Twisted Loyalties (The Camorra Chronicles 1)

Chapter Four

Dad lived in a small, run down apartment in a desolate corner of the city. The Strip seemed far away and so did the beautiful hotels with their generous customers. He showed me to a small room. It smelled of cat like the rest of the apartment, even though I hadn’t seen one. The only furniture in it was a mattress on the ground. One wall was packed almost to the ceiling with old moving boxes stuffed with God knew what. He hadn’t even put sheets on the mattress, nor did I see any kind of bed clothes.

“It’s not much, I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “I don’t have a second pair of bed linen. Perhaps you can go out and buy some today?”

I paused. I’d given almost all of my money for the bus ticket. What I had left was supposed to buy me a nice dress for potential job interviews in decent restaurants and cocktail bars near the Strip. But I could hardly sleep on an old mattress that had sweat stains or worse on it. “Do you have at least a pillow and a spare blanket?”

He put down my backpack beside the mattress, grimacing. “I think I have an old wool blanket somewhere. Let me check.” He turned and hurried off.

Slowly I sank down on the mattress. It was saggy and a whiff of dust rose up. My eyes traveled up the mountain of boxes threatening to crush me beneath them. The window hadn’t been cleaned in a while, if ever, and let only dim light in. There wasn’t even a wardrobe to put my clothes away. I pulled my backpack over to me. Good thing that I hardly owned anything. I didn’t need much. Everything I’d ever held dear had been sold by my mother for crystal meth at some point. That taught you not to cling to physical things.

Dad returned with a heap of what looked like black rags. Perhaps that was the source of the cat smell. He handed it over to me, and I realized that it was the wool blanket he’d been referring to. It was moth eaten and smelled of smoke and something else I couldn’t place, but definitely not cat. I set it down on the mattress. I had no choice but to buy bed linen. I stared down at my flip-flops. Right now they were my only shoes. The soles of my favorite pair of Converse had fallen off two days ago. I’d thought I’d be able to get new shoes as soon as I arrived in Vegas. I pulled thirty dollars from my backpack.

Dad eyed the money in a strange way. Desperate and hungry.

“I don’t suppose you have some spare change for me? Business is slow right now, and I need to buy some food for us.”

I hadn’t asked what exactly his business was. I’d learned that asking too many questions often led to unpleasant answers.

I handed him ten dollars. “I need the rest for bed sheets.”

He looked disappointed but then nodded. “Sure. I’ll go get us something to eat for tonight. Why don’t you go to Target and see if you can get a comforter and sheets?”

It almost seemed as if he wanted to get me out. I nodded. I’d have preferred to get out of my sweaty pair of jeans and shirt but I grabbed my backpack.

“You can leave that here.”

I smiled. “Oh, no. I need it to carry whatever I buy,” I lied. I’d learned to never let my stuff lying around with my mother or she would sell it. Not that I had anything of worth, but I hated if people rummaged in my underwear. And I knew the look Dad had had when he’d seen my money. I was fairly sure that he’d been lying when he’d said his addiction was a thing of the past. There was nothing I could do about that. I couldn’t fight that battle for him.

I trudged out of the apartment, Las Vegas’ dry air hitting me once again. A few guys were swimming in the community pool despite the cold, doing dives and shouting. The pool area looked like it could use a good clean as well. One of the guys spotted me and let out a whistle. I picked up my pace to avoid a confrontation.

Sheets, a comforter and a pillow cost me $19,99, leaving me with exactly one cent. No pretty dress or shoes for me. I doubted a restaurant would hire me in my shabby second-hand clothes.

When I returned home, Dad wasn’t there, neither was any food. I searched the fridge but found only a few cans of beer and a jar of mayonnaise.

I sank down on the chair, consigning myself to wait for my father.

When he came home, it was dark outside and I’d fallen asleep at the table, my forehead pressed up against my forearms. I scanned his empty arms and miserable expression.