Page 17 of Back Room Host

I was already in the dim corridor when Keller suddenly touched my arm. “Juri, wait. Maybe …”

Reflexively, I pushed him away and stepped back. “Hands off!” I hissed.

I knew he had no malicious intentions, but ever since I had escaped hell on earth, my body reacted much faster than my mind in such situations.

Keller stared at me in horror. “I’m sorry,” his expression told me that he also saw the shock on my face. “I meant it. Reach out to me if you need a reference. Anytime.”

Feeling agitated, I wrapped the scarf around my neck and hurried to the staff exit. Outside, I took a deep breath, leaned against a container, and lit a cigarette.

Damn it …

I let out a deep breath, lifting my gaze to the sky. A cool breeze blew through the narrow alley, and the sun peeked out from behind a few clouds. After three days of rain, this should have been a reason to feel relieved, but I just wanted to crawl into a hole. With that in mind, I caught the next bus and headed home.

Maybe I should get some noise-canceling headphones, I thought, as the noise of a moaning concert greeted me at the building entrance. Somehow, I didn’t find it too terrible thatthe apartment Romero rented me was in his Erotic World. What bothered me more was that he didn’t give a shit about soundproofing. The place operated 24 hours a day; there were always customers—no matter what time it was. All I wanted at home was some peace and quiet.

“¡Hola, Godo!” Romero stepped out of his apartment on the same floor. “You know, Friday is payday. Don’t let it end up like last month. I hate to threaten you.”

“You don’t need to threaten me,” I said wearily, forced to stop in front of him since he blocked my path to my door. Romero pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow, so I took out my phone and sent him the rent via the app.

When I moved in here, he wanted cash, but at least I was able to talk him out of that. This way, I didn’t have to pull out my wallet and count the cash in front of him. He didn’t need to know that I had earned triple the monthly rent this weekend.

“Here,” I said, holding out my phone so he could see the confirmation. “Now leave me alone until the end of the year.”

“Godo! Why so grumpy? Oh, oh … shouldn’t you be at the restaurant?”

“Will you let me pass?” I asked, annoyed.

But Romero was like a wall—sun-kissed and broad-shouldered—and furrowed his brows in a mentor-like manner. “Did you mess up?”

“It’s none of your business. Now get out of my way.”

“You know, you can always start working here with me.”

“And give you half of my earnings? No thanks.”

“You’re too proud! You have to see the advantages! You could host your clients here at home.”

The fact that Romero knew how I earned my money was humiliating enough. He never grew tired of reminding me of it every time he saw me. But it annoyed me even more that he kept reminding me that I couldn’t host my clients here.

I tried to convince myself that this situation was good. This way, I kept work and personal life separate. Still, it would have been easier. After all, the hourly rooms cost money, and not every client was willing to take me home with them. Fortunately, in the two months since I had been living here, that had settled down, and my clients were aware of it. New ones had replaced those I had lost because of it.

Ignoring Romero’s comment, I changed the subject because I remembered I was running low. “I ran out of stash. Got anything?”

“But of course.” A grin spread across Romero’s weathered face. Anything that made him money made him happy. “Come with me,” he said, opening his apartment door.

I didn’t like living on the same floor as him, but he was my last resort after my previous landlord found out I hosted my clients at home.

Following Romero through the hallway into the kitchen, I tried to disregard the tacky decor. He was a suck-up and a show-off, but his apartment appeared like his grandmother furnished it.

Next to the TV was a golden shrine with the Virgin Mary on it, while a colorful, hand-stitched wool blanket lay on the shabby brown leather sofa. As much as it seemed that Romero had never completely shed his inner child, it was an assault on the eyes.

“So,” he said, pulling two packs of pills out of the kitchen drawer. “That’s all I have left. Waiting on a new shipment.” He opened another drawer and took out a Mini Grip of cocaine. “Here.”

I gave him the two hundred that I always kept separate in my back pocket and stashed the stuff in my coat pocket. “Thanks.”

Romero followed me to the door, pocketing the money. “Oh, by the way,” he said as we stood in the stairwell again. Clutchingonto my apartment key, I turned to face him. “I don’t want to ruin your day,” he said, “but I ran into your old man yesterday.”

My heart skipped a beat. I froze internally, staring at Romero with an expressionless face. He knew damn well I didn’t want to hear that. The asshole had put me through hell on earth. “So, he’s not dead yet,” I said with a cold, monotone voice.

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