Page 8 of Kept By the Loan Shark

Chapter Three

“My head is killing me,” Taylor whined pitifully.

“Well, stop harassing me on the phone, and go to bed early,” I suggested while throwing my wet clothes into the dryer. “Or call that paramedic you used to date and see if he has any bags of saline squirreled away in his apartment.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Taylor replied, her voice lifting hopefully. “I bet he could hook me up with some hydration therapy.” She paused. “Ugh. But he’ll probably want me to blow him or something gross like that.”

I snorted and dropped quarters into the slots for the dryer. “That’s quite a quandary you face.”

She sighed. “Fuck it. I’m calling him.”

“Be safe,” I urged.

“Always!”

Shaking my head at her antics, I tucked my phone into the thigh pocket of my leggings and put my other load of laundry into the washer. There were four other sets of washers and dryers in the community laundry room, but I tried to only use one set, even if I had more than one load and it meant double the time. With all the single moms and families in the complex, I had more flexibility on doing my laundry and didn’t want to be that selfish ass keeping a tired mom from getting her chores finished.

As I left the laundry room to check my mail, I could hear Hagen’s voice in my head, telling me to use his washer and dryer. If he had his way, I would have moved in with him by now. He didn’t see the point in me paying rent when he had a perfectly good house where I was always welcome.

There were so many times when I wanted to cave and accept his offer. The thought of having more than seven hundred square feet of space and access to a nicer kitchen with actual pantry storage was tempting. Too tempting.

He liked to take care of me and wanted to give me an easier life. I liked standing on my own two feet and supporting myself. It was the only disagreement in our relationship, and I worried it would cause strain as things grew even more serious between us. Hagen was older than me and ready for that next stage of life—a shared house, kids, HOA meetings and retirement plans. I was just getting started and on the cusp of making a huge decision about my future. In a few months, I would be choosing a grad school and moving far away from Houston.

And away from Hagen.

The thought of leaving him made my heart ache and my stomach clench painfully. I had considered staying at Rice or looking at other in-state options, but the very best graduate programs were in California or Massachusetts. I had the education, the grades and the GRE scores to get into the very best universities. I couldn’t give up the chance to realize my dreams of working in astronautics and space engineering to stay close to Hagen.

Not that he would ever ask me to do that. I believed him when he told me how proud he was of me or how excited he was for my future. I believed that he wanted the absolute best for me. I wanted the best for him. I wanted him to have an equally as promising future.

But how the hell did we meld our two lives together to make sure we were both happy? I couldn’t imagine asking him to sell his home, his businesses, sever his ties and pack up to move with me. He had established himself here, and he had earned his place in the business community. He deserved to stay here where his future was the most predictable and steady.

Troubled by those thoughts, I jammed my mailbox key into the rusty slot and fought with the door until it creaked open and dropped with a clang. Like everything else at the complex, the mail station needed some serious maintenance. For the rent I paid, I couldn’t complain even if I was bothered and frustrated by the ongoing problems—like the cracked sidewalk I stumbled over as I flicked through my mail on my walk back to the laundry room.

A sealed envelope from the apartment complex caught my eye. I had a bad feeling as I stared at it. They never sent out mailed notices. Whatever it was must have been important and probably bad news. Not wanting to deal with it, I tucked it into the middle of the pile of mail.

When I walked into the laundry room, I noticed the last two people I wanted to see. My footsteps faltered, and I honestly considered turning and running before they spotted me. Janine and her boyfriend Travis had no love for me. I didn’t blame them. Travis had been Ronnie’s weed dealer and had later introduced him to the local underground gambling scene. When Ronnie had left Houston on Hagen’s dime, he had left behind a few unsettled debts. The biggest ones Hagen had graciously settled, sparing my brother from certain death, but the smaller ones, the ones to men like Travis and the dice and card game hosts he hung out with had gone unpaid.

From the nasty looks I got from Travis and the angry vitriol Janine often spewed at me, I knew they had both suffered because of the unpaid debts. I had wanted to pay them, but Hagen forbid it. His reasons made sense—that I would be opening myself up to more debt claims or that I could end up paying an undercover cop and put my future at risk—but they didn’t make it any easier to bear Janine and Travis’s ire.

Steeling myself for the inevitable nastiness, I strode toward the washer and dryer I had been using. I noticed Janine’s smug smirk, and my stomach dropped. A few more steps, and I saw why she was so pleased with herself. My half-washed clothing was in the trashcan. I could only assume that my laundry from the dryer was in the same place.

Refusing to let them know they had upset me, I calmly bent down to grab my laundry baskets she had thrown into the corner. At the last second, I stopped and managed to not touch the absolutely disgusting droplets of urine on the plastic. Someone—Travis, probably—had pissed all over my laundry baskets. Appalled, I glanced back at Janine and she shot me the finger before mouthing, “Fuck you.”

“Hey, let me help,” Kyle said, startling me as he appeared suddenly behind me. He had his own small basket of laundry on his hip, and I smile gratefully at him. When he noticed the urine puddles in my baskets, he wrinkled his nose and snarled, “Those fucking assholes.”

“What did you say?” Travis asked from across the laundry room.

Kyle straightened up and turned toward him. “You two are lowlife fucking scum.”

“Real tough words from you, soy boy,” Travis snapped.

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Soy boy? Yeah. That’s real fucking original. You read that in your 4Chan circle jerk?”

“You prefer cuck?” Travis glanced at me before adding, “Everyone sees the way you keep chasing her around, but she’s only got eyes for that big-dicked loan shark.”

“You are so gross,” I said, disgusted with him. Touching Kyle’s arm, I pleaded, “Let’s just get out of here.”

Kyle’s eyes were narrowed with anger, but he nodded and helped me gather up my wet clothing. I didn’t waste time picking off the trash and lint sticking to my soggy laundry. I grabbed one armful, and Kyle took another, dropping it on top of his basket. We left my baskets there, neither of us wanting to touch them. He followed me out of the laundry room, down the sidewalk to the building where we both lived.

---