Page 2 of Angel

Present Day

Angel

The bright beams of opposing headlights flash on my windshield with every passing vehicle. The road in front of me brings me closer to the very thing that turns my stomach, leaving it in knots. The sensation delivers a bitter taste in my mouth. And without a doubt, the lingering pang of guilt questions my morals. The truth of the matter is I’m not good enough. I never felt good enough.

I hate these car rides. They’re a perfect time to get lost in the nagging, aching memories. The perfect time to slip right back into my past. A past which always leaves me thinking: was there ever a time when I was truly happy as a child or felt safe?

Nope.

I wish I could recall such a memory, a good one from growing up, but there’s nothing. Not even fun family vacations. Never got to see the happiest place on Earth.

No Mickey ears.

No birthday parties.

No high school dances. And dating? A shudder runs through me at the mere thought. My father never let me date, and I envy those who got to experience those things.

When I pull into the parking lot of the dingy motel, I already know it’s not exactly in the safest of areas, but I don’t have a say in the matter. Normally I’d be on my Harley, since there’s still nice weather left, but with my four-inch heels, it might be a tad difficult. I can’t exactly wear pumps on my bike, and my Harley boots wouldn’t have been appropriate for this kind of job. The detailed dress code is specific with its requirements, and you don’t want to go against any rules formulated by him. Not unless you’re asking for punishment. I’ve had to follow these rules for many years, too many years now.

The shitty motel sign creaks as it dangles by a broken chain, and the flashing neon lettering reads: great outdoor pool. Ha, where might that be? All I see is an empty, algae-infested hole in the ground.

The meetups are all the same. Just once, why couldn’t it be a five-star hotel? The ones with a fountain in the lobby, a bar, and a restaurant. But honestly, it wouldn’t make this any better. It wouldn’t alleviate the cold that runs through my veins before, during, and after. It would be false hope—false hope of any good stemming from this loathsome act.

But my only job is to serve him. Serve and make him happy. And how does one do that? By earning money and lots of it. By showing up and making sure each and every one of these men are satisfied, which sounds completely disgusting, but I don’t have a choice.

Is it wrong to at least be somewhat happy that it pays well? Yes, it is wrong. Because in reality, I don’t care about the damn money. I just want out.

My clammy hands slip on the leather steering wheel as I grip it with so much force I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half. But it’s me trying to drive out the beginning of another panic attack.

This type of reaction is a repeat offender. The cold sweats, the rapid beating—skipping—of my heart. I should be a professional by now, be used to this, but it’s not something I’ll ever be okay with. The anxiety, the panic attacks, they always happen right before. It’s like my body is telling me not to do it, because the human brain is programmed to protect us. If something doesn’t feel right, our minds are supposed to set off an internal alarm. But here I am, ignoring every distress signal, all the signs, each part of me warning myself not to do it. Don’t go in. Don’t do this to yourself. You’re better than this.

But I’m not.

I am not better than this. This, in there, gives me a sense of control. It’s a power, a feeling, and I need to hold on to it, even though I despise every single second. It sounds sick and twisted, but it’s not like I can walk away.

He will never let me walk away.

As I peer into the night, with only the shadows and the parking lot lights, the flashbacks encompass all cognitive thinking. They fog my mind, taking center stage like they always do. No matter how hard I try to suppress them, the same recurring nightmares fight their way through. My father’s voice repeats, the words replaying like a bad song stuck in my head.

“You’re nothing, Audrey. You’re just a dirty whore who will never amount to anything! Do you hear me? Nothing.”

I guess you were right, Dad. Just look at me now.

Swallowing my inner turmoil, I check the text messages on my burner phone.

Room 202.

His name is Steve. Or so he claims. Probably has a wife with children, maybe even a white picket fence. It never seems to be enough for them. No matter how amazing their circumstances are, no matter how great their family is, they’re never satisfied. How unfair it is, to have this picture-perfect life, only to treat it like it’s nothing.

They don’t deserve it.

They’re scum, lowlifes. Yet, here I am, aiding in their infidelity. But everyone has their own story, right? Their own demons to battle... So, who am I to judge? You know, considering I haven’t made the best decisions myself, thus far.

Clearly.

Unscrewing the top of the small flask I keep tucked away in my center console, I let the whiskey burn the back of my throat, all the way down, while ordering it to calm and numb a part of me. Before tucking the liquid courage away, I throw back another swig for good measure, then trace each letter of my name engraved on the front of the cool metal, slowly running my fingertips over the indents. Seeing the monogrammed Angel reminds me that at least I have a family within the club. Those guys are and will forever be my brothers. Through bond and loyalty.

Taking one last deep breath, I tap the button to lock my car and leave the little semblance of safety the steel frame somehow offers me. The sound of the beep is heightened by the deserted parking lot, bouncing on empty air and echoing into the night. As I pass one of the dumpsters, I hold my breath from the stench, which smells like the trash has been soaking in the hot sun for days.

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