I briefly glance at him to see if he’s talking to me or if he’s on the phone. He’s looking directly at me.
“Two hundred what?” I ask, bouncing my attention back and forth between him and the road.
“Is that how much you make in a night?”
This again?
I focus back on the road to hide how uncomfortable I am talking about money.
I hate that I’m ashamed.
I’ve been poor all my life—a bottom feeder, a few dollars away from the electric being turned off and freezing to death, hand-me-down clothes with holes and stains until I finally learned how to sew in the third grade. It’s even worse because I know Malaki is well-off, just like Benedict, and he never held back from making me feel like shit for my financial burdens.
“Two hundred fifty?”
I remain quiet.
Malaki hums. “Two seventy-five. Final answer.”
I trap a laugh behind my lips. He sounds like he’s on some type of game show.
“Going once… going twice…”
The laugh slips out, and I give in. “It just depends,” I admit. “When you guys have a home game?” I shrug. “Around that, yeah.”
Silence fills the car again, my shame filling the air with a heavy stench. I glance out of the corner of my eye and see Malaki fiddling with his phone.
Is he texting someone?
Is he meeting some girl at the club?
Ugh, why do I care? I hardly know him!
I have more important things to worry about, like how I’m going to balance everything while raising an eight-month-old on my own, support my sister, avoid Benedict and his bribes, find a better job…
My spiraling thoughts pause when my phone goes off. I quickly scan the screen and gasp. My foot slips to the brake, and we stop suddenly, my car jerking.
Malaki’s hand shoots out to the dash to steady himself while the other comes across my chest to do the same to me. “Whoa, girl. Need me to drive?”
“Why did you just tip me five hundred dollars?!” I exclaim, ignoring his forearm pressed against my breasts.
Once Malaki removes his arm and places it on the center console, I start driving regularly again.
“Now you have a reason to get off work early.” He shrugs, almost sounding bored. “You can come hang out with me at the club. Daisy is there too.”
My thoughts are all over the place, and I try to find something reasonable to say. As much as I want—and need—the five hundred dollars, I cannot accept it. I’m not a charity case, even if I hear Benedict’s voice inside my head, telling me those exact words more often than not.
“I’m not hanging out with you at the club,” I argue. “And I can’t accept that much money.”
“Why can’t you?” he asks. “And yes, you can.”
I scoff. “Because!”
“You can’t hang out with me because why? Because you have to work? I just paid you more than what you’d typically make in a night, right?” He pauses, and I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for me to agree with him.
I make a left turn, my heart beating faster and faster the closer we get to the club he’s going to.
“Should I tip you even more?” he asks.
