Crimson Oath

The fluorescent lights of the diner hummed, casting a sterile glow on the worn counter. Morgan, bone-tired after a grueling shift, rubbed her swollen belly. All she wanted was her bed. But first, a doctor's appointment.

A small blonde woman, all ripped denim and braids, breezed in, her high-heeled boots clicking a sharp rhythm on the floor.

“Yo, CJ, the club wants their month's rent!” the blonde called out, her voice cutting through the diner's quiet.

CJ, the balding owner, emerged from the back, his eyes lingering on Morgan before she quickly looked away. He was in his fifties, still clinging to a youth long gone.

“Come on, Lace, cut me some slack.”

“I did, last month.”

He reached out and placed a hand on her arm.

“And I appreciate it,” he said.

“And if you take your disgusting, grimy hands off of me I’d appreciate it.” Lacy’s voice was sharp.

He instantly recoiled. Morgan wished she had that kind of nerve. She sighed, gathering a tray of dirty dishes, her feet aching with every step towards the kitchen. As she passed the arguing pair, a hand shot out from a nearby booth, pinching her butt. She winced, used to the casual disrespect. She kept walking, her head down.