Fake It Till You Ace It

Brenda stood behind the glass display counter of her vintage clothing store, her chest heaving.

She quickly jammed the half-smoked Marlboro cigarette into the bottom of a heavy glass ashtray, crushing the cherry until it went out.

She grabbed a cheap, pink bottle of rose perfume from the counter. She aimed the nozzle at the air and pressed down, spraying a thick, suffocating cloud of floral mist all around her.

The smell was horrific. The heavy, sweet scent of artificial roses mixed with the stale, bitter stench of cheap tobacco. It smelled like a funeral parlor that had caught on fire.

Brenda inhaled the thick mist and immediately doubled over. A violent coughing fit ripped through her chest.

The sudden jerking motion pulled at the old injury in her lower spine. A sharp, electric shock of pain shot up her back. She gasped, dropping the perfume bottle on the counter, and gripped the edge of the glass case with both hands to keep from collapsing.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete outside.

Brenda's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide with panic.

The front door swung open. Iverson's tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway, completely blocking out the streetlights behind him.

Brenda instantly stood up straight. She forced her facial muscles to stretch into a bright, casual smile. "Ivy! You're here."

Iverson didn't say a word. He didn't smile back.

He raised the red-and-white megaphone to his mouth, flipped the switch, and pulled the trigger.

"HEALTH DEPARTMENT. SURPRISE INSPECTION," his voice boomed through the speaker, amplified to a deafening volume.

The sound waves physically shook the small store. The metal hangers on the clothing racks rattled against the metal pipes.

Brenda shrieked. She grabbed a dirty rag off the counter and hurled it straight at his head.

Iverson tilted his head a fraction of an inch. The rag sailed past his ear and hit the door. He clicked the megaphone off and let it hang by his side.

He reached behind him and pushed the door shut, locking the deadbolt. The noise of the street vanished.

Iverson took one step into the room and inhaled through his nose. His dark eyebrows instantly slammed together.

He walked straight to the counter, his eyes locked on hers. "It smells like a chain-smoker drowned in a vat of cheap perfume in here."

Brenda waved her hand dismissively. "It's the auto body shop next door. The wind blows all their exhaust right through my vents."

Iverson let out a cold, humorless laugh. He didn't argue. He just reached over the glass counter, grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer, and yanked it open.

The heavy glass ashtray, overflowing with crushed cigarette butts, sat right in the center of the drawer.

Brenda froze. She slowly reached up and rubbed the side of her nose, her eyes darting away from his face. She looked like a guilty child.

Iverson opened his mouth, the harsh words already loaded on his tongue. But before he could speak, his eyes dropped to her waist.

She was trembling. Her posture was completely wrong. All of her body weight was shifted onto her left leg, and her right hand was subtly pressing against her lower spine.

The anger drained out of Iverson's chest, replaced instantly by a heavy, sinking ache.

He dropped the megaphone on the counter. He walked around the display case, his movements fast and undeniable.

He placed both of his large hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her down. "Sit."

Brenda let out a sharp hiss of pain as her weight settled onto the old, velvet sofa behind the counter. A thin layer of sweat had broken out across her forehead.

Iverson crouched down in front of her. His eyes were soft, but his voice was hard. "Why haven't you gone to the doctor, B?"

Brenda let out a dry, bitter laugh. She shook her head. "A doctor? In this country? The medical bills would bankrupt me before I even got the X-ray results, Ivy."

Iverson stood up slowly. He turned his head and looked around the shop.

The racks were sparse. The mannequins in the window were wearing the same faded dresses they had been wearing a month ago. There wasn't a single piece of new inventory in the entire store.

The reality of her financial situation hit him like a punch to the gut. It was worse than she had admitted on the phone. Much worse.

He curled his fingers into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. The physical pain grounded him.

"Get your coat," Iverson said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We're going to the wholesale market right now. We're getting you new stock."