Chapter 8
Lucia
The all-night diner’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead as a jackhammer pounds at my temples.
I’ve been here so long that the staff no longer glance at me.
The nightshift waitress refills my coffee without asking, her eyes soft but tinged with the pity I hate.
I keep my gaze down, fingers wrapped around the chipped mug, soaking in its warmth.
My clothes are still damp from rushing in from the cab to the diner. Each shift of fabric sends a chill across my skin. I can’t tell if it’s the rain or adrenaline still skating through my veins.
My body hasn’t caught up with the fact that I’m safe. Well, as safe as I can be. My hands shake every time I lift the mug. I pretend it’s from the rainy morning.
Over time, the sky shifts to that pale, washed-out gray of dawn. It signals I’ve survived another night and that it’s time to take action to make sure it isn’t my last.
Standing, my legs feel hollow, as if made of paper.
I leave a few crumpled bills on the table—too much considering I didn’t eat anything, but people are less forthcoming with information when they don’t believe they’re owed anything—and step out into the morning air.
It’s so crisp it wakes me up better than an ice-cold shower.
The studio apartment is only a few blocks away. I found it in the classifieds last night and circled it with a pen that barely had any ink left. It’s a cash-only, no-questions-asked apartment.
That was all I needed to see.
When I reach the building, the rain resumes. Icy needles spear through my jacket, and my shoes squish with every step. The building towers over me. It’s almost too polished and clean to be sullied by me. Here, people have routines and lives that don’t unravel overnight.
I push through the door. Warm air brings feeling back to my toes, and the strong aroma of cleaning products smacks into me. It smells like order, and my chest unexpectedly thuds.
A man behind the counter thumbs through papers on a clipboard. He’s older, maybe late fifties, with a round belly and a face that’s seen too many early mornings. Gray hair sticks out from under a navy beanie, and glasses sit low on his nose.
He glances up when he hears the door close behind me, and then his eyes sweep over my soaked clothes and scuffed shoes.
I brace myself for judgment. Instead, he sighs.
“You must be Cici.” His voice is gruff but not close to unkind.
Nodding, I push wet strands of hair behind my ear. “Yeah. Sorry, I… uh… didn’t expect the rain to get this bad.”
He snorts. “Weather report said it’d pour all night, but no one trusts them anymore. They rarely get it right.” He puts the clipboard down and gestures for me to come closer. “Got your key right here.”
When I approach the counter, the floor rug squelches under my shoes, and I wince. “Sorry. I’m making a mess.”
“The floor has seen worse.” He dismisses my concern with a wave. “Name’s Harris. I’m the building superintendent. If something breaks, leaks, or makes a noise it shouldn’t, come find me.”
His tone is straightforward, but his gaze is shrewd. He isn’t staring at me with suspicion but rather gauging what kind of tenant I’ll be.
He hands me a small envelope with my key inside. The paper is crisp, and again, feels too clean in my hands.
“Cash, right?” he asks, not accusatory, just stating. “We don’t get many cash tenants these days.”
My stomach gurgles as I place a month’s rent on the counter. “Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” He shrugs, taking the money. “Owner doesn’t care how the money comes in as long as it comes in on time.” He pauses stuffing the funds into a cash box in the drawer, eyes narrowing. “You got a job?”
I swallow. “Working on it.”
He nods, expecting that. “Keep to yourself, pay on time, don’t cause trouble, and we’ll have no issues.”
His tone suggests he’s encountered people like me before—people who arrive with only a bag and pay cash without providing any details.
He knows not to ask questions. Not even a last name for the rental ledger.
Relief floods over me so suddenly that my knees nearly give way.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than he realizes.
He grunts and turns his focus back to his clipboard. “Elevator is down the hall. Twelfth floor. Room 12B. Heater’s a little slow, but it works. Welcome to Carlisle Rise, Cici.”
The name is too fancy for this region of Carlisle, but I keep that to myself. I nod, snatch up the envelope, and then head toward the elevator.
As I walk away, Harris says, “If you need extra blankets, check the laundry room on the third floor. People leave stuff behind all the time.”
“Great. Thanks!”
Again, he waves off my praise. “Don’t take anything with a name stitched on it.”
A small, unexpected smile tugs at my lips. “Okay.”
The elevator dings when I press the call button, and the doors slide open without sticking or groaning. After stepping in, I turn to watch the doors seal me off from the lobby and Harris’s watchful gaze.
He probably thinks I’m a prostitute, but since his beliefs couldn’t sully my reputation more than it already is, I don’t bother correcting him.
As the elevator jerks into motion, I lean against the cool metal wall and take some deep breaths. For the first time in a long while, my lungs fill with oxygen-enriched air instead of being forced to survive on the bare minimum as I have my entire life.
I haven’t felt anything close to alive in years, yet I’d be dishonest to claim I didn’t feel on top of the world during those hours I spent with Dante.
The elevator opens on the twelfth floor. Though the building feels lived-in, it’s free of the chaos that usually swirls around me. The plush hallway runner is soft under my feet, muffling the rustle of me digging the key out of the envelope.
I walk to 12B, key cold in my hand, fingers trembling.
The door opens to comfortable yet slightly stale air.
The studio is small and clean. A window lets in enough morning light that I can turn off the humming heater in the corner, and thin bedding covers a mattress on a metal frame pushed against the wall.
It’s nicer than I expected. It isn’t luxurious, but it’s definitely a step up from where I lived before. There, the walls were thin enough to hear every slammed door and whispered threat. This place has a lobby, the floors are polished, and the elevator works.
It isn’t much, but it’s more than I need.
The lock clicking into place echoes louder than it should when I enter my new abode. It sends a shiver through me. It isn’t in fear, more relief.
As I take in bland walls and a kitchenette with a tiny stove and refrigerator, I place my backpack on the mattress and peel off my jacket. The rain was heavy enough that my shirt underneath clings to my breasts like a second skin.
I rub my arms, trying to coax feeling back into them, as I switch off the sputtering heater. It’s barely producing a weak stream of lukewarm air, so I refuse to waste money on it. It doesn’t take much to get warm. My body is still buzzing with the excitement of last night.
I’ve replayed the unexpected event on repeat for the past twelve hours.
Although most of the details are self-explanatory, some fragments I can’t piece together.
Such as, how did Dante know my name? The paperwork at my job didn’t have Lucia scribbled across it, and as stated last week, the dental clinic can’t just deny patient–doctor confidentiality.
Too tired to make an indent in my confusion, I press my palms to my eyes until stars bloom behind my eyelids.
I didn’t sleep last night. It’s been years since I’ve slept in the open, and I learned fast last night that a mattress on the floor is far nicer than the hard booth of a twenty-four-hour diner.
I should sleep, but I have more pressing matters to attend to first. After pulling my hands away from my face, I pluck the job classifieds I borrowed from the diner from my jeans pocket. They’re crinkled, and the ink is smudged from the rain that soaked through my clothes.
I spread them out on the floor to dry before going over them with a fine-tooth comb. I scan plenty of ads for dancers, but the high pay rate discloses that whirling around on a pole won’t be the sole form of dancing you’ll be required to undertake. I cross those positions out.
If it pays too well, it will cost you your soul. Every stripper knows this.
As I skim advertisements for prostitutes, my teeth grind. I’m desperate, but I can’t go down that route. Not even for him. If I forget who I am, I’ll never be who he needs me to be.
Several disappointing minutes later, I circle a position at a strip club twenty miles from Carlisle. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than selling my self-worth.
With the details stored in my phone, I jump into Safari and search for the closest money transfer branch. It needs to be discreet, like this building, and not ask questions about why I’m transferring a large sum of cash.
I’m exhausted, my muscles still tense from back-to-back orgasms, but when I find a branch not far from my location, I begrudgingly pull my still-damp jacket back on.
I can’t rest yet. The money I earned last night isn’t in the right place yet.
I won’t sleep until the transfer is successful.
The weight of the envelope is too heavy to forget everything I have riding on it.
When I push through the front door of the building, the mid-morning air puffs white clouds from my breaths. The rain has slowed to a mist, but the cold is more honed now. It bites at my cheeks.
Pulling up my hood, I weave through the foot traffic.
The streets are wet, and the puddles reflect the headlights of the cars that hiss by.
Even though I haven’t lived in this part of Carlisle before, I know the route by heart.
All money transfer branches are tucked on the same corners.
They’re next to a pawn shop, behind a convenience store, and always under a flickering neon sign.