I pull the key out with difficulty and try again.

Same thing this time around. No click.

I hold the key up to my face and examine it. As far as I can tell, nothing seems to be wrong. It's the only key I own, so it's not like I could have pulled out the wrong one. And it's not broken or bent or anything like that.

Then I hear a callous chuckle that sends the hair at the back of my neck standing on end.

I whip around-just as Mickey steps out from the shadows of the stairwell.

He's wearing his standard corduroy vest, the one that's two sizes too small and smeared in the front with various different food stains.

He's the type of guy you can see from a mile away and know without a doubt that he smells like a sewer stuffed with Doritos.

You'd be right about that, too.

"Having some trouble there, little lady?" he muses, clicking his tongue.

"My key's not working."

He gives me a leering smile that has me backing up against the door just a little.

God, I hate this motherfucker.

"It's not your key that's the problem," Mickey tells me with obvious glee.

He runs his hand over his massive beer belly, a gesture he employs whenever he's feeling particularly good about himself. His beady, deep-set eyes drink me in.

Honestly, I preferred the cockroach.

"You changed the lock?" I ask, my voice cracking in alarm.

"I can give you the new key," he announces, "if you can give me the rent you owe."

I wince against the naked hunger piercing the insides of my stomach. "Listen, Mickey..."

"Is that a no?" he interrupts.

"It's been a tough few weeks."

"Don't you have a fancy job?" he demands.

"I'm a waitress in a fancy restaurant," I clarify. "There's a difference. My pay's still shit. I survive on tips, and lately, I haven't really been making much in that department."

Mickey's eyes skitter up and down my body.

I'm still in my waitress uniform. Black skirt. White shirt. Black, low-cut vest.

"You need to pop open that last button," Mickey advises like he's doing me a favor. "A man likes to see some real cleavage when you lean in to serve his meat."

I swallow back my fury. I'm too hungry for this. For any of it.

That moldy bread on the other side of this door might as well be manna from heaven.

But instead, I'm trapped out here starving with the devil himself.

"Gee, thanks," I reply sarcastically. "I'll keep that in mind. Now, can you just give me the new key, please?"

Mickey sidles a little closer. "No."

I wince again. Desperation and hunger and exhaustion all combining to beat me down like a trio of muggers.

Every part of me hurts-head, feet, heart.

I can't do this.

I just cannot do this right now.

"Please, Mickey. I've had a crappy couple of weeks. Just give me a little time to get you the rent."

"I've been giving you time," he snaps. "For the last few months. I'm done with it. I've been warning you for a while now. You knew this was coming. Nothing in this world is free, Charlotte Dunn."

I hate how he says my name. It makes me feel dirty, scummy.

And those eyes won't stop slithering up and down, up and down.

"I've been warning you for a while now," he repeats.

"Please," I whimper again.

I know my voice sounds meek and pathetic but the hunger is ruthlessly snuffing the last of the fight, the last of the pride, the last of the dignity that I have in me.

I'll beg if I have to.

But please, for the love of God, just give me a bite of food.

He cocks his head to the side, eyeing me up and down as though he's only just thought of something.

Except, I know better than that.

Whatever's coming next is going to be a tempting piece of bait on the end of a very nasty hook.

No one was ever nice for nothing.

"Hmm. Maybe we can work something out," he murmurs. His eyes linger on my breasts.

I stay frozen where I am as he takes a step towards me and raises his hand. My eyes clamp shut in horror and I brace like I'm about to get hit by a bus.

But the awful touch I'm expecting doesn't come.

Instead, Mickey's fingers brush against a strand of loose hair that's come apart from the messy bun at the back of my head. He tucks it behind my ear.

It's almost tender, in the weirdest possible way.

But his intentions are not.

They never are.

This is an ugly world, and men like Mickey-power-hungry, obsessed with money and control and not a damn thing else-are the ugliest part of it.

This close, I can see the wealth of nose hair in his engorged nostrils. He reminds me of a bull in heat.

I cringe away from him when his tongue slashes down across his bottom lip.

"Nothing comes for free, little lady," he sneers at me.

Don't I fucking know it.

"What do you want from me?" I ask directly.

His stubby hand reaches down and cups the bulge at his crotch. I can tell he's already erect, and my stomach turns with nausea. The hunger takes a back seat for the moment.

Silver linings, I guess.

"Get on your knees," Mickey hisses, "and make me happy. Then I might be able to give you another two weeks on your rent."

This son of a bitch.

I'll die before I give him that.

"I'm not a fucking whore," I lash at him. My face is flushed with anger.

His expression turns dark at the rejection. "No? Pity. Coulda fooled me."

The frustration of my day catches up with me in that moment. I can't fucking deal with this shit.

I get groped enough at my day job.

I don't need this shit when I come back home.

Not that it's much of a home, but still-it's all I have.

Or all I had, at least. Without it, what do I have to lose?

Fuck this place.

Fuck the cockroaches on my feet and the lights that never work and the elevator that's always broken.

And most of all, fuck Mickey himself.

This arrogant and depraved fucking creep who thinks he can say things like that to me, who thinks he can dangle his nasty cock in my face like a carrot and use my desperation to get his rocks off.

No.

Not today.

Not ever.

The slap I deliver to his smug fucking face takes us both by surprise. Mickey staggers backwards, his eyes dazed for a second before they focus on me.

And then all hell breaks loose.

"You ungrateful little cunt!" he roars.

He lunges for me, but I manage to dart to the side, narrowly escaping under his arm. I cling to the bag draped across my shoulder as I hurtle towards the staircase.

I can feel him in hot pursuit. He's huffing and panting as we both thunder down the stairs.

But I'm as fast as he is disgusting. And that fat piece of shit probably hasn't broken an intentional sweat in years.

So, by the time I burst out of the side door and back out into the night, I've lost him.

I don't stop running and I don't look back.

Not until I've put at least a dozen blocks between me and that human-sized rat.

When I'm confident that he's given up the chase, I take a moment to breathe. I sag against the vandalized walls of an empty lot and gulp for oxygen greedily. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard it hurts.

Breathe, Charlotte. Breathe.

Eventually, my heartrate settles back down and I get my breathing under control.

Then the hunger comes back.

And the dread.

And the fear.

"Fuck," I curse under my breath.

How can I go back there now?

I don't have much to my name, but what little stuff I do have is now locked behind that bastard's cheap, rickety door. Stuff that I'm pretty sure is going to go up in a dumpster fire now that I've pushed Mickey over the edge.

A car drives past with music blaring. I see a blonde teenage boy's head sticking out of the passenger's seat.

I brace myself for the worst-and I'm disappointed to be one hundred percent right.

He mimes a dick-sucking gesture at me. "Wassup, sexy?! Wanna lick my cock tonight?"

The car zooms away before I can answer and leaves me in the darkness.

Just once, I'd like to be proven wrong about men.

Tonight is not that night.

With nowhere else to go, I start the long walk back towards downtown.

I wish that I was wearing something other than this uniform. The skirt is too short and the shirt and vest are too tight.

I might as well be wearing a sign on my back that says, Harass me.

Not that it matters if I was. The men in this part of the city don't need that much of an invitation.

They take that initiative all on their own.

The air outside feels colder than it did before. I shiver and keep walking for a while in a kind of trance.

I'm thinking about everything and nothing at once-Mrs. Hammond and my mother and Mickey. They're all merging together in my delirious brain, until I'm imagining Mama's head with Mrs. Hammond's earrings on top of Mickey's body.

The hallucination is as grotesque as it sounds.

Something pries me back to reality-the smell of cheese.

I grind to a halt as the scent of fresh, gooey mozzarella fills my nostrils. When I pivot, I drink in the welcome sight of a classy-looking Italian restaurant.

It looks authentic and friendly. White tablecloths and red lanterns hanging over the door, bathing everything in a warm, gentle light.

The hand-painted sign out front bears a name: "Il Dolore e Il Piacere."

I'm pretty sure that's Italian, but it might as well be Klingon for all that I can decipher it.

Not that any of that concerns me in the slightest.

The only thing I care about at the moment is getting something substantial into my stomach.

I walk inside, still in a daze. I don't even care that I look like hell warmed over.

The last of my fucks to give just went fluttering away in the wind.

I sink gratefully into a seat at the first table I see.

"What can I get you?" a skinny waiter asks when he appears at my shoulder.

"Spaghetti Bolognese," I say immediately without even bothering to glance at a menu. "And pumpkin ravioli. And a pitcher of water please-I'm thirsty."

He raises his eyebrows with amusement. "Hungry, eh?"

"Starving," I confirm. "So if you could-"

"Ask the chef to cook like the wind?" he offers.

I nod, too tired for words and grateful for a friendly face.

He walks away with a smile, only to return a minute later with a basket full of warm bread rolls and butter.

I actually want to leap to my feet and kiss him full on the mouth.

But I manage to restrain myself.

Just barely.

"Bless you," I sigh gratefully, grabbing a soft bread roll.

It's in my mouth before he's even walked away. I hear him chuckling under his breath, but I'm past the point of caring.

Honestly, this is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth.

By the time my plates of spaghetti and ravioli arrive, I've polished off all the bread rolls, but I'm still hungry.

I eat diligently, keeping my eyes on my food and nothing else. I finish all of both dishes at lightspeed. It takes all of my willpower not to lick the plates clean.

But when I put down my fork, I feel leagues better.

I reach for my bag and start rummaging around in the chaos inside there, hunting for my wallet. This was an expensive indulgence and I'll be regretting it later when I burn through the very last of my cash.

But worth it, I think. An hour ago, I'd have probably sold my body in exchange for a bite of food.

The thing is, though, that it looks like I might have to do that anyway.

Because my fingers are coming up with nothing. Totally empty.

My wallet is gone.

I frown, pull my bag into my lap, and stick my head inside.

Kleenex, hair ties, deodorant...

But no wallet.

I'm starting to get frantic. I shove the plates to the far side of the table and upend my bag, dumping all the contents onto the tablecloth. Tubes of chapstick go bouncing off. Receipts flutter out.

Still no wallet.

A few of the other diners are giving me weird looks as I scavenge through all my crap.

Please be in here. Please be in here. Please be-

"Fuck!"

A few more heads swivel in my direction when I curse, but I don't have the energy to apologize.

It's not here.

It must have fallen out at some point during my mad dash away from Mickey. Which means I've gone from having "not much" to less than that.

All the euphoria of a full belly is gone now.

That familiar, icy dread is back in its place.

The waiter comes back over and sets the check down on my tabletop with a friendly smile. I try to give him one in return, but it feels like my face forgot how to operate. I end up just grimacing at him like a psycho.

"Th-thanks," I mutter, blushing hot and red.

I pick up the check with trembling fingertips.

Forty-six dollars plus tax.

Fuck. Me.

I really have only one option. I hate it with every fiber of my being.

But I don't have a choice.

I glance around. There's a well-dressed couple at the table opposite mine and a bunch of men crowded into a booth across the restaurant.

Only one waiter manning the floor, with a second behind the cash register.

I can do this. I have to do this.

I'll come back another day and pay what I owe.

For now, I just have to move fast.

I wait until the waiter heads back into the kitchen, and then I slide out from behind my table. I keep my head down as I walk fast towards the exit.

The kitchen doors swing open again-too soon, sooner than I expected.

Fuck, fuck, fuck...

"Hey... hey, ma'am... your bill-"

I slam my hands into the front door, my legs already accelerating into sprint mode. The other diners gasp as I burst out onto the sidewalk.

For the second time in as many hours, I'm running from a man.

At least this time I deserve it.

The night is oddly quiet in this neck of the woods. Not many pedestrians, not many cars. Just me and the sound of my own heavy breathing in my ears.