Chapter 1: Bent Over the Counter
The fluorescent bulb above flickered once, twice, then settled into its sickly hum. Ashanti's palms pressed flat against the cracked vinyl of the employee couch, her fingers curling into the foam where the fabric had long since given up. The antiseptic sting of the pharmacy clung to the back of her throat, mixing with something earthier, muskier—the particular scent of Gotherik's sweat as it dripped from his brow and landed on the nape of her neck.
"Fuck," she breathed, the word coming out ruined and half-strangled as his thick hands gripped her hips and pulled her back against him. The couch groaned beneath their combined weight, a sound of protest that went ignored.
Gotherik's breath was hot and ragged against her ear, his tusks grazing the sensitive skin just below her jaw. "You take it so well, don't you?" His voice was a gravelly rumble that vibrated through her spine. "My little pharmacy whore."
She should have been offended. Maybe a year ago she would have been. But the word hit something deep in her gut, something that tightened and burned and made her push back harder against him. "Your whore pays the rent," she gasped, and he laughed—a low, guttural sound that rumbled through his chest and into her back where he pressed against her.
His hand shot up, fingers tangling in her messy bun and yanking her head back. The sting of it pulled a sharp cry from her lips that she couldn't quite swallow. "That's right," he growled, his hips slapping against her with renewed force. "This tight little cunt keeps you in that shithole apartment of yours, doesn't it? Keeps that electric bill paid. Keeps those little herbs in your cabinet."
She wanted to tell him to shut up and fuck her, but the words dissolved into a moan as he hit that spot inside her that made her vision blur at the edges. The fluorescent light above them flickered again, and she could have sworn she saw green sparks dance in her peripheral vision. The magic hummed beneath her skin, a constant companion, a hungry thing that fed on her arousal and threatened to spill out.
Not here. Not now.
She bit down on her lip until she tasted copper, grounding herself in the pain, in the rhythm of his thrusts, in the slap of his heavy balls against her wet flesh. The sound filled the small backroom alongside their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerators stocked with insulin and vaccines.
"Fuck, you're tight tonight," Gotherik grunted, his grip on her hair tightening. "That new spell you been working on? Keeps you wound up like a spring."
Ashanti's laugh was breathless, broken. "Wouldn't you like to know." She reached back and grabbed his thick thigh, nails digging into the greenish-gray flesh. "Now shut up and finish. You've got a wife to get home to."
The reminder seemed to spur him on rather than cool his ardor. His pace quickened, became punishing, relentless. The old couch slammed against the wall with every thrust, and she was certain the pharmacy techs who worked the morning shift would notice the new scuff marks. Let them. Let them wonder.
"Such a naughty girl," he growled, his voice strained with approaching climax. "Stealing from me. Fucking me. What would your mama think?"
The mention of her mother was like ice water down her spine, but she didn't have time to dwell on it because he was there, at the edge, and she could feel the tension coiling in his massive frame. His hand left her hair and gripped her shoulder, pulling her back flush against his chest as he buried himself to the hilt.
"Take it," he commanded, his voice barely a growl. "Take every fucking drop."
She came with a cry that she muffled against her own forearm, her body shuddering and clenching around him as he flooded her with a thick, hot load that seemed to go on forever. The magic beneath her skin crackled and sparked, and for a moment the room smelled like ozone and rain, and she knew the light above them flickered in time with her pulse.
They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled and breathless, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the distant thump of bass from the bar two doors down. Then Gotherik pulled out with a wet sound that made her wince, and she felt his release trickling down her inner thigh as she collapsed onto the couch.
"Fuck," she whispered, pressing her forehead against the cracked vinyl.
Gotherik was already zipping up his pants, the transaction complete as far as he was concerned. "Don't sound so enthusiastic." He pulled a thick wallet from his back pocket and counted out bills, the rustle of cash loud in the quiet room.
Ashanti pushed herself up on her elbows, watching him count. Two hundred. Four. Six. Eight hundred dollars, held out to her like she was nothing more than a contractor who'd completed a job.
She took the money, folded it once, and tucked it into her bra without counting it again. They both knew what it was for. He was paying for her silence. Her compliance. The particular way she looked the other way when his wife called and he lied about working late.
"Same time next week?" he asked, but it wasn't really a question.
"Sure." She sat up, wincing at the soreness between her legs. "Just make sure you bring cash. Card's not going to work for this."
He laughed, shaking his head as he headed for the door. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"
"So I've been told."
The door swung shut behind him, and the lock clicked into place. She was alone in the backroom, surrounded by the wreckage of their encounter—the displaced couch, her discarded panties on the floor, the lingering smell of sex and sweat.
She stood, ignoring the ache in her knees and the mess running down her thigh. Her hands moved automatically, practiced, as she crossed to the locked cabinet where the controlled substances were kept. The lock was a cheap one, easily picked with the bobby pin that lived permanently in her bun. She had it open in under thirty seconds.
Her fingers danced over the bottles, counting by memory, taking only what wouldn't be noticed. Two bottles of Narco. A small bag of oxycodone that Logan would have no trouble moving on the street. She tucked them into her bag, the fabric of her hoodie covering the telltale shape.
Gotherik thought he was using her. He thought the eight hundred dollars bought him ownership of her body, her loyalty, her silence. He had no idea that she was siphoning more value out of this place than he would ever know. The herbs she took for her spells. The chemicals for James to process. The intel on who was buying what and when.
He was a means to an end. As much as she hated the transactional nature of what they did, it kept her lights on and her cauldron full. And one day, she would have enough to leave this city behind and never look back.
She paused at the door, her hand on the handle, and glanced back at the couch. The indentation of their bodies was still visible in the cushions. She felt a flicker of something—shame, maybe, or just exhaustion—and she pushed it down deep where she kept all the other things she didn't want to feel.
The subway platform was nearly empty at this hour. Midnight on a Tuesday had a particular loneliness to it, a quality of being between worlds. Ashanti stood at the edge of the yellow line, watching the rats scurry along the tracks below, their eyes glittering in the dim light.
The air smelled like stale beer and metal, the particular perfume of the city's underbelly. She pulled her hoodie tighter around herself and wished she'd brought something warmer, the night air biting at her exposed legs.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and squinted at the screen.
You good? — Logan.
She typed back with her thumb, the motion automatic. Fine. On my way home. Got product.
The three dots danced on the screen for a moment before his reply appeared. Good, see you at home. Stop at the corner store and pick up some more condoms; I'll pay you back.
The train rumbled toward her, a rush of oily air and screeching metal that drowned out the distant hum of the city above. Ashanti stepped back as the doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, the carriage nearly empty save for a homeless man wrapped in a stained sleeping bag and a teenage couple making out in the corner with the kind of desperate intensity that suggested they thought they were being subtle.
She chose a seat near the back, away from everyone, and pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The tunnel walls blurred past as the train lurched forward, and she watched her own reflection ghost across the dark surface—a tired face with green eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim fluorescent light, a trick of the subway lighting or something else entirely. She could never quite tell.
The condoms. Right. She'd have to remember to stop at the corner store, even though the last thing she wanted was to interact with another human being tonight. The cashier there was a wiry old man with a perpetual scowl and a tendency to stare at her chest while pretending not to. She'd started wearing her most shapeless hoodies when she went in.
The train stopped at another station, and a group of drunk girls stumbled on, their laughter too loud for the hour. They were dressed in skimpy dresses and glittering heels, their makeup flawless, their hair perfect. Ashanti watched them with a hollow sort of detachment, remembering a time when she'd been like that—carefree and dumb and young enough to believe that the world was full of possibilities instead of obstacles.
That was before the coven had cast her out. Before she'd learned that family love had conditions, and she'd failed to meet them.
She pulled her hoodie tighter and let her eyes drift shut, feeling the rhythmic sway of the train lull her into a half-sleep. The magic beneath her skin hummed a low, contented song, feeding on the residual energy of the night, the sex, the theft, the quiet rebellion of it all.
When the train screeched to a halt at her station, she jolted awake and stumbled out onto the platform. The air here was colder, carrying a hint of rain that hadn't fallen yet. She hurried up the stairs, her bag pressing against her ribs with each step, the stolen bottles a comforting weight against her side.
The corner store was still open, its fluorescent lights spilling out onto the cracked sidewalk in a pool of sickly yellow. She pushed through the door, and the bell above it chimed weakly.
The old man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper, and sure enough, his eyes found her chest before they found her face. She suppressed a sigh and navigated the narrow aisles, grabbing a box of condoms from the shelf without looking at it. She also grabbed a pack of gum and a bottle of water, because she knew the old man would be more suspicious if she bought only the condoms and nothing else.
"Cold night," he said as she set everything on the counter.
"Yep." She pulled a crumpled bill from her pocket and handed it over.
Ashanti's smile was tight and didn't reach anywhere near her eyes. "Something like that."
She grabbed her things and left, the bell chiming her exit, and she heard him chuckle behind her. Let him think what he wanted. His opinion of her was worth exactly nothing.
The apartment building loomed ahead, a sagging brick structure that had seen better decades. The front door was held ajar by a folded piece of cardboard, the lock broken since before she'd moved in. She slipped inside and started up the stairs, her boots echoing on the worn linoleum.
She slipped inside and started up the stairs, her boots echoing on the worn linoleum. The stairwell had that particular smell of neglect—old cigarette smoke, mildew, and the sour tang of garbage that never quite made it to the dumpster. The paint on the walls had long since begun peeling, curling away in strips like dead skin, revealing layers of colors beneath: an optimistic yellow from some other decade, then a bureaucratic green, then whatever industrial gray had been the last desperate attempt.
She stepped carefully, weaving through the debris scattered across the landing. A used needle glinted under the bare bulb of the second-floor hallway, next to a crumpled fast-food bag that had become home to something that skittered away as she approached. She didn't flinch. This was her world now, every inch of it, and she'd learned to navigate it the way other people navigated their morning commutes—by rot, by instinct, by not looking too closely at what might be living in the corners.
The third-floor hallway was darker. The bulb here had burned out weeks ago, and nobody had bothered to replace it. She moved by memory, one hand trailing along the wall to guide her, counting doors until she reached the one with the scratched numbers that had once read 23B. Muffled voices filtered through the thin wood, punctuated by a rhythmic banging she recognized instantly.
She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The apartment hit her in waves. The familiar mix of weed smoke, sweat, and something less identifiable hung in the air. Her eyes darted from Logan, who was doubled over one of the new girls from the gang—she couldn't remember her name, they came and went so fast here—to James, who held the girl's head back as she struggled to take them both. The girl's eyes watered, mascara streaking down her face, her throat working desperately.
Ashanti's bag hit the corner with a soft thud.
She didn't look at the girl. She moved past the couch, the floorboards creaking under her weight, and placed the box of condoms on the coffee table among the scattered bottle caps and a baggie of crumbs that used to be some kind of edible. Then she turned, took the blunt from James's fingers, and pulled him close.
His kiss was a mess of hot tongue and weed smoke, and she leaned into it, tasting the sweat on his upper lip and the cheap whiskey on his breath. She sucked on his tongue, deliberate, letting it linger until she felt his grip on the girl's hair loosen, felt some of his attention shift. The girl gasped, and Ashanti inhaled the smoke she needed, holding it in her lungs before turning to Logan.
Logan's eyes met hers over the girl's shoulder. He didn't stop his rhythm, if you could call it that—aggressive and ragged and entirely for his own benefit. She leaned over, her lips meeting his, and she tasted the same edge and hunger, the same desperation she always found when she came home. She pushed the smoke from her lungs into his.
The girl beneath them made a sound that was half-strangled. Ashanti pulled back, taking a second drag, and finally looked at her properly.
The girl was young—too young, maybe, though Ashanti had stopped counting years and started counting survival instincts. Her face was swollen, her lipstick smudged into a clownish smear that made her look like she'd been in a fight. Her hands trembled against the worn couch cushions like she wasn't sure if she should push them off or ask for more. Like she didn't know the difference.
Jackie's voice cut through from the back bedroom, muffled by the door but unmistakable. The bed slammed against the wall in a rhythm that had been going on since Ashanti walked in. She heard a man's voice grunting something unintelligible, followed by Jackie's practiced moans, a performance that had become second nature.
"You bringing your work home now, or did this one just follow you in?" Ashanti asked, her eyes still on the girl.
James leaned back, rolling his shoulders. "These party girls are all the same," he said, sliding off the couch and grabbing the box of condoms from the table. He tossed it at Logan, who caught it without missing a beat. "They hear there's money, they come running. Doesn't matter who's holding the leash."
Ashanti didn't respond. She took a long drag from the blunt; her eyes met Logan's, who was now putting on the condom with a practiced ease.
"Maybe you two should let her breathe," Ashanti said. Her voice was calm, not quite asking.
Logan raised an eyebrow. "She's fine." He snapped the condom wrapper between his fingers. "She's taking it like a champ. Ain't you, sweetheart?" He didn't wait for an answer. He flipped the girl onto her hands and knees and climbed back in, and her voice broke into a wail she quickly tried to swallow.
Ashanti watched for a moment, the smoke curling around her fingers. The weird, empty touch of oblivion she'd been chasing all night hovered just out of reach. She let the high settle into her blood, her limbs heavy, her thoughts lazy, until the sound of the girl's struggle and Jackie's banging faded into a single white noise.
Then she moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on, her hands steady as she set the scratched pot on the stove.
Tomorrow, she'd figure out what to do about the girl. Tomorrow, she'd sell the bottles she'd pocketed and clear her head. Tonight, she let the steam curl up and the fluorescent light buzz, and she waited for the water to boil—a small, mundane ritual in the middle of all the chaos, a reminder that she was still here. Still breathing. Still moving forward, even if the path didn't look like the one she'd imagined.