Chapter Two – Maria
What was the thing about having a great day again?
I’d once come across a quote made by an anonymous writer in a book somewhere. Was it at Old Man Steve’s bookstore downtown or in a fortune cookie?
There was a ninety percent chance it was the cookie, but it didn’t matter; the quote made sense: “Make today so awesome that yesterday becomes jealous.” Talk about motivation. That was a solid one that stared me in the face.
So earlier today, I woke up pumped, fully determined and ready to have the best day at PMAA. And then, my optimism had delivered the opposite. A long day with the kids, no time to catch a breath, and the constant nagging of the manager to fix the freaking bathroom hand dryers (which, by the way, weren’t even things on my list to worry about). I always enjoyed the classes with the kids, which was good. Watching them learn and improve was my highlight for the day.
But today, it was all going to shit really quick. A few of my star students started acting clumsy during training while the others didn’t even bother feigning the eagerness to learn, and early signs of exhaustion reared its ugly head.
That was until my favorite student showed up with her nanny and two bodyguards. Polina R. Varkov always made an entrance with a retinue of buffy bodyguards and nannies in tow. I’d never seen a parent, but then, I didn’t need to. The extra security and twenty-four-seven surveillance on the six-year-old was enough to disclose her family’s status. Whoever they were, they probably possessed power and wealth for generations to come.
But Polly wasn’t the snobby, entitled kid I’d expected her to be. She just didn’t act the part.
Humble? Yes.
Chatty? Yes.
Chirpy? Yes.
Yes, yes, yes, wherever Polina R. Varkov was concerned. The girl was an all-rounder.
She was bright and beautiful as always, with a wide smile spread across her face, blue eyes lit up, and long, shiny blonde hair held up in a sleek ponytail. Her happy-go-lucky, optimistic attitude often made my efforts as a tutor worth it.
If the others were lazy, she’d double her attempts, ask more questions, and practice harder.
She had a bit of sass sometimes. But who didn’t love kids with sass? I found them absolutely adorable.
When I took on the job, I promised myself not to have favorites. But Polly made it hard to keep that promise. She was the youngest of all my students but the smartest among them. And a fast learner, too. Her energy had probably hit sky level. But with all of these, the only “friends” she seemed to have were her security guards and her nanny. We’d gotten close over the session, but she never mentioned having friends.
I found it strange for a social kid like her, but her love for school drowned out her lack of age-group companions.
She was the very definition of the word “A-M-A-Z-I-N-G” and super fun to listen to.
During one of our sparring sessions, she went on and on about a book exhibition coming up in her school in four months. What six-year-old fantasized about book exhibitions like it was a trip to Disney World?
Polina did.
Her excitement was contagious and adorable. But most of all, I liked that I could make a meaningful impact on the lives of young children like her by teaching them self-defense.
When I was their age, I wished many times to have someone to teach, train, and look out for me. But that happened to be one of the privileges I’d been denied. And that was why I treasured my moments with my young students.
After closing the practice room, my next destination was the parking lot.
I hopped into my old Corolla—my sweet companion—and then shut the doors, turning up the radio. It was Flashback Friday on Hot Tunez FM, and they had one of The Beatles’ songs playing.
Mouthing a few lyrics, I dumped my duffel in the backseat and caught sight of the littered empty Starbucks cups on the passenger seat. Seeing the mess made me remember one of the moments in my life when I’d lived in my car. I liked to tag it as “My Dark Age.” Not the nicest time of my life.
I murmured a curse under my breath, gathered and tossed them into a plastic garbage bag, and adjusted the rearview mirror.
Behind me, the sun was setting. A blend of orange, purple, and blue skies held me in a trance until a rapt knock came on the window.
I rolled it down.
“Hey, George.” As in, George-the-manager. The same George who was sweet and nice and kind— and was such a fucking angel— in the eyes of everyone else but was a constant thorn in my ass. “What’s up?”
He lowered his buzzcut head—all full-bodied muscle of him—and squinted beady amber eyes. I liked to think that during his much younger days, he was a bouncer at a stripper club. Even at forty-five, he looked the part.
The corner of his lips curved up, the gesture stiff, and he eyed the radio. “The Beatles?”
My fingers curled around the wheel. Stalling was pointless when I could smell the reason for his sudden appearance from miles away.
“Yes, George.”
“‘Let It Be’?”
“I’m not sure, George. They’re not my favorite.”
He appeared to be heavily disappointed. Like, Who wouldn’t love The fucking Beatles ? Newsflash, George: I cared more about grabbing a box of KFC chicken nuggets, beating rush hour, and going home to Netflix and a jumbo-sized cherry cola than memorizing the song list of a twentieth-century band. Today was my off day at Rosy’s Diner, and I had every intention of making the most of the extra time.
“Oh,” he sighed.
“Yeah.”
I drummed my fingers on the carbon fiber wheel cover.
Pregnant silence settled between us for a few uncomfortable seconds before he made a gesture with his shoulder and stared at me with seriousness. “The hand dryers, Maria. You’ve got to get them repaired soon. Orders from the management. Plus, you know the kids need it.”
Of course, that was the point: to remind me of the damages that had happened under my watch. I shouldn’t have been mad at him; he was only doing his job, following up to ensure I fixed it. But....
Damn sure the kids didn’t need the fucking hand dryers.
The follow-up was becoming pesky.
I flashed a brittle smile. “Sure, George.”
I revved the engine, put the gear in reverse, and switched from radio to Bluetooth, intentionally changing the playlist to something more modern.
He smiled. “Ah, so, you’re a Taylor Swift fan, then?”
“No, George. Not a fan either.”
When the car began backing out of the lot, George gaped.
He yelled, “Get it fixed tomorrow, Maria!”
“Bye, George!” I shouted back.
With a wave, I sped off.
****
Thanks to George, I couldn’t grab the KFC chicken nuggets or beat rush hour.
I got stuck in traffic and managed to get a bunch of insults hurled at my car. I was sensitive when it came to my sweet companion, so I defended its honor by throwing even more venomous insults back at the accusers.
The verbal brawl in traffic should have been some form of a harbinger, announcing subtly that I was bound to have a terrible night. But I was hopeful; Netflix, salted caramel popcorn, and cherry cola were still options. By the time I pulled up at my apartment building, I chose to see the bright side of things. It might not have been a lodestone for the finest people in town, but it was home.
I grabbed my duffel, straightened my leggings, and made the short walk to the elevator.
When I got to my door, I was going through a list of new techniques I’d compiled in my mobile notes to teach the class, and how to get the darn hand dryers fixed. Even then, I hadn’t realized something eerily off until I grabbed the knob.
It jiggled freely. That was strange. Very strange .
Alarmed, I glared at the wooden doorframe with the gleaming 102 room number and brass knob. The door was unlocked.
I took an impulsive step back with a firm clutch on the strap of my cross-body bag. And my back hit something solid. Almost as solid as the freaking wall itself. But I knew better. There was no way the wall smelled like it had a bucket of cheap perfume dumped on it, with a terrible blend of citrus and cigar. His scent was pungent, and it made me want nothing more than to shove him hard in the groin to have some personal breathing space.
“Open the door,” the monster snarled behind me, more puffs of smoke filling the vacant spaces and floating from behind my head.
From the corner, I saw more men appear, lining up in the small hallway. They looked like a bunch of hungry businessmen with rotten smiles and oversized suits.
I tightened my grip on the strap.
My heart hammered against my chest, but I kept a straight face. No way was I going to allow them to sniff fear off me. Letting that happen was giving them the upper hand. Being five-foot-six was also no limitation for me. I might have been slight, but if it came down to it, I was willing to bet I’d take down eighteen out of twenty men before their leader got to me.
“The fucking door, bitch .”
If circumstances were different, I would have taken out a tooth or two from the idiot standing behind me. But I had my back to him now; he had the advantage.
Reality check: There was no escape.
Sucking in a deep breath, I opened the door and entered.
“Looking beautiful as always, Maria,” someone inside greeted, and all the hairs at the back of my neck went on end.
At the sight of the tall man seated on my small couch with my cup of cherry cola in his hand, my blood pressure skyrocketed. Now, I had a death grip on the strap.
I narrowed my eyes at him and took a menacing step closer. “It’s you .”
He kicked his legs off the couch, took a sip from the cup—from my favorite straw— and had the audacity to fling the cup aside. In horror, I watched the liquid spill and seep into the cobalt-blue rug.
He sauntered up to me, invaded my personal space, and crooked a ringed finger under my chin.
“Yes, honey. It’s me,” he said, wearing the same grin he had on whenever he visited.
It took a bout of self-control not to spit on his face.
Finn Jameson.
With the crazy puff adder inked on the right side of his face, his bearded chin, and the ghostly look in his eyes, he looked like a dead man walking.
He represented everything I hated—the past, the reminders that there was a time I didn’t believe I was good enough or strong enough. I could stand a thousand Georges, but the presence of one Finn could ruin my entire year.
Finn was a shark, a fucking loan shark. And the only reason he was in my life was because my father owed him money—lots and lots of it. To worsen it, two years ago, the old man had died, leaving me to deal with his devils.
Today was the first time in two years that I stood before this devil face to face. He never came in person, always threatening me to return his money over texts. Monthly, I sent in five to ten grand, and while I knew there was still a huge outstanding amount, I thought it was enough to keep him away.
I wondered why he decided to show his face.
His fingers danced under my chin, and his gaze lingered on my lips. Disgust coiled in my stomach at the look in his eyes, and I wished to be anywhere else but close to him.
“Where’s my money, Maria?”
I tried to move away, but the lineup of men behind prevented me from doing so.
“It’s coming,” I managed to mutter through clenched teeth.
He laughed close to my face, and his breath smelled worse than the human wall behind me.
“You know,” he was saying, his eyes raking down my face, from my purple crop top to my black leggings, my worn-out white Converse, and back to my face, “back then, when your daddy was alive, I never noticed you. Look at you, all grown up now to be a fine young woman. Ha. There are so many things we can do together. Think about it….”
His fingers did some more dancing, and my skin burned.
“So many ways you can pay back your daddy’s loan. I know one for sure: me on top and you under.”
I flashed a smile and made sure he saw how much hatred my eyes held. “Yeah, that will only ever happen in your dreams. And you’ll have to keep dreaming for a long, long time.”
If he was surprised by my sharp retort, he didn’t show it. But he withdrew his fingers from my chin and aimed to tuck my hair behind my ear.
In a flash, I grabbed his wrist, and the sound of my palm slapping against his wrist echoed in the room.
I shot him an icy glare. “You’re going to get your money back in a month.”
Now, he didn’t bother to hide his surprise.
“In a month, you say?” His gaze dragged from one man behind me to the other. “The pretty one here says she’s going to pay me fifty grand in one month. You hear that, guys?”
Their mocking laughter echoed in the room, the resounding bass grating my nerves. I wanted all of them to leave, and if saying I would have fifty thousand dollars ready in one month could push them out the door, I was willing to say it as many times as it took.
“I mean it.”
I wanted to bite him or rather scratch the nasty snarl off his lips as he leaned closer.
“I’ll choose to believe you, sweetheart. Better have my money ready by next month. Else we’re going to have to put this attitude of yours in check. And don’t act like you don’t know what I mean.”
He mimicked a dog bite in the air and walked away with a mischievous smirk. The rest of his men filed behind him. When the last of them disappeared through the door, I slammed it with every ounce of force in me and collapsed to the ground.
Their exit took the last straw of my confidence along with them. Gone was the tough girl who liked to believe she knew enough Taekwondo and jiu-jitsu to stand a fighting chance against over a dozen hefty men.
I sucked in a deep breath and held it for as long as I could.
The memory of happy children, martial arts, and broken hand dryers became nothing but a backdrop. Now, it was just me...Maria Simmons in the real world.
The twenty-one-year-old working two jobs and struggling to pay off her father’s debt.
I had fighting skills and had grown a tougher skin over the years, but what good was that when I had absolutely no one to lean on?
I exhaled, and out with it came a teardrop.
I wiped it off with the back of my hand.
Over the years, I’d considered lots of options, one of which was the most popular: going to the authorities.
But...laying a complaint against Finn Jameson in the station was similar to shooting myself in the foot.
When he was alive, my father was no saint. He was an alcoholic and a gambler. He’d stuck his hands in a bunch of other illegal things I was glad I didn’t know about. But in this case, ignorance wasn’t bliss. If I took Finn to the police, he would most assuredly find a way to keep me roped into my father’s dirty dealings. I’d been tasked with the responsibility to pay for all his sins.
And if I didn’t get Finn’s money in one month, I could count everything I’d ever worked hard to build goodbye. And that included me. If there was one thing I had come to learn, it was that Finn Jameson didn’t bluff. He was going to come for me in the most terrible ways.
I pushed myself off the floor.
Sulking wasn’t going to get me the money.
I had to go out there and look for what would.