“You’re being too generous.”
It’s been a long time since I painted. Even talking about it is an incredibly sore spot for me, which Janka knows. Back before the divorce I was really starting to make a name for myself outside the city, even getting some of my paintings featured in a local gallery. There was a point in time where I really truly thought I could make a career out of doing something I love.
Bartek put a stop to that real fast though as soon as the divorce proceedings stopped. He dragged my name through the dirt and made sure he was entitled to all my paintings in the settlement.
I almost quit forever.
“You should totally sell that. I bet you could get at least five hundred Zloty for that.”
I laugh because she’s so innocent about some things, art being one of them. A painting this size would warrant at least twenty times that. A thousand zloty wouldn’t even cover groceries for the week, and I’ve been pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into this sucker for a month now.
Janka is innocent when it comes to some things, but when it comes to other things, the raven haired vixen knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s the kind of woman who is devious and manipulative, and even though men know it, they keep coming back for more.
“Speaking of zloty, I have a job for us tonight.”
I scratch at the paint smudge on my forehead and wrinkle my nose.
“Rent’s due in a week,” she says, matter of factly. “Unless you have some other option, we can’t afford to turn this down. Besides, you need to get your ass out of the house. Breathing in these fumes all day is going to kill all your braincells.”
I sigh and grab the bottle of vodka from her hand, taking a long swig. Maybe if I was beautiful like her, confident like her, tall and mysterious like her, I’d actually enjoy these jobs. Instead, I always end up feeling like the third wheel, or a hairy mole on an otherwise perfect complexion.
She walks over to my closet and starts flipping through my clothes. “Just because you’re divorced doesn’t mean you have to dress like an old maid.”
“Hey, it’s not a hundred percent my choice,” I retort. That’s only half of a lie. Bartek got most of my stuff in the divorce including my clothes, and I know it was only because he was trying to keep me reliant on him. When I started buying new things, though, I always gravitated to comfort over fashion. I’m happiest in jeans and a cardigan or sweats and a tank top.
She grabs a red sequined tube top from a hanger and tosses it to me.
“That was my Halloween costume,” I remind her. “Where are you taking me? A haunted house?”
“Oh, it’s better than that. We’re going to the casino tonight, baby!” she says with a toothy smile.
“Okay, you have my attention, you evil bitch.”
“I knew you’d like that.”
What isn’t there to like about the casino? The drinks are free and we can usually shove enough food in our purses from the buffet to feast for at least a few days. I don’t have a lot of cash to gamble with, but I always manage to find some pocket change to feed my addiction.
“Maybe you can even meet yourself a hot date while we’re there. How long has it been since you had a hook up? Maybe if you got a little dick you wouldn’t be painting caves covered in cobwebs and calling them a metaphor.”
“Shit, it does kind of look like that now that you mention it,” I say, shaking my head at my masterpiece. It has been a long time since I just went out and had fun. My vagina is definitely a cobweb filled cave at this point. “I thought we were working though.”
“Oh it’s an easy job. He’s seventy eight years old for fucks sake. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
I throw off my chunky sweater and slide the tube top over my head. It’s uncomfortable as hell, the sequins cutting into my armpits every time I move, but I have to admit, I don’t hate what I see in the mirror.
She whistles at me and nods in approval. “I have the perfect shorts to match.”
I plug in my curling iron and take a makeup wipe to my face, trying to scrub off the paint remnants from my skin. Janka returns with a pair of black leather shorts and some fishnet tights.
“Everyone’s gonna think I’m a prostitute,” I say.
She giggles and hands them to me. “Isn’t that the point?”
I don’t know what’s worse in the eyes of society, being an actual prostitute, or doing what Janka and I do.
I put on the tights and shorts and a pair of high heel black leather boots. I curl my dirty blonde hair into tight ringlets and then tuck it on top of my head in an elegant upsweep, picking it with a rhinestone comb. Janka helps me perfect my smokey eye look, and I glob on enough mascara that I can barely keep my eyelids open.
I grab my fancy bottle of perfume out of the drawer in my vanity, spritzing a little under my armpits and on my neck. I only use this stuff on times we go out on jobs. Something about it makes me feel a little classier, a little more confident.
I’ve been milking this bottle out for the last twelve years and the scent of sandalwood, vanilla, and expensive musk always makes me feel beautiful. I cringe as Janka grabs the bottle and starts spraying herself down with it like cheap body spray.
“That’s seven hundred fifty zloty an ounce!” I whine.
“And how the hell did you end up with it?” she asks. “Did you lift it from somebody’s hotel room? Did you steal this on a job?”
“No, a man … a boy
