The moment Ortega got home, he crashed onto his bed. His heart felt heavy as he replayed all the shit that had gone down. And what was that about Bron? Assaulting him like that?
Something about the way the man looked when he attacked him wasn't right. Almost fucking his girlfriend wasn't right either. But neither was Mae lying to him about her marital status.
There was nothing he could do now but stare at the ceiling. And oh boy, did it suck to feel powerless. He remembered the man's tattoos, the kind rich people got, and took that as proof he'd done the right thing by controlling himself and walking out.
Then Ortega started thinking back to all the times that woman had shown him kindness. She took him in, made him feel at home at work, when there were better people than him. Far cries from the type she was used to hiring.
Ortega was stumped. He didn't even know what to do next. He couldn't check the time either; his phone was damaged.
He sighed, pissed that their moment got interrupted. They'd had such a good thing going, and this Bron of a dude just had to walk in and ruin the show. Her scent. Her touch. The way she trembled beneath his control. The sense of power it gave him.
He got up, ate something, then lay back down, feeling dizzy as the day replayed in his mind. The ceiling fan spun above him, humming low. He clutched his side, wincing from the pain, but it wasn't serious enough for the hospital. He popped a painkiller.
He looked up again and sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that evening as the clock ticked on.
He should probably go back to the shop and collect his money, but the whole thing felt too damn hard. He just wanted it all to end already. He rolled in bed, unable to sleep even with his head heavy.
Too many thoughts crashed through his mind at once. Two calamities in under three days.
The thing was, he didn't actually care about the damage. What mattered was the experience gained.
'There's gotta be a reason for all this,' he thought, trying to find something, anything, to ground himself in the absurd mess his life had become.
Sleep came like an assassin, slow and heavy. His eyes drooped as the ceiling blurred above him, and he drifted off with the nagging feeling he was forgetting something.
Kpom. Kpom. Kpom.
Someone knocked on his door.
"Who's there?"
"It's me," came the gruff, unmistakably grumpy voice of his wicked landlord.
'Shit.' That's right. He was supposed to pay part of his rent today, but he hadn't collected his pay thanks to the drama at the store. He should probably head back now, but first—
He opened the door to find the old man's scowling face.
"Mr. Yugo, I'm, uh… gonna get it from work. I promise. By the end of today."
"That's fine," Mr. Yugo said simply, then left.
Ortega blinked. The man didn't even fight him. That was a first. He nodded, thankful.
After the door shut, he spent a few minutes in the shower. When he came out, he felt cleaner. Lighter. Still sour, but better. He changed into fresh undies and did some stretches. The ache in his side had faded to a dull throb.
Before stepping out, he locked his door and jogged to work. It was nearly closing time, the sun dipping low.
When he pushed open the entrance and didn't see Bron, he was a bit disappointed. He'd only lost last time because he was unprepared and overwhelmed, that's all. Though honestly, even if they went another round now, he'd probably still lose. The bastard had traumatized his ribs.
He was ready this time, though. So when he saw his boss behind the counter, his face was a mask of cold indifference.
He walked straight up to her. She looked up, a soft shadow flickering across her face, then gone.
"You… must really hate me," she said.
"Where's my money?"
His abruptness caught her off guard.