“Wait, hold up. Seriously, where are you going by yourself so late?” He stands and stretches his arms over his head, releasing a loud sigh. “I was just about to leave anyway, so I can chaperone. You know, protect you and stuff.”
I laugh. “That’s cute, but you wouldn’t last five minutes where I’m going.”
Easton’s eyes narrow on the TV, his knee starting to bounce, but I don’t have time to figure him out right now. I have a letter to deliver.
Without another word, I shut the door behind me and make my way to the nearest bus station. I’m one of the few seventeen-year-olds within a twenty-mile radius who doesn’t have a car, but Bridget has never offered one, and I refuse to ask when my situation under her roof is already so touchy. I still haven’t worked out why she and Vincent adopted me in the first place. Neither of them seem to particularly like kids—or compassion. But the situation serves me, so, when they’re home, I keep my head down, my space tidy, and my mouth shut.
Despite knowing the route by heart, or maybe because of it, my breaths quicken with each step that brings me closer to the bus. Even though this visit will be nothing like the past, I can’t stop the uneasy shake inside me.
I reach the station without a minute to spare, getting on the bus and counting down the exits until twelve have passed. Counting is the first way I learned this route when I was thirteen and traveled with my eyes glued to my feet. I know the names of the stops now, but I guess old habits die hard. After getting off, I catch another bus headed to The Pitts—the unofficial name for a group of slummy neighborhoods downtown. A little over an hour later, I’m stepping onto the pavement with my stomach in knots.
I pull my hood as far over my face as possible, silently repeating the instructions I was given last week and following them word for word. The Pitts is too big for its own good. I learned a long time ago which streets and back alleys to avoid, but these instructions almost always lead me into uncharted territory. I skirt around a puddle of barf as I walk. I do not miss the rancid stench of this place. It’s the kind of stench that’s dull but clings to your skin. Timeless and classic.
Two blocks, three alleys, and two graffiti-painted skeletons down, I find myself at a hole in the wall I’m assuming is a club. There are no windows, no signs, but the steel door behind the bouncer only partially manages to conceal the music, making it sound underwater. A few men lean against the wall, smoking and talking, but the street’s quiet otherwise.
“I.D.,” the bouncer grunts as I approach, snapping my gaze to his—which is half a foot above my 5’5” frame.
I clear my throat, mustering the confidence I left somewhere on the bus. “I’m here for Odette.”
He stares at me, suspicion gleaming behind black eyes, and I hope to God I haven’t just fucked up.
The code name is always the same. The only things that change are the location and people; people in his small, trusted circle. Anything beyond that would be too risky for Alejandro, and I’m not willing to jeopardize what little freedom my cousin has.
Outside of my worthless father, Alejandro is the only real family I have. He’s also the only person who cares about me, insisting I write him every now and again with an update on how I’m doing. Keeping secrets from him is futile. I tried keeping my last report card from him when my grades slipped—he crawled into my room through my window and stole it from my desk drawer. It’s not easy for him to come to me, so my guilt-trip afterward was fun. I don’t know why he pushes so hard for me to go to college when I have no clue what a girl like me would major in, but I can’t pretend to hate it either. He has no steady address, and even if he did, he wouldn’t disclose it anyway, so if I have to revisit The Pitts to get my letters to him, that’s what I’ll do.
After an eternity, the bouncer says, “You’re not what I expected,” and I almost sigh in relief. He extends his hand. “I’ll get it to him by morning.”
Withdrawing the envelope from my jacket pocket, my fingers tremble, but it’s not from fear. It’s from gratitude. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, the tiniest spark of warmth passing through his eyes, and takes the letter. “Now, get out of this place. You don’t belong here.”
I laugh dryly.I belonged here once. But I mirror his nod before whirling around and making my way back to the bus stop. I keep my head down, not wanting to invite any unwanted attention—or memories.
I’m two alleys down when a large hand grasps my arm, jerking my back against a hard chest. I gasp, breathing hard through parted lips. Nothing but a shadowed, cracked wall is in my line of sight.
Another arm slips around my throat, locking me in place. “Thought that was you, Princess.”
I don’t recognize the gravelly voice, but a cold shudder runs down my spine at the name.
Princess.
It’s something my first paid job called me, and the name became mine during the rest of my year on the streets. At the time, he said I was sweet and shy, like a little princess. It reminded me of the words another man—one whose blood mars the weapon in my waistband—used to describe me a while back: sweet, dainty,docile.
Shutting my eyes, I try to cool the fire roaring under my skin before opening them again. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“You’ll do it if I fucking tell you to.Princess.”
I jerk against him, trying to squirm out of his hold. “I’m no one’s princess, asshole.”
His grip tightens around my neck, making me choke. My hands fly up to claw at his skin, but he doesn’t budge.
“That’s right. You’re a woman now.” His rough cheek touches my own. “At least, woman enough to offer more than your hands and mouth.”
A broken grunt escapes me, my nails piercing his flesh, but when his other hand unsnaps the button on my jeans, anger turns into an icy burst of panic. The men who used to hire me weren’t exactly respectable, but they understood what I offered, and they always backed off when I refused more. I had hard limits; sex was one of them.
The sound of my zipper slices through the air, louder than the pounding in my ears. It’s too familiar. Too raw. His own zipper follows seconds later. I dig my heel into his shin, struggling for air while fighting against his hold, but nothing slows the son of a bitch down. Shaking, my fingers slide to the shard of glass tucked in my jeans, cold edges biting into my palm. But I freeze up. I’ve only used the weapon once, and that was four years ago.
Spread your legs for your new daddy, baby girl.
