Jesus.
A near-empty bottle of Scotch on the night stand, a faint tang of vomit from the fold-away john. A headache like artillery fire, pounding explosions of light and pain. Knuckles bloody on both hands, dried blacker than the skin beneath. A faint memory of punching somebody, no recollection of who. And, of course, a hooker passed out naked on the bed alongside her.
Yep, must be Tuesday. Or Thursday. Whatever.
Nikki fumbles for the button and turns on a light, confirming that she’s in her own place, so at least she doesn’t have a walk of shame to deal with. Less happily this means she’s got to get rid of the hooker, which is complicated by the fact that this wasn’t a paid gig.
“Hey, wakey-wakey,” she says, giving the sleeping figure a shake. With her face turned away, Nikki can’t see who it is. Probably Donna, going by the short crop. She remembers talking to Donna in Sin Garden.
“Come on, sleeping beauty. Time’s up. Off you fuck.”
The girl stirs and rolls around on to her side. It’s not Donna. It’s Candy, but with a new haircut. That’s what she calls herself when she’s dancing or turning tricks. Her real name is Candace. She’s a sous-chef at one of the fancy restaurants over on Wheel Two. Everybody here’s got two jobs, and those are just the official ones.
Nikki remembers now. She talked to Donna but it was about business. Donna owes her money. She wonders if Candy stepped in by way of distraction. No. She met Candy in the Vault. But who did she punch, and where? Shit, it’s all so blurry.
She drank so much last night, except according to the clock, last night is not last night. She’s only been asleep a couple of hours. The hangover is kicking in but technically she’s still drunk. Wouldn’t take too much to get a buzz back on, except she has work to do.
She didn’t really mean to sleep at all. As far as she can work out, the last time she woke up in this bed was only about eight hours ago, though she really, really can’t remember shit beyond that.
She has to get dressed. She reaches for the floordrobe and grabs the garments she discarded in an eager hurry not so long ago.
“You gotta be someplace?” Candy asks blearily. “I thought you were on Pacific phase.”
“Only for my day job.”
“Shit. Well, I’m on Meridian and I’ve been working eighteen hours straight. Can’t I crash here a while?”
Nikki thinks about it. Either way she’s going to be rid of Candy in about five minutes, so she might as well bank a favour.
“Okay. But that don’t include refrigerator privileges, all right?”
Candy sighs.
“You okay, Nikki?” she asks. There’s concern in her voice, which makes Nikki’s hackles rise.
“The fuck is it to you?”
“Just asking. You were in a weird mood before you fell asleep. You were crying. You want to talk about it?”
“I thought the reason people paid hookers was so they didn’t have to talk to them after they fucked.”
Candy sits up in bed, wide awake now. Pissed.
“Oh, you’re gonna pay me for last night, is that what you’re saying? Because I thought it was something else.”
Nikki shrugs.
“Whatever it was, it don’t make you my goddamn confidante, like I’m gonna share my emotional burdens with you.”
“You were happy enough to share plenty of other things just a few hours ago,” Candy replies, voice all coy and sing-song.
“Yeah, well, don’t flatter yourself. Pussy is like fried chicken from Monty’s Late-Nite Take-Out. I only feel like eating it when I’m drunk.”
Candy looks pityingly at her. Candy. The hooker.
“That line would only work if you ever fucked somebody sober. I work the Vault, remember? I seen the number of guys you leave with. Seems to me when you’re drunk you got just as much an appetite for cock as for chicken.”
Nikki knows she’s got no come-back for that.
“I guess we’re all lonely up here,” she offers, pulling a shirt over her head. “Even a cold-hearted bitch needs to feel somebody likes her now and again.”
Candy shakes her head.
“They don’t like you, Nikki. It just seems that way because they don’t hate you as much as you do.”