Fluorescent lights buzz above me like dying insects, flickering just enough to make my temples throb. The Quick Mart at 1 AM is a special kind of purgatory, too bright, too quiet, and tonight, the perfect mirror for the hollowness eating me from the inside out.
I mechanically restock the energy drink display, my movements robotic as I arrange the colorful cans in neat rows. My body goes through the motions while my mind replays what happened with Holly earlier today on an endless, torturous loop.
Her weight on top of me. Her threats. My body's betrayal.
The memory makes my skin crawl, but there's nowhere to escape inside my own head. I've been violated, blackmailed, trapped, yet here I am, arranging caffeine-loaded beverages like nothing happened, like my world hasn't been shattered into jagged pieces.
A customer, some bleary-eyed trucker, pays for his coffee and beef jerky without making eye contact. The door chimes as he leaves, and I'm alone again with the humming refrigerators and my fractured thoughts.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I could tell Emily the truth, but the words stick in my throat even in imagination. How do I explain that her daughter drugged us both, tricked me into having sex with her, filmed it, and is now using it to blackmail me into being her personal sex toy? The video makes it look like I assaulted Holly, Emily would never believe my side. No caring parent would.
The cash register drawer sticks when I try to close it. I slam it harder than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the empty store.
This is familiar territory, in a way. Growing up with my mom's addiction taught me how to compartmentalize, how to function while carrying impossible weight. I'd come home from school, never knowing if she'd be conscious or passed out with a needle in her arm. I'd make dinner, clean up, do my homework, all while stepping around her body on the floor. I learned to divide myself, the part that felt and the part that functioned.
Maybe I can do that again. Be with Emily, love her with everything I have, and just... disconnect when Holly forces herself on me. Treat it like a bad dream, a dissociated experience that happens to someone else.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
Being with Emily was supposed to save me. When Mom finally passed, I thought I'd escaped that life forever, the constant vigilance, the walking on eggshells, the desperate want to be valued. Emily's love was my fresh start, my chance at something real and healthy.
But now Holly's dragged me right back into hell.
My eyes burn as I grip the edge of the counter, angry tears threatening to spill over. I blink them back furiously. I won't cry here. Not under these fucking fluorescent lights.
The bell above the door chimes, and I jolt upright, hastily wiping at my eyes. I duck behind the energy drink display, keeping my head down until I can compose myself. The last thing I need is some random customer seeing me on the verge of tears.
"The Swanks has entered the establishment!" booms a voice that could only belong to one person.
I peek around the energy drink display and spot Jimmy Swanks in all his flamboyant glory, strutting through the aisles like he owns the place. His bleached blonde hair is hidden under a purple and gold durag tonight, matching the gaudy 70's-inspired suit he's wearing. Those mirrored sunglasses reflect the harsh fluorescent lights, creating tiny disco balls on his face.
"Hey, Swanks," I manage, trying to sound normal as I straighten up behind the counter.
"Danny boy!" he exclaims, spreading his arms wide. "The Swanks is feeling particularly fortuitous this evening. The stars have aligned! Mercury is no longer in retrograde! Today is Jimmy Swanks' lucky day!"
He slides up to the counter, his gold grill catching the light when he flashes that signature smile. But then he pauses, tilting his head like a curious bird. He lowers his sunglasses, peering at me over the mirrored rims.
"Hold up," he says, his voice dropping from its usual theatrical boom to something softer, more genuine. "Jimothy Swanks senses a disturbance in the force." He leans closer, studying my face. "What's troubling you, young Daniel? Swankalicious observes great turmoil behind your baby greens."
I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out hollow. "Nothing, man. Just tired."
Jimmy's expression shifts, his carefully constructed persona momentarily falling away. "Nah, The Swanks knows tired, and this ain't it." He glances around the empty store before leaning in closer. "This is something deeper. The Swanks can tell when his people are hurting."
I consider blowing Swanks off, telling him to mind his business, and just buy whatever he came for. But something about his genuine concern breaks through my defenses. After all, Jimmy Swanks has been the closest thing I've had to a friend since I started this dead-end job.
I met Jimmy on my first night working at Quick Mart. I was just a shell then, going through the motions trying to pay for my Moms medical bills. He strutted in at 2 AM, took one look at my face, and declared, "You look sad as hell, kid. But fear not, heaven has sent you an emissary, and his name is Jimmy Swanks."
I thought he was completely insane, but he made me laugh for the first time in months. Since then, he's shown up almost every night I work, buying his menthols and orange soda while dropping what he calls "Swankastic wisdom" on me. He's eccentric as hell, but there's something genuine beneath all that flash.
It was Jimmy who convinced me to approach Emily when she first came into the store for a late-night coffee. "That silver-haired goddess keeps looking at you, boy," he told me. "The Swanks knows when a woman is thirsting. Go get yourself some cougar loving!"
I sigh and lean against the counter. "It's complicated, Swanks."
"Trouble in paradise?" He removes his sunglasses completely, tucking them into his breast pocket. His eyes are surprisingly kind without the mirrored barrier.
"Yeah."
"Did your silver-haired goddess escort drop you?" His voice hardens, indignation flaring. "The Swanks hates when these damn white bitches get lippy with good men. They think they can just…"
I shake my head quickly. "No, Swanks. Actually, she told me she loves me back."
Jimmy blinks, genuinely confused. "Well hot damn, son! Then why you looking like someone pissed in your cereal?"
The question hangs between us, and I struggle with how much to reveal. I can't tell him everything, I can barely process it myself, but I need to talk to someone before I explode.
"It's her daughter," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jimmy's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear beneath his durag. "The Swanks requires elaboration."
"She hates me," I say, which isn't a lie, just nowhere near the whole truth. "She's making things... difficult."
Jimmy nods sagely. "Ah, the classic evil stepdaughter scenario. A tale as old as time." He taps his fingers rhythmically against the counter. "How old is this spawn of Satan?"
"She's my age. We were in the same class last year in high school."
Jimmy's eyes widen dramatically, and he bursts out laughing, the sound echoing through the empty store.
"Jimmy Swanks is at a loss for words!" he declares, slapping the counter. "The Swanks has wisdom for many situations, gambling debts, baby mama drama, even that time with the parole officer and the dildo, but dating your former classmate's escort mother? That's a new one even for James Swanks!"
I nod, a tired smile tugging at my lips despite everything. There's something comforting about Jimmy's honesty, how he doesn't pretend to have all the answers.
"So tell me, young blood," he says, leaning in conspiratorially, "how are you handling the whole escort situation? That's gotta be weighing on your mind, especially with the daughter drama."
I consider the question carefully.
"It doesn't really bother me, I don't think," I say slowly. "Not the way people might expect. Emily's completely honest about everything. It's just a job to her."
Jimmy nods thoughtfully, his gold grill catching the fluorescent light. "Everyone's gotta get their bag somehow, you feel me? The Swanks don't judge how a person makes their paper." He adjusts his durag. "Some folks sell their time at this convenience store, some folks sell insurance, some sell other services. It's all just different ways of surviving in this capitalist hellscape."
"Yeah," I murmur. "I guess you're right."
"The real question," Jimmy continues, suddenly serious, "is whether this daughter situation is something you can handle. The Swanks has seen many a good relationship destroyed by outside forces." He leans closer, lowering his voice. "What exactly is she doing to make things difficult?"
My throat tightens. I can't tell him the truth, that Holly drugged and raped me, that she's blackmailing me into a sick arrangement while threatening to destroy my relationship with Emily. The words won't come.
"She's just... manipulative," I manage, my voice strained. "She knows exactly how to get under my skin."
Jimmy studies my face for a long moment, and I get the uncomfortable feeling he can see right through my half-truth.
"The Swanks senses there's more to this story," he says quietly. "But Jimmy respects a man's privacy."
Jimmy squeezes my shoulder, his expression suddenly brightening with what he clearly thinks is brilliance. "Wait, I got it! Why don't you just beat the daughter up? Problem solved!"
I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the empty store, a genuine laugh that feels foreign after the day I've had. "No, man. I can't do that."
"That's right," Jimmy snaps his fingers, nodding sagely. "The Swanks forgot you're a Quaker. All peaceful and whatnot."
"I'm not a Quaker," I say, wiping away tears of laughter. "I just don't want to beat up a woman. Especially not my girlfriend's daughter."
Jimmy strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Jimmy Swanks respects your moral compass, young blood. Violence against females is indeed beneath a man of your caliber."
Jimmy sighs dramatically, his shoulders slumping beneath his garish suit jacket. "Well, anyways, The Swanks has a proposition of the financial variety." He straightens up, adjusting his durag. "Jimmy's feeling lucky tonight. Can The Swanks procure two hundred of those beautiful scratch-off tickets you got behind that counter?"
I blink, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change in conversation. "Two hundred? Seriously?"
"The Swanks doesn't joke about matters of potential fortune, child." His gold grill catches the fluorescent light as he grins. "The universe is speaking to Jimmy tonight, and it's saying 'scratch, baby, scratch!'"
"Yeah, alright," I say, grateful for the distraction from my spiraling thoughts. "I can do that."
I turn to the scratch ticket display, pulling stack after stack of the cheap cardboard rectangles that promise false hope to the desperate. Jimmy slaps a wad of cash on the counter, thick enough to make me wonder what he actually does for a living. I've never asked, and he's never volunteered the information.
"The Swanks appreciates your assistance in his wealth acquisition strategy," he says, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain.