The Anti-hero (The Goode Brothers)

“Morning, Gladys,” I call as I cross the soap-scented Laundromat toward the door that leads to my apartment in the back. The sixty-nine-year-old owner is sitting behind the tall counter, watching reruns of Days of our Lives on one of the last working TVs hanging from the ceiling.

“Morning, Sage,” she replies without looking away from the soap opera. “Busy night?”

I pull a can of Mountain Dew from the fridge in the back. Slumping against one of the industrial machines, I crack it open as I roll my eyes. “So fucking busy. We didn’t close until seven.”

She glances down at her watch. “It’s past nine. Where have you been?”

“Stopped for breakfast at Sal’s. Met a cute guy who bought me biscuits and gravy.”

She glares at me over her glasses. “Good. Dump that loser, Brett, and date this guy. I bet he wants to do more with your biscuits than just pay for them.”

I chuckle over my soda. “Eh, he’s not my type.”

“Why? Does he own a car and pay his rent on time?”

I scoff and act wounded, grabbing my chest like she’s stabbed me. “That hurt.” Then I stand upright and point at the TV. “Spoiler. It’s not Stefano’s baby. I’ve already seen this episode.”

“You little bitch,” she snaps, throwing a tiny box of detergent at me as I run toward the exit in the back while laughing. “Love you, Gladys!” I call before disappearing through the heavy door and dashing up the dirty cement stairwell toward my apartment.

She’s not really mad at me, and if she is, she’ll forgive me by closing time. I moved into the apartment above Gladys ten years ago, and she’s been like a mother to me ever since. Okay, maybe “mother” isn’t the right word. More like…weed-smoking, boyfriend-hating, crass, vulgar, brutally honest, and eccentric aunt. Either way, she’s all I’ve got for family, and I’d probably die without her.

When I reach my apartment, I only have to push my key in the lock before I hear tiny claws clicking excitedly against the wood floors. As I push open the door, Roscoe starts yipping like mad. I quickly lift the six-pound, three-legged chihuahua into my arms and kiss the side of his head.

“Hey, little guy. Did you have a nice night with Auntie Gladys?”

He licks the side of my face while I drop the keys in the bowl on the entryway table. As soon as I see the cozy sofa in my living room, a warm haze of red and purple cascading over the room through the patchwork curtains, it suddenly hits me how sleepy I am. Before I can collapse and sleep for the next eight hours, I take Roscoe out through the fire escape and down to the fenced-in area behind the building. We had a handyman put the small fence back here with an eight-by-eight patch of turf and a bowl of water for Roscoe to use since we don’t have a yard.

He doesn’t mind it, especially since it was this exact alleyway that I found him in two years ago. I caught Gladys feeding him her leftovers, and after that, he never left. We share custody, which works out since she and I work opposite shifts.

While he does his thing on the turf, I sit down on the metal stairs and pull out my phone. Immediately I think of Adam, remembering how good he smelled and how soft his arm was under my hand when I touched him. He was simply flawless. With nearly black hair, perfectly combed in place, and a neatly cropped beard, he reminded me of something out of a J.Crew catalog. I’d love to grunge him up a bit. I bet he gets even hotter the dirtier he gets.

Worry and regret land hard in my gut like a stone, weighing heavily on my conscience. Is that the kind of guy I should be trying to settle down with? Gladys was right. By the looks of him, he’s got a lot more going for him than Brett. If I’m being honest with myself, I know Brett is never going to marry me. We’ve been dating for three years and we haven’t even moved in with each other. Or talked about it. I’m twenty-seven years old. Not to say I’m in a rush to settle down, but the longer I wait, the smaller that dating pool is going to get.

What would my life even look like with a guy like that, though? My nightlife would be traded for what…the suburbs? Regimented and routine monotony. Every day in bed by ten, sex once a week, if we’re lucky, a few drinks on the weekends, and our only friends would be some boring married couples that live the same dull lives we do.

Well, when you put it that way…

No, thank you.

Roscoe yips at a passing man at the end of the alley, who instantly gives me the creeps, so I scoop the dog up and hurry back up the fire escape, locking my window behind me. Then, I fill Roscoe’s dishes with kibble and water, patting him on the head before unlacing my boots and kicking them into the corner. While I walk into the living room, I unbutton my denim shorts and shimmy them down my legs, plopping down on my cozy sofa in nothing but my panties and loose-fitting crop top.

The moment my head hits the pillow, my body feels like lead. A heavy duvet is draped over the back of the couch and I pull it over me, snuggling up in the cool covers against my warm skin.

I own a bed—I just haven’t slept in it in months. Or maybe it’s been a year already. I’m not sure why, but there’s something about dozing on my couch that feels more natural. Maybe it’s my erratic sleep schedule or the fact that going to bed feels like such a proper, mature thing to do, whereas I generally crash where I land instead.

When I go to Brett’s for the night, I sleep in his bed, but that’s not often anymore. We see each other at the club all the time, which means that’s usually where we have sex. So at the end of most nights, we go to our separate apartments, and that’s that. I have Roscoe to take care of anyway, and I feel bad when I leave him with Gladys.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, so I pick it up and see Brett’s name on the screen.

We did over twenty grand in liquor last night.

I roll my eyes as I read the message, my fingers flying to respond.

Because Penny isn’t limiting the patrons like she’s supposed to.

The text bubbles pop up as he responds.

Why would we limit them if this is our biggest moneymaker?

So much for sleep, I can practically feel my blood boiling.

Because it’s a sex club, Brett. Letting our patrons get drunk is a liability.

I already know his argument before his text pops up.

They’re adults, Sage. What they do is up to them. We have security so no one gets hurt.

You need to lighten up.

I resist the urge to throw my phone through the window and down to the dirty alleyway below. All of Brett’s decisions are motivated by money and profits. He doesn’t do the research like I do. He doesn’t care about safety or liabilities. He doesn’t network with other club owners like I do.

It should be me running that club, but that’s a fight for another day.

To him, it’s just a club where people fuck and occasionally get kinky, but he has no respect for the safety or lifestyle of our patrons. It’s for this reason that most of our patrons are disrespectful, horny assholes who think it’s a brothel, not a sex club.

The only reason he forbids them from bringing their cell phones into the club is to keep them from posting incriminating evidence that would get us shut down. Every day, I battle with the impending doom that I’ll be stuck going down with this ship, but I refuse.

It’s a good thing my name is nowhere on the business, even though I care about Pink a hell of a lot more than he does.

I’m going to sleep. It’s your club. Do what you want.

Guilt assaults me as I toss the phone down with a huff. I hate fighting with him, especially about the club. I’m not an owner. I have no real influence. Technically, I’m an employee and not even one with authority.

But I want to be.

Same sob story, different day. I love Brett, but the dream I’ve been carrying of us running that club together is getting hazier by the day. I can either fight for our relationship, or I can fight for the club, but I can’t have both.

What’s sad is I’m not really sure which one I would choose.

My phone buzzes again, so I lift it to see the screen.

Baby, don’t be like that.

You gotta trust me. I know what I’m doing.

My jaw clenches tight as I swallow down my resentment. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t hear just how condescending that sounds.

I’m going to sleep.

I almost put the phone on the table before adding in a quick, I love you.

He responds quickly.

Love you, baby.

He does. I believe he does.

And maybe that’s why I’ve stayed as long as I have. It’s hard to leave someone who loves you, even though you know realistically it’s not working. Love is stupid like that. It’s like drinking poison because it tastes good.

Roscoe jumps up onto the couch, nuzzling himself into the space between the back of my knees and the couch. Then he rolls himself into a little ball like a tiny armadillo and lets out a disgruntled-sounding sigh.

With a laugh, I pet his head and try to force myself to stop thinking about Brett and the club.

Instead, I reminisce about breakfast, reliving the moment Adam smiled at me, really looking me in the eye and not at my tits or my ass. The way I felt being next to him. The way I’d feel if a guy like him liked a girl like me.