HELP ME, I’M A WHORE
HELP ME, I’M A WHORE
THEN
The past few months had stripped everything down to nerve and instinct.
I felt like I was on a knife’s edge, with every step needing to be exact.
As the wind began to pick up, I pulled my coat tighter, the rough wool scratching my neck, and pressed forward.
My boots clacked against frozen cobblestones, the rhythm steady, betraying none of the storm brewing inside me.
The town was stirring around me, the creaking wheels, traces of far-off laughter, and the low hum of early risers.
And then there were the eyes, seen and unseen, watching and judging.
Pretending not to see me while seeing everything.
But today, I didn’t have time to shrink under the whispers.
Emil and Nell’s place sat at the edge of town, smoke rising from the chimney as the smell of fresh bread carried through the cold air.
My stomach tightened at it; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a decent meal.
I knocked once, the sound almost harsh in the stillness, and the door opened almost immediately.
Nell stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour, dark eyes taking me in.
There was no judgment in her expression, only a calm patience that made it harder to pretend I was fine.
“Bernadette,” she said gently, “you’re freezing. Get in here before you catch your death.”
I stepped inside, letting the warmth wrap around me. It smelled like cinnamon and home, and for a moment, it was Sunday morning all over again. Ray humming off-key, John’s laughter spilling from the kitchen, and the ache of their absence folded itself quietly into the comfort.
“I’m not staying long,” I said. “I need to talk to you. Both of you.”
Nell closed the door behind me and placed a hand lightly on my arm. “We’ve always got time for you, sweetheart.” Her touch was brief, but it steadied me more than I wanted to admit. She gestured to the kitchen. “Emil’s just finishing breakfast. Come, sit. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I haven’t,” I admitted as I followed her into the cozy living room.
Emil entered a moment later, wiping his hands on a towel, his boots thudding against the wooden floor.
His face was its usual unreadable canvas, but his eyes softened when they found me.
He crossed the room without a word, the towel still in his hands, and came to stand beside Nell, the two of them a matched set, weathered but unyielding.
“What’s going on?” He asked with no preamble.
I didn’t waste time. “It’s The Oily Cat.”
Emil exchanged a glance with Nell, something unspoken passing between them.
“I need help,” I admitted. “Emil, I want you at the door. I need someone who can hold the line when things go bad. And they will, you know they will.” Emil didn’t respond immediately. He studied me, arms crossed, weighing things the way he always did, quietly and thoroughly.
Nell looked at me with a tenderness she didn’t try to hide. “They’ve been pushing you harder lately, haven’t they?”
I nodded. “They want the place gone. They want me gone. But it’s more than that, they don’t like that I gave the girls somewhere to go, somewhere safe.”
Nell pressed her lips into a hard line, holding back the words she wanted to say.
She stepped closer, tenderly brushing a stray curl from my forehead, looking at me with a protective sadness.
“I figured you were building something bigger than they understood,” she said, “and you don’t strike me as the kind of person that backs down. ”
My throat tightened, but I didn’t look away. “I’m not backing down, I’m asking for backup.”
Emil finally spoke. “You sure this is the best way to fight them? It’s not just bar fights you’re dealing with, it’s politics. It’s names with money behind them.”
I met his gaze evenly. “I’m not asking you to fix it, I’m asking you to keep the walls standing while I do.” His face softened. Then I added, quieter, “You saved my life, Emil. That night . . . you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t ask what it would cost, and I haven’t forgotten that.”
“I remember,” he said, and I saw it, the brief flash of pain he usually kept buried. The consequences of the choices they’d both made, and how this town had repaid them for it. I looked at Nell. “You both know what it’s like to be pushed out, to be told you’re not worth the trouble.”
She shook her head slowly. “You’re worth all the trouble, Bernadette, always have been.”
Emil finally nodded. “Alright, I’ll do it. But not just for you, for what that place means, what it could mean.”
Tension slipped from my shoulders, a sigh escaping my lips, but I didn’t let myself settle.
Not yet. There was still more to ask. “I want the women to be safe, that’s number one, and I know you can keep the peace.
But Nell,” I said, turning to her, “I could use your help too. The books, the schedules, tending the bar, and making sure no one takes more than they give.”
She paused, taking in my words, her gaze locked on mine, measuring the stakes. Then came that look: calm, resolute, ironclad in its certainty. There was no need for reassurances because it wasn’t trust offered, it was commitment declared. “If Emil’s in,” she ventured, “I’m already there.”
“Thank you,” I said, beaming, smiling bigger than I had in months.
I stood up tall from the chair, my head held high.
The road ahead was fraught with danger, but now, for the first time in a long while, I felt the glimmer of hope.
The Oily Cat would stand, I would stand, and together, we would protect each other.