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I don’t remember making my way home. Just that she lent me some old sneakers she claimed were left behind by a waitress who had recently quit, and that I sat catatonic in an empty subway car.
Dozens of people watched on as some creep stuffed his dick in my mouth. Theylaughedwhile I screamed.
The security guards came at me like I’d done something wrong.
For days, I’m wondering if it’s the last I’ll hear of it. If maybe I should get ahead of the curve and file a police report.
After giving it some thought, I decide against it. The police have never been helpful when I have gone to them, and I was some broke Black girl in a slutty dress crashing a party full of elites I shouldn’t have been at. I chose to go with the guy upstairs to attend thesex performance.
No one held a gun to my head.
There’s at least a hundred witnesses to what happened. But they’re the rich and powerful one percent of society. None of them are on my side.
I decided to let it go, like I’ve let many bad things that have happened to me go.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last…
What hurts more is Winston playing me for a fool. He promised he’d send me my final check for theEaston Times. He owes me a full paycheck plus the obituaries I wrote the day he fired me. Every last penny matters, and I expect to be fairly compensated.
Instead, when I turn up at the newspaper’s headquarters, he sends the receptionist out to turn me away. I’m ready to stand my ground until they call security and I’m escorted out the front door.
That’s not even touching my disaster at the Velvet Piano. My mind won’t allow me to relive that nightmare.
I did a surprise cam session with my Cyber Fan subscribersjustto distract myself. Even that went wrong when one of the creeps in the chatroom began demanding I show more skin or he was unsubscribing.
With the luck I’m having, I can’t afford to lose any more money.
I sigh when waking up in the morning.
It’s half past ten o’ clock by the time I work up the energy to get out of bed and wash my face and brush my teeth. I’m supposed to be job hunting today. The Velvet Piano, the latest odd job I’ve taken on, probably won’t keep me much longer.
Imani texts me and asks me to lunch.
My treat ??????
Guilt anchors inside me accepting her invite. Imani’s about as broke as I am. Rather than living in an old warehouse sharing an apartment with two other people, she lives in a narrow townhouse with five roommates. One of which she shares an actual room with.
But at least her job at Strictly Pleasures is more stable than any I’ve had over the years.
I get dressed and shut the door to my room. I’ve been told I’m not the most observant person when it comes to noticing my surroundings, but as I pass by the open door of Jael’s room, I stop on the spot.
It’s empty.
Her bed’s gone. The rest of the furniture is gone. Every tube of lipstick and pair of shoes. The lush feminine artwork she’d put up on the walls has been taken down.
I stand and stare for several seconds. Has she moved out and not told me? Does this mean she’s seen my texts, calls, and emails and decided to ignore me? Has Paolo put a ring on it?
I’m flummoxed the whole trip to meet Imani. She notices the second she sees me. A curious smile lights up her face and she laughs.
Some say we could be sisters… except Imani embraces the girl-next-door aesthetic. No piercings, no tattoos, she’s sweet and unassuming on the surface, with cinnamon brown skin and a short bob haircut.
But it’s when you get to know her that the inner freak comes out. That’s what I love about her.
“You look like you’ve had a day… and it’s not even noon,” she says. “Spill, Ly. What bad luck have you had now?”
I drop into the seat across from her. We’re eating at Urban Greenery, the vegan spot across from her work.
It takes me another moment to piece together what I even want to say.
