After spending five years in prison, Corky was beyond glad to be free again. She wasn’t entirely happy about working a dead end job as a handywoman in your apartment complex, but it put a roof over her head. It also put cash in her pocket, which she was in desperate need of. She wasn’t exactly doing a good job of saving it, though. She kept returning to her favorite bar to pick up hot women. But hey, at least she was living her life the way she wanted. Well, mostly. A certain cop had it out for her since she screwed her girlfriend, and there was still the lingering bitter feeling after her partner betrayed her and let her take the fall for the robbery. But, for the most part, she was living a life without attachments.

And that was where you came from.

You were a tenant in the building that Corky worked in. You and your douchebag of a husband lived in the penthouse apartment. You were a pretty little rich girl, an heiress in fact. Your father’s only and beloved child. Corky had bumped into you a few times on the elevator. She was living in an apartment that she was painting and repairing temporarily in exchange for her maintenance work. She had also been up to your apartment a few times to fix your pipes. Every time she did, you had a new bruise, or your husband was shouting about something.

Corky knew girls like you. Closeted gay girls who married men and repressed their feelings. More often than not, girls like you ended up in her bed. Part of her wanted you to be one of them. It wasn’t like she could entirely blame you for being closeted. The year was 1996, and it didn’t bode well for the gay community at the time. Not everyone was willing to live their life out loud like Corky was. That didn’t stop her from finding you attractive.

So, one day, she decided to step in and protect you. Your husband was yelling at you when she rounded and the corner, and she was sure he was going to smack you, judging by the way his hand was raised. “Is everything okay here?”, Corky asked casually as she approached.