“Bronx, I’m just saying–”
“This was a mistake,” I say. “Don’t tell anyone what we’ve discussed today.” Then I abruptly end the call.
I’m beyond pissed.
Which is why the man who put hands on Karma is about to catch the biggest beat down of his miserable, useless life.
14
Karma
I feel a little guilty because while Bronx is having a talk with Ray, my time alone in his place is heavenly. His penthouse is much bigger and lush inside than I could ever imagine, and of course it’s three times the size of my apartment or even Ruby’s house.
I don’t know much about the man I’ve enlisted to help me find Lev, but if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Bronx Masterson is loaded. Bounty hunting must be a lucrative profession. Between the expensive car he drives and this posh place he lives in, I wonder how my brother even knows someone like him.
There are expensive Bose speakers affixed to high corners all over the house, and I find the command center for his stereo system in the living room. I’m excited to discover that the system is connected to satellite radio, so I select the same 90s retro station I was listening to in his car and bop around to an old Teddy Riley hit as I get dressed for dinner.
With shiny steel appliances that look like they’ve never been used, Bronx’s kitchen is like a chef’s dream and it would be great to bake in, but the bathroom is everything. It might just be my favorite room in the house. I’m amazed by how it’s stocked with amenities, much like a five-star hotel.
There are stacks of plush, clean, white washcloths and towels for me to use, and there’s an assortment of brand new body wash gels and loofahs, too. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, but maybe that’s how people with money live their everyday lives, as if they’re staying in a five-star hotel three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. What I do know is that this lavender scented, moisturizing, body gel he has in here is like liquid gold and leaves my dry skin feeling nourished.
After my longer-than-usual shower, I stare at my nude body in the large gold-trimmed mirror affixed to the wall. I turn to the side and grab my stomach pooch. It’s probably the least favorite part of my body and I think it’s getting flabbier.
I give it a good pat and then lift my eyes higher. My breasts are running a close second to winning my least favorite part contest. They are large and full but don’t sit up as high as I would like because of their density. I don’t think women my age should have breasts that look like this. What will happen to me when I grow older? How will they look if I breastfeed a baby?
I quickly dismiss that last ridiculous thought. Me, have a baby? That’s not very likely and it wouldn’t be smart either. I shouldn’t be anyone’s Mother. I have no good examples to model and would most likely fuck it up.
As I slather on a scoop of faintly cucumber scented body cream which is sitting on the marble sink counter, I realize that comparing myself to airbrushed Instagram models isn’t the healthiest way to move through life, but damn how I envy those girls. I wonder if any of them have ever had a black eye like me, or if they’re just so good with makeup that they know how to cover up the inevitable hardships (and bruises) of a relationship.
I lift one of my breasts and spread some of the cream underneath and wonder how those Instagram girls pay for all of their plastic surgery. I thought cosmetic transformations were a privilege only reserved for celebrities and the superwealthy, but I’ve since learned that there are so many everyday women getting breast enhancements, Brazilian butt lifts and liposuction by the time they’re twenty-five years old. Meanwhile, I can’t even afford a half decent bra. It’s ridiculous what they charge for those tit slings. That’s why most of the time I just go braless. I’m cleaning people’s houses most of the time, so what do I care if my boobs are not jiggling around?
I drop a dollop of cream on the tile floor and bend over to clean it up with my fingers. I wouldn’t want to waste any of it, as I’m sure it cost a pretty penny. It definitely smells like a fifty buck jar of cucumber heaven.
When I stand up, I’m immediately startled by a formidable figure staring at me through the doorway of the bathroom.
“Aah!”
I promptly raise my hands to cover my nipples, but it leaves me bare everywhere else because my bath towel is lying a distance away on the bathroom floor.
But Bronx won’t move.
He stares at me with a look that I can’t quite read. I’ve never seen any man look at me the way he is right now, and I’m not sure if I should be frightened or flattered.
“Bronx, could you close the door, please? I’m, uh, naked.”
He doesn’t respond.
It’s almost as if his body is stuck in park, but the hot engine inside of him is idling underneath the hood. There are waves of fury rolling off of him like gamma rays and I feel like all of it is directed at me.
While still covering myself, I try extending my leg so that I can use my foot to close the door, but he blocks my attempt with his hand. My eyes widen in fear as I have a moment of Déjà vu. I was in a similar situation in one of my old foster homes.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying not to sound hysterical.
“Don’t close it,” he says with a voice sounding hot and ragged.
He pulls a yellow and tan cigarette pack from his back pocket and pulls the last cigarette out, tossing the now empty box to the floor. He has a silver Zippo lighter in his hand, flips the top, and lights the cigarette with his eyes on me the entire time.
Those violent eyes.
