AN: My deepest apologies for the length of time it took me to upload this.
I blame it on serious writer's block. Love to the usually suspects and all
my lovely reviewers. My AN isn't particularly articulate tonight because
it's 1 a.m. So, yeah. I love all who read and review.
----
May 17th 2016
Jondy sites at the bar, twisting a paper straw in her cocktail glass of something. She ordered it, yet has no idea exactly what's in it. It's probably too strong for her anyway.
Her dark hair is twisted up, resting on the nape of her neck, covering the dark vertical lines of her barcode. Her attire is something she's never really consider, but it was what was required by her 'job'; low cut red dress that stretches tightly across her skinny body and pushed her relatively minor cleavage up into something she might have been proud of in different circumstances. Sheer black tights and obscenely high black heels complete her look. Stripper chic, if there was such a thing.
She straightens, tempted to take a sip of the drink in front of her; she got one free drink a night. Usually she can talk the bartender into giving her a bottle of Corona; decent beer was hard to come by and bottled beer was expensive, not something she'd pick if she was paying.
"You gonna drink that, Jol?" The bartender grunts, scrubbing at the bar with a filthy rag, leaving a greasy sheen on the polished surface.
Jol. Short for Jolene, a name she picked quickly randomly off the cover of a magazine. But the second she set foot in the bar, it had been changed to 'Jolie'; exotic, cute and somehow it fit her. Most of her names so far have felt too big, something to grow into. But her stage name feels about right. Maybe spending her nights in this bar, peeling off her clothes for men has changed her sense of self. Or maybe she's just tired.
It means 'beautiful' in French. But she never feels beautiful when she uses it. She feels tired and old, mostly. It's not 'beautiful' work.
"Yes," she says primly, almost sounding her age. "Give me time." Time, time, who had time anymore? It was one am, closed early on Thursdays. Las Vegas had implemented a curfew - to save money, power, time. Usually Jondy has to stumble round until four am, having slimy old men stuff dollar bills down her top, have beer spilt on her and maybe, if she's lucky, be vomited on. Jondy likes Thursdays.
Except, when she finally ventures out in daylight hours today, her rent is due and she's short a hundred. She lives with her co-workers in a large house on the edge of the city. It's done in red and black, and it's not uncommon to see rats and cockroaches in their beds. There's only cold water, and only enough for three showers a week. The electricity runs off a moody generator and the whole house leaks when it rains.
Jondy stares blankly at the drink in front of her. Home is no place to go; last week, she was the one who found Sara slumped on the stair case, overdosed. And the month before, Kelly found Amber. She'd hung herself with the electrical cord from the toaster.
They ate bread for breakfast for the two weeks after that.
Jondy picks up her drink, spinning around to face the room. Dark, polished wood with vinyl booths around the edge and silver chairs and tables cluttered in one section. The bar is in an 'S' shape, with one end working as a 'stage' for some of the girls. It was old; the vinyl seats were torn and patched. Greasy, grimy... it might've been a nice place once upon a time.
The bartender shuffles over to where Jondy is sitting, and stares at her for awhile. "You gonna drink that?" he grunts at her again.
Jondy shakes her head, placing the glass back on the bar, wiping her hands on her skirt. "I better go," she says softly, standing up, taking a millisecond to regain her balance on her shoes.
In a swift move, the bartender slams a bottle of beer in front of her, and gets back to wiping the bar.
Jondy smiles to herself and walks back into the dressing room, holding the beer bottle by its neck. It's warm; the cold beers are kept for the paying customers. But when she's lying in bed tonight, in the leaky house, with the girls who kill them selves and rats, the alcohol will block it all out. Rats or Manticore. In all it's institutional cleanliness, Manticore paints far an uglier picture than the strip club and the rats of the boarding house.
She slips out the back of the bar, down the stairs, her shoes clanking on the steel steps. The 'dressing rooms' are three grimy rooms with a sink, a small mirror covered in filth and five garment hooks. The floors are concrete and, because this is the basement, there are no windows. There is a still coolness down here, and the faint whiff of perfume and cigarette smoke.
Most of the other girls either go home with clients or return to the boarding house the second their shift is over. Sometimes some of them stay and drink away a week's wages in a few hours.
Jondy reaches for her bag; her jeans and sweater crammed hastily in there when she changed earlier. She undoes her hair and reaches for her hair brush. Her hand meets the brush and a piece of paper crumpled in her bag.
She smoothes the paper out and recognizes the handwriting of one of the other girls. She's borrowed her jeans because a client tore her dress.
Jondy sighs and tosses the paper behind her, a small act of rebellion against the remarkable bareness of the room. She doesn't want to walk all the way across the city so late at night. Cops, sleazes, drug dealers... the list of people she doesn't want to, but will inevitably bump into.
She brushes her hair out and pulls her sweater out of her bag, and pulls it on. It could be worse; the other girl could've taken the sweater as well.
She slides her hairbrush and her bottle of beer into her bag and leaves the room. Out the door, into the alley way and out into the heavy Las Vegas air. Her heels make a very obvious clacking noise as she walks along the pavement, staring into the sky. The stars are bright, like normal. She's tempted to take off her heels but she doesn't want to walk about barefoot around the streets. She isn't completely certain how many diseases she was immune too and she didn't want to test her immunities now.
She thinks about her siblings. Max would be at a private girls school. Syl would be on a soccer team. Zane would have a dog. Ben would play the piano. Zack...
Jondy pauses for a second, staring up at the sky. Zack. What would he be doing, really? Alone, maybe, in a bar?
She slips off her heels, finally. Her feet ache for a short time, but she walks faster and easier across town with them jammed in her bag. She'd like to work somewhere where she could wear sneakers and sweatpants all day. No more tight dresses, or men salivating like dogs. A real job.
She reaches a pay phone and fumbles in her bag for some change. There's some quarters in the bottom, and a reassuring roll of twenties. As Jondy feeds the coins into the pay phone, she feels for the roll of twenties. It's slimmer than it was earlier. No doubt when her co-worker borrowed Jondy's jeans, she helped herself to some money, too.
"Hey Zack... it's me. Jondy. Um, I'm still in Vegas. But you know, it's kinda getting old really fast," Jondy swallows and looks at her bare feet, the skirt of the dress which is tight around her legs. "I might hit the road. Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
And Jondy replaces the receiver with a clunk, hoists her bag to her shoulder and looks up at the night sky. Maybe Zack's having fun somewhere.
Zack sits in the dark motel room, not having bothered turning any of the lights on, sipping a beer. He knows he should eat something before he heads out again but he can't be damned. Brin needs moving, Krit needs discipline and Syl needs company. Time, time, whose got the time?
Resting his beer on the night table, Zack picks up the phone and dials.
"Hey Zack... it's me. Jondy. Um, I'm still in Vegas. But you know, it's kinda getting old really fast... I might hit the road. Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
Zack sits very still, listening to Jondy's breathy message over and over again.
"... I might hit the road. Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
"Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
"Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
"I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
And he turns off the phone.
----
May 17th 2016
Jondy sites at the bar, twisting a paper straw in her cocktail glass of something. She ordered it, yet has no idea exactly what's in it. It's probably too strong for her anyway.
Her dark hair is twisted up, resting on the nape of her neck, covering the dark vertical lines of her barcode. Her attire is something she's never really consider, but it was what was required by her 'job'; low cut red dress that stretches tightly across her skinny body and pushed her relatively minor cleavage up into something she might have been proud of in different circumstances. Sheer black tights and obscenely high black heels complete her look. Stripper chic, if there was such a thing.
She straightens, tempted to take a sip of the drink in front of her; she got one free drink a night. Usually she can talk the bartender into giving her a bottle of Corona; decent beer was hard to come by and bottled beer was expensive, not something she'd pick if she was paying.
"You gonna drink that, Jol?" The bartender grunts, scrubbing at the bar with a filthy rag, leaving a greasy sheen on the polished surface.
Jol. Short for Jolene, a name she picked quickly randomly off the cover of a magazine. But the second she set foot in the bar, it had been changed to 'Jolie'; exotic, cute and somehow it fit her. Most of her names so far have felt too big, something to grow into. But her stage name feels about right. Maybe spending her nights in this bar, peeling off her clothes for men has changed her sense of self. Or maybe she's just tired.
It means 'beautiful' in French. But she never feels beautiful when she uses it. She feels tired and old, mostly. It's not 'beautiful' work.
"Yes," she says primly, almost sounding her age. "Give me time." Time, time, who had time anymore? It was one am, closed early on Thursdays. Las Vegas had implemented a curfew - to save money, power, time. Usually Jondy has to stumble round until four am, having slimy old men stuff dollar bills down her top, have beer spilt on her and maybe, if she's lucky, be vomited on. Jondy likes Thursdays.
Except, when she finally ventures out in daylight hours today, her rent is due and she's short a hundred. She lives with her co-workers in a large house on the edge of the city. It's done in red and black, and it's not uncommon to see rats and cockroaches in their beds. There's only cold water, and only enough for three showers a week. The electricity runs off a moody generator and the whole house leaks when it rains.
Jondy stares blankly at the drink in front of her. Home is no place to go; last week, she was the one who found Sara slumped on the stair case, overdosed. And the month before, Kelly found Amber. She'd hung herself with the electrical cord from the toaster.
They ate bread for breakfast for the two weeks after that.
Jondy picks up her drink, spinning around to face the room. Dark, polished wood with vinyl booths around the edge and silver chairs and tables cluttered in one section. The bar is in an 'S' shape, with one end working as a 'stage' for some of the girls. It was old; the vinyl seats were torn and patched. Greasy, grimy... it might've been a nice place once upon a time.
The bartender shuffles over to where Jondy is sitting, and stares at her for awhile. "You gonna drink that?" he grunts at her again.
Jondy shakes her head, placing the glass back on the bar, wiping her hands on her skirt. "I better go," she says softly, standing up, taking a millisecond to regain her balance on her shoes.
In a swift move, the bartender slams a bottle of beer in front of her, and gets back to wiping the bar.
Jondy smiles to herself and walks back into the dressing room, holding the beer bottle by its neck. It's warm; the cold beers are kept for the paying customers. But when she's lying in bed tonight, in the leaky house, with the girls who kill them selves and rats, the alcohol will block it all out. Rats or Manticore. In all it's institutional cleanliness, Manticore paints far an uglier picture than the strip club and the rats of the boarding house.
She slips out the back of the bar, down the stairs, her shoes clanking on the steel steps. The 'dressing rooms' are three grimy rooms with a sink, a small mirror covered in filth and five garment hooks. The floors are concrete and, because this is the basement, there are no windows. There is a still coolness down here, and the faint whiff of perfume and cigarette smoke.
Most of the other girls either go home with clients or return to the boarding house the second their shift is over. Sometimes some of them stay and drink away a week's wages in a few hours.
Jondy reaches for her bag; her jeans and sweater crammed hastily in there when she changed earlier. She undoes her hair and reaches for her hair brush. Her hand meets the brush and a piece of paper crumpled in her bag.
She smoothes the paper out and recognizes the handwriting of one of the other girls. She's borrowed her jeans because a client tore her dress.
Jondy sighs and tosses the paper behind her, a small act of rebellion against the remarkable bareness of the room. She doesn't want to walk all the way across the city so late at night. Cops, sleazes, drug dealers... the list of people she doesn't want to, but will inevitably bump into.
She brushes her hair out and pulls her sweater out of her bag, and pulls it on. It could be worse; the other girl could've taken the sweater as well.
She slides her hairbrush and her bottle of beer into her bag and leaves the room. Out the door, into the alley way and out into the heavy Las Vegas air. Her heels make a very obvious clacking noise as she walks along the pavement, staring into the sky. The stars are bright, like normal. She's tempted to take off her heels but she doesn't want to walk about barefoot around the streets. She isn't completely certain how many diseases she was immune too and she didn't want to test her immunities now.
She thinks about her siblings. Max would be at a private girls school. Syl would be on a soccer team. Zane would have a dog. Ben would play the piano. Zack...
Jondy pauses for a second, staring up at the sky. Zack. What would he be doing, really? Alone, maybe, in a bar?
She slips off her heels, finally. Her feet ache for a short time, but she walks faster and easier across town with them jammed in her bag. She'd like to work somewhere where she could wear sneakers and sweatpants all day. No more tight dresses, or men salivating like dogs. A real job.
She reaches a pay phone and fumbles in her bag for some change. There's some quarters in the bottom, and a reassuring roll of twenties. As Jondy feeds the coins into the pay phone, she feels for the roll of twenties. It's slimmer than it was earlier. No doubt when her co-worker borrowed Jondy's jeans, she helped herself to some money, too.
"Hey Zack... it's me. Jondy. Um, I'm still in Vegas. But you know, it's kinda getting old really fast," Jondy swallows and looks at her bare feet, the skirt of the dress which is tight around her legs. "I might hit the road. Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
And Jondy replaces the receiver with a clunk, hoists her bag to her shoulder and looks up at the night sky. Maybe Zack's having fun somewhere.
Zack sits in the dark motel room, not having bothered turning any of the lights on, sipping a beer. He knows he should eat something before he heads out again but he can't be damned. Brin needs moving, Krit needs discipline and Syl needs company. Time, time, whose got the time?
Resting his beer on the night table, Zack picks up the phone and dials.
"Hey Zack... it's me. Jondy. Um, I'm still in Vegas. But you know, it's kinda getting old really fast... I might hit the road. Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
Zack sits very still, listening to Jondy's breathy message over and over again.
"... I might hit the road. Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
"Move on somewhere else. Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
"Anyway, I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
"I just called... well, to see what you're doing."
And he turns off the phone.