by C. Hoover
I throw my backpack of completed homework in Asa’s car and walk through the front door. I just keep walking until I get to the kitchen. I’ll do like I do every night and take something to eat and drink up to my room. I’ll stay there alone and try to sleep amidst the sound of music and laughter and sometimes the occasional muffled screams. I’ll fall asleep and hope that Asa gives me at least four good hours before he wakes me up again.
I set the timer on the microwave and fill my cup with ice. I shut the freezer and go to open the refrigerator door when the familiar handwriting on the dry-erase board catches my eye. My breath hitches when I read it.
Worries flow from her lips like the random words that flow from her fingertips. I reach out and try to catch them, clenching them in my fists, wanting nothing more than to catch them all.
I look at his words, written clearly out in the open for anyone to see, but I know they’re meant only for me. It’s obvious he played the game wrong. He actually thought about what he was going to say before he wrote it this time. Cheater.
I erase the words, but not before imprinting them on my mind. I pick up the marker and press it to the dry-erase board.
My hands are wet from sweat. The air conditioner is broken again and it’s too hot to go outside. I run my sweaty palm along the leather arm of the couch, leaving a streak of sweat behind the path of my hand.
I wonder where sweat comes from?
I wonder where leather comes from?
My mother told me it’s made from cows, but I know she’s a liar, so I don’t believe her. How could leather be made out of cows? I’ve touched a cow before and they’re sort of fuzzy. They don’t look like leather to me. Leather looks more like it’s made from dinosaurs than cows.
I bet leather really is made out of dinosaurs. I don’t know why my mother always lies to me. She lies to Daddy, too. I know she lies to him, because she gets in trouble for it a lot.
Daddy always tells me not to trust whores. I don’t know what a whore is, but I know it’s something my Daddy hates.
Sometimes when he gets mad at my mom, he calls her a whore. Maybe a whore is another word for liar and that’s why he hates them so much.
I wish my mother wasn’t a whore. I wish she would stop lying, so she wouldn’t get in trouble so much. I don’t like watching her get in trouble.
Daddy says it’s good for me, though. He says if I want to grow up and be a man, I need to see what a woman looks like when she cries. Daddy says a woman’s tears make men weak, and the more I see their tears when I’m younger, the less I’ll believe their lies when I’m older. Sometimes when he punishes my mother for being a whore, he makes me watch her cry so that I’ll grow up knowing that all the whores cry and it shouldn’t bother me.
“Don’t trust anyone, Asa,” he always tells me. “Especially the whores.”
I grasp the leather strap tethered around my arm and pull it tighter, then slap at my skin. I realize now that leather isn’t made from dinosaurs.
My mother wasn’t lying about that, at least.
I don’t remember a lot about the fight in their bedroom that night. The yelling had become a daily occurrence, so it wasn’t new to me. What was so different about that night was the silence. The house had never been so quiet. I remember lying in bed, listening to myself breathe because it was the only noise in the entire house. I hated the quiet. I hate the quiet.
No one found out what he did to her for a few days. They found her body wrapped in a bloody sheet, shoved under the house and half-covered in dirt. I know this, because I snuck outside and watched them pull her out from under the house.
After the cops arrested my father, I was shipped to my aunt’s house where I lived until I ran away at fourteen.
I know he’s in prison somewhere, but I’ve never looked for him. I haven’t seen or heard from him since that night.
I guess you shouldn’t trust the men who marry the whores, either.
I press the tip of the needle into my arm and apply a little pressure. Once it pierces my skin, I draw the process out as long as possible. The initial insertion and sting is the best part for me.
I push my thumb down, feeling the warm burn move from the point of insertion, down to my wrist and straight up through to my shoulder.
I slide the needle out and drop it to the floor, then untie the strap of leather, letting it fall as well. I curl my arm up to my chest and hold it with my other hand while I lean my head back against the wall. I close my eyes and smile to myself, relieved I didn’t end up with a whore like my mother.
Thinking Sloan was with another guy today made it crystal clear why my father hated whores. I don’t think I truly understood him until that moment—when I felt the hatred for Sloan that he felt for my mother.
I’m so relieved Sloan isn’t a whore.
I let my arm fall limp to the mattress.
Fuck, this feels so good.
I hear Sloan’s footsteps ascending the stairs.
She’ll be pissed that I’m doing this in our bedroom. She thinks I simply sell the shit—that I don’t actually sample it.
After what she put me through today already, she better not say a damn word about this when she walks into this bedroom.
Fuck...so good.
She returned home about ten minutes ago. I saw the lights turn on in the kitchen.
I’m sitting by the pool with Jon, Dalton, and some guy named Kevin. They’re engrossed in a live poker tournament, watching it on a laptop that Kevin has propped up on the table. Apparently they’ve somehow got stake in it.
I’m aware that Dalton is mentally taking notes, following the conversations like it’s a ping pong match. I let him. My mind is too exhausted from this day to keep up, and I can’t stop worrying about where Asa disappeared to, and what Sloan is doing right now.
My gaze is fixated on the house. I watch the windows as she moves around the kitchen, making herself something to eat. Once it looks like she disappears upstairs, I use the opportunity to take a breather. I need to regroup—place my focus back on the conversation around me. I just need a few minutes alone in order to do that. Some people recharge by having the energy of other people around them.
I am not one of those people.
I read once that the difference between an extrovert and an introvert isn’t how you act in a group setting. It’s whether or not those group settings give you fuel or drain you. An introvert can outwardly appear to others to be an extrovert, and vice versa. But it all comes down to how those interactions influence you internally.
I am definitely an introvert, because people drain me. And now I need silence to refuel.
“You want a beer?” I ask Dalton. He shakes his head, so I stand up and head inside to the kitchen. I don’t even want a beer. I just want silence. How Sloan lives with this on a day-to-day basis and still functions is unbelievable.
I walk through the back door and the first thing I notice when I get to the kitchen is the new sentence scripted across the dry-erase board. I take a step closer and read it.
He unclenched his fists and dropped her worries, unable to catch them for her. But she picked them back up and dusted them off. She wants to be able to hold them herself now.
I read it over and over, until the bedroom door upstairs slams and breaks me out of my trance. I take a step away from the fridge, just as Sloan rounds the corner into the kitchen. She stops suddenly when she sees me. She pulls her hands quickly up to her face and wipes at the tears. I see her glance at her words on the refrigerator, then back at me.
We both stand silently, just two feet apart, staring at each other. Her eyes are wide and I watch as her chest heaves up and down with each breath she takes.
Three seconds.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
I lose count of how much time passes while we both just watch each other, neither of us knowing what to do about the invisible rope between us, tugging and pulling us together with strength so much stronger than o
ur willpower.
She sniffles and then rests her hands on her hips as her eyes fall to the floor.
“I hate him, Carter,” she whispers.
I can tell by the hurt in her voice that something happened when she went upstairs. I look up at the ceiling toward their bedroom, wondering what it could have been. When I look back at her, she’s staring at me.
“He’s passed out,” she says. “He’s using again.”
I shouldn’t feel relieved that he’s passed out, but I am. “Again?”
She takes a couple of steps toward me and then rests her back against the countertop, folding her arms together. She wipes at another tear. “He gets...” She inhales a breath and I can tell it’s hard for her to talk about. I walk over to her and stand next to her.
“He gets paranoid,” she says. “He starts to think he’s about to get caught and the pressure gets to be too much for him. He thinks I don’t notice these things, but I do. And then he starts using and when that happens, things...things turn bad for all of us.”
I’m warring with myself right now. Part of me wants to comfort her—part of me wants to selfishly push her for more information. “All of us?”
She nods. “Me. Jon. The guys who work for him.” She nudges her head in my direction. “You.”
She says that last word with a dose of bitterness. Her top teeth press into her bottom lip and she looks in the other direction. I continue to stare at her. Her hands are twisting into the sleeves of her shirt as she hugs herself tighter and tighter.
She isn’t crying anymore. She’s angry now and I’m not sure if she’s angry at me or Asa.
I look back at the words on the board.
He unclenched his fists and dropped her worries, unable to catch them for her. But she picked them back up and dusted them off. She wants to be able to hold them herself now.
Rereading those words and watching her right now gives me clarity. All this time I’ve been worried for her. Concerned that she was being brainwashed and had no idea what kind of person Asa is.
“I was wrong about you,” I tell her.
She looks at me again; this time her lips are pressed together, her eyebrows drawn together in curiosity.
“I thought you needed protection,” I clarify. “I thought maybe you were naïve when it came to Asa. But you aren’t. You know him better than anyone. I thought he was using you...but you’re the one using him.”
Her jaw tightens with those words and she grits her teeth. “I’m using him?”
I nod.
Her curiosity turns into anger as she narrows her eyes. “I was wrong about you, too,” she says. “I thought you were different. But you’re a bastard, just like the rest of them.”
She turns to walk away, but I grab her elbow and pull her back. She gasps when I spin her around and grip her forearms. “I’m not finished,” I tell her.
Her eyes are full of shock now. I loosen my grip on her arms, rubbing my thumbs back and forth to hopefully put her anger a little more at ease.
“Do you love him?” I ask her.
She inhales slowly, but doesn’t respond.
“No,” I say, answering for her. “You don’t. You probably used to, but the only thing love relies on for survival is respect. And you don’t get that from him.”
She remains silent as she waits for me to get my point across.
“You don’t love him. You’re still here—not because you’re too weak to leave—but because you’re too strong to leave. You put up with this shit because you know it’s not about you. It’s not about your own safety. You do it for your brother. Everything you do, you do for other people. Not many people have that kind of courage and strength, Sloan. It’s fucking inspiring.”
Her lips part and she sucks in a soft rush of air. Based on her reaction, I’d say she’s not used to being complimented. And that’s sad.
“I’m sorry I said those things to you at the restaurant,” I tell her. “You aren’t weak. You aren’t Asa’s doormat. You’re...”
A tear trickles out of her left eye and trails down her cheek. I lift my hand and press it to her cheek, letting the tear fall against my thumb. I don’t wipe it away. If anything, I want to bottle it up and save it. This is probably the first tear she’s ever cried as the result of a compliment, rather than an insult.
“I’m what?” she asks, her voice soft and hopeful. She’s looking up at me, wanting—needing me to finish my sentence.
My eyes drop to her mouth and my chest constricts at the thought of what her lips would feel like sliding against mine. I swallow hard and finish saying the words I know she needs to hear.
“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” I whisper. “You are everything Asa doesn’t deserve. And...” I take a step closer and she tilts her head up as I lean in toward her and whisper, “And everything I want.”
She sighs softly and we’re so close I can feel her breath on my lips—so close I can already taste her. I run my hand through her hair to pull her toward me, but the second our lips almost meet, the back door to the kitchen begins to open. We both separate, facing opposite directions. I open the refrigerator just as Jon walks into the kitchen. I look away from him, but not before seeing the knowing look he shoots me. The suspicion.
Shit.
I hear Sloan open a cabinet behind me. I reach inside the refrigerator. “Want a beer?” I ask Jon, holding it out toward him.
He takes two deliberately slow steps toward me, eyeing me hard, and takes the beer from my hand. He glances behind me at Sloan as he twists off the cap. “What did I just interrupt?”
I wait to see if Sloan wants to answer, but she doesn’t. There’s just a long stretch of silence. I grab another beer out of the fridge and then close the door, glancing in Sloan’s direction. Her back is to both of us as she pours herself a glass of water from the sink.
I could act like Jon is overreacting. I could feign innocence. But Jon would know better. I know what it looked like when he walked in here—both of us turning in opposite directions, separating, looking guilty.
Jon doesn’t know me. For all he knows, I’m just like him. Making him think I’m not worried about repercussions would probably gain me more respect from him than not. Making him believe I think Sloan is just another “whore” (as Asa would say) would be better in his eyes than if I actually thought she was anything different.
I look back at Jon and smirk as I take a step toward him. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Just as I pass him, I wink, allowing him to think whatever the hell he wants.
I walk confidently outside and as soon as the door shuts behind me, I press my hand into the wall and let out a huge rush of air.
I can feel the pull in every part of me—the blood rushing to my head as my lungs drag in all the breaths Sloan took from me in that kitchen. Or took from Luke, rather. Because that was all me just now, pulling her to me, wanting to put my mouth on hers. That had nothing to do with why I’m here.
And I got exactly what I deserved for allowing it to happen. Jon knows he walked in on something and now I have to figure out how to fix that before Asa finds out.
Shit just got real.
My hands are shaking as I take a sip of water. I know Jon is still in the kitchen, standing somewhere behind me, but I don’t want to turn around. He disgusts me almost as much as Asa, and knowing he thinks he saw something between me and Carter gives him a leg up. I know how he works. I’m not stupid.
I set the glass down and glance behind me. Jon is standing against the fridge, staring at the words I wrote. He lifts his hand and traces his index finger around the words on the dry-erase board, then he runs his finger through them, erasing them. “What the fuck does this even mean?” he says, glancing back at me.
I face him full-on, folding my arms over my chest. I hate how his eyes scroll down my body. I hate how he looks at me—like I’m the one thing he can’t have. Only now that he thinks Carter almost had me, I somehow seem more attainable to him.
My heart feels like it slips up my throat. I can feel my pulse beating in my neck as Jon begins to take a few steps toward me. “Where’s Asa?” he asks, his eyes roaming over my breasts rather than my face.
“In our bedroom,” I say, wanting him to know that Asa is right here in the house. I don’t mention that he’s passed out and probably won’t wake up for several hours.
It’s funny how things work sometimes. I fear Asa more than anyone—but Asa is also my only protection against people in this house.
Jon glances up at the ceiling. “He asleep?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I came down to make him something to drink.”
I can see in his eyes that he knows I’m lying. He knows I’m only trying to protect myself. He takes another step forward until he reaches me. Something changes in his expression. I see the sinister look in his eyes—the hatred—and I open my mouth to scream. I want to yell for Carter to come back inside. I want to yell for Asa to come downstairs. But I can’t, because Jon’s hand clamps around my throat, stifling my voice.
“You want to know what I’m sick of?” he asks, glaring at me as he squeezes his hand tighter. My eyes are wide, but I’m unable to nod or shake my head. I’m gripping at his hand around my throat as I try to pull it away from me.
“I’m sick of Asa getting everything he wants,” he says. “And not letting me have shit.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Someone will walk in soon. Carter, Dalton—someone will stop this.
Just as that thought passes through my mind, the back door opens and relief washes over me. I open my eyes and Jon spins around, still gripping my throat.
My wide eyes meet Kevin’s. He pauses in the doorway, staring at us. I barely know him because he’s not here at the house much, but I don’t care. He’s here and Jon just got busted. He’ll be forced to release me.
