Page 7 of My Mafia King

This is harder than I thought.

Tense, I slide down the wall, step onto a ragged roof, almost twist my ankle, and fall to the ground, a cloud of dust lifting as I pull upright.

I yank my bag higher on my shoulder, hide my hair inside my hoodie, and start running.

Like I run for my life, and I sure do.

2

CARMINA

Las Vegas

The next day

Fuck,it’s hot.

It’s not like I’m not used to the warm weather.

I’ve lived in LA my entire life, but this is more than I expected, and trying to look fresh after spending the night in my car at a truck stop––how ironic, I know about this place from my father––doesn’t help me in one bit.

I freshened up, showered, washed my hair, put on some makeup––mostly mascara and lip gloss––and did my best to look‘all right’––clean and rested before squeezing my limber body into a skintight dress and putting on my heels.

They’re all Jen’s size and fit me like a glove.

Okay.

Surprise, surprise.

I’m not interviewing for a manager position, and the job I’m looking for needs to start tonight.

I could live out of my car for a week, maybe two, but not more than that. The weather is hot in September, and my AC is busted, blowing hot air.

But I do my best, walking on my heels, as I look at the piece of paper in my hand with the hotel's address where Jen’s cousin worked over the summer.

She went back to LA, looking for a different job as she was expecting, but she swore I could find something here––probably not in the casino, as I needed some training for that––but maybe in a fancy restaurant.

If not, they might need dancers and entertainers. I can do that. I can bust a move and look pretty. I can surely do that.

The tips are good––she said.

And I had no reason not to believe her.

Honestly, after talking to her, I was convinced dancing would be my best bet. Quick money. No training. The only requirement was to look good.

I can do that, too.

Blowing a strand of hair away from my face, I set my high–heel clad foot down and straighten out of my seat.

As I said…

Fuck, it’s hot.

My pink dress has grown tiny, famished, sticky fingers that are now clawing at my flesh, the stretchy fabric melting into my skin. And my body responds with pearls of sweat that only make everything worse.

I’m hot and so stressed out that I might have a body odor problem.

Like I needed that. To stink as I haven’t showered in days.

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