Page 4 of Cruel Delights

Other than that, Taviar is pretty chill, considering he pays half the rent. Jael and I split the other fifty percent. Her, twenty-five. Me, twenty-five.

Neither of us bother pretending we’re as successful as Taviar apparently is. While I work odd jobs to make ends meet, Jael’s no different.

A party girl hot on the social scene, Jael strives to model professionally. Sometimes, not-so-subtly, she winds up as a pretty wannabe model on the arms of wealthy men.

I don’t askwhat elseshe’s doing to make her part of the rent.

It’s not like I’m in any position to judge.

A line of sweat has broken out on my forehead as I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and rush to pour myself some cold water.

That’s the other thing about my situation—I’m not in the best health.

My hand shakes as I pour the pitcher and chug a cool glass of water. I stop just before I take my horse pills. I’ve got sixty bucks to my name and can’t afford to take regular doses. I can’t even have a full meal with the dose. The only food that’s mine in the pantry is a moldy loaf of bread and a bottle of Sriracha sauce.

My stomach gurgles in protest. A ‘don’t-you-fucking-try-it-unless-you-want-to-end-up-on-the-toilet’ warning.

I’ll have to ration the pills I do have left. Which means I need to skip this dose.

Instead, I shuffle to my room and do the only thing that’ll calm my nerves instead.

I light up.

Kicking off my shoes and throwing my jean jacket into the growing pile of clothes at the foot of my bed, I grab a joint from my stash and welcome the relaxing calm that settles over me within minutes.

Tension deflates from my body. Stress vacates every nook and cranny it inhabited. My mind empties of stressful thoughts about bills and jobs, and fills with silly, faux deep thoughts.

I roll over on my bed and swing upside down, hanging halfway off the edge. My long, thick box braids spread out over the floor.

This is what I’ve needed.

Fuck Winston and those dumb ass horoscopes Claudia writes.

Fuck my piano clients who refuse to pay their invoices.

And fuck that groundskeeper and the Karen who complained about me at the cemetery.

They can all go to hell.

I’m indignant, yet somehow still calm on a kumbaya type of wave. I inhale, exhale, breathe in and out, stare around my messy room, feeling like my body’s weightless and my mind’s free.

Totally free.

I hum happily.

The paranoia crashes down on me out of nowhere.

SHIT!

I was fired! My main source of income is gone. What the hell am I going to do for money? How am I going to pay for my meds? How am I going to pay for this weed? Will Winston take me back if I agree to a hand job?!

That’s meeting in the middle, right?

My gaze wanders, my body still hanging upside down on the bed, my heartbeat frantic.

I land on the far corner of my cramped, messy room.

It’s where I do my other job. My dingy laptop rests on the top of the table, adorned by the different, fading stickers I’ve slapped across the case. Beside my trusty duct-taped laptop rests a leather cat mask.