I sit up abruptly, pushing that last question away and going back to my GED book.
Focus, Merci. Numbers. Words. Shapes. Anything but him.
Christ, he wanted to kill me. If his words weren’t enough, the glittering rage in his usually expressionless eyes communicated it loud and clear. So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him in a way that gets me . . . aroused.
A knock on the door frame startles me from my thoughts. Mom stands there, holding a mug in her hands and wearing that soft, gentle smile. “Hey, sweetheart. How’s the studying going?”
“Oh, you know. Just trying to figure out how x equals ‘get me the hell out of here’.”
She laughs, stepping into my room. "Mind if I sit?"
I gesture toward my bed. "Mi casa es su casa. Well, technically, it's Mr. Knight's casa, but you get the idea."
She sets the mug on my nightstand, then sits next to me. “You’ll do great. You’ve always been so smart, Merci.”
“Yeah, well, being smart never paid the bills.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Stop that.” Her voice goes firm in that mom way that makes me feel simultaneously loved and scolded. “You don’t have to do it all at once. Take your time.”
I don’t reply because I can’t seem to break free from living day to day. Life has been all about survival. Taking time to do anything—to look beyond the needs of today—has never been a luxury I could afford.
Until now.
But it’s not easy to get used to.
"Merci. . . " Her voice is soft, hesitant, making my stomach twist. "We need to talk about where you've been."
Cue fresh waves of anxiety. "Mom—"
"These past five years . . . I've imagined every possible scenario. Every horrible thing that could have happened to you."
"Trust me, you don't want to know."
"I do." She reaches for my hand. "Please."
Fuck.
How do you tell your mom you’ve been selling your body just to survive? That you let strangers use you in ways that would make a porn star blush?
But looking at her face, seeing the pain there . . . I can't lie. She deserves the truth. Even if it’s ugly.
“I . . . I danced,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “And . . . other stuff.”
Her brows furrow. “Other stuff?”
I take a deep breath, toying with the hem of my shirt. “I . . . I fucked people for money, okay?”
Her grip on my hand tightens, tears well until they overflow and stream down her face. "Oh, sweetheart. . . "
"It's not—I mean, I chose it. Nobody forced me. And I was good at it. Really good.” Ugh, why tell her that?! “Can we . . . can we leave it at that?"
She pulls me into a hug, and for a moment, I let myself be held. Let myself feel cherished and safe and loved. Should I tell her about Zach? About the warehouse? About how he kidnapped me?
No.
Mrs. Novotny didn’t say anything, and if I bring it up, it’ll only open a whole new can of worms.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking.
