They say it feels like time slows down when you feel threatened. When you’re in trouble. They say it’s a product of our adaptation as a species. I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it. And I know that the man I’m walking toward right now is trouble, from the way the faces around me seem to freeze, contorted into expressions of laughter and delight, while I’m dying on the inside.

Time ticks by slowly.

They say it’s fight or flight. When you feel threatened, you don’t have time to think. Something primal takes over. Something animal. That’s why time slows down - so you can observe the shit happening around you without having to process it as quickly. Because you can’t, or won’t, or because your brain is calculating every single permutation of the possible outcomes of the fucked up circumstance you find yourself in.

But that’s not why I know the man I’m walking toward is trouble.

I know he’s trouble because I’m delivering a bag full of money to him, and I’m not allowed to know his name. He knows my name, but I’m not allowed to know his.

He has no fucking name. He’s just one of them.

All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my chest. The dry desert air is thick around me as I wade through it. Even the lights of the marquis over my head are dull and blotted out with the sound of my heart slamming into my ribs. Ready to crack them at any moment with its heavy thud.

I tremble as I step up to him, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. My chest, tight, falls as I exhale and my shaky breath comes out. I dig my fingernails into the alabaster flesh of my inner wrist, willing time to speed up.

The man pulls the bag away from me. He isn’t afraid to be seen in public with a bag full of cash by security guards and cops tapping on the batons at their hips. It’s like they don’t even see us. They’re probably in on this too. Or maybe the man I’m standing before as he shifts the bag from one calloused hand to the other is the real cop. Maybe the men standing around are being protected by him. Served by him. Or at least, someone he works for.

His thick fingers grasp the bottom of the canvas bag, and he massages it as he looks into my eyes like a wolf ready to pounce. I was told to wear something nice so I’d fit in. He isn’t even looking down at my breasts. He’s looking straight into my eyes, and somehow that’s even worse.

I don’t look down at myself, but I want to. I want to check to make sure the edge of my corset top is covering everything I need it to. I want to make sure my breasts are inside my bra. I was told to wear a push-up bra for the man I would meet.

But I don’t look down. I look up at him, and I can’t look away. Because I know taking my eyes off what’s threatening me, even for one second, could mean hell for me.

Something swims inside me. Something perverse. His eyes shift lower, but he doesn’t look at my body. His eyes are on my lips. His lips part and his jaw juts out, clenching, hard.

He massages the bottom of the bag again. The stacks of cash clipped together inside move like gel in a lava lamp.

“Feels a little bit light, miss.” He speaks. It speaks. The man without a name has something to say.

I know every cent is there. I counted it myself when I left the bank, drained the only account I had open. It was the savings I shared with Dad.

“That’s what my father owes you.” My voice shakes and I make the mistake of taking my eyes off him for a split second.

But I feel that perversion on him, moving between our bodies. His energy is menacing. And it’s downright magnetic, even though it shouldn’t be. But that doesn’t matter. There’s something behind it, too. Something soft behind the rock-hard muscle and the steely gaze. It’s something I can’t put my finger on. It’s something like sympathy.

I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me, though. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve just found myself in a situation that’s not of my making, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to right the wrongs that have been done.

The wrongs. I can’t even name them. I can’t even think of them. They can’t be identified. They’re out of reach, between my father and these men.

I don’t know what he’s done, or why he owes them. A few nights a month counting cards and trading in stacks of chips for stacks of cash couldn’t have landed him in the shit he’s in.

Or was in, I should say.

Now they’ve come looking for me to pay his debt. To supply retribution for the sins of my father.

Maybe I don’t want to know the truth. This is a transaction for me, and even though I’m scared as all hell, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my father.

I’d take a bullet for him.

This is the bullet.

“Miss,” he repeats. “Are you listening to me? You’re light on cash.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I offer my reply slowly and cautiously. It’s the truth.

My father keeps detailed records. I have the combination to his safe. He told me I’d need it in case anything happened to him.

Now, something’s happened, and I had to unlock the metal case holding his secrets.

This is his only debt. He has no debt to society, only to these men operating outside it.

Or maybe they comprise a society I never knew I was part of.

I glance around at the cops, all shifting their eyes to each other, alternatingly slow and fast.

Quick. Quick. Slow, quick...like the dance of two lovers performing a waltz. Some eye each other’s holsters. Some keep a finger locked in a trigger position, ready to pull and cock and discharge. Some keep attention on the ground, some in the sky, some looking straight fucking ahead, ready and waiting for something. But they don’t know what they’re waiting for.

“The interest, Cherry.” The man purses his lips and his tongue flicks out of one corner. “Your old man owes interest.”

I don’t know what will happen next. If I can’t pay off my father’s debt...I cashed in all the collateral I had. The diamond ring my father gave my mother thirty years ago for their engagement. My father told me it was for me. He said I could use it however I saw fit - however I needed. He told me to wear it out at bars and in my classes if I wanted to be left the hell alone by all the assholes and cheaters.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back. If heaven wants to take me now, so be it. Because I don’t have anything more to give. In the city of sin, I’ve given all I can.

The lights shine over me, through the deep purple and black splotches inside my eyelids, and I can see the flashing bulbs of the strip. I can see every last one. That’s another thing about time slowing down. You can see every single detail in the picture in front of you.

The man reaches out and grabs my arms, forcing my eyes to open.

“Are you listening to me?” His deep voice rumbles in my ears, but he’s whispering. “You still owe twenty percent on top of his debt. My boss isn’t going to allow this to debt to go unsettled. This is a lot of fucking money.”

“How much more time do I have?”

His eyes flash to mine intently, and then he checks over his shoulder.

“I’ll give you until morning to come up with the cash. I can stall the big boss. But I’m warning you. He doesn’t just let things go.”

I swallow hard, and the muscles in my throat contract, but nothing else happens. My throat is still dry, and there’s still a lump there, and my chest is still tight. I still can’t breathe.

He keeps the same steely expression. He’s good at maintaining his composure under pressure, or maybe he’s been at this for a long time. This is his job. Maybe he’s a lifetime thug. A born criminal.

His eyebrow arches slightly and his jaw softens.

“Meet me here tomorrow morning. You better have the money by then.”