Page 1 of Penny
Prologue
Rain poured down outside my studio apartment, rattling the thin windows. It comforted me, bringing me a peace that only the falling sound of rain could give. Ever since I was a little girl, I would sit and watch the storm from a window, mesmerized by its destruction and rejuvenation.
The apartment I lived in was low-income and managed by slumlords. You know, the kind who painted over cockroaches and mold. They didn’t care that the windows weren’t sealed properly and the insulation was deteriorating, leaving some of the tenants at risk of frostbite. I really don’t know if I truly cared at this point. It was all I could afford, but it would do for now.
The icy downpour obscured my view of the Bronx, hiding the graffiti art across the street. I shivered and pulled the space heater closer to me. The steam from my hot tea was slowly fading, losing its heat from the freezing temperatures inside my temporary home. At least that’s what I told myself repeatedly, reminding myself that everything was only temporary. I just wish the word ‘temporary’ wasn’t a poisonous lie that burned my tongue like acid.
I pulled up my sweater’s hood, struggling to trap in my body heat. My charcoal-covered fingers trembled against my arms as I held myself. Once the sun was able to shine into my windows, warming my space, I could go back to creating my charcoal art collection.
I got laid off from my marketing grocery store position last week, forcing my hobby and love for art to become a means of survival. The store I worked for went under, and they no longer needed me to create their ads or window designs. Eviction was in my future if I didn’t act fast. It was like a carrot dangling in front of my eyes, and nothing was more motivating than a lousy carrot. Beggars really couldn’t be choosers, but at least art was something that calmed my racing thoughts.
It was devastating that I was laid off, but really, it came as no surprise to me. My burden to bear was that people's bad omens were transferred to me when I was near them. I was too much of an empath, and the universe saw fit to torment me with everyone else’s bad luck. Their demons became mine with just a passing glance. I wasn’t going to give up, not yet. My stomach ached, and my heart pounded in my chest at the thought of not being able to get past this obstacle. I’d been through so much to give it all up now.
My teeth chattered while I looked around at my eggshell-colored walls, covered by the charcoal art collection I had created. I was designing different pieces on any scrap of paper I could find. Some of the art was on eight-by-ten textured paper I’d purchased before being laid off. Others were on faded newspapers. I’d also used the books donated to the women’s shelters, opened them, and stapled them to a plank of old wood. Creating various types of art, all connected by an array of paperbacks.
Needing to play cat and mouse with an impending eviction, I started TikTok and Instagram accounts. Hopefully, my collection would be able to shine through the broken lens of my cell phone. It would be low photo quality, but the art was stunning. Coordination was never my strength, and I always had a bad habit of dropping my phone.
If social media wasn’t successful, I could always hit the streets, selling my art if I had to. Times Square was only a two-dollar shuttle ride away. Maybe I could get tourists to buy my pieces? The warmth of my idea helped soothe me, warming me slightly with excitement. Getting out of this mess was only slightly out of my grasp, and maybe this time, things would change.
Sleep started to wrap its sweet embrace around me, calling me to go to bed. Setting my cold tea down, I took a few steps to my small twin-sized bed, which lay on my floor without a frame or box spring. The metal springs creaked beneath my weight, digging into my side. It may not be much to some but growing up in foster care makes you learn to love the little things. A box sat next to my bed, holding a small lamp and my most valuable possession. I ran my finger along it, needing to conjure up faith to keep pushing.
Screams from the neighbors fighting again made me grunt in annoyance. These neighbors constantly fought, and it wasn’t just verbal fighting. The woman’s cries for help regularly pierced the thin walls. She begged for him to stop hitting her.
Once, I’d gone over when he was out. To try to see if I could help. She’d looked at me, with a purple and black bruise surrounding her eye, like I was the crazy one. It was hard for me to fathom the idea of someone staying in such a toxic relationship.
I pulled the pillow over my head, trying to stifle the screams and banging of furniture. Giving up on the day, an exhausted breath leaves me, and I roll over to go to sleep.
Tomorrow will be better than today.
I was jarred awake, sputtering and coughing. Thick smoke billowed in the room, making my eyes burn with a searing intensity. I threw off my blankets, leaping out of my bed. My heart pounded erratically, making my chest ache, and fear slid icy tentacles down my spine. I wheezed for breath, inhaling hot dense air that made my lungs tighten. All I could see were glowing orange and red flames engulfing my walls and licking the ceiling.
“HELP!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, desperate for an answer, a rescue, anything.
I’d read my fair share of fire rescue stories that always ended in beautiful happy endings. Those happy conclusions were a beacon of hope, motivating me to keep fighting. I squeezed my knees as I wheezed for air. I coughed, and it felt like knives ripping down my esophagus. Snot ran down my face, and my ears rang as I searched my apartment.
Everything I had done to help save myself from eviction was up in flames. Literally. The weight of my life burning to ashes made anxiety rip out my spine. My final hope for survival was being destroyed by the rising hell flames.
I gathered my last bit of willpower and pulled my jacket over my mouth, trying to filter the thick smoke. Sharp pain shot through my knees as I fell to my knees on the floor to pick up my backpack. Nausea twisted my stomach, and I gagged on bile and soot. My heart rate was turbulent, dooming me to numbness. I stuffed my backpack with a few pieces of clothing, then gently grasped my most valuable possession, placing it in my black bag.
The flames crackled, and the pipes groaned in agony. The fire showed no mercy as it raced up the walls, melting the broken fire alarm and blocking my exit to the fire escape. I ran to the front door, screaming when I touched the scorching door handle. The room blurred and whirled around me. My lungs begged for air. This fire wanted to consume me, just like it did the walls and my art.
But my desire to live burned brighter than my acceptance of defeat, driving me to kick at the door. I wouldn’t give up, and I was sure as shit not being taken out by the wrath of hell.
Not wanting to give in to the inferno closing in on me, I screamed as loudly as I could. Smoke flooded my lungs, and they seized, stealing my voice. No one heard my screams. Where was the fire department? I keeled over, coughing, unable to stand. I pressed my face to the filthy floor, taking in minuscule gulps of the clear air that lingered beneath the blanket of fumes.
Blackness wrapped its talons around my mind, tearing at my frontal cortex. My motivation to survive was shredded and thrown into the flames with the rest of my life. I clutched my backpack, finding peace in knowing that I wasn’t dying alone. A bright light shone down on me, lifting me up. The comforting words of death whispered to me that I was safe now, making me smile, before it all went dark.
Chapter 1
Connor
Eight months later
I slammed down on the gas pedal in my black Chevy truck, flying past the nine-to-five workers. Rise Against's “Savior” blasted out of my speakers, drowning out the exterior noises. The traffic entering New York City from Jersey was backed up for miles, which was why they’d made an emergency lane. It was for assholes like me.
I was forced to leave the city today to meet with a hotel manager. We had some of our low-class girls working out of it, and we’d gotten word the manager was talking to the feds. My idea was to expand out of city limits with our low-class prostitutes, wanting to show them how much we could earn by expanding this network.
We had our high-class escorts and low-class prostitutes. The girls that were not worth our time got sold. When we got word of the manager being a rat, my family saw this failure as mine, and mine alone. They wouldn't think to put the fault on the person who actually screwed them over. Just add that to my tally list, Dad.
