mira’s grinning huge but even she can’t think I’m stupid enough to fall for that.
“You’re lying to me. Clients don’t leave you girls looking that bad. Not even Zita would allow it.”
Mira’s face twitches. Her smile falters. “Come on, Siena. Why would I lie? Look, I’m all good, okay? You saw me. Hello, nice of you to visit, but you should leave.”
She turns to walk away.
