//the reaper//

ch. 4

I found out that I couldn't focus on work after all and left early. It was raining, and I cursed all the stupid gods in the sky as I made my way home, my dark hair sopping wet, my makeup running down my face. The only silver lining was that I happened to be wearing boots, which helped me vent out my frustrations as I stomped my way through the dirty puddles.

It took me around an hour to get to my apartment.

As soon as I slammed the front door, I sighed as the warm blast of air hit me. I wanted to stay there forever, just soaking in the fresh gusts of the heater, but I had to make dinner and finish baking the bread for Mrs. Wilson, so I reluctantly got up and made my way to the kitchen.

I'd finished a hasty bowl of leftover ramen and was halfway through the banana bread recipe when Lenn called me.

"Hi," I said, while searching for the flour-caked spoon I swore I just had a minute ago.

"So," Lenn started, "why is it that I just heard from Mr. Gretelson that you rejected the client and didn't work the rest of the night?"

I wiped my forehead. I seemed to have flour everywhere. "He was an asshole. I get in there, all gussied up and pretty, and he has the nerve to refuse me and 'not want companionship tonight,'" I said, mimicking his low voice.

Lenn stayed silent on the other side.

"And then," I continued, furiously whipping up the batter, "he goes and tells me exactly how my life is and how he is understands, yadda yadda, a whole bunch of bullshit. I hope I never see him again. What a prick."

I could almost hear Lenn's smile. "You like him, don't you."

"Don't be ridiculous." I poured the batter into the tin and used the rubber spatula to scoop the rest out. "He can go rot in hell for all I care."

"Well, he can't." They paused. "He's the owner."

I dropped the spatula. Batter spilled.

"Actually, he's the owner of a lot of strip clubs around the city. Why he was visiting his own business, I don't know, but Mr. Gretelson's not happy. He thinks he's going to lose his job for having such disobedient employees."

"But he said—he said—" What did he say, exactly? His deep voice. 'Apparently they only hire girls at this wretched club. Misogynist pigs that they are.' Why would he say that about his own club? "Never mind. Is he going to fire me?" I asked, wiping up the batter with a wet rag. I imagined it—a good chunk of my income gone, all like that. My dad's healthcare costs...who would pay for it?

"I don't know." Another pause. "I hope not. But still. Aella..."

"What a horrible way to live," I said, scrubbing the batter harder. "Owning a bunch of strip clubs. I hope he gets whatever he deserves in hell, Yahweh damn him."

"We work at a strip club."

"Not by choice. Necessity. I doubt either of us would work there if we were rich."

"To be fair, I would probably be in Hawaii right now if I were rich." They sighed wistfully.

"Exactly." I finished scrubbing and dumped the spatula in the sink, sighing. "Great. My batter's all lumpy. I'm sure I put in the right amount of flour—"

"Aella."

"What?"

They hesitated, the silence crackling between us. "Nothing. Good luck. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine." I scowled as I put the tin in the oven, then set the timer. "I don't need your worry."

Lenn huffed. "If I'll remind you, Miss High-and-Mighty, the guy you just mouthed off to owns the club. So excuse me for being worried about you." Their voice softened. "You're my friend."

I paused in the middle of untying my apron strings. I was still wearing the goddamned slip, and it was still soaked. "I know." I remembered when we dated—it lasted for maybe a week, but we both realized we'd be better as friends. "You're my friend too."

"So, I get to be concerned." A loud thump ended from their side, and Lenn sighed. "That's Jason. I'll talk to you later."

"Ooh, Jason." I smiled as I finished untying my apron and threw it on the counter. "Bye."

"Bye."

I was still smiling, until I realized what a mess I made in the kitchen. I sighed.

Later that night, my skin blissfully clean from my shower and my sheets scrubbed with lemon soap, I dreamt of the client again. His dark eyes bored into me, his mouth whispering my name, as I drifted away.