Curt went back to his paper, and Kiki grabbed my wrist and hauled me into the laundry room so fast my sneakers squeaked on the tile.
Kiki: Sit down. Don't freak out.
I didn't sit. There was nowhere to sit except the folding table, and the whole room smelled like bleach and old socks.
Romy: You got that face. What did you do?
Kiki: I signed us up.
Romy: You what?!
Kiki: Redgate. The companion thing. I did it last Tuesday.
The floor tilted, and I had to put my hand on the dryer to keep myself standing up.
Romy: You put my name on a prison contract without asking me?
Kiki: I put it there with my own hand, and I'd do it again.
She had the folder out of her jacket before I could even yell at her, every page bent and coffee-stained at the corner.
Kiki: Look at the money, Romy. Look at the room. Look at the part where nobody named Curt gets to touch it.
My hands were shaking, and I hated that they were shaking, because some ugly little part of me wanted to grab that paper and kiss it.
Romy: What if they check on us? What if they call here and Curt picks up the phone?
Kiki: They don't call. They send a letter, and Curt doesn't open your mail, he just throws it out.
Kiki: Six months there is six months where that bastard can't take one fucking dime off you.
I thought about the tip jar. I thought about that deadbolt on the outside of the door and how easy he turned it, like it was nothing.
Romy: He'd kill me if he found out.
Kiki: He'd have to get through me first, and honey, I bite.
That got a laugh out of me, a bad one, the kind that comes out with a hiccup in the middle and makes your chest hurt.
Romy: Kiki. Prison. Actual prison. With men who did actual crimes.
Kiki: Those men are locked up. Curt's out here walking around, and he's worse.
She was never wrong about the ugly stuff. That was the whole problem with her.
Romy: What's the catch? There's always a catch with these things.
Kiki: There's a fee. I'll handle it. Don't ask me how.
My stomach dropped, because Kiki's "don't ask me how" usually meant something pawned, or somebody's sketchy brother, or a lie with two legs under it.
Romy: Kiki.
Kiki: Romy. Just this once, let somebody carry you.
Then Curt bellowed my name from the front desk, and Kiki shoved that folder down the back of her jeans so fast it looked like a magic trick.
Curt: Romy! Towels don't fold themselves, sweetheart!
He stood in that doorway like a stain he was deciding how to scrub, and his eyes went from her face to mine and back.
Curt: What are you two whispering about in here?
Kiki: Girl stuff, Curt. You want the details?
He made a face like the room had insulted him and walked off, and I let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in me since Tuesday.
Romy: Okay.
Kiki: Okay what?
I put my hand out and she took it, and her chipped nails dug into my palm hard enough to leave little half moons.
Romy: Fine. Sign me up. Or, you know, un-sign me and then sign me up the right way.
Kiki: Too late, Romy. You're already mine.
We stood there in the bleach smell holding hands like two idiots, and something in my chest moved that hadn't moved in a long time. Forward.
It was hope, probably. It felt like hope, and it also felt like standing way too close to the edge of something.
Six months. A bed, a payday, and a door that didn't have Curt's hand on the bolt.
A door is only as good as whoever's holding the key, and I didn't know one single soul at Redgate yet.