#crime scene

You couldn’t hold the yelp that exits your throat. You only see the deep, running red of blood. Not the kind of blood that dribbles from a cut.

The kind of blood that mimicked a wet, sticky river from the deep and dark parts of your body.

You’re nearly in tears when you manage to look up.

Infront of you stands a tall man with dark hair, a blonde, older lady, and a guy with long, brown hair and a beard.

Jesus. You knew that the guy who owned this place wasn’t exactly.. legal, to say, but to be killed? Fuckkkk.

You grip the mop.

The lady turns to you with this sickly sweet smile. You feel like fainting and vomiting and running and crying. Maybe you should go back to cleaning? No, then you’d have to clean the blood. Oh lord.

“Hey, baby,” She speaks, a smirk placing her pinkish lips.

You jump when you drop the mop accidentally.

“Hi.” You speak nervously.

“How much was he paying you, pretty?” *she asks, stalking closer. It’s like you were the prey. A simple rabbit to a wolf. A worm to a bird. A cleaner to a drug leader.

“Uh, 80 an hour.”

“80? What, were you sucking his dick in the down time?” She laughs.

“Well, 40 for the cleaning and 40 for keeping my mouth shut about the… stuff.”

“Drugs?” She asks. She knows you know and simply don’t want to say it.

“He’s dead, honey. You can say it.”

You simply nod.

“How much do you charge?”

What were you supposed to say? How much you wanted based on the money they had? Who knows how much she had.

You took her in. An expensive watch. Red bottoms. Gold earrings and necklace. Rings.

“100.” Final decision. It’s high, really high, but you just want out.

“100?” She laughs. She motions the guy with longer hair. He moves and hands you a stack of bills.

“How about 12 thousand. An hour.”

What. The. Fuck.

“What?”

“You heard me. 12 thousand. How do you do with blood?”

“I don’t do.. fucking.. crime scene viscera.” You admit.

“For 14, will you?” She offers.

“Yes.” You say before you can stop it. You’re holding one thousand in your palm right now. 14 an hour for.. cleaning? Shit.

The woman smirks and offers her manicured hand.

“Janine Cody. But you can call me Smurf.”

You take her hand, shaking it as if she’s royalty. How could she not be? She acted like it and goddamn if she didn’t look it. You introduce yourself. She hands you a card. There’s a phone number on it. Hers, presumably. Then she gives you an address.

She steps to the edge of your toes, as close as she can be. She runs her hand through your hair. You stiffen.

“Pope’s gonna love you.” She coos.