Elle

I manage to get a few hours of sleep before the sun shining through the windscreen of my van becomes too much. The summer months are killing my bottom line; I’m being forced into finding shelter more and more, which is exposing me to the more seedy underbelly of our world. The nearest rest stop to here is known for its low-priced whores, rat-filled rooms and beer that is more likely to rot your gut than get you drunk. It's also a trading a post so I can fill up on supplies as well as get a few hours of rest. I drive for an hour before the rusted neon sign tells me I’ve reached my target; the two guards standing at the entrance to the parking lot are armed to the teeth; they have enough firepower to put a hole in anyone or anything. The rest stop might be filled with undesirables, but they know how to protect what they have. The man on the left is covered in tattoos, his head has been shaved clean and he’s got a wicked scar down the right side of his face. His light blue eyes are pretty, though; I can see myself staring into them later when I have trouble sleeping. I slow the van to a roll, which gives the blue-eyed warrior a chance to hold up his hand to get me to stop. I know when he’s seen who is inside because his face lights up. I get this reaction wherever I go. I’m blonde with dark blue eyes; a smattering of freckles across my nose gives me a youthful look and at some point in my teens my breasts decided to keep growing when they were supposed to stop. Even by The Academy’s standards, I’m hot and I know exactly what men like blue eyes see when they look at me. People like him see me for the danger I am but some choose to look past it and step into my web; some allow me a few moments of relief and occasionally a warm body to sleep on. 

“Three gold to gain access,” blue eyes grunts as soon as I wind my window down low enough, he’s looking me up and down now that he’s closer and the way he adjusts his stance tells me he likes what he sees. 

“And what will five get me?” I reach under the steering wheel to grab five gold coins. I hold them up so he can see I’m not all talk; not alot of people have money like this nowadays. 

“Room six is pretty warm but I’ll make sure a fresh heater is brought up, say, in an hour?” He holds his hands out for the coins; I pass them over without breaking eyecontact. I know he’s telling me he’s going to come to my room and I’m definitely in the mood for some stress release. 

“Don’t keep me waiting,” I purr before looking over at his friend. “I don’t do multiples so come alone or don’t come at all. I also work all day so don’t expect me to do much of the work.” I’m not so subtly telling him that I expect him to do all the work and all the pleasure in that room will be mine. The sparkle in his eyes and the smug smirk on his face tell me he’s up to the task. I wind the window up before he can say anything else and start the van moving again. 

Once I’m sure my van is locked up tight and my security system is in place, I grab my backpack and shove a handful of coins into my jeans pocket. They’re so tight that the coins make a noticeable bulge but I’m not worried about anyone attacking me for my money. I have a large knife attached to the bottom of my left leg and the tattoos down my right arm tell everyone how many kills I’ve amassed; only a completely insane person would attack me. Room six is close to where I’ve parked my van so I spot the cleaner as he’s coming out of the room, probably getting rid of all traces of the last guest, it's a rest stop though so I know it's not going to be luxury accommodations. The cleaner is a kid dressed in a torn t-shirt and tiny shorts, probably the child of the person who owns this place or works here. It's sad to think that this kid is probably one of the lucky ones; at least he’s not subjected to The Academy like the girls or the workhouse like the ones rejected by my teachers. 

“Is it clean?” I ask the kid as I hold my hand out for the key; he slides it into my hand without looking up at me. 

“Yes, miss.” His accent isn’t from around here so I’m guessing his parents work here rather than own it. It means he’s living on scraps just like them; that would explain why I can see his collarbone through one of the holes in his shirt and I’m betting if he took off his clothes, I would be able to see more bones. It's the sad reality of this world: people struggle and there is no one there to help them. 

“Take this to your mama; tell her to get some food in you before you turn to dust.” I toss the kid a silver coin from my pocket; the small squeal is enough to tell me he’s never seen this kind of money before. He runs off before I can say anything else and I can do nothing but hope the money puts some food in his stomach and not drugs or drink in his mama.