9. A Sturdy Rock Bottom
A STURDY ROCK BOTTOM
FAITH
R icky leans back in his cracked leather chair, chewing on a toothpick, eyes half-lidded. There’s a stack of receipts to his left, a bottle of something cheap and half-finished to his right.
He’s a big man. Bald. Dark espresso skin. He looks like Idris Elba from The Wire . He dresses like a sleazy mob boss from the nineties.
“Well, shit,” he mutters, dragging the word out like he’s savoring it. “You’re the Ripley girl, ain’t you?”
I don’t answer. Not because he’s wrong, but because I’m not sure what that means anymore.
“Faith, right?” he asks, as if pretending to forget would be polite. “Georgia told me someone needed work, but she didn’t say it was…” He trails off, gestures vaguely.
“If you don’t want to hire me, that’s okay.” I keep my teeth from chattering, not just because I’m sick but also because I’m scared. If Ricky kicks me and my trash bag out, I don’t know where to go.
“Georgia will fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters. “Are you any good at cleaning?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. It’s cleaning. It’s not brain surgery. “I can start now.”
He snorts, rubs a hand down his face. “When we open at five, is good enough.”
He gestures to the beat-up chair across from him. I sit. It creaks like it’s warning me.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” he says, leaning forward, voice turning flat and transactional.
“You clean between sets. So, not only after hours, between. That means you’re moving fast. Bathrooms, stage, back rooms, tables, and floors.
You see a spill, you mop it. You see puke, you scoop it.
You see glitter, you wipe it off, it will require elbow grease though, ‘cause that shit is like permanent.”
I nod.
He eyes me. “You grossed out yet?”
I shake my head.
“Didn’t think so.” He nods like he respects that. “Now, the private rooms—the lap dance rooms—those need love, too. Don’t ask what happens in there. Just assume it’s all legal and needs cleaning.”
I nod.
“The supplies are all in the storeroom. I’ll show you where that is. Bleach wipes, gloves, mop. Same tools for every devil.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He watches me for a beat. “You got that look like you’ve seen worse.”
“I have.”
“Clean that shit up and then get to work,” Jamie says coldly, pointing to the floor where I vomited, pissed, and bled because of a beating.
He rises with a grunt, walks to a cluttered file cabinet, and pulls a ring of keys off a hook. “Georgia said that asshole Bob kicked you out.”
I clear my throat and manage a hoarse, “Yes.”
“Where you stayin’?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
He tosses a set of keys onto the desk.
I raise an eyebrow.
“There’s a by-the-hour motel.”
“You gotta be kidding me.” My legs are shaking as I stand.
He grins. “I never kid unless I’m drunk. I own the motel next door. Classy, right?”
It’s not.
“But it’s clean. It’s mine. And it’s safe. No one will bother you.” He pauses as if saying, not even me . “Now, don’t go getting no ideas. I’m not doing this outta charity. I’ll take it out of your pay. Weekly. Fair and square.”
I pick up the keys.
I have a place to stay.
He walks me there, whistling some bluesy tune under his breath.
The lot of the motel is cracked and half-filled. It’s by-the-hour, and it’s probably the nooner crowd.
A single vending machine hums in the corner, and the sign above the office just says: MOTEL. No name. Just fact.
“Room 3. Yours. End of the hall. The heater works but makes an infernal sound. Shower pressure’s temperamental.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.
I unlock the door.
It’s... exactly what I expect.
The bedspread is threadbare but clean. The carpet is stained but vacuumed. The air smells like disinfectant and something faintly, very faintly, citrus.
There’s a tiny bathroom with a chipped mirror, a nightstand with a Gideon Bible, and a wrapped plastic cup on the sink.
Gratitude thrums in me.
Ricky leans against the doorframe, hands in his jacket pockets. “This okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look like you’re getting sick.”
“I’ll take a nap and be ready for work.”
“Come by at four. There’s always food in the kitchen, and you get all meals free.”
My eyes widen.
“No booze, though.”
I smile faintly. He plays tough, but he’s actually a decent guy.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m alive.”
“Same difference.”
I agree.
He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t step inside the room. “You need anything—extra towels, cigarettes, bleach—you let me know.”
“Thanks.”
He nods once, then strolls off like a man who owns his small kingdom and knows precisely what it’s worth.
I shut the door, lean against it, and breathe.
The good people of Silverton cast me out. Called me a thief. Let me freeze.
But the sleazebags? The ones with bad habits and worse reputations? They’re the ones helping me survive.
Funny, how rock bottom turns out to be the first real place I’ve stood on solid ground in a long freaking time.