“Suits always say that.” She pokes the needle toward my chest, this time indenting my push-up bra. “You a tax collector?”
“No.”
“In a cult?”
“No.”
“Do you sell timeshares?”
“Hell no.”
“You’re one of those sexy surprise-gram things, aren’t ya? Lord knows he needs to get laid. Maybe you’re here for his birthday?” Her bushy brows drop. “No, real early for that.” She snaps her fingers, chuckling. “Late Valentine’s gift.”
I gape. “What?”
“You don’t have to play coy, sugar. I’ve read about folks like you.” She bites her lip, her glossy dentures pressing into the thin flesh, and leans in, dropping her voice. “Tell me what kind of kinks he has. I’ve been dyin’ to know.”
I physically choke on air, and the world around me sort of spins.
Am I high right now?
“I’m right, ain’t I?” The woman cackles, shoving me playfully. “Teach me some moves. There’s this man down at the bar—”
“I amnota stripper,” I whisper-hiss. “Or a dancer-gram thing. I’m not here for Mr. Archer likethat—I’m here for—I’m from…” Holy shit. I can’t even speak. I take a deep breath and let it out. “Do you know where Kade Archer is, ma’am?”
“Of course, I do. Boy’s been grumpy as a goat in a snowstorm lately. I figured he just needed a good woman. Or at least a flexible one.” She stretches out her arms. “I offered, but I’m not as limber as I used to be.”
Oh. My. God.
“Head down that gravel path back there, ’bout a quarter mile,” she says, nodding toward a barely visible dirt track behind the house. “He’s in the apartment over the garage. Looks like a meth den, but the man inside is hotter than a whore in church.”
“I think it’ssweatinglike a—”
“Stop stallin’, girly,” she interrupts with a clap. “Put those slutty little heels to work!”
I back up slowly and drop into my car without turning around. I’m pretty sure she’s two seconds from slapping my ass and sayingattaboy.
Just as I’m pulling away, she calls, “Tell him you’re a gift from Agnes! Maybe he’ll mow my weeds!”
I’m still confused when I pull up to the buildingAgnesindicated. This time, I park next to a much nicer truck, but the house—if one can even call it that—is substantially worse than the front residence.
Brows furrowed, I slide from the car and snag my blazer and work bag from the passenger side. Glancing in the tinted car windows, I check my reflection, adjusting the sleeves to cover my tattoos.
My eyes rake over the dilapidated garage and apartment unit above it. The stairs look sturdy, recently built, but the rest of the place is holding on by a thread.
Like the front house, the once-white walls are stained with dirt and age, the peeling paint barely clinging to the siding. Rust streaks down from the gutters, and the windows are more grime than glass. I do a quick loop around the place, finding the back just the same and note that the only entrance to the apartment isthe set of stairs out front. I quickly jot down my findings, forcing myself to stay objective.
I know better than anyone that a house doesn’t tell the whole story. I’ve seen mothers love their children with every breath in their bodies while fighting to survive in shelters. I’ve helped babies find stability when their parents weren’t fit to provide it.
Poverty doesn’t equate to neglect. Peeling paint doesn’t mean a child isn’t cherished, and a fresh coat won’t fix what’s broken beneath the surface.
But sometimes, it does.
Sometimes the state of a house mirrors the state of its occupants. The mess, the decay… they’re not always just symptoms of hard times. They can be signs of something worse. And I’ve seen that, too.
Families who tried their best, but it wasn’t enough.
That’s why I’m here.
