MY PHONE RINGS, and I shoot a glare at it.
No caller ID. That means it's a job—a hit—a chance for money. But right now, I can't bring myself to care about work, not with the internal battle I have going on inside my head.
"Why do you care?" She had questioned me.
Truth is, I don't. I don't care about her, about the fact that she's taking enough drugs to kill herself. I don't care about the bottle that belongs to Miss Olivia Puckett. I don't care.
Except, it's been two days since the incident, and I can't shake the thoughts from my mind. I've gone out of my way to avoid Lacey, dodging her like the plague whenever I'm at the club. It's been tough, she's always around.
Ideally, not going to the club would've been the solution to avoid her. Before I bumped into her, I only visited once a month for quality checks. Now, I'm there almost every day.
Not that the two events are connected—she just happens to be there when I am. The moment I learned Micah had served a minor, I realized I wasn't involved enough in the club's operations. If we got caught selling to minors, the police would target us, and given the illegal activities here, the last thing I need is a drunken sorority girl bragging about the booze she got without a fake ID from Velvet Dolls.
My phone's relentless ringing forces me to answer and silence the noise. "What?"
"Mister Ricci?" The voice on the other end is distorted, likely through some app.
"Speaking." I find his attempt to conceal his identity amusing. I couldn't care less about the identity of this man or anyone who hires me for a hit. And if I did, I had means to bypass any measures in place.
"I'd like to order a hit—for three hundred thousand." I almost chuckle. Instead, I hang up, toss the phone into my truck's cup holder, and drive off.
Within two minutes, the device resumes its cacophony. No caller ID. I pick up with an annoyed tone. "What?"
"Five hundred thousand." The voice remains distorted, a deep and scratchy tone that suggests cheap voice-altering software.
"Fuck no." I don't take hits for less than a million; it keeps the clients selective—only people of significance. Mostly mafia, occasionally corrupt politicians, but never just any random Joe from the street. "If you can't afford me, find a cheaper hitman. I don't do charity."
"No, you're the best. What's your lowest?"
"Million."
A sigh follows. "Alright... one million." The hesitance in the voice is palpable, as if struggling to afford it. Not my problem. I don't do charity.
"Name?"
"Mayella."
I roll my eyes, I hate stupid people. "Full name."
"Mayella Marie Moore."
"Timeline?"
"As soon as possible."
I hang up and head to work, texting Nisha along the way.
Ian: Meet me at work in ten.
Nish: I'm waitressing tonight.
Ian: I don't give a duck.
Nish: Duck?
Ian: Fuck you.
Ian: Get your ass over here.
Nish: You're so needy.
Ian: I hate you.
Nish: I hope you crash ur fancy ass pickup truck.
I glare at my ringing phone nestled in the cup holder.
I don't receive calls unless they're work-related.
The pain from a few days ago has subsided enough for me to lay off the painkillers, though I'm far from pain-free.
To dodge everything at home, I've been picking up shifts relentlessly—around twenty hours a day.
My routine: wake up at six, get ready by seven, juggle jobs until three, snooze for three hours, and repeat.
I don't know if Stefan told Dad about the poker night incident, so I'm staying diligent, hoping he'll forget if he does know.
Working these past days, exhausting as it is, has been a welcome distraction. Now, as my phone rings at 2:45 AM, I simply glare at it. I'm halfway home, but what if they need something? What if I'm scheduled for another shift, and I'm oblivious?
I answer with a feigned cheerfulness, "Hello?"
"Maya?" Micah's voice comes through the line.
"Yeah."
"Nisha just bailed last minute. Can you come in?"
Tears, perhaps from frustration or fatigue, prick my eyes, because I can't decline. Even when the last thing I want to do is go to work, I can't say no. I can never say no. "Yeah, sure."
"Ugh," he groans playfully, "you're a lifesaver. Thanks so much!"
"Yeah, no problem." I hang up with a sigh and execute a U-turn.
By the time I return to the club, my eyes fight sleep, dizziness gnaws at my mind, and my body feels like lead.
Just seeing the building threatens to bring tears, but I suppress the urge, forging ahead. "You're the best, doll!" I hear as I pass the bar. Micah serves a guy seated next to me.
"I know," I grin widely, pushing back the exhaustion that threatens to shut my eyes. "How much longer am I here?"
Micah hands a glass of amber liquid to the man and turns to me, sympathy in his eyes. "Four hours."
I maintain my smile, despite wanting to let it fall. At least I won't be going home, I remind myself. "So, till morning?"
"Yeah...but on the bright side, it's the last shift of the night. After this, you can head home and sleep."
I shift on my feet, laughing nervously. "Yeah...right." I have a shift at the coffee shop from 6:30 to 10, I thought starting thirty minutes early wouldn't be a big deal; I guess I was wrong. Then I have a stint at the library. Sleep won't happen until tomorrow night.
I brush away that thought because dwelling on it could trigger tears. Instead, I head to the back room to hang up my hoodie.
"Weren't you just here?" Ana's nasal voice chimes in.
"Yeah," I mutter.
She scoffs, uttering a low, "get a life," under her breath.
Something snaps within me. I can't hide my face's dismay or my hand's forceful slam of the locker. "Have I done something to offend you?"
She scoffs again. "Your sorry ass got me demoted."
"Demoted?"
"Are you dense?" She sounds exasperated. "I'm not the manager anymore. I had to beg to keep this lousy job. All because you didn't show up for your damn shift."
"I—" I barely begin before she starts again.
"You know, I'm not sure what kind of tricks you do with your tongue, but you've gotta be fucking talented. You must give the best head in the world."
My eyebrows knit in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"
"I don't know, maybe the fact that the boss always has his eyes glued to you?" She steps closer, and I don't retreat, too busy processing her words. "He's never been in this much, and he's sure as hell not here for the cheap alcohol."
When it clicks, my face twists in disgust. "I'm not sleeping with Killian!"
She snorts, "Yeah, okay."
I shake my head in bewilderment, "You're crazy."
You're one to talk.
"You know, I always thought you were stupid, but I never pegged you for a slut." That word again. I may not know the definition but im not stupid enough to miss the offensive insinuation. I make a mental note to google slut later. My eyes widen with outrage, yet she continues. "I always figured you were too oblivious and innocent for that." Her gaze examines me, oozing disdain. A look that makes me look away, my eyes settling on the ground to avoid being scrutinized. "Guess it's always the ones you least expect."
Tears threaten as dizziness intensifies. I stumble back, my head feeling light.
She doesn't stop her verbal assault. "I should've known, with the lace and everything."
Another step, "Does he come to your shows? Does someone finally care enough to show up?" I don't respond, too caught in a whirlwind of spinning surroundings and a weightless head. "Huh?"
One more step, "Do you 'model' for him? Is that why he's so pussy whipped? I mean he's always here now, watching you like you're his next meal."
Another step, her face blurs, "Did you tell him about you're fucked up little life?" I stumble back, away from her. "Hm? Does he know about the drinking? Did you cry to him about how daddy doesn't love you?"
I stare at the ground, hoping to ease the nausea. "You know, I'm curious... do you still cry yourself to sleep?" I watch her feet as they take another step forward, cornering me between the wall and the lockers. She leans in, close to my ear and whispers a low, "do you still cut yourself?"
I finally meet her gaze through glassy eyes. "Stop it." But she doesn't.
"No. Why should I?" She shrugs, pursing her lips.
She doesn't stop when black spots invade my vision, not when I stagger, and not when my head feels weightless. "You're a Liar, Mayella. You walk around with this big smile on your face to fool everyone when deep down you're dying inside." She smiles at me, but it's not a sympathetic one, it's amused. "You go around pretending to be okay because you know that if people saw how pathetic you really are... they wouldn't like you." I lift my chin and square my shoulders but the trembling of my bottom lip proves just how much everything is effecting me. "Then you'd have to finally accept the fact you've been avoiding since I've met you. You're alone. No one cares about you or what happens to you."
The only respite is darkness, and I surrender to it. Letting it envelop me, pull me under until everything turns quiet and black.
Then, oblivion takes over.
☄︎⋆ ༘
FINALLY the story begins.
The beginning is so dragged out because I had to build the plot.
Ten chapters later and he's finally gotten the call. Who do we think ordered it?
I bet it's not who you think it is ;)