Page 20 of Cain
He’s a big man. Bald. Dark espresso skin. He looks like Idris Elba fromThe Wire. He dresses like a sleazy mob boss from the nineties.
“Well, shit,” he mutters, dragging the word out like he’s savoring it. “You’re the Ripley girl, ain’t you?”
I don’t answer. Not because he’s wrong, but because I’m not sure what that means anymore.
“Faith, right?” he asks, as if pretending to forget would be polite. “Georgia told me someone needed work, but she didn’t say it was…” He trails off, gestures vaguely.
“If you don’t want to hire me, that’s okay.” I keep my teeth from chattering, not just because I’m sick but also because I’m scared. If Ricky kicks me and my trash bag out, I don’t know where to go.
“Georgia will fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters. “Are you any good at cleaning?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. It’s cleaning. It’s not brain surgery. “I can start now.”
He snorts, rubs a hand down his face. “When we open at five, is good enough.”
He gestures to the beat-up chair across from him. I sit. It creaks like it’s warning me.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” he says, leaning forward, voice turning flat and transactional. “You clean between sets. So, not only after hours, between. That means you’re moving fast. Bathrooms, stage, back rooms, tables, and floors. You see a spill, you mop it. You see puke, you scoop it. You see glitter, you wipe it off, it will require elbow grease though, ‘cause that shit is like permanent.”
I nod.
He eyes me. “You grossed out yet?”
I shake my head.
“Didn’t think so.” He nods like he respects that. “Now, the private rooms—the lap dance rooms—those need love, too. Don’t ask what happens in there. Just assume it’s all legal and needs cleaning.”
I nod.
“The supplies are all in the storeroom. I’ll show you where that is. Bleach wipes, gloves, mop. Same tools for every devil.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He watches me for a beat. “You got that look like you’ve seen worse.”
“I have.”
“Clean that shit up and then get to work,” Jamie says coldly, pointing to the floor where I vomited, pissed, and bled because of a beating.
He rises with a grunt, walks to a cluttered file cabinet, and pulls a ring of keys off a hook. “Georgia said that asshole Bob kicked you out.”
I clear my throat and manage a hoarse, “Yes.”
“Where you stayin’?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
He tosses a set of keys onto the desk.
I raise an eyebrow.
“There’s a by-the-hour motel.”
“You gotta be kidding me.” My legs are shaking as I stand.
He grins. “I never kid unless I’m drunk. I own the motel next door. Classy, right?”
It’s not.
