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Philadelphia. That’s where the angel with the sea glass eyes lives.
Don’t even think about it.
Stay away. Don’t even look at the—
My self-restraint is usually iron-clad, but it seems to be broken recently. Before I can talk myself out of it, I tug my wallet from my jeans and fish out the small slip of paper inside.
I had Leon write down the address he sent the taxi to.
Curiosity. It’s just curiosity.
One last look can’t hurt.
Can it?
Dahlia
How to make eight million dollars in one month?
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stare at the sheet of paper tacked to my wall. My handwriting is shaky and erratic, mirroring exactly how I felt when I wrote it. With a heavy sigh, I get up and cross out the words “one month.” Underneath, I replace it with “three weeks.”
Three fucking weeks to come up with eight million dollars. I might as well climb into a ditch myself and put the bullet in my own head.
“Come on,” I mutter to myself. “Think. There has to be a way.”
Several ideas have floated around my head, none of them plausible.
I could rob a bank. But a quick Google search told me that the average bank in the Philly area only carries about two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars in physical cash. I’d have to rob thirty-two of them to get enough money, and that’s probably like a world record of bank robbing or something. Besides, I don’t have a gun or the brainpower of the Ocean’s Eleven crew behind me.
The next idea was that I could run. I’ve done it before and maybe I could do it again. But just thinking about it makes my eyes fly to the camera in the corner of my room. A horrible blinking little fucker, professionally installed in a small metal box, so I can’t even get a hammer in there to smash the screen. I shoved a sock over it the second Lucky left, but even still, the red light taunts me. A rapidly blinking, constant reminder that I’m in debt to a scummy gangster. It’s not his only tab on me, either. In the week since he paid me a visit, I’ve barely left the apartment, focusing on healing my wounds and getting stronger, all while scheming to the backdrop of Billie and her boyfriend either screaming at each other, fucking, or listening to obnoxious rock music. Often, all of the above at once. But when Ihaveleft the apartment, I’ve been followed.
At first, I thought I was just being paranoid. That the car curb-crawling a block behind me on the way to the grocery store was just lost. But it pulled into the parking lot when I arrived, left when I did, and then came to an abrupt stop a few buildings down from my apartment complex when I arrived home in a sweaty, shaky mess.
There’s no getting out of this—not alive, anyway.
It’s time to swallow my pride and do what I always promised myself I wouldn’t: head to Lucky’s club. Since he brought me to Philadelphia, he’s laid the offer on the table countless times. It’s always accompanied by a sleazy smile and a leering stare that starts at my lips and then dips below my collarbone. I’ve never been inside and always cross the road with my hood up whenever I have to pass it, but it’s pretty obvious just from the outside what type of club it is. It’s in the seedy part of town, with no sign above the door, just a black glass window front and a burly bouncer outside, arms crossed, chewing gum.
If I shake my half-naked ass on a podium for a few hours, will this all go away?
I groan and sink back onto the bed. I know Lucky well enough to know he’s not the type of man to forget about an eight-million dollar debt. But he might give me a discount, or even extend the deadline, giving me more time to stumble across a miracle.
Looks like it’s my only option. Legs heavy, I drag myself over to my underwear drawer and dig through the pile of panties. I settle on something small and black and find the matching lace bra in the drawer below. With a cursory glance to the camera to make sure the sock hasn’t fallen off, I turn to the mirror and strip.
Since I escaped South Africa, it’s the first time I’ve looked in a full-length mirror and not winced. Not just because I’m getting used to the look of my scars and bruises, but because they are beginning to fade. I dab concealer over the greenish marks that are left and double-dip my sponge in the pot when it comes to the long scar running along my breast. There are some older scars, like the knot of flesh just under my rib cage, and the shiny slash running just above my panty line that I cover too.
Battle wounds from a different lifetime.
By the time I brush my hair out and slick on a bit of red lipstick, I look almost normal. Almost pretty.
Almost like the girl I was before I got on the back of that damn motorbike all those years ago.
Getting ready has been a distraction, but as the sun fades and I slip on my jeans and a sweater, my heart weighs heavy with the realization of what I’m about to do.
But I’m used to gritting my teeth, putting my head down, and getting on with things. I thump on Billie’s door to let her know where I’m going—somebody needs to call the police if I never return home, right? But she’s in the middle of a screaming match with Hendrix. I catch the wordsweed, jobless, and asshole, and I decide it’s probably easier just to slip out.
It’ll be fine. It has to be fine. The worst thing that’ll happen is death, and Lucky won’t kill me because he enjoys toying with me too much. Plus, the only person less likely to be able to pay off an eight-million-dollar debt than me, is well, a dead me.
I’ve got no money for a taxi, so I set off on foot. It’s around a thirty-minute walk and I know the route well because the diner I used to work at is only a few blocks past it. But it’s not the type of area you take a leisurely stroll through, especially not when the sun goes down. My apartment is right by train tracks, but it’s safe to say that I live on the wrong side of them.
