Tell Me Your Fears

Chapter 4: Robyn

The finest distinction between lofty living and knowing you really screwed up in your previous life is the itchy black tee that's been distracting me the whole morning preventing me from savoring the last day of working in this shithole having to deal with perverted fucks who thinks touching your ass would make you the luckiest woman in the room.

Hate to break that delusional bubble of theirs, but it's not. They wouldn't even make the dirtiest sex worker orgasm after pulling that stunt. No, the act is just signing you up for a lifetime of your picture outside of the austere bar with bright red letters that spelled "banned," which if you were a resident of the slums, is not an ideal situation.

For the duration of my stay in Chicago I've already distinguished the hotspots of people like who couldn't afford a decent hot meal on a bad day—which, in my case, is almost everyday.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very fond of life. Yes, even when I'd forgotten to take my clothes to the cleaners yesterday while I was out looking for that red silk dress I wore to that wedding I so fondly crashed.

I smile at my usual six-thirty who always comes in after his desk job at five to grab a drink before clocking out after exactly an hour and a half. He hands me two dollars and I pocket it before cleaning his area.

I don't earn much on tips before the peak hours of night time, but, hey, at least I'm two dollars richer than initially was.

Never take anything for granted, my father once told me, drunk on his fourth bottle of whiskey of the day watching an old report of a famous business company under liquidation on the seven a.m. news. He'd usually say that when he's pissed at me as a lame excuse of what he calls discipline. But I'd rather this than him beating up his kids and pinning the blame on me for being a brat.

Though, most overtime shifts I get are fairly decent. That is, if I respond to my customer's flirty as if I wasn't internally repulsed by them.

I flick my wrist, righting the old timer watch I found discarded on some street.

Okay, fine. Not really. I snagged it from a client in his bedside drawer along with three thousand dollars he kept in his wallet while I told him to shower before we do anything. After I secured the rob I dashed out of there before he could show me his flaccid dick.

Almost seven. My shift is almost over. Though, I'm really going to miss this place. Much more the people I worked with for two months. Not that they knew I was leaving. I just got my check for the end of the month and I'm cutting my losses for a new city. I couldn't stay here after what happened with Peralta. Granted, I wore a disguise. But I can never be too sure.

Clanking of beer bottles and the faint sound of music in the background was what I had been accustomed to for over three months now. Bar tending at The Mill in Chicago was the seventh job I had over the past year and the job I stayed longer in than the other jobs I had before with the span of two months and a half. I tried to convince myself to move after a good few robs but I just can't will myself to anymore. Never thought I'd grow tired of moving but I did. I don't know what it felt like to have a home anymore.

"Robyn, I need a favor." Tracy rushes to my side as I make a Piña Colada for the two women enjoying the attention of two buff biker gang's voracious flirting.

"What's up?" I ask.

"I need you to cover for me. There's a problem with my babysitter. She bailed at the last second and my kids are alone in the house. Goddamn it, I swear I'm going to murder someone."

I pause, not entirely liking the idea of staying past ten in this side of town. It was fairly safe . . . for the most part. But crime rate's been up by eleven percent this past month. I didn't want to wander around at night alone if it wasn't necessary. Especially when I've been juggling sleeping at a motel or my car alone if I can't swing on hard days. Being followed was the last thing I need.