It felt weird being here in such a sketchy part of town. Money laundering was the first thing that popped in my head. These were probably some serious drug dealers trying to launder their money through a delivery service. A delivery service that probably delivered their drugs. I felt sick.
It lunged forward and snapped at me. I was terrified. I jumped back, pulled the pepper spray out of my pocket, and aimed at its eyes. It flew forward and jumped up so that its front paws rested on my thighs. It licked my hand sweetly and jumped down to run inside.
My heart still pounded when I walked up to the front door. I didn’t know whether to knock or walk right in. A part of me told me that this was a house, not just a business, but I had no way of knowing for certain. When I showed up last time, the owner was outside smoking a blunt, so I didn’t have to worry about that.
In the end, I decided to lift my hand to knock on the door. It swung open before I could, and the owner, Tony, walked out. He was white and bald, with a soft patch of baby hair sticking out from the top of his head. Pockmarks scarred his face, and a burn on his arm looked like he’d pressed a red hot pipe to his skin. His black wife-beater smelled like rotten sweat, and his jeans hung past his hips, revealing a pair of blue boxer shorts with white stains on the front.
The worst part was the way he shook his head and stepped back so he could take me in. I felt like a cut of meat. He made disgusting sounds of approval, obviously pleased with what he saw. “Come on in, baby.”
The house smelled like cheap weed and liquor, with a hint of something chemical that I couldn’t quite place. I didn’t want to know what it was. I wanted to run out of there. Instead, I took a seat on his stained yellow couch and folded my legs. “You want a drink?” He sat down backward on a broken computer chair in front of me. “You sure?” He wanted something, and he was not going to get it.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Got some smokes, too.”
The last thing I wanted to do was toke myself into a stupor with a man like him in the room. “No, thank you.”
“Ma, I gots to say. You’ve got one fine ass body. I wouldn’t mind peeling your clothes off right now.” He had this way of swinging his hands around like a rapper when he talked. It felt unnatural, like was trying too hard.
“Thank you.” I felt like a snake crawled up my arm. “Does that mean I got the job?”
“Fuck yeah, it does. You can even hop on this shit right now if you want.” He motioned toward his lap, and a wad of bile rose up in my throat.
He must’ve noticed the way I cringed because he tensed up. Something told me he was starting to get angry. “You got a name?”
“Mercedes.”
“No, I mean a name. You can’t be giving your real shit out to these men. You gotta think of something sexy, exotic.” His eyes sliced right through my clothes while he mulled over what he was going to call me. “Cinnamon.”
“I don’t know.”
“Portia?” he asked.
“No, a real name.”
“Yo, that is a real name,” he said. “You’ve never seen Ellen’s wife? She’s fine as hell.”
I shrugged. “I guess not. But whatever, that’s not for me.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “You got any bright ideas?”
“I don’t know. You said exotic. What about Maria? That way they won’t know it’s a fake name.”
“Maria’s not exotic,” he said.
“Yes, it is.”
“We’re in California. I walk outside right now and yell ‘Maria,’ and 30 chicks are gonna answer me.”
“Well, I like it,” I said. “Maria Jensen. That’s my name.”
He frowned. “But you ain’t Mexican.”
“It’s fine. I’ll say I’m Spanish.”
“Don’t go around saying you Mexican when you ain’t. That’s, like, racist. You’ll get your ass beat.” He yelled the last word.
I bit back an insult and reminded myself I needed this job. That meant dealing with this moron. “I’m not saying I’m Mexican. Spain is another country.”