The Arrangement Anthology 1(9)

Mel folds her arms over her chest. Her family abused the crap out of her. She was battered, neglected, and selling dime bags before she was 12 years old. Mel left her family as soon as she was old enough, and cut them off without looking back.

Meanwhile, it seems that all I can do is look back. If my parents were alive, this wouldn’t even be a consideration. I’d be living at home, eating my mom’s meatballs, and having my dad fix my car when it acts up. Instead, my life took an unexpected turn and here I am, fending for myself before I’m ready. I’m so not ready, but it’s sink or swim time and I’m drowning.

My voice is small when I speak. “I can’t let some guy have me and then take the money off his nightstand. I can’t get paid for sex. I just can’t. I know you mean well, but—”

“The guy doesn’t pay you, Miss Black does. It feels like a date, Avery, a really good date. And if you took the deal they offered you, it’d be better than that. You’d have insta-boyfriend and he’d walk you through everything, Miss Virgin, which is way better than guessing,” Mel smiles sheepishly, like she’s thinking of something embarrassing. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem that bad to me. It sounds like dating made easy… and by the way, here’s some money.”

I smile at her. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s easier than dating. You never know if the guy’s lying or where his thingie’s been. And he’s just trying to get into my pants anyway. This is easier.” Mel smiles at me.

I laugh. “Thingie? Is that the professional terminology taught to you by the prestigious hooker co-op?”

“Co-op. Cute. Real cute.”

Shrugging, I grin, saying, “I try.”

“No you don’t. You’re just naturally wholesome, like butter. In little quantities you’re all right, but large doses—”

“You are so gross!” I throw a pillow at her as she finishes the sentence.

We talk about random things after that. I don’t want to entertain the idea of working for Miss Black, but it keeps jumping into my mind like a demented bunny rabbit. I start to doze off and spring! there it is again. And the question that bothers me most is this:

Would it be so bad?

I see those blue eyes and think maybe not, but I can’t cross that line. Something inside me holds me back.





CHAPTER 6





I’m waiting at the stop light from hell the next night, trying to keep the car running. It’s cold. My breath makes little white clouds in the car as I breathe. I’m wearing an ugly old sweater over my dress, with my sneakers tied onto my feet. I watch the RPMs and give it more gas. I feel the car shake and know that it’s going to stall out if the light doesn’t change soon.

I stare at the light, willing it to change. “Change already! Change, you rat bastard, change!”

The light remains red. The car shudders and dies. Exasperated, I slam my head on the steering wheel. The stoplight flips to green and the honking starts. I mutter curses as people move their cars out of my lane and go around me. I reach behind me and grab a can of ether from the back seat. Throwing the car door open, I march around to the front. This is the last can and I don’t get paid for three days. Damn it.

Lifting the hood, I spray the engine and sigh. FML. I can’t stand this. I didn’t get to study as much as I needed, work sucked, and now this. It’s part of my life. This car symbolizes my life, the damn whole thing. I stare blankly at my car as my insides twist with grief.

I hear his voice before I notice the bike. “So, do you come here often?”

When I slam the hood, I see those sapphire eyes and that boyish smirk. Motorcycle man winks at me. My heart races when I think of his picture, of what he wants, and that he could do it to me if I took that job. He’s wearing the helmet, so I can’t see his hair, but I’m sure it’s him.

“You know it. This is my favorite place.” I round the car and intend on driving away. The guy on the bike moves out of traffic and waits for me to start the car. I turn the key and engine makes an awesome noise, but it won’t turn over. I try again and again, muttering, “This can’t be happening.”

I try one last time and know that it won’t start. I have a test at 8:00am. It’s going to take hours to get a tow truck, which I can’t afford. I lean my head against the steering wheel to gain some composure before freak out tears flood from my eyeballs. My head lightly brushes against the horn. The thing blares like I smacked my face on it. I flinch back, jerking my hands away, but the horn continues to wail. I sit there for a moment and blink before hysterical laugher works its way up my throat.