Sequel: Carnage ›
Devil
Must Be a Price to Pay
Two and a half weeks later, Nebraska found with a disappointed heart that she'd been right. She'd heard nothing from Danny. Feeling oddly melancholy, she headed out to a smaller club on the opposite side of the city as The Warehouse. None of them were creatively named, but The Alcove, a cozy office-sized club in the back of a brick building, was certainly homelier, and the people there were astoundingly willing to spend. She’d made nearly £5000 by the end of the night, not bad for a club nearly a quarter of the size that she was used to.
The area was unfamiliar to her, though, and at 5 AM when everyone started to trickle out, she had to follow the crowd to a subway station.
Or at least, she tried to. One block from the well-lit escalators, two strong hands grabbed her hair. She was barely able to register that she was now in a side alley and not about to cross the street, before the metal crowbar hit her.
She went down silently, thanking whomever that she had worn her thicker coat and a proper waist-training corset, and the blow wouldn’t do any lasting damage. The first time, that is. By the fifth blow on the same side, ribs had to have been broken.
By the backhanded slap that finally knocked her off her knees, Nebraska had already realized that The Kid was doing this himself, and not just making Francis do it. The point obviously had to be personal.
When it was over, she stayed on the ground, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her try to get up and falling.
“Consider that done,” he said, throwing the crowbar down and walking away.
She remained on the ground for a moment longer, feeling tears come to her eyes as she was unable to hold them back. She was in a lot of pain, sure, but the emotional impact behind it all seemed to just hit her at that moment.
She'd fallen out of favour with the Kid. Having deliberately ignored his wishes, intervening in internal matters that didn't concern her, goading him through his personal life, Nebraska could feel the affection slipping away. It had gone to someone else already. And on top of that, she didn't even get anything good out of it (other than the obvious).
She tried feebly to stand, one hand gripping her ribs, the other pushing her up. Ultimately it was too much for her body to handle with such little food consumed during the day, and she hit the asphalt hard as she fell.
A pair of hands gripped her arms tightly, heaving her up. Nebraska could tell from the cheap cologne that it was Finn. The smell nearly made her vomit. She wondered how long he'd been standing there, watching her, and hoped he couldn't see her crying.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”
He slung her arm over his shoulders, and practically dragged her to the subway station, setting her down gently in a seat when the train came, before leaving. He didn’t say anything, but the underlying thought that he had told her so hung in the air between them awkwardly. She wasn’t supposed to fraternize, that point she realized. But the unfairness of it all (the Kid with his girlfriend, Finn with his main squeeze) left a sour aftertaste in her mouth.
She rode the train around the city a few times, then finally mustered up the strength to limp, slowly but forcefully, to her flat.
She cleaned herself up with as much strength as she had to muster. Two, maybe three ribs were definitely broken. But a hospital visit was out of the question. Nearly a quarter of a bottle of painkillers later, she was finally asleep.
--
Within five days, she'd recovered as much as she could, and put her plan, half coherent from the painkillers, into effect.
The next day, Nebraska Jones stood in a Los Angeles airport with a little over £10000 in cash stored in her little black suitcase, and three label-less water bottles. Wearing a black corset and a light gray skirt, she surveyed the bustling exit with intent, trying to surmise the precise moment to leave in order to get a taxi, and how long the wait would be to exchange the stolen Warehouse money for American dollars.
She took the last sip of the fourth water bottle, and threw it in the trash.
Perhaps Los Angeles would have more to offer than London. It was time for a change anyway.
The area was unfamiliar to her, though, and at 5 AM when everyone started to trickle out, she had to follow the crowd to a subway station.
Or at least, she tried to. One block from the well-lit escalators, two strong hands grabbed her hair. She was barely able to register that she was now in a side alley and not about to cross the street, before the metal crowbar hit her.
She went down silently, thanking whomever that she had worn her thicker coat and a proper waist-training corset, and the blow wouldn’t do any lasting damage. The first time, that is. By the fifth blow on the same side, ribs had to have been broken.
By the backhanded slap that finally knocked her off her knees, Nebraska had already realized that The Kid was doing this himself, and not just making Francis do it. The point obviously had to be personal.
When it was over, she stayed on the ground, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her try to get up and falling.
“Consider that done,” he said, throwing the crowbar down and walking away.
She remained on the ground for a moment longer, feeling tears come to her eyes as she was unable to hold them back. She was in a lot of pain, sure, but the emotional impact behind it all seemed to just hit her at that moment.
She'd fallen out of favour with the Kid. Having deliberately ignored his wishes, intervening in internal matters that didn't concern her, goading him through his personal life, Nebraska could feel the affection slipping away. It had gone to someone else already. And on top of that, she didn't even get anything good out of it (other than the obvious).
She tried feebly to stand, one hand gripping her ribs, the other pushing her up. Ultimately it was too much for her body to handle with such little food consumed during the day, and she hit the asphalt hard as she fell.
A pair of hands gripped her arms tightly, heaving her up. Nebraska could tell from the cheap cologne that it was Finn. The smell nearly made her vomit. She wondered how long he'd been standing there, watching her, and hoped he couldn't see her crying.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”
He slung her arm over his shoulders, and practically dragged her to the subway station, setting her down gently in a seat when the train came, before leaving. He didn’t say anything, but the underlying thought that he had told her so hung in the air between them awkwardly. She wasn’t supposed to fraternize, that point she realized. But the unfairness of it all (the Kid with his girlfriend, Finn with his main squeeze) left a sour aftertaste in her mouth.
She rode the train around the city a few times, then finally mustered up the strength to limp, slowly but forcefully, to her flat.
She cleaned herself up with as much strength as she had to muster. Two, maybe three ribs were definitely broken. But a hospital visit was out of the question. Nearly a quarter of a bottle of painkillers later, she was finally asleep.
--
Within five days, she'd recovered as much as she could, and put her plan, half coherent from the painkillers, into effect.
The next day, Nebraska Jones stood in a Los Angeles airport with a little over £10000 in cash stored in her little black suitcase, and three label-less water bottles. Wearing a black corset and a light gray skirt, she surveyed the bustling exit with intent, trying to surmise the precise moment to leave in order to get a taxi, and how long the wait would be to exchange the stolen Warehouse money for American dollars.
She took the last sip of the fourth water bottle, and threw it in the trash.
Perhaps Los Angeles would have more to offer than London. It was time for a change anyway.