***
Jayden and I walk to the Fever Motel, located just a few blocks away from where we live. I stare at the run-down building from the sidewalk, and my face immediately twists with distaste. There looks to be about twenty rooms in total, ten upstairs and ten down. The paint is this god-awful blue with all the doors painted an off-white. Right in the center of the old roof is a sign reading Fever Motel.
“You should breathe, Charlie. Your face is turning purple,” Jayden remarks, looking me over.
I exhale, releasing a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. I have this feeling in my gut, that last morsel of self-respect telling me I should turn and walk away. That I can keep trying to get a job, even though I know deep-down that won’t ever happen.
“This place—”
“This place is going to keep us safe, remember? And it’s going to make us money,” Jayden interrupts, reminding me why this is so important: protection.
“Right,” I mumble, blowing out a steady breath.
“Charlie, we’re just asking questions today. Getting information on how all this works. We are not committing to anything.” Jayden sighs, tucking a hair behind my ear.
“You and I both know there’s nothing better out there for us. At least here we’ll be safe.” I give a tight-lipped smile. I look back at the motel, and a shiver runs up my spine as the sign’s lights flicker on.
I peer out from under my lashes, glancing at Jayden who’s looking the place over with a worried expression.
“I’m not going to lie. I’m scared.” I breathe heavily, although I’ve had time to cope with the idea of sleeping with men for money. Having the hunger pains in my stomach, and the fear of being kicked out onto the streets next month, it makes your mind adapt to the unfair tactics of survival. No matter how devious it is.
“I’m just as scared as you are,” she admits. “But next month the rent is up, and then what? The guys I slept with before, they aren’t repeat customers. They’re going home for the summer and things are going to get difficult, even more than they are now. Not to mention more dangerous the more we mess around on these streets.”
The glimpse of the dead girl flares behind my eyes. I nod and straighten my back. “Right. We can do this,” I say with more confidence than I’m feeling.
“You showed up,” sounds behind us, causing Jayden and I to jump.
The lady I saw the other day stands with her hands on her hips, a confident smile plastered across her face. Her dark skin is glistening with sweat, causing her white dress to go sheer, revealing her bare breasts and dark-colored thong beneath it.
“Name’s Margo. I gotta say, I didn’t think you would show,” she remarks, digging in her black shiny purse.
“Why is that? Is there a reason why she shouldn’t show up?” Jayden asks, looking at me warily from the corner of her eyes.
Margo places a cigarette in her mouth and lights it, blowing a cloud of smoke into the hot air before answering.
“Most girls are stupid. They think they know the streets because they can open their legs well. That doesn’t mean you have a hint of an idea of what kind of men walk on these streets.” She scratches her big hair and smiles, pointing at us with her cigarette. “But I can tell. Yeah, I can tell you girls are street-smart. Mick is gonna love you.” She takes a drag of her cigarette, shifting on her ridiculous high heels.
“Why would—”
“Follow me,” Margo interrupts Jayden who shakes her head in anger, crossing her arms before following Margo toward the shitty motel.
Walking through the door labeled Management, I’m greeted with the smell of lemon air freshener and stale cigar smoke. A white man sits behind a desk with his head down, messing with a cigar when we walk in. His head is shaved, a big diamond earring in one earlobe. Two men stand behind him with their arms crossed, both wearing black shirts with jeans, a big gold chain hanging from each of their necks. They’re tall and built with short, light-colored hair, and they have tattoos painting their arms and neck. Basically, they look scary as fuck.
I expected a more stereotypical pimp. One who wears a purple suit and a top hat, maybe. A gold cane, with gold teeth. Not some guy who looks like an outlaw, like any passerby in Vegas.
“Margo!” the guy I presume is Mick chimes, dropping the cigar on the desk and leaning back in his ripped leather chair. His face is round, his eyebrows thick and dark. He’s wearing a white suit with a black tie and looks menacing as hell. One brow stays arched, and his eyes hold a permanent glare as he stares at me. My pulse begins to throb in my temples with the unease.
“Who are your friends, baby?” he questions, nodding toward Jayden and me.
“Potential bitches,” Margo remarks, plopping down on a couch in the corner. I scowl at her calling Jayden and me ‘bitches’. She doesn’t even know us.