5. Luna
Chapter 5
Luna
The rush of wind against my face as we speed through the streets of Wraithport is exhilarating. Saint's broad back is warm and solid against my chest, his leather smooth beneath my fingertips. I've never felt anything like this—the vibration of the powerful machine, the passing world a blur of colors, the strange freedom that comes with surrendering control.
For these few precious minutes, I forget everything—about Abuela's rattling cough, about bills piled on the kitchen counter, about the leering looks Popov gives me at work. I just exist in this moment, pressed against a dangerous man who somehow makes me feel safer than I have in years.
When Saint pulls up in front of my apartment building—the peeling paint and cracked concrete suddenly embarrassing—the spell breaks. Reality crashes back, heavy and demanding as an overdue debt.
Reluctantly I unwind my arms from his waist, already missing his warmth.
He cuts the engine and helps me dismount before retrieving Paco from the saddlebag. The little dog seems pleased with his adventure, looking between Saint and me with curious eyes, his breathing much steadier after the medication.
Saint hands Paco to me, his fingers lingering against mine. "I'll see you soon, preciosa," he says, and it sounds like a promise rather than a goodbye, and I wonder… Is it? Will I see him again?
I should tell him not to come back. I should explain that my life is complicated enough without adding a tattooed biker to the mix. But the words die in my throat.
"Gracias," I say instead, "for everything."
His smile transforms his face, softening the hard edges into something almost boyish. "De nada."
I force myself to turn away, clutching Paco to my chest as I climb the familiar, crumbling stairs to the fifth floor. The elevator's been broken for months, and by the time I reach our door, I'm winded, my legs weak from the climb and from whatever Saint has awakened in me with that devastating kiss.
That's when I see it—a bright orange notice taped to our apartment door. The blood drains from my face as I read the bold letters: EVICTION NOTICE. Two short words that might as well be a death sentence.
With shaking hands, I tear it off and scan the details. Three days. We have three days to pay the back rent or vacate. The amount listed makes my head swim—six hundred dollars we don't have. Can't possibly get in time.
"No, no, no," I whisper, fumbling with my keys. Paco whines softly, sensing my distress.
Inside, our apartment is quiet except for the wheezing coughs coming from the bedroom.
I set Paco down, watching as he scampers to his water bowl, seemingly energized by the medication from the vet. At least something is going right.
"Abuela?" I call, tucking the eviction notice into my pocket before she can see it. One catastrophe at a time.
She doesn't answer, but I find her sitting up in bed, rosary beads clutched in her gnarled fingers. Her face is ashen, lined with pain, and her breath rattles in her chest, wet and labored like a drowning person fighting for air.
"How is he?"
"Paco's much better," I answer, perching on the edge of the bed. “It’s his throat. The doctor gave him medicine. He's breathing normally now."
She nods, eyes closed. "Gracias a Dios."
I place my hand against her forehead—burning hot, the skin dry as paper. "Abuela, you need to see a doctor. Your fever is worse."
"No." The word is firm despite her weakness, her eyes suddenly sharp with fear and pride. "No doctors. No hospitals."
"But—"
"They'll ask for papers, insurance,” she cuts me off, her voice rising despite its hoarseness. "They'll report us. Ship us back like cattle." The words trigger a coughing fit so violent it shakes the thin mattress and leaves a speckle of blood on her tissue.
I grab the glass of water from the nightstand and help her take small sips until the spasm passes. "There are clinics," I try again, more gently. "Places that don't ask questions."
"And how will we pay?" she demands, her normally gentle eyes fierce with a mixture of fever and stubborn dignity. "With what money, Luna? You work your fingers to the bone. I won't leave this world with you drowning in debt."
The eviction notice burns in my pocket. If she knew.
"I'll figure it out," I promise, smoothing back her thinning white hair.
Her expression softens, one gnarled hand reaching up to cup my cheek. "Mi nina valiente. Always carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You deserve better. So much better.”
"Just rest," I tell her, rising to fetch more Vicks and the yerba buena tea she swears by. "I'll make you some soup before I leave for work."
In the tiny kitchen, I open our second-to-last can of chicken broth and add the leftover rice from yesterday, along with the wilting carrot and half onion from our nearly empty refrigerator. As the soup simmers, filling the apartment with a deceptively comforting aroma, I check our medication supply—only three doses of Abuela's blood pressure pills left, and her arthritis medicine ran out last week.
My hand brushes against the eviction notice in my pocket. The weight of it all makes me want to collapse to the floor and weep until there's nothing left inside me.
Instead, I pour soup into a chipped bowl, add a few stale crackers on the side, and carry it back to Abuela.
"You need to eat," I tell her, helping her sit up straighter. "To keep up your strength."
She accepts the spoon I offer but only manages a few bites before turning away. "No appetite."
"Please, Abuela." My voice cracks. "Try a little more. For me."
She shakes her head, her eyes drifting closed. "I'm tired, so tired."
I check my watch. The VIP party starts soon, and Popov will dock my pay if I'm late.
"I have to go," I say, hating myself for leaving her like this. "I'll be back by midnight. Try to finish the soup if you can. I’ll leave it next to your bed."
She makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into a fitful sleep. I press a kiss to her forehead, still burning with fever, and whisper a prayer to a God I'm not sure is listening anymore.
Paco follows me to the door, his movements more energetic now that he can breathe better. I bend to scratch behind his ears. "Watch over her for me, fierce little warrior.”
He licks my hand and turns back toward the bedroom, as if accepting his mission.
Outside, the sky has darkened, and a chill wind cuts through my thin jacket. I pull it tighter around myself, thinking of Saint's warmth, the brush of his lips against mine, the security of his strong arms...
But those are dangerous thoughts. Men like Saint don't get involved with women like me—not without expecting something in return. And even if he is different, even if that kiss meant something... my life is too unsettled. Too precarious to allow anyone else in.
When I reach the Golden Touch Day Spa, I slip in through the employee entrance, hanging my jacket in the cramped staff room.
Yesenia is changing into a too-tight crop top and too-short miniskirt. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her movements jerky with anxiety.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head almost imperceptibly.
My stomach drops.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
She flinches at the contact, her eyes darting to the door. "He's looking for you," she warns. "Been asking when you'd arrive. He's... different tonight. Angry."
Before I can respond, the door swings open, and Mikhail Popov fills the frame. He's a big man, thick-necked and heavy-handed, with small eyes set too close together and a gold tooth that flashes when he grins, as he's doing now.
"Luna," he says, my name sounding wrong in his accented voice. "My office. Now."
I follow him down the hallway to his office in the back, a small room dominated by a desk cluttered with papers.
He closes the door behind us, the click of the lock turning making my skin crawl.
"Very important clients tonight,” he says without preamble, his Russian accent thicker when he's excited or angry. “You wear this." He tosses a garment bag onto the desk.
I don't move to open it. "Mr. Popov, I don’t?—"
"Not asking." His smile disappears like a mask being ripped away. "Telling. You wear dress and work party or you lose job."
I wring my hands, torn between desperation and fear. I need this job.
He moves closer, backing me against the wall, invading my space until I can smell the vodka on his breath, see the yellow stains on his teeth. "I have been patient with you, Luna. Too patient. Other girls, they do what told. You? Always excuses."
His meaty hand reaches out, fingers gripping my chin so hard I know there will be bruises. "I know about you. No papers, no legal status. One phone call, ICE come take you, take sick grandmother. She die in detention, you think? Many do."
Terror washes through me, cold and paralyzing. My throat closes up and my vision narrows to pinpoints.
"Please," I whisper, hating how weak I sound. “I’ll do it.”
He releases my chin, his hand sliding down to rest heavily on my shoulder. “Good. Wear dress. Smile pretty. Do what clients want." His fingers dig into my flesh, punctuating each demand.
His smile returns, uglier now. “Be friendly. Very friendly.” Popov's eyes travel down my body in a way that makes me feel violated without being touched. "You special package. You virgin? Extra money for virgin."
The room spins, bile rising in my throat. The walls seem to close in, and I have to lock my knees to keep from collapsing. “No. I won't do that. I can't."
His hand moves lightning-fast, cracking across my cheek with enough force to make me stumble back against the wall. "You do what customers want or I call immigration,” he shouts, all pretense of civility gone.
Pain blooms across my face, and I taste blood where my teeth have cut the inside of my cheek. My ears ring from the blow as he grabs the garment bag and shoves it into my arms. "Take. Wear."
On shaky legs, I make my way out of his office, clutching the bag to my chest. In the employees' bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and slide to the floor, the full weight of my situation crashing down on me.
I don’t know if I can do what he's asking. But if I refuse, Abuela and I will be reported, separated, detained, possibly deported. If I run, where would we go? With an eviction notice on our door and Abuela too sick to move?
With trembling fingers, I unzip the garment bag, already knowing what I'll find. The "dress" inside is barely more than lingerie—red, sheer in all the wrong places, with a neckline that plunges to the navel and a hemline that would barely cover what needs covering.
I refuse to let the tears burning my eyes fall. I need to find a way out of this nightmare. But I have no idea how.