Jagged Edge

The walls are a nondescript gray with humidity stains, the carpet on the floor thin and worn, rolling up at the corners. The bed, when I turn around to look at it, is old, the mattress sagging.

Shit, it could well be a room in the Club I’ve never seen before.

This means Simon could be around, and the cold creeps deeper, seeping into my bones, making them ache.

It’s not Simon I followed here last night, though, I’m pretty damn sure of that, and as I lean against the wall, wrapping my arms around myself and shutting my eyes for a few precious seconds, I remember the guy. Short, with a beer gut, almost bald, in a dark suit and smelling of stale sweat. He picked me up in a bar downtown and practically dragged me to his car, and then…

I frown, and I rub at the ache between my brows with my thumb. Yeah, then it all went to shit. Then again what’s new, huh? He slapped me around, got off on the fear I did my best to hide, forced me down, and fuck…

Goddamn fucker.

Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it back down. I brace a hand on the wall, taking deep breaths. Being ass-naked in this drafty room ain’t helping with the shivers. I should get dressed.

Better not to remember, not to think. At least I’ve recalled enough to know this ain’t Simon’s Club, thank God for small fucking mercies.

Time to blow this pop stand. I’m surprised the guy didn’t kick me out the moment he was done. Wouldn’t be the first time. Where are my clothes? I squint in the gloom as I push off the wall, and I stumble.

Oh man, I feel groggy. Did I hit my head at some point last night? Or… he poured me a drink, didn’t he? Fuck knows what was in it. Christ.

Anger sparks in my chest, chasing away the chill of fear and self-pity. I’m grabbing my stuff and getting outta here now. I spot my fake leather pants under the bed, and my black top bunched up in a corner of the room.

Scowling, I scoop it up and drag it over my chest, ignoring the dizziness and flaring aches. Irrationally, I’m spitting mad that this john thought he could throw my clothes around like that—and the fury covers up the fear of not remembering most of it.

I live on anger. It’s what keeps me going every day.

Shit, I can’t find my jacket. I have a light jacket I carry with me to throw on after I’m done with a john, but it’s nowhere to be found. And… fuck, my money. Normally I demand payment up front, but johns don’t always comply. Not like I can force them, or afford to piss them off and drive them away.

I check again the pockets of my pants in the slim hope I put it there. Not that I remember him handing me any cash, but we’ve established that my memories of last night are scattered and have gaping holes.

Ah fuck. Nothing. I need to find the guy, demand my payment, so I shove my feet into my boots and step out of the room, searching. I don’t do this for fun, dammit. There is no fucking fun in it.

Another memory from last night slithers through me—a hand grabbing my face, a sweaty body covering me, shoving me into the mattress, smothering me—and I choke on bile.

I slam a hand into the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass. I’m okay. I’m fine. Probably just need to put some food in me. That’s all. I should get going.

There’s a staircase, so I start down the steps. The place looks like a cheap hotel, and as this sinks in, I realize it’s no coincidence the guy skipped before I woke up.

Probably didn’t pay for the room, either.

I stop on the dim stairwell, looking down at the dingy reception desk, and curse my luck. This sort of place has hourly rates, I’ll bet, and there’s no way in hell I can pay for the night I just spent here.

But this ain’t my first rodeo, ladies and gentlemen.

Taking a bracing breath, willing the acid in my stomach to stay down, I slink down the steps until I can get a better look of the reception desk.

A guy is sitting there, looking bored or half-asleep. It’s hard to make out his face from this angle, but his head is lolling sideways. A radio is playing faintly in the background. Sounds like a football match, or a talk show. Sounds all lik

e the same shit to me, especially with the blood still rushing in my ears.

No time like now. Asleep or not, I keep my eyes on the guy as I climb down the rest of the stairs, doing my damnedest to keep my steps quiet. Holding my breath, I cross the lobby, or whatever this filthy, dark space before the door is, and reach for the door.

“You! Hold up. You have to pay!”

Holy fucking shit. Dignity be damned, I grab the handle, throw the door wide open and scramble outside, into the rain.

I run.

I run down narrow streets and across an avenue I can’t recognize with adrenaline pounding through my veins and making my breath catch. I keep thinking I hear heavy steps behind me, and resist the urge to glance back.