Page 3 of Claimed By the Boss

I swallow down the bile that threatens to rise. My wages as a server may be shit, but I’m paying down the debt while maintaining some small shred of my pride.

If I start selling my body, then I’ll have nothing left.

2

My stomach growls as I walk home, the chill night air seeping past my threadbare jacket. I keep my hand clenched around the pepper spray in my pocket and my eyes straight ahead, my steps fast like I have somewhere to be, and maybe even someone expecting me to be there.

After I was forced to give up university to work full time, I had to move, and it took time to get used to my new neighborhood. But so long as I don’t make myself look like a target, people mostly leave me alone.

It helps that at three in the morning, even the lowlifes in the area are hunkering down for the night.

The bills in my pocket from my tips always make me feel vulnerable until I can reach the Quick Mart on the corner next to my apartment complex. Cash can be stolen easier than the bi-weekly deposits that go directly to my bank account.

My steps quicken as I near the bright lights of the Quick Mart, the tension in my shoulders easing. My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it until I get inside. No way will I show myself as being distracted while out in the open.

Warm air rushes over the top of my head as I step through the doors and head for the pre-made sandwiches.

If I’m lucky, they’ll have one on discount at this time of the night, and I’ll have enough for a cup of coffee, too.

The suspicious eyes of the night clerk follow me through the store from behind the safety of the thick plate of glass that boxes in the checkout counter.

Used to it, I ignore him and pull out my phone to check the notification.

My stomach sinks at the reminder from my Heat app that my cycle is coming up. The next three-day break in my work schedule isn’t for two more weeks.

Checking my surroundings first, I pull my pill pack from the front inner pocket of my jacket. When I open it, I discover that the blister sheet tucked inside is empty.

Did I take an extra dose while at work and not remember? I could have sworn I had enough to make it to Friday.

A knot forms in my stomach as I check how much cash I have, hoping I missed some bills that are stuck together. But no. If I want to make rent on Friday, I can’t afford to replace my suppressants until after I get paid.

Frustrated and angry at my situation, I abandon the case of wilted, soggy sandwiches and walk to the small aisle of canned goods. I grab the cheapest can of beans they stock and head to the cash register.

I drop the can of beans into the drawer in the glass, and the cashier pulls it through to the other side. “No sandwich today?”

“No.” My stomach gurgles with displeasure as I scan the prices of the medications behind the counter. “Can I get two doses of the six-hour suppressant, too?”

“Cheaper to buy by the box,” the man grunts as he scans my beans.

No shit. I wouldn’t be buying them by the pill if I could afford the full box. But I keep those thoughts to myself. “Just the two doses, please.”

As he turns away to tear off the two measly foil squares, I carefully count out the bills, then double count the rest to make sure I still have enough for my rent fund.

Hopefully, tomorrow will bring better tips, and I can refill my supply.

Paying for my meager items, I tuck them into the safety of my jacket and hurry the rest of the way toward home.

By the time I reach the run-down building I call home, exhaustion has settled into my bones.

Shadows cover the exterior walkways, the building sitting between streetlights. Boards cover half the windows, and bars cover the rest.

I trudge up the creaking stairs to my floor and fumble with the lock, desperate to collapse into bed.

On the fourth floor, I walk to the last door on the end and unlock it, the hinges groaning in protest.

The single room I rent is barely bigger than a closet, with peeling wallpaper, a lumpy mattress on the floor, and a toilet that only sometimes flushes. No matter how much I try to clean it, the smell of mold, rust, and decay never goes away.

I sigh, kicking off my shoes, then shrug out of my coat. I toss it over the stack of plastic crates that hold my uniforms from work and the threadbare shirts and socks, all the possessions I have to my name.

---