Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
My heart thuds violently. If I call Beefer, though, and reveal her to him, I’m placing Bitsy in danger. She’s only seven, maybe six. As a girl, she’s real vulnerable. The whole reason we beat up the banker wasn’t because he’d killed the call girl, but because he’d done it and refused to pay for it. I haven’t seen a girl in this organization do anything but wait on the men, either serving them food or their bodies. That includes Mary, who pretends like she runs Marjory’s.
I don’t want that life for Bitsy, but what are my choices?
I can’t do nothing. I press a hand against her cheek. It’s still too fucking hot, and despite the water I threw on her face, she’s still barely conscious.
I take a breath and call Beefer.
He answers on the third ring. His voice is rough and gravelly, as if he just woke up, too.
“My…sister’s sick.”
There’s a beat of silence and then, “You got a sister?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit, kid, since when?”
Since, fuck, how long has it been? I look down at Bit’s still frame. The time before she came into my life was dull and lonely. Now, it’s filled with white tennis shoes, pink ribbons, Powerpuff Girls and Hispanic girl explorers. “Forever,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. My life started when I met Bitsy.
11
Leka
“What’s her temp?” Beefer asks.
I press my hand to her forehead again. She moans. “She’s hot. Real hot.”
“What’s the thermometer say?”
Thermometer? “Fuck, I don’t have one of those.”
There’s a rustling sound. Beefer must be climbing out of bed. “How long have you been on your own?”
“A long time. What should I do?” I grow impatient.
“Get a thermometer. Try to get some fluids down her. I’ll send Mary over. Where’re you living?”
Reluctantly, I give him the address.
“Way over there? You should move closer to Marjory's.”
“It’s only one metro stop away.” I tuck the phone against my shoulder and walk to the sink to get more water. I grab a can of soup and grab the wicked knife Beefer gave me a while back. I stab it down into the lid in two spots and then pour the liquid into a bowl.
“Wish you told me you had a kid sister before.”
“Why?” I pop the soup into the microwave.
“Because.”
Because it’d be leverage. That’s why.
“She’s seven, Beefer. She’s just a little girl.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. I’m sending Mary over. She’ll take care of the girl for you.”
The microwave dings, but I make no move to take the soup. I need for Beefer to assure me that he’s not going to use Bitsy in any way.
“Whatever you need from me, I’m up for it.”
“Just leave your sister out of it,” Beefer finishes for me.
“Yeah,” I manage to push out past the fear clogging my throat.
“We’re not monsters. The girls in the business are there because they need the money. No one’s pushing them on the street.”
“Right. Well, Bit’s not gonna need anything.” I’ll provide for her. No matter how many heads I have to bash in, it’ll be worth it. I grab the soup bowl.
“I hear ya. It’s why I get out of bed every day, too.” I nearly drop the bowl in surprise. Beefer chuckles. “I mean, sure, I don’t mind beating the shit out of someone, but like I told you before, the only way you survive our kind of work is to make sure you got something to anchor you. I’m glad to hear you got family. I feel like I can trust you more.”
The bowl tips again. I decide I better hang up before I end up with no soup. “I gotta run, Beefer.”
“All right, kid. Mary’ll be over soon.”
I hang up and sit down by Bit. “Got some soup for you.”
She tries to roll her head to the side, but it takes too much effort for her. A whimper escapes her lips. The sound tears at my insides. I grab a sweatshirt off the floor and roll it up. Tucking it behind her back, I prop her upright, but she falls over, too weak to sit on her own.
Frustrated, I pull her into my lap and cradle her head against my chest. I try tipping the bowl against her lips, but, like the water, it just dribbles down the side. I set the bowl down and dart to the kitchen for a spoon. Then I hustle back. The spoon works better. I’m able to get her to swallow some soup by sticking the spoon into her mouth and then tipping her backward. The process is messy as hell and we’re both covered with the sticky liquid by the bottom of the bowl.
“You’re scaring the hell out of me,” I tell her.
The last time I felt this helpless was when I woke up to find a dead woman in the living room of the foster home I’d been living in. The woman who’d been cashing the state check and using it on meth had OD’d. I thought the police might blame it on me, so I took off. I ended up living on the street, sleeping in the metro like one of the rat kids, and stealing food and money where I could.