Chapter 12 Chapter 12: The Thrill
“What’ll it be, darlings?” she purred, not looking up from her task.
Max licked his lips. “My friend here wants a hot tub. And I’ll take Dotty, if she’s free.”
She checked a ledger bound in what looked like fake leather. “Dotty’s in Room 6, thirty Chids for twenty minutes. Hot tub’s twenty Chids. Forty with… company.” Her eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked to me. “First time? We’ve got everything you could need. Boys, men, girls, I know your type.”
“Damn it, I just want a bath,” I pleaded, too tired for games.
“All the same, sweetheart. But I can see right through you.” She tapped her temple with a long nail. “Old Jenny Jones knows everything.”
I cringed. “Just a bath. But I don’t have many Chids. What else will you take?”
“Meds? Drugs? Rads?”
I pulled out my last four Rad pills, swallowed one dry, then offered the remaining three. “This enough?”
Her fingers closed over mine, lingering a second too long as she took them. “Good enough. Tools?”
“Tools?” Max cut in, confused.
“Weapons, you fool,” she said without looking at him.
We laid our arms on the counter. I felt a profound vulnerability, a nakedness worse than being unclothed, as I set down my trusted knives and my Guardian with a heavy thud.
“Lookin’ for a fight, darling?” she asked with a wink. “Hot tub’s fourth door on the right. Towels inside.” My eyes lingered on my gun, my hand twitching with the need to hold it. “Don’t worry yourself,” she said, voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Your weapons be here when you’re done. Now run along, water be getting cold soon enough.”
I didn’t know what to expect when I gingerly pushed the door open, but whatever I had imagined, it wasn’t this. A spotlessly clean, expansive room greeted me, its cream-colored walls and tiled floor gleaming under the soft glow of countless real candles. A plush sheepskin rug lay near the centre, and atop it sat a massive, old-world enamel bathtub perched on lions’ feet, filled with steaming, clear water that shimmered in the candlelight. The air smelled of soap and lavender.
For a moment, I hesitated, almost ashamed to tread on that pristine floor with my filthy boots. I set my scuffed rucksack on the only other piece of furniture, a delicate metal-framed chair with cream woven upholstery, then stripped off my dirt-caked clothes, leaving them in a guilty heap on top.
Sinking into the water was almost painful at first, my body stiff and prickling with tension, until the heat seeped into my bones, melting away the numbness and the grime. I lay motionless for a full ten minutes, letting the warmth cradle me, my soul drinking in the profound quiet like a woman starved.
Eventually, I reached for my rucksack, pulled out my precious sliver of soap, and scrubbed myself raw, as if I could scour away the last six months, my past life, the blood, the betrayal, leaving nothing but clean, untouched skin. A fresh start. Then I took my filthy clothes and laundered them in the same water, scrubbing with the soap, wringing them out, and draping them over the edge of the tub to dry.
Once everything was clean, I submerged beneath the soapy bubbles, opening my eyes underwater, testing how long I could hold my breath in the perfect silence. I did this three times, each immersion longer than the last, the third nearly three full minutes, until my lungs burned and my mind was blissfully empty of everything but the need for air.
But when I surfaced again, gasping and pushing my hair back from my face, I realized I was no longer alone.
A young woman, maybe twenty, with kind eyes and a gentle smile, stood watching me from the doorway, a towel and a hairbrush in her hands.
“I didn’t ask for company,” I nearly barked, instinctively sinking lower in the water. “Get out.”
She was slight but unshaken, her smile unwavering. “The Mistress sent me to wash your hair,” she said softly. “No funny business, I promise.”
At first, I didn’t know what to say. The offer was so alien, so unexpectedly kind. Then, after a beat, I nodded, my voice barely a whisper. “Alright then.”
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so cared for, like a child being tended by a mother I never had. She knelt beside the tub, poured warm water over my hair, and washed it with a lavender-scented soap I hadn’t provided. She massaged my scalp, fingers working out knots of tension I thought were permanent. Then she patiently worked through the tangled bird’s nest atop my head, brushing it smooth with a tenderness that made my throat tight, before towel-drying it and plaiting it with surprising elegance.
When she finished, she stood waiting with a large, soft towel held open, ready to wrap me as I stepped from the bath.
I rose, water sluicing off me, feeling cleaner and more peaceful than I had in years, and that’s when the magic shattered.
Her eyes, which had been so kind, dropped from my face, down my neck, over my shoulders, to my chest and widened in pure, unfeigned horror. She took one look at me at what I was, and a blood-curdling scream ripped from her throat. She bolted from the room, the towel tumbling forgotten to the wet floor.
Shocked and cold, I turned toward the large, gilded mirror on the wall. And I saw what she saw: the smooth, scarred skin where a woman’s curves should have been. The truth of me, laid bare. I caught my reflection and died inside once again.
That’s me. That’s what I am. I turn beauty into the beast, matching the cruelty of this world we live in.
Mechanically, I stepped out, dried myself, and pulled on my spare set of underwear and the only other dry clothes I owned, my dress, the short, threadbare one that didn’t quite meet the town’s modest standards. Tightening my gun belt around my starved-thin waist, I shoved my feet into my still-muddy boots, nothing is pure in this town and stepped out to retrieve my gun and blades, my face a stony mask.
Jenny Jones stood there with an I-told-you-so smirk plastered across her face. “Knew it,” she said, laughing as she handed over my weapons. “Gave my girl a well-earned shock, though. Your friend’s waiting outside.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a sly, conspiratorial whisper. “You know, you could earn some real money in here, sweetheart. Fellows like a bit of the… unique. Just let old Jenny know when you’re ready to make some proper Chids.”
I forced politeness, fingers curling around the familiar grip of my Guardian. “No, thanks. Not my thing.”
She cackled again, loud and knowing. “When you’re hungry, it’s everyone’s thing, honey. You’ll be back; they always come back!” Her voice, rich with mocking certainty, chased me as I walked away into the grimy street.
“They always come back!”