Farrah

 

As the door closed on Connor and Montengo, I did not know what to feel. Part of me wanted to scream and shout at Honi and maybe even attack her. Another part of me wanted to throw myself upon her in a hug. Was she responsible for much of what happened? Yes, but she was just a lowly whore. The only thing she could have done was do her best to survive—which was exactly what she’d done.

 

But mostly, I wanted to demand information from her, to find out what the bleeding hell was going on.

 

“Honi,” I said, my voice carefully level.

 

She grinned. “Uh-uh,” she sneered. “Here, my name is Farrah.”

 

That rankled. It wasn’t that she’d stolen my name. It was that I heard pleasure, not fear, in her tone.

 

I scowled. “Miss Michaels, then.”

 

“Yes, Princess?”

 

I had to take a deep breath to continue.

 

“Miss Michaels, you do realize the danger you are in?”

 

She snorted. “Please! I’ve been in danger every day of my life since I was forced into your aunt’s whorehouse. You ever come up against a man who wants to fuck when you don’t want to fuck? Or just wants to hurt you, for the fun of it? That’s my life, Princess. Being in danger now makes no difference.”

 

That speech quieted me. It was so hard to stay mad at her, when I knew the life she’d lived. Hell, I knew it now more than ever.

 

“I know it, Honi,” I said. “These past few days … I know how you feel.”

 

She laughed again, a sound like a cat growling. At least she didn’t protest me using her name. “A few days? A few days? Try a fucking lifetime, Princess, and then we’ll talk.”

 

“But, Honi—this is a different sort of danger! It’s not just men who want to fuck you. The Minghellis, Honi! I am pretty sure the Minghellis are after me!”

 

She looked me up and down, disgusted. “And why the hell would they be after you?” she demanded.

 

I sighed, unsure of what to say. Did I tell her about my secret involving Minghelli? Would that put her in more danger, or less? Maybe it would at least impress upon her how fucking serious this is, I thought sourly.

 

I took Honi by the arm and guided her towards the bed. “Because, Honi, I am a witness. I saw Tom Minghelli doing something terrible—”

 

“Oh, get over it!” she shrieked, shoving my arm away. “You saw something terrible? Come on, sweetcakes. Your life is rated fucking PG-13 compared to mine.”

 

“Goddammit!” I swore, throwing my arms up in frustration. “This isn’t a contest, Honi!”

 

“Farrah!”

 

“Whatever! This is not about whose life has been worse! This about life and death. Here, if it makes you feel better: your life has been worse. By a million. A million billion. I have had it extremely easy until right now, and neither of us has deserved any of it. There! Does that make you feel better?”

 

Honi pursed her lips, looking like a toddler. “So what exactly do you want, Farrah?” she hissed after a minute. “You want to switch back? I go can back to whoring, and you can snuggle up with Montengo and feel nice and safe?”

 

“But you’re not safe; don’t you get it?” I raged. “As long as people think you’re me, you’ll be hunted, Honi. Hunted!”

 

She scowled, then shrugged. “Maybe I think it’s worth it,” she growled.

 

I stamped my foot, drowning in frustration until something occurred to me. “Wait a minute,” I demanded. “How exactly is whoring any different from what you’re doing? You’re still fucking the hell out of Montengo, and for what? In exchange for safety and money?”

 

There was that stupid lip pursing again. “It is not the same,” she insisted. “I am willingly going into this, and, unlike whoring for your aunt, this actually has a chance at a future.”

 

“Yeah! My future!”

 

She rose from the bed, her gracefulness now restored. “Your life is over, sweetie,” she said, sashaying towards the door. “Better get used to it.”

 

Her talon-like red fingernails closed over the knob. With a vicious jerk, she twisted it open and left. The door slammed behind her with a sense of finality equaling her words.

 

I collapsed onto the bed, torn between anger, frustration, and despair.

 

“Why won’t she listen?” I asked the empty room. “Does she really hate me that much? Was her life really that bad?”

 

I thought about the situation, realizing that I was demanding of her an exact mirror of what she was demanding of me. I wanted to go into one kind of danger to leave my current danger behind. She, too, wanted the same.

 

“But it’s a difference of justice!” I growled aloud. “I am Farrah Michaels! It doesn’t matter if my life is different from others! It’s my life!”

 

For the smallest moment, I thought about just letting things be as they were. I could keep fucking Connor, and Honi would end up eating the Minghellis’ bullet for me. As soon as I thought it, however, I felt sick inside.

 

“No, it’s not fair to let Honi suffer for me, even if she is bringing it onto herself.”

 

I looked back on all the time we had spent together growing up, now framed with a new light.: Honi had been bitterly jealous. I thought of all those times I returned bragging of my good grades and fancy school, and how Honi had always listened, biting her lips, waiting for me to turn the conversation to make up, or our own town. You know, something she possibly had a chance of relating to.

 

“It’s my fault, Honi,” I mumbled, suddenly overcome with sadness. “All of this hate she has for me … It’s my fault, for showing off all those years, and rubbing her nose in my life. And I never listened to her. Not once.”

 

I resolved then and there to do my best to make sure Honi made it out of this okay. I would not, no matter what, lead her back to whoring. I would find a way to save us both.

 

On that note, I stood up, and noticed a master bathroom attached to the president’s gaudy bedroom. “Figures,” I thought. Then, assuming that he wouldn’t mind if I used it—or perhaps it was just that I was too tired to care—I shrugged off Connor’s jacket, took off the remainder of my clothes, and stepped inside.

 

My poor body, I thought in surprise, noticing for the first time just how many cuts and bruises were all over me. The handprints on my forearms from people grabbing me at the start. The bruise on my hip from climbing in and out of the window. The marks on my shins and wrists from clinging to the bed frame, out of Leo’s reach. Even my knees were battered, from doing martial arts on a cold and gritty barroom floor.

 

The bathroom was huge, with a deep, jet tub and an attached shower. I turned the water on high and stepped in, wanting to wash the filth and the grime off before filling up the tub. As the hot water poured over me, I felt my worried thoughts being soothed as much as my injuries.

 

Don’t worry, Farrah, I told myself. You’ll find a way. You were raised by men like Sam Michaels and women like Aunt Venus. You’re born to be strong as hell.

 

My hair soft with conditioner, I filled the tub, settled down inside of it, and, for the first time in what felt like ages, tried to relax.

 

It was a strange thought, then, when I wished that Connor was with me.