Taylor sits on the bed beside me, her legs crossed, a compact mirror balanced in one hand. She dabs at my cheek with a sponge, layering on foundation to cover the deep bruise Zero left on my jaw and neck.
I sit still and let her. It’s not like I have a choice.
She’s been living here a while. Her clothes are stuffed into the motel dresser, makeup scattered across the nightstand. There’s a pair of heels kicked under the bed, a curling iron sitting unplugged on the floor.
“How can you be with someone like Joel?” I ask, my voice low. “He’s a piece of shit. And he’s what… twice your age?”
She doesn’t react, just blends the makeup into my skin with short, quick strokes.
I grit my teeth. “Taylor, why are you doing this?”
Taylor presses her lips together, dabs a little harder than necessary, then pulls back and tosses the sponge onto the bed. “Shut up,” she snaps, eyes flashing. “Stop thinking you’re any better than us. Just win us the money.”
“Taylor—"
“You have to help your family,” she interrupts.
I snap my lips shut and watch her, trying to find the girl I grew up spending weekends with. The little girl I would braid hair for and share secrets under the covers when Vick was too busy for us. But I don’t see her in there anywhere.
Maybe she was never there to begin with.
“There’s a dress hanging in the closet for you,” Taylor says.
I drag myself across the room and slide open the closet door. The plastic of a garment bag crinkles in my hands as I unzip it, revealing a pale-blue dress inside.
It’s too tight. Too short. Meant to be noticed.
Taylor yanks it from the hanger and shoves it at me. “You need to look the part,” she says. “You remember.”
Unfortunately, I do.
I remember standing in front of cracked mirrors in dozens of other motel rooms just like this. Squeezing into dresses that made me look older than I was. Smiling at men I didn’t know. Sitting at tables stacked with cards and cash, pretending I wasn’t scared, pretending I had control.
I remember Vick’s voice in my ear.Just one more time, Lucky. I swear.
It was never just one more time.
I step into the dress, pulling it over my body, the fabric stretching too tight across my skin. It clings in places I don’t want it to, and cuts higher on my thighs than I remember these dresses ever doing before.
Taylor stands behind me, running a brush through my hair. The cheap motel mirror reflects the both of us, the glow from thebedside lamp casting uneven light across our faces. She works quickly, fingers twisting and smoothing, arranging the strands just right. Not because she cares about how I look, but because she needs my hair to fall exactly where she wants it, blocking the cuts and bruises her cosmetics were too cheap to cover.
I hold still, watching my own reflection, barely recognizing myself. My face looks the same, but there’s something different in my eyes, something hollow and glassy. I’m already a corpse. Vick’s voice echoes in my head.Just one more time, Lucky. I swear.
How many more times in my life will I have to hear that lie?
I’ll never get out from under Vick’s mess, will I? No matter how far I go, how much I try to build something real, he’ll always pull me back. He’ll never leave me alone. I’ll always be the one cleaning up after him, enabling him to be the worst person he can be.
I grab Taylor’s wrist, stopping her mid-motion. The brush in her hand hovers near my cheek. “Taylor,” I say, my voice tight. “I don’t want to do this. It’s not Dad’s money. He stole it.”
Her expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t flinch or look guilty. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. Justan icy calm. “He’ll give it back,” she says, voice even, detached. “Once you use it to make us more money.”
“I don’t want to do this. It’s not right.”
“What other chance do we have to get our hands on that kind of money like that to play with?” she asks.
I stare at her, my fingers tightening around her wrist before I force myself to let go. I don’t understand how she can think this is okay. Ican’tunderstand. How did we get here? How did she become so much like Vick? How did my family turn into people who see nothing wrong with this, who can justify stealing from someone who can’t even remember what was taken from her?
“Taylor, please, listen to me,” I say, desperation coating my words. “We can fix this. All we have to do is give back the?—”
