Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The Molotov
What am I doing?! I wish I could take it back while I’m magnified beneath his leer. It’s not hard to imagine what a trip to Mabel’s would entail—probably a uniform closer to underwear, and its threat is enough to boost my courage.
“I can increase your profits by at least thirty percent within the month,” I say. “If I do that, can I keep my own clothes?”
“How?”
His Cuban heels clank slowly across the steel floor. Despite his short stature, he is still larger than me, causing me to readjust my stance at his approach.
With a clearing of my throat, I say, “Well … with all due respect, the men who come here, they’re here because they like it for what it is. And they clearly love Joey.”
He stops before me, uncomfortably close as his breath cloaks my chest, but I don’t waver as I reach into my bag on the bar and hold a wrapped sandwich before him.
“It’s a community. You can increase profit by introducing two items. Food—they’ll stick around longer and buy more drinks.
Or games: dominoes, cards, and maybe a dartboard.
It brings them together. They’ll be reluctant to leave if they enjoy the environment.
This place is already full of regulars, so you’ll bring other people in because they want to be a part of it, not because they want to see me.
If they want to see a woman with less clothes on, they’ll go to one of your clubs for that. ”
The words fall from me, leaving a swell of pride in their place, and I can’t quite believe I concocted them. But I am stepping out of line, and a painful gulp travels down my throat.
“It takes some balls to hustle your boss at your first meeting.” His interested brow falls into a scowl, his breath smelling of stale coffee and cigars, so disgusting that I stop inhaling.
“How about this…” He raises his finger, sliding it into the neck of my shirt and giving it a gentle pull.
“Lose the shirt to start. We’ll call it twenty percent profit with a revision in two weeks. ”
I want to shiver at his touch, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep my composure, cutting a smile back onto my face. My eyes tilt away from him as I unbutton my flannel shirt, telling myself it’s a compromise, not a defeat, while removing it as an awkward gesture of agreement.
His head pitches backwards, echoing his laugh like a gramophone as flecks of spit rain upon my face. He’s still catching his breath as he clicks his fingers at Donnie, holding out his hand, where the roll of dollars is returned.
“Here’s something to get you started.”
In one hand, he offers the cash, and the other is open, waiting for my shirt, which I reluctantly trade. But as I go to retrieve the money, he whips it from my reach.
“Do a twirl for me,” he says with a sneer.
I glance at Joey, who’s rubbing his forehead, looking away, either in solidarity or secondhand embarrassment. Donnie smirks, revelling in the degradation. Now it does feel more like defeat as I hold out my arms and perform a spin, while my smile doesn’t marry with my evading eyes.
His smirk is sickening. And I realize he doesn’t enjoy the twirl, but the control.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, and he steps closer before sliding the cash into my hand. “Remember that. You’re my girl now.” He waves Donnie over, returning to normal volume. “Let’s roll. Joey, look after this one. She’s going to make me big bucks, apparently.”
He reaches the door before halting to snap his fingers. “Contract! Donnie, grab the contract.” Pointing at me, he asks, “Did you read all the rules, Lee?”
“Yes. Every last one of them,” I say, passing the paperwork from my bag.
“Good! Step out of line, and there will be consequences.” They move out, and before the door closes, he says with a smirk, “See you soon, Lee.”
When the door slams, I am released with a shudder, shaking his haunting touch from my body while Joey struggles to look at me.
“Shit, Lee,” he says, “that was rough. Are you okay?”
I hug myself, feeling exposed not just for lack of the shirt, but for the humiliation. I’m not okay. I’m so incredibly pissed—pissed at Krick, pissed at my situation, pissed at the world.
“Yeah. I just … I just need a minute.” I barely wait for his response before I grab my coat from the bar.
“Take your time,” he says as I leave for the terrace, sliding the door open and stepping out into the cold.
My coat flails open, but I welcome the crisp air after the accumulated heat of the meeting.
The river is high as it gently flows beyond the fence, and I rest my knees against the red brick wall abutting the black iron fence.
I grip the cool bars, resting my head against them as I try to envisage the Wilds surrounding me, wishing I were home.
How can one man have so much power over a woman?
I detest him for lording his force over me.
Improving profits should be easy enough, but now I have the pressure of it hanging over my head.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be home with my family.
Feeling so distant from them makes me more than homesick.
It’s been so long, it feels like they’ve gone—that I’m mourning them.
My eyes grow glassy, but I hate to cry, downright refusing while clamping my eyes shut, cutting off the flow before the tears start.
My eyes open, and from within the mortar, between the bricks and the iron fence, I see it—a tiny sprout of green. It’s taken root, determined to grow despite the harsh, unnatural environment.
The doors slide open behind me, and I turn to see Joey gingerly stepping across the smoky maroon tiles with a mug in each hand.
“Hey,” I say, scratching beneath my eyes.
“I thought you could do with a drink,” he says, looking proud of himself.
I try to disguise the confusion over what he passes me—like hot milk, but with black flakes floating on the surface.
“Is this a cup of tea, Joey?”
“Yeah. I got you some more after you wasted that last batch in my hair. Is it wrong? I thought it would be like coffee, but the leaves didn’t dissolve, like … at all?”
The gesture of a cup of tea touches me. My little Band-Aid for a bad day, and he probably doesn’t even know how much I needed to see this undrinkable milky concoction right now. It’s the reassurance I need that the Kricks of this world are so few compared to the good people I meet daily.
“Yeah, it’s a little wrong.” A hint of a smile creeps onto my face, while my cupping hands absorb the warmth of the mug. “But that’s so sweet. Thank you.”
“You know, we don’t have to talk about anything, like, ever… But if you ever want to … I am a pretty awesome listener.”
“Thanks. It’s all a bit…” I huff, trying to think of the right word.
“Crap?” he offers.
“Yeah, it’s pretty crap. But … it should get better … right?”
I don’t know why I’m asking. It will not get better; I know what lies ahead for me and for all women. But Joey stands before me, brandishing a smile, nonetheless.
“Hey, it always gets worse before it gets better.” He nudges me with his elbow. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No, Joey. Sorry, I can’t drink this. It’s really not supposed to have the tea leaves in it like that.”
He chuckles to himself. “You’ll have to show me what to do. Do you want my coffee?”
“No, thanks. I feel better now, anyway.”
“So, we’d best get to work. We’ve got a target to smash.” He takes a sip of his coffee and asks, “What do you need?”
My palms rest atop my knees as I sit cross-legged, gently breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
I peek my eyes open to see I’m on my old porch, at one of the many farmhouses from my younger years.
My papa—or as I call him now, Malcolm—meditates before me, sitting cross-legged in his jeans, wearing a crisp white shirt and his thick black-framed glasses.
The coolness of a fall breeze sends a chill while the setting sun sprawls a mustard blush across the sky.
His bronze waves flutter from an earthen zephyr, carrying the musk of emaciated leaves and saturated soil.
He sits straight and still, but pops one eye open, smirking as he catches me peeking.
His English accent strikes a bell in my heart, shivering and commanding my attention as it stirs an incredible craving to hear it beyond my sleep.
“Now, now. I promised we were supposed to be working on your mind. It’s only been five minutes, little lady.”
I attempt to compose myself, but it’s the beginning of an avalanche of giggles, while I’m teased with another memory.
It would have been difficult to recognise me as a stereotypical ten-year-old girl, with my short hair, jeans, and T-shirts, but discretion was the intention.
Malcolm’s smirk erupts with a contagious case of the giggles, and he looks around before giving up on meditation—but this is how all our sessions would end.
After ten to fifteen minutes of calming and controlling the mind, we would quit to talk about anything and everything.
He always knew how to set my mind straight when the glaring obviousness of my difference would bother me.
We uncross our legs and sit with our backs against the farmhouse. There’s a softness to his face, and his hazel eyes have—as they always have—a kindness to them.
“So, my little sparrow, I think we need to talk about the not-so-little outburst you had earlier,” he says, straightening up his glasses.
My mood drops like a lead balloon, bracing for being told off, although he never has, but I slump my head between shoulders. “It’s not fair, Papa. I don’t want to grow up and get married and have babies! I just want to stay here with you and do what I want!”
“Well, who said that you have to do any of that?”
“Marcus Henderson! He said President Beckett said that all the girls have to move to the new city and marry old men and have babies, like, all the time!” I throw my arms up in despair as tears rush to my wide eyes.