I sigh, dropping the envelope on the sticky bar table in front of him. It’s the same song and dance every time. Has been for the last seven years. I first met Enzo when I tried to steal his wallet. I was pretty damn good at it, so I’ve got no idea how he even knew I’d done it, but I barely made it two steps before he grabbed me by the back of my shirt and threw me against a wall.
He looked absolutely furious, but after a second, some of the anger bled out of his expression and he offered me an opportunity to earn the money instead. All I had to do was tell him anything I knew about a small street gang that was making moves on the old, abandoned docks at the time. I think they called themselves the Mad Dogz. Something stupid like that. They’re long gone now—no surprise there. Anyway, I didn’t know much. I’d overheard one of their members discussing their plans outside a bar down the road from the shelter I was staying at one night, and I relayed the information to Enzo. He seemed satisfied with what I knew, and asked if I wanted the opportunity to earn more money. My shoulders slumped when he offered me that, assuming he was after a quick fuck or a blow-job. It wasn’t the first time I’d been offered money in exchange for sex. Nor would it have been the first time I’d accepted, but he shocked me when he told me I just had to keep my ear to the ground, and there’d be more money if I could tell him anything useful.
Ever since then, we meet once a month and I hand over any information I’ve heard. He doesn’t even bother to go through the information I write down and put in the envelope any longer. He just hands over a wad of cash, asks a fuckton of personal questions, and goes on his way. I have no clue what he uses the information for—whether it’s for his own gain, or he sells it on to someone else—nor do I give a shit. His money enabled me to get off the streets. It helped me survive when I had no other prospects, and before I was old enough to get a job at one of the strip clubs—Apparently, even in Black Creek, there is a very gray moral line. The point is, the money he gave me each month prevented me from having to resort to less than savory actions just to get by. And for a fifteen year old girl, that meant everything.
“Fine,” I snap in answer to his question. I learned a long time ago that it’s just easier to give him something small about my life.
He nods his head at my response. “Good. You’re being smart?”
“Always.”
“And no one’s giving you any trouble?”
I smirk. “Why, you gonna handle them for me if they are?”
He frowns, and something that makes him look ten times more deadly than half the thugs walking the street with their big-ass guns, flashes across his eyes before he blinks and it’s gone.
Ignoring whatever that was, I shake my head. “No, they aren’t. And even if they were, I can deal with them myself.”
Living on the streets for most of your childhood makes you scrappy in a fight, and after I caught a girl no older than myself kill a man with a single punch to his throat, I sought her out and got her to teach me a few things. What she was able to teach me was...insane. Unfortunately, I haven’t heard from her in a few years now. I wonder what ever happened to her.
The waitress returns with our drinks, and while I make no move to take mine, he lifts it right out of her hands, frowning at the glass before lifting it to his lips. He stifles a grimace as the liquid burns its way down his throat. Just another red flag that—if I ever had the inclination to open up to him—he can’t be trusted. No one, and I mean no one in Black Creek would screw up their nose at the taste of cheap whiskey. We grow up on the shit. We can down it like water, yet the bitter taste obviously doesn’t appeal to this guy's more refined pallet.
Feeling annoyed and frustrated now, I snap out, “Money,” repeating the word with more force.
“You know, a man could get hurt feelings. Is my company really that bad?”
I purse my lips, trying to keep my cool. The last thing I want to do is piss him off. While I have other, more lucrative means of income now, his money definitely helps.
“I’m sorry,” I grit out with a tight smile. “I just have a lot to get on with today.”
He nods, pushing the rest of his glass of whiskey away with a look of disgust. I file the abnormal behavior away to analyze at another time, and hold my hand out for the envelope. Fucking finally, he slaps it into my hand, but he holds on to it, not letting me tug it out of his grip.
“Same time and place next month?”
“Isn’t it always?”
He grins brightly, finally letting go and getting to his feet. “Looking forward to it.”
With that, he strides away, and not for the first time, I wonder who the fuck he really is. The buzzing of my phone signals an incoming text and has me pushing the question away. It doesn’t matter who he is, so long as he keeps paying me.
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