Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Legs
Six weeks later
I splash my face with cold water, then cup my hand and take a drink.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I have dark circles under my eyes, my skin is pale and pasty, and my lips are dry and cracked.
Anyone who says pregnant women glow must be fucking blind—unless they’re referring to the sweat dotting my forehead.
I pat my face dry with a paper towel and take a few deep breaths.
My stomach’s still a bit queasy, but at least I feel better than before.
I rummage in my bag for gum, making a mental note to start carrying toothpaste and a toothbrush.
Popping a couple pieces of gum into my mouth, I try to straighten up my hair.
When I find a damp piece that I may or may not have puked on, I sigh and admit defeat.
Using the hair tie on my wrist, I pull it up into a messy bun.
Taking a couple more deep breaths to steady myself, I paste on a smile and head back out into the store. The look the woman behind the counter gives me tells me she knows exactly what I was doing. Why that makes her angry is beyond me. People get sick. There’s not much we can do about it.
“I understand people getting sick,” she starts, like she’s reading my mind. “However, most people have the decency to stay home.”
I blink at her but bite back the retort burning on my tongue, reminding myself I came here for a job—and pissing her off won’t help me get one.
“What I have isn’t contagious,” I say, keeping my practiced smile in place. “I’m just looking for a job. I heard there might be an opening—”
“The position has been filled.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you. You might want to take down the sign in the window, though,” I say, tugging my bag up onto my shoulder as I head for the door.
“I’m sorry, I was here about the job too,” I hear from behind me.
“Actually, if you just give me a moment,” the bitchy woman says. I stop and turn, unsure if she’s talking to me, her, or both of us.
She looks over at me and glares. The pink creeping across her cheeks looks a lot like embarrassment, so I’m guessing it wasn’t me.
“So when you said the position was filled, you lied?”
She opens her mouth but snaps it shut, looking behind her before turning back and lowering her voice. “This is an exclusive boutique. We have a particular type of clientele.”
She looks me up and down, her lip curling slightly. “Perhaps you’d find a more suitable position at the strip mall.” She emphasizes the word “strip” like it’s a dirty word.
Joke’s on her, because I was a stripper for a while when I was with Chaos. I’ve got zero body hang-ups and nothing but respect for women who do it to keep a roof over their kids’ heads and food on the table.
I look down at what I’m wearing, trying to figure out what it is about me that screams stripper.
It’s not like I’m dressed for the clubhouse.
I’m wearing fitted black pants, a soft pink blouse, and a pair of kitten heels.
I wanted to look professional and put together, which is why I spent so much time blowing out my hair—only to puke in it.
“Is it the boobs?” I ask because there’s nothing I can do about them. In fact, thanks to my current situation, I’ve already gone up a cup size, making buying bras a new priority.
She sputters. The other girl here about the job is looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“It’s that kind of inappropriate language—”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Lady, I’ve barely spoken a handful of words. You made up your mind about me sometime between me walking in and puking in your bathroom.”
“You said you weren’t sick.”
I frown. “No. I said I wasn’t contagious. Again, what does that have to do with how you’ve been treating me?”
She presses her lips together. “Perhaps you should consider preparing the night before an interview instead of getting intoxicated.”
“Intoxicated? Are you serious right now? Who the hell even says intoxicated anymore?”
“I think I’m just gonna go,” the other girl murmurs, edging away from the counter.
“Probably a wise choice. Not sure I’d want to work somewhere so discriminatory and dismissive.”
“Excuse me!” bitch face hisses.
“Are you the manager?”
“I’m the supervisor,” she says, flipping her hair with a level of arrogance I didn’t even know was possible. Unfortunately for her, she’s never had a knockdown, drag-out fight with a naked person greased up with baby oil and covered in stripper glitter.
I square my shoulders and give her my best condescending look. “I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”
She opens and closes her mouth like a fish before shaking her head. “She’s unavailable.”
“The owner, then.”
“I don’t just have the owner’s number,” she scoffs.
“Too bad. It looks like I’ll have to go to the newspapers, post on social media and leave an honest review on Google and Yelp.” I glance at her nametag before pulling out my phone and snapping a photo. “Wouldn’t want to spell your name wrong—Becki with an I.”
I turn on my heel and head for the door, where the other woman stands holding it open, a shy smile on her face.
I wink as I breeze past her and continue down the street.
Thankfully, this isn’t the only place looking for help, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t shake my confidence.
It’s stupid, I know. I could strip naked and walk down this street and not feel an ounce of embarrassment.
My body’s never been the problem; it’s my only commodity—my confidence, on the other hand, is only skin deep. In the real world, where paying bills and holding down a job matters, I’m out of my depth. The MCs taught me how to survive—but never how to live.
I swallow, refusing to think about it any longer. My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. For all the regrets I carry from my years with MCs, my baby isn’t one of them. Every tear I cried, every drop of blood I shed, every heartbreak I endured—it was all worth it.
With that thought in mind, I move on to the next place.
By the end of the day, my heart feels a little heavier, but I refuse to give up.
Most of the other places weren’t like bitch face this morning—they’d either genuinely filled the position, needed someone more qualified, or were just not suitable for a pregnant woman.
As much as I didn’t want to mention my pregnancy and risk an instant no, I wasn’t about to put my baby in danger for any job.
I grab a green smoothie from the coffee shop on the corner and sit on the bench to wait for the bus, my feet aching from being on them all day. I take a sip of my drink, groaning in pleasure, and pray it doesn’t make a reappearance later—or it’ll look like that scene from The Exorcist.
While I wait, I pull out my phone and leave a one-star review for the boutique, calling out the woman behind the counter by name.
Maybe it makes me petty, but I don’t care.
Not everyone has thick skin, and for some, she might be the tipping point.
And honestly, I’m sick of assholes acting like they’re better than everyone else.
Well, Becki with an I, karma’s a bitch. And unfortunately for you, so am I.
I groan when my alarm goes off the next day and roll over to turn it off, the movement making my stomach lurch.
I scramble out of bed and drop to my knees beside the toilet and puke up my guts like I do every freaking morning.
When I think I’m done, I drag myself to my feet, brush my teeth, and take a warm shower, hoping it’ll help make me feel better.
It helps a little. What I really need is to do some yoga or meditate. I hate feeling so off-balance, but it’ll have to wait for now. One of the diners I stopped by yesterday told me to come back early today when the boss was in.
I don’t bother getting too dressed up—not for a diner.
So I throw on a crisp white shirt, dark-wash jeans, and a pair of black ankle boots.
Then, after running a brush through my hair, I pull it up into a ponytail and spray a little of my favorite perfume on.
Not too much, though, because smells are the enemy right now—which is going to make working in a diner interesting. But beggars can’t be choosers.
I apply a little concealer to hide the circles under my eyes and some blush for color before finishing with a swipe of lip gloss. With a nod to my reflection, I shove what I might need in my tote bag, along with some snacks for when my stomach settles and a bottle of water.
I wince when the music starts blaring next door.
I’m really trying not to be that person, but who the hell wants to listen to death metal at eight-thirty in the morning?
At least I’m already up, because if I’d been woken up yet again by the not-so-dulcet tones of Cannibal Corpse, I might’ve introduced myself to my neighbor by stabbing him.
With a growl, I slam the door behind me as I leave my apartment and stomp downstairs. I look up at the gray sky and wonder if I should go back for a coat. It’s not supposed to rain, but with my luck, it will, and I’ll get soaked.
When the bus pulls up at the end of the road, I curse. I guess I don’t have a choice, and I hurry over before it leaves. The driver smiles at me as I jump on.
“Morning, Miss. Where are you off to today?”
“Morning, Gene. I’ve got an interview at the diner on Denton Street. Then, after that, I have a few others. Hopefully today’s the day I find a job.”
He shakes his head. “Well, I wish you luck.”
“Thanks, Gene.” I go to hand him my money, but he shakes his head and waves me off.
“Bus is empty. Ain’t nobody gonna know. Keep your money and use it for something else.”
My throat gets tight, and I lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek, making him blush. “Thank you, Gene,” I whisper, meaning every word.
There are so many jerks out there, it’s easy to forget people can be nice for no reason. I reach into my bag and pull out a Snickers and hand it to him.
“For when you need a pick-me-up.”