InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Searching ( Chapter 4 )

Ashur raised his knuckles to rap on the door before stepping back and tapping the plastic card against his palm.

He heard a slight rustling as Jessa opened the door, her expression guarded, distrustful, as she met his gaze.  Hair tumbling around her in the most jumbled, tousled way possible, she looked like she'd just rolled out of bed despite the pink sun dress she wore.

"Here," he said, holding out the card to her.

"What's this?" she asked, her sing-song voice taking on a wary lilt to accompany her Irish brogue, slowly taking the card, turning it over in her hand.

He shrugged.  "A keycard for the front door," he said in an aloof tone of voice since he figured it should have been quite obvious, what it was.

"Thank you," she replied, just as stiffly.   "And thank you for letting me stay here," she went on.  "I . . . I truly appreciate it."

Ashur shrugged and strode away toward the stairs.  "Don't thank me," he called over his shoulder.  Something about her tone . . . She didn't sound particularly thankful.  If anything, it had sounded entirely perfunctory, which was the reason why he'd brushed it off.  She'd actually sounded borderline hostile, if he were honest, and that, more than anything, rubbed him the wrong way.

'Admit it.  The real reason you're being so pissy is because you miss your little bed hog.'

That didn't deserve a response, as far as Ashur was concerned.

'At least you didn't have to worry about waking up with his feet or arse in your face.'

'I just don't want him getting too attached to her when she won't be around that long,'

'Is that your reason, too?'

'I don't need a reason, and I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Don't you?  Then tell me why you stood there so long last night, staring at them . . . and tell me why you were bent out of shape enough that you had to go out and tear down a couple trees . . .? Don't forget to call someone to come deal with that mess, by the way . . .'

'. . . Fuck off.'

Taking the steps, two at a time, he closed the door behind him without stopping and strode through the kitchen, only to heave a sigh when he spotted Kells, sitting on a short bench in the foyer as he tried to put his shoes on the wrong feet.  "If they don't fit, maybe you should try putting them on the other foot," he pointed out, leaning against the banister and ignoring the desire to go over and fix the problem himself.

Kells cocked his head to the side, frowning at his father as he considered what he'd said.  One could almost see the light bulb flash to life over the boy's head, though, and a moment later, he giggled as he stuck one foot behind the other and lifted them off the floor to point at Ashur.  "Now they're right!" he exclaimed.

Stifling a sigh, Ashur shook his head and stepped over to help the boy, anyway.  "Stick out your feet, Kells," he said, kneeling down and holding out his hands.

Kells did, and Ashur jerked back when Kells about nailed him right in the nose.  Of course, the little tyrant giggled madly when he got 'The Look' for it.  Kells wasn’t nearly as intimidated by the stern expression as he really ought to be.  It figured.

He switched the shoes and shook his head when Kells insisted loudly that he, "can tie 'em, Daddy!  Daddy, I can do it!  Daddy, sto-o-o-op it!"

“There,” Ashur stated flatly, pushing the child’s feet off his lap, though not unkindly.

"Where we going?" Kells demanded as he hopped off the bench and stomped to make the soles of his shoes light up.

"I have to go meet with Bas, and you get to go play with Nadia and Emmeline while I do."

Kells stood up straight—he'd been bending over to inspect the flashing lights—and leveled a look at Ashur.  "I can stay here an' play wif Jessa!"

"Oh, no, you can't," Ashur grouched, herding the boy toward the door despite his stomping little protest.  "And we've got to talk about her, anyway, so move it."

Kells growled like a little lion as he stomped out the door and down the steps, stopping on the sidewalk even though his legs kept pistoning up and down, his hands balled into tiny fists as he kept growling angrily.

"That doesn't work on me," Ashur remarked mildly, slapping a hand on the boy's head and directing him forward as he ignored the odd looks Kells was garnering for his display of temper.  "Anyway, about Jessa—"

"I wanna go back!" Kells half-whined, half-growled.  "I wanna play wif Jessa!"

"She's not going to be staying with us long enough for you to get too attached to her," he pointed out.  "And we're moving, remember?"

"Jessa can come wif us!" he insisted.  "She don't got nobody, she said!  We can be her nobodies!"

Ashur snorted, rotating his hand still atop Kells’ head to get the boy to turn right.  "That would be ‘she doesn’t have anybody’, and no, we can't be."

"Why not?"

He was rapidly losing his patience, and he sighed as he counted to ten in his head.  "Because that's not how things go," he said.  "You don’t just pick up people and randomly add them to your family."

"Why not?"

"Because you just don't."

"But she's lonely!"

He rolled his eyes and shook his head.  "How do you know that?"

"Because she cwies at night."

And that statement stopped Ashur in his tracks.  Heaving another sigh, he glanced down at Kells, only to see the forlorn expression on the tiny face.  It wasn't the first time that he'd said as much, was it?  Ashur grimaced inwardly.  "She cries," he repeated.

Kells nodded sadly.  "Why does she do that, Daddy?"

Ashur scooped the boy up and settled him on his hip as he continued walking again.  "She . . . She lost her mama and papa," he said quietly, his gaze clouding over as memories flashed through his head, as fleeting as the spring breeze.  "They . . . They died . . ."

“What does that mean?  Does that mean that they ran away?”

Letting out a deep breath as he tried to think of a better age-appropriate way to explain it to Kells, Ashur frowned.  “No, they didn’t run away.  When someone dies, it means that they go to a place where you can’t see them anymore; where you can’t be with them anymore.”

Kells digested that for a moment before unconsciously snuggling closer.  “That means . . . They leave you alone?  For always?”

Ashur winced.  Kells didn’t see it.  “Y-Yeah . . .”

“And Jessa’s daddy an’ mommy?  She can’t see them no more?  Because they died and left her alone?”

Reminding himself that he’d promised, early on, never to lie to Kells, Ashur nodded slowly.  “Yeah.”

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you gonna die?  Are you gonna leave me alone, too?"

For some reason, that question . . . Ashur flinched and turned his head, kissing the boy's downy hair.  "No, Kells.  I'm not going to leave you.  I'll never leave you."

Kells sighed.

Jessa heaved a sigh as she stepped back out onto the sidewalk, pausing long enough to cross out the ad on the classified page with a frown.

Two hours into her job search at the few places that had specified, 'no experience necessary', and she'd discovered something very valuable—something that she might have thought of earlier if she were thinking clearly, which, apparently, she was not.

She didn't have a work permit or a green card.

Dropping the paper into the trash can nearby, she hurried down the block to grab today's edition at the corner news stand, gritting her teeth as she dropped four of her last thirty dollars into the woman's hand—what was left after her shopping trip yesterday.  Reshouldering her purse as she dug through the paper for the classified ads, she blended into the moving bustle of people on the busy sidewalk as she flipped for the 'help wanted' section.

She gasped and uttered a harsh little squeak as someone on roller blades zipped past her, neatly grabbing her purse and yanking hard, pushing people out of the way as he escaped with her purse.  "Help!" she hollered.  "He stole my purse!"  Not one person even looked in the direction she was waving her arms as the bulk of the newspaper fell onto the sidewalk.  Jessa broke into a pseudo-run, but the two-inch stack heels, along with the narrow but sensible tweed skirt she'd chosen to wear for her job search, hindered it, and she only made it a few paces, before she stopped, giving up since there was no way she could possibly catch him, dressed as she was.

"Here, sweetie, you dropped this."

Glancing over at the sound of the compassionate voice, Jessa sighed as she reached out and slowly took the jumbled newspaper back.  "Thanks," she muttered, scowling back in the direction that the man had disappeared.

The woman sighed, too.  "Happens all the time around here," she remarked.  "Did you have anything good in your purse?"

"Just twenty-six dollars," she muttered, thankful, at least, that she hadn’t remembered to grab her passport out of her knapsack since that would be a lot more trouble to try to replace.  "My last twenty-six dollars . . ."

"Oh, God, that's terrible," she said, pushing back an errant lock of platinum blonde hair.  "You have somewhere to stay, though, right?"

"I-I do," she said, hating how pathetic she sounded.

The woman smiled, her bright blue eyes taking on a friendly glow.  "I'm Carol," she said, slipping an arm through Jessa's and steering her toward a small café.  "I was just on my way home, but come on.  I'll buy you a cup of coffee.  You look like you could use one.  What's your name?"

"Jessa," she replied.  It was on the tip of her tongue to decline, but she sighed.  What was the point?  No matter how long she looked, she wasn't going to find a job, now was she?  Not when she didn't have the required paperwork . . .

"Morning, Jake!  Two brews," Carol called to the barista with a jaunty wave as she dragged Jessa through the café and out to the open-air patio, enclosed by an ornate iron fence.  "He's a sweetie . . . originally from Ohio," she said as she let go of Jessa's arm and flopped into a white wire chair.  "Your accent . . . It’s not quite Scottish, right?  Irish?"

Jessa nodded, slipping into the chair across the table.  "Yes."

Carol nodded as she dug into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of moisturizer.  "Hmm?" she intoned, holding it out to Jessa.  She shook her head and managed a wan smile that she didn’t really feel.  Carol shrugged and squeezed some out onto her fingertips to apply to her pretty face.  "It’s so dry here, this time of year . . . So, how long have you been here?"

"Just a day, so far," Jessa admitted.  "It was . . . kind of sudden . . ."

"Thanks, dollface," she said, winking at Jake as he dropped off two steaming mugs of coffee.  "Coffee cake—two of them," she said, handing the man a twenty-dollar-bill.

He winked at Carol and hurried away.  "I'd do him if he weren't gay," she said with an exaggerated sigh.

"You can tell just from looking at him?" Jessa blurted.

Carol laughed.  "No, he told me,” she said.  "It's a shame, right?"

Jessa smiled the first genuine smile in a long time.  "I . . ."

Carol's laugh escalated as Jake returned with two slices of coffee cake and Carol's change.  "There you go, ladies."

"Thanks," Jessa said.  Carol nodded her thanks since she was still in the throes of her giggling.  Jake smiled and moved away again.

Winding down as she carefully dabbed laughter-tears from her eyes with a paper napkin from the container on the table, Carol reached for her fork.  "Are you just here visiting?"

"N-No," she confessed, her gaze falling on the disheveled newspaper.  "I'm supposed to be staying with my cousin, but she had to leave town, so she ditched me with a friend's brother . . ." Jenna grimaced, wondering exactly why she was telling Carol any of this.

"Wow, that sucks . . . Staying with someone you don't know?"  Sitting back, she toyed with her cake, but didn't eat any yet.  "I came here a couple years ago when I graduated from high school . . . Took all my grad cash and bought a bus ticket.  I wanted to get into acting, so . . . Anyway, I slept on a few benches until I was able to find a job that paid enough, then I moved in with one of the girls I worked with.  That was . . . almost two years ago."  She laughed.  "I haven't gotten my big break, but I've done a few local commercials.  A did a Blondaire Shampoo ad a few months ago.  That was pretty big.  They blew up my head huge.  I was plastered on some of the subway ads for a few weeks . . ."

Jessa sighed as she sipped her coffee, absently wishing that it was a cup of tea, instead.  "I . . . I was trying to find a job," she admitted as she slowly shook her head.  "But I don't have a green card or a work permit, so I guess that's out . . ."

"Oh, you’re looking for a job?" Carol asked over her own coffee cup.

"Yeah, but—"

"Well, not sure if you'd like it, but the club where I work is always hiring."

"Club?  But I don't have—"

She waved a hand.  "Rule Number One: in New York City, there is always someplace that will hire you, even if you don't have the necessary documentation . . . but you won't find them in the classifieds," she added, flicking a well-manicured finger in the direction of the rumpled newspaper.  She made a face.  "I will warn you: it's not the nicest place to work, but if you smile at the customers, maybe let them see a little of the girls—” She paused here and pushed back her shoulders to draw attention to her chest with an exaggerated look designed to tell Jessa just what she meant without actually elaborating with words, “—they can tip pretty damn good."  She laughed as though she'd just made a joke, and she shook her head.  "Anyway, if you're interested, I'll take you there, introduce you to Stan."

"What kind of club?" Jessa asked slowly, unsure if she really ought to trust someone she'd just met.  It seemed just a little too good to be true, and the way her luck went, well . . .

Carol shrugged as she dug into her cake.  "Well, I'm not going to lie.  It's kind of a dive bar, even though Stan calls it a ‘nightclub’,” She flew air-quotes at Jessa.  “There is some questionable stuff can go down, but we're just there to wait on the customers.  If you let them cop a feel every now and then, though, they tend to tip better, but no one says you have to do that.  Besides, most of the time, they're more interested in the dancers than they are in us waitresses . . . On a good night, I can pull a few hundred in tips, easy.  On a bad one, usually at least a hundred, and Stan doesn't make us split tips, so there's that, too."  She laughed.  "No benefits or anything, and the per-hour is practically non-existent, but there are free clinics all over the city, so that's not a big deal, either . . ."

She considered that for a moment.  It didn’t sound like a great job, but then, it didn’t sound like the worst, either . . . And, at the moment, it wasn’t like Jessa could afford to be that picky, not really . . . "It's just waiting tables, then?"

"Yep . . . and I'd be there to watch out for you, too . . . I admit, there are a few regulars that I'd try to avoid if I were you . . . Big tippers, but they're also complete and utter bastards, but since they do like to toss around the green, there are a few other girls who don't mind waiting on them when they come in.  One of the girls will fuck them to soak a couple hundred more from them, but, well, I wouldn't do that . . ."

Jessa blushed at the vulgar term, and Carol giggled.  "I-I-I wouldn't do anything like that," Jessa admitted.

"No one would ask or expect you to.  Dottie's just a damn hussy, so she's the exception, not the rule."

Jessa bit her lip as she considered Carol's words.  On the one hand, she'd just met her, but on the other, she really did desperately want a job, especially if she could make good wages . . . Even so . . .

'I don't know, Jessa . . . It sounds a bit too good to be true, don't you think?'

'Maybe . . .'

'And you know your ma and da would have a fit if they knew what you were thinking!'

'They'd think that I have to have some way of making my own money,' she shot back icily. 'It's not like I have access to the accounts or anything . . .'

'Oh, and just who's being little Miss Bitch now?'

'I'm not being bitchy, I'm being pragmatic,' she argued.

"Jessa?  Are you okay?"

She blinked, brushed aside the annoying statements of her youkai-voice and smiled, just a little.  "I . . . I should like to meet this, 'Stan'," she said slowly, carefully.  "If . . . If it's not a problem, that is . . ."

"Here you are," Jessa said as she slipped the three beer bottles onto the high table toward the back of the warehouse-turned-club known as The Jungle.  The three men at the table chuckled, eyeing her appreciatively as the nearest one reached over to touch the hair that had escaped from the high ponytail she'd carefully arranged just hours before.  Her gut reaction was to jerk her head to the side to avoid his touch.  She tamped it down and smiled at him instead.  "That'll be fifteen dollars."

The one across the table held out a twenty out to the side, folded lengthwise between his index and middle finger.

Taking up the unvoiced challenge, she stepped around the table and grasped the bill, only for him to let go, to close his hand over hers as he pulled her in closer.  "Keep the change, sweetness," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, managing to extricate her hand without incident as she turned to leave.

The one that had touched her hair caught her around the waist, tugging her back against him as she steeled her nerves and tried to squirm away.  "Don't go far, honey," he said in her ear, the stench of beer on his breath making her bite her cheek to keep from gagging.  "We're gonna want another round in a few minutes."

Pulling away from him, she pasted on a tepid smile and nodded as she slipped away from the table.  The flash of the strobe lights over the dance floor hurt her head as the reek of sweat and other scents convoluted, twisting around one another in a god-awful stench, and, not for the first time, Jessa had to wonder just what she'd gotten herself into . . .

"Hey!  Hon!"

Turning her head at the voice that had called out as she passed, she stopped next to a table about midway to the bar.  "Can I help you?" she asked, pasting on the fake smile once more.

"New here?"

She nodded.

The guy grinned.  "Damn . . . Cute, aren't you?"

She ignored his assessment and flopped the green and white order pad onto the tray that she braced against her stomach.  "What can I get for you?"

"Whiskey neat," he replied, handing her a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change."

"All right," she said, taking the money and tucking it into the pocket of the short black apron she was handed at the beginning of her shift as she hurried away.

"Whiskey neat for table thirteen," she called out to the bartender.

She set the small tray on the bar and heaved a heavy sigh as Carol stepped up beside her with a bright and thoroughly encouraging smile.  "You doing okay?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the din of the dingy club.  Dark, dirty, with no windows and a totally grungy, industrial feel, right down to the rusty steel support beams, the black stained concrete floor, the cinderblock and perforated tin walls, the only real bright spots in the establishment were the neon blue lights overhanging the huge bar and the lines of neon lights that surrounded the black lacquered stage where different girls danced in various stages of undress as well as the aforementioned strobe lights that tore right through her brain.

True to her word, Carol had brought her to the club after they left the café, and it had only taken about five minutes after being introduced to Stan Brock, the overweight, middle-aged, balding owner, that he'd offered her a job at the minimum wage for waitresses, explained to her that there was no real dress code for them, but that if she liked tips to try to make sure she dressed to impress, and told her if she wanted the job to show up at ten, which she had done.

It rather disturbed her, just how easy it was to get out of Ashur's townhouse on East 64th Street after going through the few clothes she'd bought and realizing she didn't actually have anything that she suspected would be considered 'appropriate' for her new job.  In the end, she'd settled on a thin black satin blouse that fit her well and a pair of plain black, low-riding jeans, along with a pair of black suede ankle boots.  Then she had simply climbed out one of the small windows in the living room of the maid's quarters that conveniently was on the side of the house, out of view of the back yard or the street after locking the main door for the night, but not before having to deal with a crestfallen Kells, who had wanted to sleep in her room again.  In the end, she had told him that she was going to work, which he seemed to understand, but she'd asked him not to tell his da, which she wasn't entirely sure that he comprehended.  He did, however, understand what a secret was, and when she'd explained that it was a secret, he'd brightened up considerably . . . Even then, it's not like she thought that Ashur Philips would care what she was doing, except for the obligatory sense that he was supposed to be watching out for her . . .

Jessa nodded, pasting on a smile that she was far from feeling as her head throbbed to the pulsing beat of the overly-loud sound system.  "It's not bad," she replied.

Carol turned her head, nodded at the table where Jess had just dropped off drinks to the three lechers.  "How much they tip you?"

"Five," she said with a shrug.

"Five?  Cheap asses . . . Come on."  Rolling her eyes despite the smile on her face, Carol grabbed her arm and started to tug her away.  "Break," she yelled at Roger, the bartender, who waved a hand to indicate that he'd heard her.

"What are you doing?  Where are we going?" Jessa asked, leaning in close to be heard.

"I'm getting you better tips," Carol said as she dragged her through the grimy kitchen, dodging the scant cooking crew, and out the delivery doors in the back.  The doors closed heavily, and Jessa heaved a sigh of relief as the music was abruptly dulled.

Carol let go and took a step back, her brow furrowing as she slowly looked Jessa up and down.  "Here," she said, reaching out, unbuttoning the bottom few buttons on her black blouse.

"What are you doing?" Jessa choked out.

Carol didn't reply as she grasped both ends and tied them together just under her breasts, exposing a large amount of Jessa's belly in the process.  "Carol!"

"Almost . . ." Carol remarked.  She tugged open the top two buttons, leaving just the tie to hold it closed.  "There.  Now you'll get some better tips . . . Damn, you're hot, you know?"

"Carol!" she complained, her cheeks exploding in crimson color, starting to button the shirt once more.

Carol reached out and stopped her with a smile.  "Trust me, Jessa.  If you give them a little peak—not too much, but not too little—they'll throw money at you—especially you.  Just make sure you bend over so they get a good look . . . The hotter you are, the more likely they are to break into the old piggy bank, just to impress you, even if there's not a snowball's chance in hell that they'll ever get to touch . . ." She shook a cigarette out of the pack that was hidden behind an old sign leaning against the rough brick wall, she struck a match and lit it, tilting her head back as she slowly exhaled.

She cast Carol a scowl, but let her hands drop away again.  "If you're sure . . ."

Carol laughed.  "Have you seen the other bitches in there?  You look like a prude in comparison—not trying to be insulting, Jess, but it's true . . ." She sighed and shook her head, her eyes owlish and dark in the harsh and wan light from the naked bulb over the door.  "Though, to be honest?  If you let them occasionally cop a feel?  Then they're putty in your hands, as far as tipping goes . . ."

Shaking her head when offered the burning cigarette, Jessa sighed.  "I don't think that I'd want that . . ."

Carol didn't look surprised.  "If someone gets more handsy with you than you're comfortable with, just let Rock know—he's the bouncer—and he'll put them straight.  Stan might be a lot of things, but he'd never allow any of his girls to be treated in a way that they're not okay with."

Carol took another deep drag off the cigarette before letting go of it and dropping it on the ground to crush beneath her heel.  "Come on," she said with another sigh.  "Let's go get you some decent tips, okay?"

Jessa drew a deep breath, too, pressing her hand against her stomach to quell the strange intrusion of butterflies that had nothing at all to do with anticipation.  "Okay," she agreed.  "Oh . . . Okay . . ."