Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

Settling on smart casual, I dress in jeans, a white shirt, and a black jacket. As I have to walk, I pull on my sneakers but dump a pair of flats in a tote bag just in case. After applying make-up and brushing my hair, I study my reflection in the mirror. The signs of stress aren’t showing on my face. Thanks to Ian’s money, I’ve slept a long night of alcohol-induced sleep. Even if the drinking rewarded me with a headache, at least I feel better rested. Already, the dull thudding in my skull is diminishing as the pills take effect.

For luck, I dab the perfume I only save for special occasions behind my ears. A sudden memory of Ian telling me I smell nice assaults me. Involuntary heats floods my core, but I push the memory and its symptoms aside. After making a quick salad for lunch, I throw it with an apple into my tote bag, grab my handbag, and dash through the door. I make a mental note to have my lock changed the minute I can afford it. That’s to say if I don’t get evicted. For now, I lock up, checking the door twice before I set off to town.

Mrs. Steyn watches me through the window of her kitchen as I walk by. When I wave, she drops the frilly curtain.

I start with the stores on the main street, asking if anyone is hiring as far as I go. By the time I hit the restaurants in the Midtown Mall, I’m a lot less optimistic. I don’t have better luck at the bigger chain stores. Exiting the hardware store, I run into Dean, the manager of Rustenburg’s one and only strip club.

Too late to pretend I didn’t see him, I offer a hurried greeting. My spirits sink when he calls after me.

I turn with reluctance. “Yes?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear back there.” He throws a thumb toward the store. “You looking?”

Obstinately, I act dumb. “Looking for what?”

His smile is thick. “A job.”

“Yeah, so if you hear of anything…” I start walking.

“Told you, you can always get a job at the club.”

Taking off my shirt and flaunting my boobs in businessmen’s faces while they shove money and God knows what else into my panties? “No, thanks.”

“You know what they say.” His taunting voice follows me down the pavement. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Ignoring him, I cut the corner and bite my nail as I walk toward the industrial side of town. Pole dancing isn’t beneath me. I’d just hate to grovel at Dean’s feet, and he’d definitely make me grovel. I’ve rejected his date and job offers for too long. Men don’t forget those kinds of rejections, at least not men like Dean. They bide their time to take revenge, and if my day continues like it started out, I may not have a choice but to grovel.

My hope continues to dwindle as I go around all the steakhouses and restaurants. I even try the cinema and the beauty salon. No luck. Times are tough, and there are more people than jobs.

I haven’t heard from Mint again. No surprises there. I suppose he’s too embarrassed to face me after leaving me in the lurch. So much for all his soulmate talk. I could do with a friend, and a loan wouldn’t hurt, but after the way he treated me during our first and only dinner, I’m relieved to be rid of him. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with his constant calls and text messages begging me to go out with him any longer.

At lunchtime, I eat my salad and apple on a bench in the park and continue my search with renewed optimism. The afternoon drags on, and I still have no luck.

It’s stupid to enter the fancy architects’ offices, but I’m desperate. The receptionist lets me off kindly, telling me to try at the satellite mine office next door. I get the same answer there. No one at the platinum mine is hiring, not even the nuclear research center in Pelindaba that’s seventy-six kilometers away.

By five, when the businesses close, my feet ache and my muscles are sore. Despondent, I head home. To my dismay, Mr. Davis is watering plants in the lobby when I enter. I try to scoot around him with a quick hello, but before I reach the stairs, he says, “Dunno where you got the money from, but I’m not cutting you anymore slack. What I said yesterday stands. If you’re late one more time, you’re out.”

My brain gets stuck on the where you got the money from part. I stop. “Excuse me?”

He breaks off a dead flower from the African Violet and straightens. “Where did you get it?” He fixes a narrowed gaze on me. “Six months’ worth of rent is a small fortune.”