"Get dressed and get out." Marilyn didn't have time to react before the bundle of her clothes hit her in the back of the head. They were what she usually wore for her nightly "work." She pulled herself to her feet and grabbed her bag from the floor, the one that held her money. Her entire body hurt. All she wanted now was to go home. He'd scratched her up pretty bad, and definitely hadn't been gentle. It hurt just to stand up. This guy had been into some rough shit, and safe words had been useless. He hadn't stopped, she remembered that much. She tended to disassociate during sex work. But he'd paid her. And she wasn't dead. Slipping away into the apartment bathroom, she dressed herself again, not bothering to clean up her bleeding back. She was comforted by the pocketknife that rested in her against her thigh in the pocket of her shorts, and then attempted to scramble from the apartment, but was stopped by the man she had just serviced as he pinned her against the wall. "We should do this again sometime," he purred, running a hand up her thigh. Her vision was blurred and she felt dizzy. She caught a glimpse of a syringe on the nightstand. He'd shot her full of something. Some kind of drug. Fuck. That explained why she felt so sick. She had to get out of here. Get home. If you could even call it home. "Next time," Marilyn purred to him, using the same sultry persona she had for this. Naturally she wasn't into this stuff at all. "Not tonight." Then she left as quickly as she could, trying not to stumble and hurt herself. She had to get back to Tammie. Her girlfriend. They were both prositutes, and they both hated it. Marilyn didn't like having to have sex with people she didn't know just so she could have enough money to survive, and she wasn't crazy about her girlfriend having sex with anybody other than her either, but they'd both just accepted that it was either doing that, or starving. Occasionally one of them managed to find work doing some sort of odd job, but those opportunities were rare and never seemed to pay well. Neither one of them had had a steady job for a while, and being transgender women made it even more difficult for them to find work. Marilyn had been kicked out by her parents at the age of eighteen, and with no job, had been forced to resort to prostitution almost immediately. Tammie had been another story. She had worked as a waitress until shortly after her mother's death, something that had completely shattered her. She'd had nobody to turn to to help her with her grief, it had affected her job performance, and she'd been fired pretty quickly. Having no other way to make money, she'd had to resort to selling herself for money. Marilyn hated this. She hated fucking for money. Her family had cut her off, both her parents and extended family. Before she'd been kicked out she had been close to her younger cousins, but hadn't been allowed to see them since. Maybe they'd forgotten about her. Maybe it was better if they had. She gazed around the dark street. Where was she again? Where did she live? She felt like she was going to vomit. Tammie had just returned to the motel. She turned the knob that was meant to lock the door. It didn't do anything. The lock was broken. It always had been. The action was simply a force of habit. She looked around. It was empty. Marilyn hadn't come back yet. She'd be back soon, hopefully. One of them always wound up staying out a bit later than the other. They lived in a motel room, as they had for as long as they'd known one another. It was a pretty crappy place, but it was an okay size at least. More like an apartment than a motel room, but that was mostly because of the small improvements the women had made to it to make it more homey, a more comfortable place to live in. It wasn't exactly their dream home–far from it, actually, but it was what they had. Tammie sat down on the edge of the bed she had shared with Marilyn for the past several years. Her body hurt. Luckily her clients hadn't been as bad as Marilyn's, at least not tonight. No scratches or bruises really. Her body was just completely exhausted. She undid the front of her black corset and fell back onto the bed topless. Still wearing her black sheer tights and her miniskirt. She could probably fall asleep like this. Her mind had begun to drift off when a knock at the door pulled her out of it. Not Marilyn. Marilyn didn't knock. She stood up and grabbed a black tank top, pulling it on over her bare breasts, and then slipped into a pair of flannel pajama pants. She crept toward the door and looked through the peephole, hesitant to open the door to just anyone. Anything bad could happen if she did. She was surprised by what she saw. Two kids. They looked harmless. No way they were at the right place. It had to be a mistake. She hesitated and then slowly pulled open the door. "Um, hi," she greeted, still a bit confused. "Can I help you with something?" She glanced over the two, peering down the road in hopes of seeing Marilyn. Where was she? Had something bad happened to her? Oh god, she hoped not.