God is fucking with me.
I don't know if it's His idea of a joke or if He was pissed off at something I did, (and I'll admit, I've done a lot so it may be the latter) but I was not in the mood.
I don't actually know if the guy is real, but if He is, He sure has made it a mission to shit on my life and set it on fire. That, of course, makes me the dickhead who tries to stomp it out and ends up with burning shit on the bottom of my brand new Louboutins. Very funny. I'd long realized what a shit-show (ha, understatement of the fucking century) my life was.
Where was I going with this? Right. God was fucking with me.
It's pouring, I am nowhere near where I'm supposed to be, and Gary was going to flip the fuck out. My phone is dead, my hair is clinging to my skin and face, and I'm still at least forty minutes away from the house. I could picture Gary now, pacing the floor of his office, spewing orders at men to find me. For their sake, I hope they don't. I must be one fucked up sight right now. Clothes wet and ripped, makeup ruined, wallet with money gone. If he saw me like this, he'd go ape shit.
"What the fuck happened to you?"
And I couldn't lie to him because somehow he'd know, so I'd tell him the truth. I was mugged, they tried assaulting me, I managed to cut one of them with a knife and they ran off.
"The fuck were you doing on that side of town? Do you know what kind of people walk those streets? Who were the men?"
I don't know.
"What did they look like?"
It was dark, I couldn't really see them. One of them, was short and had a limp—that's the one I cut after he tried ripping my shirt open. I cut his face, I think, there was a lot of blood and he screamed. The other one was quiet. Big. He looked scared, like he didn't really know what he was doing. He kept looking at the little guy, waiting to see what he wanted to do.
"I'm going to fucking find them. You're going to finish what they started."
That's not...you don't have to—
"Don't tell me what I don't have to do. Your stupid ass shouldn't have been there in the first place. Go upstairs, shower, and go to sleep. We will talk more in the morning."
He would pissed at me, probably more than at the men. I shouldn't have been there. I let myself be the victim.
"Milan."
Yes?
"What were you doing there?"
If I told him the truth, that a part of me was hoping they'd kill me, there's no telling what he'd do.
So I'd lie.
He'd stare at me, weighing my words for truth. Then he'd turn around, back facing me, and tell me to go. I never knew when Gary believed me or not. He was good at that, not giving anything away.
I blink away my tears of frustration and drag a hand through my hair. I had two choices, none of which were appealing to me. Walk back in this weather in these heels at this time, or suck it up, find a payphone, and call Gary. I don't have to really look, because there was one across the street. Lifting my head high, I quickly cross the street and dig into my purse for spare change. Two dimes, three quarters, and a penny. That was all I had. I duck into the phone booth, grateful for the cover from the rain. I sigh, pick up the phone, pluck out a quarter, and push it into the slot. Gary's number is the only number I know by heart. Everyone else's programmed into my phone.
He picks up on the second ring, sounding very less than pleased.
"Who is this?" I hesitate in answering, which of course did nothing for his patience. He asks again, his voice thick in irritation. "Who is this?"
"Gary..."
"Milan." I can hear it in his voice. His patience is hanging on by a thread. "Where are you?"
"I'm sorry, I lost track of time and...can you send a car?"
"Where are you?" He repeats, his tone hardening.
"West Side."
"Qué coño haciendo allí? Huh?"
"Por favor, Gary, it's raining."
"I know it's fucking raining. Give me a fucking address."
I list off the cross streets and he hangs up without saying anything else.
I fucked up.
Pushing my hair from my face again, I lean back pathetically against the glass and stare outside as cars drive past every few minutes. The wait equaled stress. Gary wouldn't be coming to pick me up personally, which gave me a bit more time to figure out what I was going to say. That also meant it gave him more time to stew in anger. Or simmer down, if I was lucky. But let's be honest, luck and me were miles and miles apart. My eyes close and I take a few deep breaths. There was never a time where I wasn't fazed around Gary. He was frightening. Powerful. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and knew how to get it. And he would get it, because he'd be willing to do anything it took. Ruthless.
It was that part of him I resonated with. I knew all about being ruthless. I knew what it took to be on top. I knew that I had to be the smartest in the room, and if not the smartest than the bravest. You can't be stupid and cowardly. That's no way to survive.
I'd made it my mission my entire life to be ahead. Even as a child, being on top mattered more than anything. Fiercely competitive and unapologetic about it. To others that translated as me being a bitch. And maybe I was. But, like I said, unapologetic. So I'd done everything. I learned languages, I learned sports, I learned arts. I was good at picking things up, learning quickly, adapting. I was good at being good.
Of course, I guess that goes to show how little being good at everything actually means. I'm still here.
I don't know how long I waited, but the car finally came. A sleek black BMW rolls around the corner and honks twice. It was still raining, so I run towards the car and slide into the passenger seat, dripping water onto the leather seats. I barely got to buckle the seatbelt before the car sped down the street.
"Easy, Jag. I'm still kind of drunk." I'm not, but if he thought there was a chance I'd throw up in the car, he'd slow down. And he does. I let out a grateful breath and lean back against the seat, my eyes drifting shut. The air conditioning was blasting, making me feel even colder due to my damp clothes from the rain. I didn't ask him to turn it off. I knew he wouldn't. "Scale of one to ten?"
There was a long pause. "You're lucky. Six."
My eyebrows shoot up and I turn to look at him. "Six?"
"He recieved a call just after you hung up. Don't know what it was about, but he seemed pleased."
I bite my lip. Maybe God was giving me a break.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
I blink.
He juts a chin towards me pointedly. "I don't think I have to tell you how you look."
I glance at myself in the passanger side mirror and frown. I didn't look as bad as I originally thought, but Gary would definitely still know something happened. There was a cut on my lip, probably from when one of them had hit me, and I lick it, ignoring the sting.
I turn back to him and squint my eyes. "Between me and you?"
He snorts, amused. "I'm not being paid to keep your secrets."
"Then I won't tell you."
He shrugs. "Your choice. I advise you to stay out of his sight tonight. Go straight upstairs, shower, and go to bed."
"He'll want to talk to me."
"I'll handle it."
I bite on my lip and say nothing else. The rest of the ride is blessedly quiet. As we grow near, I feel my nerves rising. Jag said he'd handle it, so I knew he would, but I couldn't help the butterflies that attacked my insides. And they weren't the good butterflies-in-my-stomach. They were the bad kind.
Jag was probably one of the only men Gary trusted enough to be around me. I'm a pretty girl, and the guys working for Gary liked to look. For the most part, they knew not to look too long, but they were men. Men can't help it once their dicks have risen. There were instances where Gary wasn't around and the guy meant to be monitoring me tried touching me. One even went as far as groping me, telling me to shut up and give in. "You tell Gary about this, and I'll kill you, puta." He didn't go as far as he wanted to, because his buddy ended up walking in. I knew his friend wouldn't snitch.
But he didn't have to. Gary has cameras set up all around the house. The next day, Gary didn't say anything. I was in the lounge room, watching tv. The guy with wandering hands was sitting across the room, separating stacks of money. Gary walked in, pulled out a gun, and shot him in the head. Then he turned to me.
"Next time someone puts their fucking hands on you, you tell me. If you don't tell me, you better fucking kill him yourself." He'd pointed the gun at me—not threateningly like he was going to shoot me—just pointed it, as he would with his finger. Then he left, just as calmly as he came.
I'd stared at the dead body for a few seconds before letting out a breath and turning back to the tv. I didn't watch as three other guys began to wrap him up and clean up the mess left behind.
After that, the list of men allowed to be around me became very limited.
Jag had been attracted to me at some point, but it's evident now most of that attraction faded away. One, because it had to. Gary doesn't fuck around. Two, he probably doesn't like my personality. I wasn't offended. Not many could handle me. Not many want to. Jag was attractive, but I didn't want to fuck him. It'd probably ruin the fun little friendship we had now (lol sike, we're not friends).
But I couldn't deny he looked out for me. At first, it was because Gary was paying him to. But (and don't tell him I said this; he'd deny it) now I think he's grown to like me a little. We have our little sarcastic banter, he tells me how pissed off I've made Gary, we had a routine. He cared about me now, even if it was just a little bit.
Jag drives up the driveway to the house. Outside stood two men, looking all kinds of serious. I climb out the car, suddenly very tired and wary, and walk towards the front door. Jag keeps a safe distance, following me inside. I can hear Gary from somewhere in the house—his office, most likely—laughing. I glance back at Jag with a raised eyebrow and he merely shrugs.
"Go upstairs," Jag instructs me, gesturing to the staircase.
He didn't have to tell me twice. I nod and turn, creeping up the steps as quietly as I can. By the time I make it to the top and step into the bathroom, my heart managed to slow down. I scowl at my reflection in the mirror. I look like a fucking mess. I grab a tissue and dab at my lip, but it wasn't bleeding anymore. Sighing, I toss the tissue and opt for tying my hair back so I can wash my face. I want to shower. So bad. So I turn it on, strip naked, and climb in, allowing the hot water to cascade down my body. Yes.
You know when you've had a really long day? You're all tense and sweaty and messy and the only thing that could make it better would be a steaming cup of chai tea and a hot bath. I would have gone for the bath, but I'd felt so dirty. I needed to scrub today off of me and forget.
The mirror was foggy and my skin was pruned by the time I finally climbed out, but I felt a hunded times better. The muscles in my shoulders relax and the air seems just a little bit lighter. My palm swipes across the mirror, giving me an almost clear visual of myself. I looked better. The only thing I need now is sleep. Chai tea would have been great too, but there's no way I was going downstairs and risk running into Gary. After drying myself off, I drag a brush through my hair, tie it back up into a messy bun, and slip out the bathroom into my bedroom.
Sleeping naked was something I'd always done, so I didn't bother with putting anything on. Plus, I liked the feel of the sheets against my skin. I think it helps me sleep. The AC was on, keeping the room at a nice, cool temperature. I slipped into my sheets, plugged my phone in, and rolled over.
Sleep came easily. Ha.
No it didn't.