She sighed. “If you don’t come on your own, I’ll send your brother.”
That hit harder than anything else she could have said.
I straightened up. “Don’t do that.”
“He’s worried about you,” she said.
“I know,” I snapped. “That’s why you leave him out of this.”
“I’m sending him to get you. That’s final.”
I closed my eyes. I could see my brother’s face in my head. Disappointed. Tired. Still trying to save me when I didn’t even know how to save myself.
“Don’t send anyone,” I said. “I swear I’ll shoot them.”
There was a pause. “You can’t threaten me and expect me to do nothing.”
“I’m busy. Call me back.”
She hung up on me. I hated that she could still reach me like that. I hated that she knew exactly where to cut.
I stood there shaking, not with fear, but with rage. With shame. With love twisted up into something ugly. My father’s driver, Angel King, also known as Dale, manipulated me into coming to Southern California to pursue my art career, just to get me here to rape me and drug me. Yes, my father handled him, killed him, brought him back to life, and then killed him again. But I never came back from that. Not when drugs get in your system and you like it. That was four years ago, and I never went back to Northern California, because every day I was chasing a high I didn’t need.
I pushed the phone into my pocket and kept walking.
I worked at a laundromat on days when I could keep my head straight. Folding other people’s clothes for cash that barely covered food. The owner paid me when he felt like it. Said I was lucky to have something at all. I didn’t argue. I needed the money.
Other days, I sold myself.
Not often. Only when I had to. I didn’t like men touching me. Didn’t trust them. Didn’t look them in the eye. I got what I needed and left. No names. No promises.
I hated myself for it and hated the world more for making it feel necessary.
After my mother called me, I needed a fix.
Drug of force: Crystal meth.
I found my dealer on the same corner as always. He smiled when he saw me.
“You came to see a nigga, huh, supermodel?”
I held the cash out. “Just the usual.”
He looked me up and down. Slow. Greedy. “You know I can make it cheaper.”
I shook my head. “I’m not fucking you.”
He laughed. “Everybody fucks me eventually.”
“Not me,” I said.
He stepped closer. I stepped back. I kept my voice calm, even though my heart was banging.
“I pay. Or I leave.”
He stared at me like he was deciding something. Then he took the money and handed me the bag.
“Next time,” he said.
