by Jennifer Ann
Although he smokes strong enough weed to justify a healthy dose of paranoia, he pulls his sister along like the devil’s on his tail. As they disappear into the stairwell, I can’t stop wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into.
BEFORE I’M FULLY AWAKE to comprehend what the fuck’s happening, a fist connects with my face, jarring my eye back into its socket. The lick of pain that follows is a familiar, welcoming feeling.
Too bad for my old man, he’s conditioned me to enjoy this shit. To feed off the sharp sting of torment as a reminder of all I’ve survived, and that I’m still here. I just wish it could happen after I’ve had a full night’s sleep. My uninjured eye tries to compensate for the temporary veil of darkness.
“Stupid ass punk!” he roars, his outline a mere blob in the darkness. The usual stench of booze clings to his skin the way pot clings to Trask. “You think I wouldn’t notice you’ve been stealin’ from me? It’s time I teach you a thing or two about respect!”
If I weren’t nursing a bruised kidney from last time I had the balls to goad him, I’d be tempted to shout out a “hooah.” Until you’ve been reamed by a former Army drill sergeant who was forced into early retirement because of a bum knee and hates the entire fucking world, you haven’t experienced a real ass-chewing.
My stomach twists as words continue to blast from his mouth with the precision of an automatic rifle, the consistency of pure shit. “Get on your pansy-ass feet, son! We’re gonna have us a little talk about where you get the money for all those new tattoos and those ugly as fuck earrings you wear like you’ve grown a vagina! If you have that kind of cash flowing from your dick, you should be helping pay the bills around here, not stealing goddamned smokes from your old man!”
Sweet. He’s loaded out of his mind again. Looks like I’m in for another night of whack-a-mole.
Still in a stupor from the unceremonious wakeup call, I throw my blanket off my legs and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing my hands over my face. “What time is it? Can’t this shit wait until the sun’s up?”
The next blow to my jaw comes so hard and fast that stars flash before my eyes, blinding in the darkness. My head flings backwards, bouncing against something hard under my pillow.
The pistol my best friend gave me for my seventeenth birthday.
Less than three weeks after we moved in, I was robbed at gunpoint. What kind of stupid fuck would think a twelve-year-old would be carrying something of value? At least I learned a valuable lesson.
The old man’s at it again, pacing the room and shouting a bunch of nonsense as my fingers curl around the cool handle. If nothing else, with any luck I can make him piss himself like he’s done to thousands of soldiers.
“On your feet, you piece of shit!”
Grunting, I shove the pistol into the back of my boxer briefs and rise up to meet him, arms held out at my sides. “Do your worst, Staff Sergeant.”
A wheeze is wrenched from my gut with the following uppercut to my ribs. His shouted insults become white static as he throws punches, not seeming to give a shit where they land. Pain ripples through me with the force of a blazing fire, too wild and bright to be contained.
I try to relax as best I can, and let it happen. Putting up a respectable fight would only warrant another punishment. It’s easier to absorb his pain than to worry about the consequences. It's not like I’m in any fuckin’ sports, and the teachers assume whenever I come to school battered that I voluntarily started a fight.
Before long, the tang of copper and bile fills my mouth. His fist connects with my ribs again, and I momentarily blackout from the pain. From the feel of it, he’s dislocated a handful of them this time. Fuck I hate my life.
Holding a hand out, I stop to spit blood on the floor and twist my spine. Immense pain burns through my chest with every movement. “Fuckin’ hell. Can I call a time out? I think you might’ve punctured a lung.”
The moonlight shifts outside, exposing the monster standing in front of me. Mouth twisted, eyes dark as coal, fists suspended at his sides, it’s like getting a glimpse of the devil himself.
Fuck it. He always tells me I’m not too bright anyway, my favorite quote being,“If brains were made of cotton, you wouldn’t have enough to make a tampon for a flea!” May as well prove it to the has-been son of a bitch.
Pistol aimed directly at his face, I release the safety. “On second thought, keep your hands to yourself.”
His sinister laugh that follows would’ve made Jeffrey Dahmer cringe in fear. “You don’t possess the kind of balls it takes to shoot me, you little stupid ass—”
I squeeze the trigger.
2
BROOKE
My work phone rings somewhere in the darkness, pulling me from yet another nightmare involving a faceless little girl in pigtails. Flipping my eyes open, I try to catch my breath as I stare up at the cracked dry wall on my apartment ceiling, dim from the streetlight outside my window. Sweat clings to my body, and my heart races into triple time. Apparently drinking a bottle of wine alone before going to bed isn’t conducive to a sound night of sleep. Not the smartest decision when I’m on call either.
I search for the phone on the empty mattress beside me, sliding my finger over the screen to confirm what I already assumed—it’s early as fuck. Specifically, four-a.m.-early.
“Brooke Emerson,” I mumble.
“Ya think yer too good for us now? You think just ‘cause you got a fancy degree and left this shit-hole that you don’t hav’t call yer mother on her birfday?”
Violent tremors ripple through my stomach with the deep snarl of the drunken voice I haven’t heard in over two years. A voice I would’ve been more than happy not to hear again for the rest of my life.
Screwing my eyes shut, I suddenly wish I was anywhere else in the world, living someone else’s problems. “How’d you get this number?”
“We was good to ya…gave ya a place to live and kept food in yer belly.”
My fingers squeeze the phone until I’m sure it’ll crack.
Nothing about the place they provided for me to live in was safe. I spent half my childhood listening in the middle of the night for signs that he was drunk, trying to determine when it was best to hide. And my mom was a decent cook, but one time he tried poisoning my dinner so I wouldn’t go to the school dance.
I pull in a stuttering breath, reminding myself I no longer have to endure his abuse. “I’m hanging up now. This phone is for work-related emergencies.”
“Uppity bitch. Never had the time—”
Ending the call, I blink back tears. My parents tried to break me more times than I can count. I’m done letting them get under my skin. When I finally escaped the South Side, I vowed I’d never look back.
Before I’m able to fall back asleep, the phone rings again. I’m ready to chuck it across the room until I notice it’s a programmed number this time.
“Brooke Emerson.”
“Brooke, it’s Sheriff Bromeland,” his gruff voice barks out.
Despite having an intimidating nature, the sheriff is known for being a pushover when it comes to kids, making him enjoyable to work with.
I smile into the dark room. “You're up bright and early, Sheriff.”
“I’m callin’ to let you know about a new case. This one’s a real doozy. Seventeen-year-old shot his old man after he beat the living hell out of him.”
Pushing myself upright, I run a shaking hand over my forehead. It’s the kind of case that hits too close to home, hurtling me back in time six years. “Did you take him to juvie?”
“No. I’ll investigate it some more, but far as I can tell, he doesn’t belong there—was only defendin’ himself. The kid’s still in the hospital, getting checked out. The attending doctor said the degree of his injuries were similar to that of a professional fighter. There was extensive scarring all over his body from previous incidents—X-rays showed past broken bones on nearly every extremity. They wanted to admit him for a few days, but the
kid refused, said ‘hospitals are for pussies.’ So they’re letting him out after they’ve run a few more tests. Have to say I was surprised when he refused to take anything stronger than ibuprofen. A South Sider could make decent money selling the kind of narcotics he was offered.”
Even though I hate it when all South Siders are assumed to be crooks, I know it’s the truth. At least there’s hope this kid isn’t a complete thug like others I’ve worked with. Nothing stops your heart faster than walking in on a thirteen-year-old with a nose powdered in blow. “What about his father?”
“Despite having a hole in his head, he lashed out at the officers that arrived on the scene, tellin’ them to let him go at his kid so he could slit his throat. An EMT had to sedate him in order to get him into the ambulance. Last I heard, they put him in a medically-induced coma until the swelling went down in his brain. From what I’m told, the son-of-a-bitch is lucky to be alive.”
One of the reasons I willingly took this low-paying job with shit for hours? It breaks my heart when kids like this come through the system. They aren’t given a chance in hell from the very start. “Does this kid have a record?”
“A handful of petty thefts, several misdemeanor assaults. From what I’ve gathered so far, he grew up an only child in Texas, moved to the city four years ago with his father. Mom’s out of the picture. Hasn’t ever been in a detention center or the foster care system.” He pauses, letting out a deep breath. “But you’ll want to tread lightly with this one, Brooke. He’s close friends with Ryker Blackwood. Not sure how far King Marty’s umbrella of protection will reach with this kid, but you don’t want his chumps paying you a visit.”
Having grown up on the South Side, witnessing firsthand the wrath of King Marty, I take the warning seriously. And the reputations of Ryker Blackwood and friends reach far beyond the shady streets of the South Side. It’s common knowledge that the “South Town Players” (or STPs as the kids at their high school call them) aren’t to be messed with, though some are dumb enough to try.
“What’s his name, Sheriff?”
“Liam Rooker.”
Rolling my eyes, I nod to myself. Of course it would be him. He’s known for having the most outrageous behavior of the STPs. A client once told me she was kicked out of a class with Liam for giving him a hand-job during lecture. The next time she met with me, she was in tears because Liam was suspended for fucking a cheerleader in the locker room. The stories I’ve heard about the little punk since I started working for the county are endless.
“Okay,” I concede. It’s not like I have any other choice. “Once the courthouse opens, I’ll get a hearing set up, and call you back with the time.”
After ending the call, I shower and throw the only suit jacket I own over a white blouse paired with black dress pants, and head into the office. By seven, I start calling as many contacts as possible before his emergency placement hearing mid-morning. It initially takes a shit-ton of coffee to get me going, but with everything I learn about my client, I’m more determined than ever to help. The poor kid has had an even rougher go than I did by the sounds of his injuries.
When the people who brought you into the world treat you like shit, you eventually start to believe it’s true, and lash out at the world as a result. But I left the neighborhood when I was his age, and earned my way through college with academic scholarships and grants so I could one day help kids like myself. I’d like to believe there’s hope for Liam too.
MY GLASSES SLIDE down the bridge of my nose as I race down the hallway. Right after Liam’s hearing, the sheriff called to let me know Liam was released, and he was being transported to my office building. Of course traffic from the courthouse was a beast thanks to a five-car pileup. To make it even more enjoyable, the heater recently went out on my ancient coupe. With the intense hours I’ve been pulling, I haven’t had time to arrange for a mechanic. If I could get my hands on a rent-controlled apartment, maybe I would be able to afford a newer car. Or buy stench-free furniture from somewhere other than the second-hand store. Or fix my stove so I can use the burners and not just the oven.
I finger the charm on my sterling silver bracelet, wondering if I’ll ever catch a break, or if I’ll always be forced to give up the things I want to focus on survival.
My pity-party goes out the door when I enter the interview room and meet the dark, dangerous smolder of the battered teenager waiting.
“Teenager” seem a ridiculous term for the attractive young man slouched behind the table, green and purple bruising marbling the puffy skin beneath his left eye, confident smirk pushing his full lips into a deeply-set dimple, small gauge earrings, strong jaw stubbled with at least a full day’s growth. If his birthdate hadn’t just been mentioned in court, or I hadn’t heard stories of the infamous senior, I’d think I was staring at a grown-ass man.
Liam Rooker is the type who can easily be described as beautiful without taking away from his masculinity. Dark sandy hair styled in a subtle faux hawk, cutting green eyes, the kind of toned body you’d see featured in a male review (not that I’ve been to one aside from a friend’s bachelorette party), he’s more aesthetically pleasing than a famous work of art. An involuntary shiver taps against my spine with the sight of his gray t-shirt splattered with blood, stretching somewhat too tightly across his curved chest and thick arms. The start of a large anchor tattoo snakes up his left bicep.
When he tilts his bruised face and smirks, green gaze still locked with mine, I realize I’ve been staring at him way too long.
“See something you like, babydoll?” His voice is as smooth as dark chocolate and sexy as sin. One thick eyebrow cocks toward the ceiling as he pops an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
For a horrifying second, my knees tremble and I’m sure they’re going to give out. Who the hell reacts that way to the crude suggestion of a high schooler? A twenty-three-year-old who is all alone except for an occasional stray cat, and hasn’t been laid in far too long.
Running my fingers over my sleek ponytail, I shake off the inappropriate reaction. I’m not about to put my career on the line by entertaining his crude flirtation. “My name’s Brooke, and you can’t smoke in here.” I reach across the table, intending to pluck it from his lips. “In fact, you’re too young to be smoking, period.”
His thick hand clamps around my wrist. As he studies the heart charm between his fingers like he wonders how much he could get for it at a pawn shop, the electric charge of his touch zaps all the way down to my toes.
Tingling through my center.
Doing nearly the same job as my battery-operated lover.
Green eyes fall on mine, dilating to the size of saucers. They’re clear and vibrant, surrounded by a thin line of gold, evoking images of a grassy field on a sunny day. It’s not something you’d expect to see with a kid like him, especially considering his injuries. They’re shockingly beautiful despite the lifetime of pain and disappointment hidden behind them.
He leans in until he’s uncomfortably close. I’m assaulted with an oddly pleasant odor of nicotine, sweat, and cologne. His heavy gaze flickers down to my mouth like he’s going in for a kiss. I hold my breath, shocked when I realize just how badly I want him to do it.
Then he wets his thick lips and meets my shining eyes. “Wasn’t plannin’ on lightin’ it…Brooke.”
Oh. My. God.
My name on that beautiful mouth. He may as well be probing his tongue into my center the way it’s throbbing, starved for more.
Get a grip! He’s a minor!
I pull away from him and readjust my black frames, surprised they’re not fogged over. Clearing my throat, I settle into the chair across from him, grateful for the added distance. Either they’ve cranked the heat in here, or my body’s growing increasingly heady as an aftereffect of his touch.
“I’ve been assigned as your social worker,” I tell him, folding my hands and setting them on the table between us. It’s the only way I can be sure they won’t visibly shake when I mee
t his amused stare. “Want to tell me in your own words why you’re here?”
He plucks the cigarette from his full lips and tucks it behind one ear. Every movement he makes is slow and deliberate, seeping with confidence. One shoulder lifts as he holds my gaze. “Got tired of my old man’s shit.”
“Is he the one who gave you that black eye?”
Lips quirking, he chuckles. “What do you think?”
“I think that based on your medical records, you’ve been through a lot of bullshit.”
“You allowed to swear around me like that, babydoll?”
Holy hell. I know I should be offended, but the nickname sounds sinfully scandalous as shit in his husky voice. Chills ripple through me as I hold his hard stare, unwilling to cave. I can take the attitude. I expect it, really. He wouldn’t be a South Side kid otherwise.
But why does he have to be so damn hot? Why must my body react to him like a deformed camel, desperate for another hump?
Focus, Brooke. Now’s not the time to display a lack of professionalism.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, tugging at the neckline of my shirt. “Are you still in pain?”
His brow lifts again as he tilts his head. “I’d feel a helluva lot better if you’d come a little closer so I can bend you over the table and yank on that ponytail.”
“Liam!” His name comes out with a deep groan, mistakenly sounding a lot like passion. A humiliated part of me wants to crawl under the table and hide until he decides to leave, or turns eighteen, whichever comes first. “You can’t speak to me like that!”
“Why not? You have a boyfriend or something?” His tongue smooths over his lips and he smiles maniacally, appearing aroused by my reaction. “Or is it because I’m making your panties wet?”
