Deuces Wild

by Goode, Ella

  He doesn't actually have proof I stole the wallet. I did but no one saw me do it. I don’t feel guilty over it either. He is the reason I took it to begin with. I needed the money so I could get away from him. Who knew Ricky would have over a grand stuffed inside of it? I roll off the sofa to head toward my bag. Thankfully Carter didn’t hit the light on his way out. I hate the dark more than anything else. You can never see what is coming when the lights are out. A lesson I learned the hard way.

  I dig into my bag, pulling out my phone and powering it on. I probably don’t have service. My mom would have shut it off by now. I powered it off earlier because I didn't know when I might get a chance to charge it. I wanted to preserve the battery in case I needed it in a jam. When I power it on, I don’t see any missed calls or texts from my mom. There are, however, ten from Ricky.

  I don’t bother to read them. I shut the phone back off, tossing it into my bag. I hate the sadness I feel that I haven't received one text or call from my mom. I’ve been gone three days now. Sure, I am eighteen and could leave if I wanted to, but she isn’t even looking for me. For all she knows I could be dead or missing. This is some heavy crap to think about before bedtime but it haunts my mind every night. I close my eyes and know the real reason she doesn't care that I left. She didn't want me there to begin with.

  As soon as I hit my teenage years and started developing, she started treating me differently. She would make sure she put me down or called me names. She mainly focused on my body. It started after the first time that I told her that one of her boyfriends said something inappropriate to me. Instead of getting rid of the pervert, she began telling me to cover up and saying I looked like a whore. Asking me if I was trying to make her boyfriends look at me.

  At first I thought the things she said were true so I tried to cover up as much as possible. After a while, I realized it was her own insecurities that made her lash out. I got used to her insults and let them roll off me. That’s what I told myself, anyway. I’m sure the scars are there even though they’re not visible. They cut deep on the inside and I have no idea how one can even begin trying to heal something like that.

  Ricky was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’m not thirteen anymore and I don’t need a roof over my head bad enough to deal with that creep. He was starting to get bolder and bolder with his advances. I started shoving a chair against my door at night after I’d awoken in the dark with him standing over my bed.

  He cornered me three days ago, making it clear the word no wouldn’t be acceptable this time. I did what I had to. I told him to wait for me in the bedroom. My mom was off at work for the night. My heart starts hammering in my chest thinking about the risk I took. Ricky thought I was going to finally give in to him but I stole his wallet instead. I grabbed my duffle bag that I kept packed in case of an emergency and got the hell out of Dodge. When he heard the front door slam, I was already running down the street.

  That’s when I heard him screaming about the cops. I kept running as fast as I could. I know I act tough on the outside but I was actually getting scared that he would do something to me when my mom wasn’t home. I knew she would never believe me so leaving had been my best option.

  I tuck the wallet back into my bag and head over to my makeshift bed on the couch. I lie down and try to sleep. Even though I’m exhausted my mind keeps racing. I suddenly feel overwhelmed by all of it. I begin to softly cry into the pillow that Deuce was kind enough to give me. I can’t make the tears stop no matter how hard I try.

  Chapter 7

  Carter

  I wake up feeling like shit. It’s probably because I spent most of the night arguing with myself about the girl. I was coming out of the bathroom when I heard her sniffling. I thought about going to her although to do what, I don’t know. I’m not good with the whole comforting thing. That’s not my bag. On top of that, she’s scared of being touched and thinks I’m going to make her pay for her bed and food with sex so I opted to keep my ass planted in my room. It wasn’t easy.

  It’s not as if I don’t have experience with tears. Mom’s a crier but she uses her tears like a weapon. They hurt you more than they hurt her.

  I don’t think the waif is like that. She was belligerent face to face but cried when alone. Those aren’t the actions of a manipulator. I scrub my face, feeling more tired this morning than I did crawling into my king-size bed last night. I grab a pair of shorts and throw on a loose tank. I need to burn off these weird emotions. Once I’ve put myself through a workout, I’ll be able to think more clearly. The waif and I can sit down and talk about her situation. She’s obviously hiding from someone. Whoever it is can’t be more powerful or richer than me so as soon as she gives me the name, I can take care of the problem and she can go home.

  I ignore how my gut twists at the thought of her leaving. Better to not get attached than start liking someone, and then spend a night in a stranger’s place crying into a pillow. With that pep talk, I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and tiptoe down the hall and over to the sectional. The waif’s asleep with one small hand tucked under a plump cheek. She looks sweet and vulnerable. My dick twitches in response. I give myself a punch in the groin and head for the gym. A smoothie awaits me when I reach the glass structure overlooking the pool. As I gulp it down, I spot my dad sweating away on the elliptical as he watches his latest fling doing laps in the Olympic-sized pool. The tiled mosaic of Neptune shimmers under the water.

  “Good game last night,” he says when I step onto the treadmill next to him. “You should call your mom. She said she tried to reach you last night.”

  “Haven’t seen the messages,” I reply. I turned my phone off, as I always do, before the game. I have a specific routine that I follow before the game and it does not include reading texts from my absentee mother. As for afterwards, I’m not in the mood to speak to her then either.

  “Don’t want to talk about your mother, eh?” Dad says. “Then how about your guest? Ben said you had a guest last night.”

  “Can your security team pay attention to what happens inside your house instead of mine?” I point to the swimmer. “She could be robbing you blind, but you wouldn’t know it because your nose is stuck in my business.”

  “We’re able to multi-task,” Dad declares. “Besides, of course she’s stealing me blind. Why else is a girl her age in bed with a man of mine? Money, Carter. It’s all money.” He rubs his fingers together. “Don’t forget that when your pretty thing is between your legs sucking your dick. She’s only doing it because she wants something from you. As long as you understand that going in, no one gets hurt.”

  And people wonder why I’m antisocial. “Thanks for the advice,” I reply flatly. I pull on my headphones, crank up the speed, and ignore my old man. He leaves halfway through my two-hour workout. After I’m done, I order another smoothie to take upstairs. By the time I’m out of the shower, it’s ready. I thank Gertie, our chef and nutritionist, and discuss a few other changes to my menu before jogging up the stairs to my loft. There I find the waif at the stove.

  “What’s that?” she asks when I slide the glass in front of her.

  “Mango smoothie.”

  She makes a face.

  “You don’t like mangoes?” I’m surprised. What person doesn’t love mangoes?

  “Never had them.” She shrugs. “Sounds like a rich person’s food.”

  I start to protest and then stop because I have no idea how much a mango costs. Maybe she’s right and it is a rich person’s food. I’ve never gone to a grocery store. I tell Gertie what I want to eat whether it’s tacos and beer or Wagyu steaks and asparagus or, in this case, mango smoothies.

  I nudge the glass closer to the waif. “Try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “I didn’t put drugs in it,” I say irritably. Fuck me. I try to do something decent in my life and she rejects it. Maybe Dad is right and I need to pull out my wallet.

&nb
sp; “Fine.” She slaps down the spatula and takes a big gulp of the drink, grimacing slightly when the cold beverage hits her tongue.

  “Good, right?” I want her to like it for some reason that I don’t understand.

  She eyes the glass and sets it far away from her before returning to the pan.

  “What? You don’t like it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what?”

  “The mango tasted good.” She acts like it was poisonous and for the life of me, I don’t understand it.

  “Is that code for something because this shit isn’t making any sense. If you like it, keep drinking it. There’s more where that came from.”

  “Not for me. It’s not going to be around in my future and I don’t want this to be the highlight of my dumb life.” She flips off the burner angrily and stomps down the hallway to the bathroom. A second later, I hear the door slam shut.

  Chapter 8

  Mallory

  I stand with my back to the door for a few moments after slamming it until I calm down. It’s then I decide that I officially hate mangoes and smoothies while I’m at it. It’s not the taste that has me disliking them but the fact that those are luxuries that I can’t afford. A life that I could never have. One Carter is trying to get me to want. He might not know it but he is. That realization has me in a foul mood. I proceed to the sink and turn the water on. I begin to wash my face rougher than I normally would.

  I don’t know what is wrong with me. I had a small panic attack when I woke up alone in Carter's home. I looked everywhere for him but couldn't find him. Then I was scared to open a door thinking I could set off an alarm. I felt alone. I know it’s stupid to feel abandoned by someone you only met yesterday. So I’ve pretty much been in a mood for the last few hours. I feel terrible that I lashed out at him when he returned. I felt relief when Deuce came back and that feeling is one I can’t afford. I cannot rely on anyone but myself. I am more angry at myself than anything. The mango thing sent me overboard. It is such a ridiculous thing to get upset about but I’d been on edge already and that tipped me over. I have to remind him and myself that I am leaving.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. “You have to leave,” I whisper to my reflection. I think of my mother as I stare at myself. We look a lot alike but life has taken a toll on her and you can see it in the lines on her face. I don’t think her chain-smoking helps much either. I can’t be like her. Making bad decisions and depending on men is not something I want. She always has to have a man in her life. I told myself that I would steer clear of them because with them always comes trouble. That’s what my mother’s relationships have taught me. She’s the reason I’ve never pursued a relationship of my own. I’ve never had the desire to.

  I take a calming breath and open the bathroom door. My eyes meet Carter’s, who’s standing there waiting for me. “You don’t have to leave.” He heard me talking to myself.

  “That’s where you're wrong.” I walk past him, letting my body drift across his even though I know I shouldn't. One last touch before I have to leave. I don’t have to look to know he’s following me down the hallway back into the living room area. I fold up the blanket he gave me last night before stacking the pillows on top. I peek over my shoulder to see him watching me. I can’t read his expression but I know he wants to say something. I’m just not sure if he even knows what it is. He seems like he’s having a tough time getting it out.

  “Spit it out, Deuce,” I say. I’m sure he has some rude comments on the tip of his tongue. I brace myself for whatever it is. I’m never sure which way he’s going to go with his remarks.

  “Carter,” he corrects. I turn my head so he can’t see my smile as I go through my bag to make sure I have everything. Crap. I still have his shirt on. A small part of me wants to keep it. Maybe he won’t notice if I leave with it on. Almost like I’ve forgotten. I could take a little piece of him with me. Maybe I should leave it, so that I’m not reminded of a life that I could have had if things were different.

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting,” I lie. I guess I enjoy dishing out the rude comments as much as he does. Mine are always followed by me feeling guilty though. I know I am being a jerk. Carter, on the other hand, is a dick one minute and helping me the next, so I’m not sure what his true colors are. The only thing I know is that he’s helped me out more than any other person in my life and I’m grateful for that.

  He laughs. I freeze, shocked by the sound. I stand, slowly turning to look at him. He’s got his head tipped back laughing. Damn him for looking even more handsome while he does it. The sound rolls over my skin and I wonder what it would feel like to be pressed up against him. I smile, knowing that I caused him to laugh.

  “Of course you don’t remember my name.” He laughs harder, his words filled with irony that I’m not getting. His laughter is contagious and I let out a little of my own.

  “I really am sorry.” I drop my bag back down onto the floor. “I’ve been a jerk and I really do appreciate the place to crash for the night and the food. It means more than you know.”

  His face softens for a moment before he drops his gaze to the floor, looking at my bag. I follow it and see my cell phone and Ricky’s wallet have spilled out. I reach down to shove everything back into my bag but Carter beats me to it, grabbing the wallet. My eyes immediately go round when he lifts it up to inspect it. I snatch it from his hand before he can open it. His eyes meet mine in an instant. The smile he was wearing seconds ago has faded and a look that I can’t place now sits on his face.

  “Whose wallet is that?” he says in a strangled voice.

  “Since it’s in my bag, I believe that makes it mine,” I quickly reply. If I stole it from anyone else but Ricky the guilt would have already eaten me alive, but he deserved it. I don’t want to lie to Carter but I also don’t want him to think poorly of me. I’m not sure why I care but I do. He continues to stare at me as if he’s waiting for a different answer than the one I’ve already given him. A minute ticks by and neither of us says a word; we stand staring at one another. My breath catches as he closes the space between us. I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. I refuse to not meet his eyes. I just don’t expect him to do what he does next.

  Chapter 9

  Carter

  I rip her shirt. Well, I guess my shirt. It’s violent and dumb but I need her to not run off. I know this will not only get her attention but she can’t make a break for it. It’s only a swift jerk with my strength and speed before it’s hanging in two pieces around her shoulders.

  “What the hell, Deuce?” she screams, clutching the torn sides together. The man’s wallet dangles from her fingers. I pluck that from her grip and stuff it into the pocket of my sweatpants. Then I reach down and swipe her bag off the floor.

  Ignoring her cries, I hustle down to my bedroom, toss her stuff inside, and then slam the door shut.

  She stares at me, plump lips parted, shock evident in every feature.

  While she stands there stunned, I retrieve the wallet. There’s a shit ton of twenties, a condom that looks a hundred years old, three credit cards and an ID showing someone old enough to be the waif’s dad. “This your old man?” I ask, holding the license up.

  She starts to shake her head no and then changes it up mid-motion. “Yes. That’s my dad.”

  She’s so obviously lying. “When’s his birthday?”

  “March…” She rubs her lips together, trying to gauge her answer by my response. I stare stonily back at her.

  “This man hurt you?” At first I thought it was her boyfriend and a red haze swept through me. Did she spend the night crying in her pillow because of him? Because he broke her heart? Then I remembered her fear. Even if this was her ex, it was an ex she was afraid of, an ex she ran away from, an ex she’s hiding from, so I beat back the anger and jealousy and strive for a calm and comforting tone. If it comes out odd, it’s because I have zero experience in this.

  “I don’t care if you k
illed him or stole his wallet or crashed his car or all three of those things in some varied combination. Just be…” I fold my fingers around the license and search for the right word. Is it direct? No. I want her to confide in me. I want her to trust me and I know she doesn’t and that knowledge pisses me off even as I understand that I don’t have the right to her trust. We’re strangers. She climbed into my car last night and I basically kidnapped her. Can I really ask anything of her? Am I better than the guy she ran away from when I’m preventing her from leaving? But letting her go isn’t an option either. For some reason, ever since I found her in my car, I have this compelling need to own her, to keep her.

  “I stole his wallet,” she blurts out.

  I jerk my head up at this confession. “Yeah?” A flicker of pleasure kindles in my gut that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with all those other sickly emotional places that I’ve tried to snuff out.

  She nods. “He was, or is, my mother’s boyfriend. I don’t know for sure. She’s had so many of them in my life.”

  “Sounds familiar.” I know all about deadbeat moms although none of her boyfriends have ever tried anything with me. “What happened?”

  “He was being...weird.” Her eyes drop away from mine. Is that shame I see there? Nah. I’m not having any of that. I look at the license again, note the address and start for the door.