Owned by the Hitman

Chapter 6: Katy

I'm slow getting ready for work today.

Every tick of the clock on the wall reminds me of how harrowing my situation is. Today is the day, and I have nothing for them. I stand in front of the foggy mirror in my tiny bathroom, searching for my face amidst the condensation clouding the reflection. I rub a circle of clarity into the mirror's surface and blink sadly at myself. I look like hell.

I spent the whole night agonizing over what to do, and I'm still at a loss.

At three in the morning I was still digging through online auction sites, posting ads for every piece of decent clothing, every nonessential I own. My eyes are pink-rimmed from hours of staring at a laptop screen in the dark, and my back aches from the tense position I was perched in all night. I guess I must have fallen asleep sitting up around eight o'clock, my neck bent at a totally not-normal angle. I was certainly feeling that now, as I stretch my limbs in the shower and tried my best to feel like a regular person.

For as long as I can remember, taking a long, hot shower has been the best form of therapy for stress. After my dad died, I used to sit in the bathtub and let the steaming water pelt my cheeks until the tears stopped falling. And it is still what I turn to in times of stress — which comprises most of my waking hours these days, as it turns out.

I always thought that by this age, I would have things more figured out. Then again, I never expected to lose my whole family by the age of twenty-two, either. But life has a funny way of forcing you into places you've never been, and forcing you to become a person you never planned to become.

I blow-dry my hair and plait it into a simple braid over my left shoulder, then apply just enough makeup to make it less obvious that I haven't really slept. My phone starts buzzing on the bathroom counter and I press the stop button — my eleven AM "get up and go to work" alarm. I sigh and slip into a pair of dark jeans, black kitten heels, a scarlet off-the-shoulder tank top, and throw a black blazer on top of it all to inject some professionalism into the look. I need an outfit that is both comfortable and indicative of my position as the owner of the club.

I'm trying not to think about the fact that I may be selecting an outfit for my own appointment with the gallows. Or, more accurately, the mafia.

My mom used to always say that if you're going into a bad situation, you might as well look good getting there. It's a piece of advice that has stuck with me ever since. I swing my purse over my shoulder and take a final glance in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my bathroom door. I do look pretty good, especially considering the lack of sleep and, well, everything else I've got going on at the moment. Thank God for small miracles, I suppose.

Locking the door behind me, I click-clack down the hall to the elevator and ride it down to the first floor. There's a hunched little old man in the elevator who gives me a sweet smile. I'm sure I've met him before — he's probably one of my neighbors. I try to remember his name as he checks his wristwatch and comments on the weather.

"Supposed to rain," he says quietly.

I nod politely, and he continues.

"You look very nice today. Don't forget an umbrella," he adds with a genuine wink as he stops off on the second floor before I can muster a thank you. I notice then that he's got a small bouquet of daisies tucked under his arm, and just before the elevator doors close, I see one of the doors open and a grinning, elderly woman throws her arms around him. Despite the anxiety brewing in my gut, a smile springs to my lips. Sometimes it's actually a relief to know that there are so many people leading happy lives out there. And some small, stubbornly optimistic part of me still hopes that one day I will find happiness, too.