Staying at Selina Kyle's wasn't too bad. The other girls there were nice, and they didn't judge me because I was in love with a criminal and helped him commit crimes - hey, their profession wasn't very honorable either, but apparently working for Selina was better than working for anyone else. They split the profits 20-80 (because, after all, they did all the work and because Selina had a real job, too - she was really rich, I knew), and Selina did background checks on all her customers if she could. She knew the job had risks, and provided free birth control and institued a "no glove, no love" rule for her girls to use with their customers no matter what they were doing. She'd gotten me a temporary job at Victoria's Secret in the Gotham City Mall (which I loved, since I shopped there all the time), and so that was where I went while everyone else slept, or went off to waitress or bag groceries or any other part-time work Selina had gotten them. She knew someone on the Arkham staff, and so they would call her with updates on Mr. J's progress - he was getting out next Wednesday...well, legally, anyway.
That Wednesday, all through my shift, I was counting down the hours until Mr. J got out, and when it was over, I almost flew home in my rental car I was going so fast.
"Harley, calm down!" Selina scolded me, but I couldn't, and paced the floor until the doorbell rang.
"Mr J!" I shouted, flinging open the door and running into the open arms (wait...), feeling ripped abs (what?) and bare skin (hold on) against my chest.
Ew.
Oh no.
"You wish it was Mr. Happyface, my sweet marshmallow baby!"
"Selina!!!!" I howled as he flung me into the back of his nauseous pickup and, foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal, one arm locked around my shoulders as he used the other to steer, drove toward his mansion left over from his glory days as a TV talk show host.
Where was Mr. J?