nothing but coincidence. That hope was in vain.
A single blow to the face sent Hugo to the bloodstained cement slab below. Freddie dropped to his knees and began pummelling Hannibal Hugo’s face like a piece of Kobe beef. Left hooks, right hooks, all directly to the face. I lost count after fifteen blows. Silence fell over the room.
I was broke—not a penny to my name, and nothing to sell. All I had left was my minimum wage job as the night auditor at the Ilium Inn.
Before raising his arms in victory, Freddie checked the little wound on his forehead. Before reality stung the crowd—the reality that they’d all been conned—Freddie’s friend had cashed out and skirted towards the exit.
I followed.
CHAPTER TEN
THE ART OF SEDUCTION
Freddie’s partner-in-crime waited in the parking lot of Crazy Dave’s Used Car Emporium, unaware that I was watching from the guise of a dumpster in the alleyway behind the Holiday Inn. His hands were buried in his pockets as he casually paced the shadows between Crazy Dave’s security floodlights.
Occasionally, he slipped out of sight behind one of the taller vehicles on the lot, but I never lost sight of him thanks to high tall stature and the plume of cigarette smoke that followed him everywhere he went. With his frizzy red hair, he looked like a giant, lit matchstick.
It wasn’t until the masses of angry bar-goers had siphoned out of the Holiday Inn, and the Ilium streets became silent, that Freddie, seemingly out of nowhere, finally appeared to meet his friend.
The two men confirmed that the fight was fixed by sharing a high-five. Next to his friend, Freddie appeared short—surprisingly, as he looked so tall next to Hannibal Hugo.
Their secret meeting was short: the high-five, the passing of the leather messenger bag, and the parting. The red-haired friend was left with nothing but a dumb grin. I followed Freddie, at first from a distance. Once we were a few blocks from the criminal hangout, I caught up.
“Excuse me,” I said, approaching from behind.
Freddie didn’t stop. Instead, he glanced at me from over his shoulder. He made sure to scan my whole body, particularly my tits, before scoffing and looking back ahead. “I ain’t interested, toots.” Ain’t interested? The creep thought I was a prostitute.
I brushed the insult off. “What?”
“I’m not lookin’ for any company, love. Thanks, though.”
“I’m not selling any… company,” I said, clenching my fist as I squeezed my invisible stress ball.
“Right—Whatever you call it.” Freddie stopped as a car zipped past, then jogged across the street. He kept one of his hands firmly on his leather messenger bag.
“I’m not a hooker,” I said. I tried to keep my tone casual, but it came out blunt.
“Then what do you want?”
“I saw your fight, down in the club.” I jog to keep up.
He shrugs, keeps his face forward. “Okay.” There’s no emotion behind his voice.
“I wanted to say congratulations. It was a good fight.”
“Thanks,” he said, still not bothering to look over at me.
“You looked really good in that cage.”
“Okay,” he said again, without a spec of emotion in his voice, as if he wasn’t even listening.
“Really good.”
“Is that all you followed me to say?” He still refused to look over at me.
“I didn’t follow you.”
“Then how’d you find me?”
“I was just walking home and I recognized you.” I bit my tongue and held my eye-contact, despite the absence of his.
“Yeahuh,” he said, dismissing my lie. “Well, if that’s it, why don’t ya run along? Get lost.” Freddie jogged across the street, beating an oncoming car.
My fist clenched my imaginary stress ball again. Before jogging across myself, I adjusted my top, exposing my cleavage to the cool Ilium rain. Freddie’s hand was still firmly clutching the
A single blow to the face sent Hugo to the bloodstained cement slab below. Freddie dropped to his knees and began pummelling Hannibal Hugo’s face like a piece of Kobe beef. Left hooks, right hooks, all directly to the face. I lost count after fifteen blows. Silence fell over the room.
I was broke—not a penny to my name, and nothing to sell. All I had left was my minimum wage job as the night auditor at the Ilium Inn.
Before raising his arms in victory, Freddie checked the little wound on his forehead. Before reality stung the crowd—the reality that they’d all been conned—Freddie’s friend had cashed out and skirted towards the exit.
I followed.
CHAPTER TEN
THE ART OF SEDUCTION
Freddie’s partner-in-crime waited in the parking lot of Crazy Dave’s Used Car Emporium, unaware that I was watching from the guise of a dumpster in the alleyway behind the Holiday Inn. His hands were buried in his pockets as he casually paced the shadows between Crazy Dave’s security floodlights.
Occasionally, he slipped out of sight behind one of the taller vehicles on the lot, but I never lost sight of him thanks to high tall stature and the plume of cigarette smoke that followed him everywhere he went. With his frizzy red hair, he looked like a giant, lit matchstick.
It wasn’t until the masses of angry bar-goers had siphoned out of the Holiday Inn, and the Ilium streets became silent, that Freddie, seemingly out of nowhere, finally appeared to meet his friend.
The two men confirmed that the fight was fixed by sharing a high-five. Next to his friend, Freddie appeared short—surprisingly, as he looked so tall next to Hannibal Hugo.
Their secret meeting was short: the high-five, the passing of the leather messenger bag, and the parting. The red-haired friend was left with nothing but a dumb grin. I followed Freddie, at first from a distance. Once we were a few blocks from the criminal hangout, I caught up.
“Excuse me,” I said, approaching from behind.
Freddie didn’t stop. Instead, he glanced at me from over his shoulder. He made sure to scan my whole body, particularly my tits, before scoffing and looking back ahead. “I ain’t interested, toots.” Ain’t interested? The creep thought I was a prostitute.
I brushed the insult off. “What?”
“I’m not lookin’ for any company, love. Thanks, though.”
“I’m not selling any… company,” I said, clenching my fist as I squeezed my invisible stress ball.
“Right—Whatever you call it.” Freddie stopped as a car zipped past, then jogged across the street. He kept one of his hands firmly on his leather messenger bag.
“I’m not a hooker,” I said. I tried to keep my tone casual, but it came out blunt.
“Then what do you want?”
“I saw your fight, down in the club.” I jog to keep up.
He shrugs, keeps his face forward. “Okay.” There’s no emotion behind his voice.
“I wanted to say congratulations. It was a good fight.”
“Thanks,” he said, still not bothering to look over at me.
“You looked really good in that cage.”
“Okay,” he said again, without a spec of emotion in his voice, as if he wasn’t even listening.
“Really good.”
“Is that all you followed me to say?” He still refused to look over at me.
“I didn’t follow you.”
“Then how’d you find me?”
“I was just walking home and I recognized you.” I bit my tongue and held my eye-contact, despite the absence of his.
“Yeahuh,” he said, dismissing my lie. “Well, if that’s it, why don’t ya run along? Get lost.” Freddie jogged across the street, beating an oncoming car.
My fist clenched my imaginary stress ball again. Before jogging across myself, I adjusted my top, exposing my cleavage to the cool Ilium rain. Freddie’s hand was still firmly clutching the
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