Working Girls Read Online Free
Author: Treasure Hernandez
wrinkled bills. His mind began to work overtime. âBingo!â he whispered. He now had a plan.
Chapter Three
H alleigh had just walked down the street and into the corner store, still high from the line she had inhaled minutes earlier. High as a kite, she kept her head down as she picked up a few items and then stood in line.
As she had aimlessly strolled to the store, her thoughts, just as they always managed to do, suddenly landed on Malek. Now she stood in the line, still consumed by thoughts of her past boyfriend, whom she thought was going to be her future.
I miss that boy so much. I wonder if he ever thinks about me. Halleighâs eyes watered as Malekâs motherâs words filled her head, reminding her that there was probably no way on earth Malek was thinking about her.
âHalleigh, Iâm sorry to be the one to break this to you, but Malek left this morning. His father came into town and thought that it would be good for him if he got away from all this madness, until things could die down and get cleared up. He didnât want to see you, honey.â
Halleigh caught a tear that had managed to escape her eye and wiped it away. She couldnât believe Malek had just up and left her just like that. Her mind understood the words Mrs. Johnson had spoken, but her heart just couldnât believe them.
Ironically, Mrs. Johnson couldnât believe she was telling Halleigh that boldfaced lie either, but she had to do something to keep Halleigh, whom she always felt was no good for her son, away from him. So, after filling Halleighâs head with all those lies about Malek abandoning her and not wanting to see her, Mrs. Johnson had simply repented, making the excuse to God that she had done it for the sake of her son.
Lost in her thoughts, Halleigh didnât even notice the crackhead eyeballing her through the glass door from outside the store. In all actuality, sheâd never even noticed him when he tried to bum money from her as she was entering the store. But she would certainly notice him in a few minutes.
Scratch searched frantically throughout the alley. He needed to find some sort of weapon so that he could rob the girl heâd been scoping out inside the store. He felt bad about what he planned to do, but he had to get the monkey off his back, and quick. At the time, the dead presidents she kept stashed in her brasierre seemed like his only option right now. And since opportunity was knocking, heâd be a fool not to answer the door.
He grabbed a short but thick stick off the ground and quickly put it up under his shirt. He then proceeded to arrange it so that it poked through his shirt to look like a gun. He leaned against the side of the building in the alley and awaited his prey.
âGive me yoâ muâfuckinâ money!â he whispered, trying to practice his approach. For years he had managed to get high without ever having to knock an old lady upside the head; ironically, something he was proud of. The girl he was preparing to rob wasnât no old lady, but still, he was doing something he thought heâd never have to do and he felt ashamed. As an addict, Scratch had always comforted himself with the logic that he wasnât hurting anybody but himself by getting high. But now that was about to change.
He looked down at the stick and knew that it wouldnât pass as a gun. âDamn! This shit ainât gonâ work,â he said to himself. He threw the stick down in frustration and became agitated as he sought out another weapon in the litter-filled alley.
Scratchâs eyes focused on a broken beer bottle. âYeah, that right there will do it.â He walked over and picked up the bottle. He then rehearsed his line again. âGive me yoâ muâfuckinâ money!â he spat softly. âOr Iâll cut your fuckinâ throat.â Scratch smiled, figuring he had found the right approach, but then his smile quickly
Chapter Three
H alleigh had just walked down the street and into the corner store, still high from the line she had inhaled minutes earlier. High as a kite, she kept her head down as she picked up a few items and then stood in line.
As she had aimlessly strolled to the store, her thoughts, just as they always managed to do, suddenly landed on Malek. Now she stood in the line, still consumed by thoughts of her past boyfriend, whom she thought was going to be her future.
I miss that boy so much. I wonder if he ever thinks about me. Halleighâs eyes watered as Malekâs motherâs words filled her head, reminding her that there was probably no way on earth Malek was thinking about her.
âHalleigh, Iâm sorry to be the one to break this to you, but Malek left this morning. His father came into town and thought that it would be good for him if he got away from all this madness, until things could die down and get cleared up. He didnât want to see you, honey.â
Halleigh caught a tear that had managed to escape her eye and wiped it away. She couldnât believe Malek had just up and left her just like that. Her mind understood the words Mrs. Johnson had spoken, but her heart just couldnât believe them.
Ironically, Mrs. Johnson couldnât believe she was telling Halleigh that boldfaced lie either, but she had to do something to keep Halleigh, whom she always felt was no good for her son, away from him. So, after filling Halleighâs head with all those lies about Malek abandoning her and not wanting to see her, Mrs. Johnson had simply repented, making the excuse to God that she had done it for the sake of her son.
Lost in her thoughts, Halleigh didnât even notice the crackhead eyeballing her through the glass door from outside the store. In all actuality, sheâd never even noticed him when he tried to bum money from her as she was entering the store. But she would certainly notice him in a few minutes.
Scratch searched frantically throughout the alley. He needed to find some sort of weapon so that he could rob the girl heâd been scoping out inside the store. He felt bad about what he planned to do, but he had to get the monkey off his back, and quick. At the time, the dead presidents she kept stashed in her brasierre seemed like his only option right now. And since opportunity was knocking, heâd be a fool not to answer the door.
He grabbed a short but thick stick off the ground and quickly put it up under his shirt. He then proceeded to arrange it so that it poked through his shirt to look like a gun. He leaned against the side of the building in the alley and awaited his prey.
âGive me yoâ muâfuckinâ money!â he whispered, trying to practice his approach. For years he had managed to get high without ever having to knock an old lady upside the head; ironically, something he was proud of. The girl he was preparing to rob wasnât no old lady, but still, he was doing something he thought heâd never have to do and he felt ashamed. As an addict, Scratch had always comforted himself with the logic that he wasnât hurting anybody but himself by getting high. But now that was about to change.
He looked down at the stick and knew that it wouldnât pass as a gun. âDamn! This shit ainât gonâ work,â he said to himself. He threw the stick down in frustration and became agitated as he sought out another weapon in the litter-filled alley.
Scratchâs eyes focused on a broken beer bottle. âYeah, that right there will do it.â He walked over and picked up the bottle. He then rehearsed his line again. âGive me yoâ muâfuckinâ money!â he spat softly. âOr Iâll cut your fuckinâ throat.â Scratch smiled, figuring he had found the right approach, but then his smile quickly
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