Claimed

by Portia Moore

  After I’m out of the shower, I log on to Facebook on my phone. I scroll through my feed. It’s most of my old classmates and girls I work with at Funbags. I see a picture of Marcus and his roommate and fight down the sting of envy. Even though he’s screwed me over, I’m glad he’s in school and able to live a tiny part of our dream. Before I put my phone down, I have the same argument with myself that I always do. I hit the z key then the a key, and by the time I hit c, I throw my phone down.

  I won’t look him up.

  No matter how much I want to, the fact that I don’t always wins out. I try to convince myself I should be proud that I’ve never given in, but it doesn’t matter since he is always in my thoughts and behind each of my decisions. It’s better not to intentionally think of him. That’s what he told me, and he’s right. Except not thinking about him is impossible; trying not to miss him is an exercise in discipline I attempt to get better at every day.

  I sink myself deeper into bed and close my eyes. My phone sings that I’ve got a text message. I don’t get a lot of text messages, and when I do, it’s usually from one of the girls I work with asking if they can trade shifts or if I want one of theirs, but I see that it’s a message from a number I don’t have stored in my phone.

  Are you free tomorrow night beautiful?

  I feel my facial muscles distort. I try to think who I’ve given my number to and sigh. Dena gives it out to customers who ask for mine from time to time if they leave her a big enough tip. I roll my eyes and set the phone back down, and it buzzes again.

  You owe me remember

  My pulse begins to race.

  It can’t be. Can it? But how the hell did he get my number? I immediately type out just that and send it. Less than a minute later, a text comes through.

  I’m very resourceful about getting things I want.

  My heart is beating so fast, and I’m not sure if it’s because that man managed to get my cell phone number and could be some kind of psycho, or the fact that a part of me is flattered that he went through the effort…and a bigger part of me is sort of intrigued. Things like this don’t happen to me. I don’t win prizes. The only boy I’ve ever loved wouldn’t love me back. And now that I’m looking back on it, trying to steal was the dumbest thing I ever did because with my luck, I should be sitting in jail now, but for some reason I’m not. I was saved and not just by anyone, but this impossibly gorgeous and rich guy who should have just turned his nose up at me and walked away, leaving me to be arrested. But he didn’t. I bite my lip and grab my phone again. My hands tremble as I write the text.

  Why? What’s so special about me?

  I wait with bated breath for the next text. This one doesn’t come right through, but takes a moment.

  Let me show you.

  Chapter 6

  Zach

  Five years earlier

  The guys are waiting for me behind the back of the high school. Three of them are leaning on their cars, smoking, and when I wrinkle my nose at the smell, they just laugh. “You’re gonna have to toughen up, pussy,” Bryan says as he flicks his cigarette into the gravel.

  There’s five guys in this little “gang” that they’ve made. Bryan—the leader—Chris, Joshua, Devon, and Spike—not his real name, but he won’t tell any of us what it is. It’s probably something stupid. And then there’s me. I’ve only been hanging out with them since a little before school started, when I almost got caught stealing a beer from the gas station. Josh helped get me out of it by distracting the cashier, and he introduced me to the rest of the group.

  “He’s the youngest one here,” Spike says, shaking his head. “Even you’re almost seventeen, Devon. A kid this young is just going to be trouble.”

  The look Bryan shoots him is deadly. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, kicking gravel in Spike’s direction. “I’m in charge here. And I say he’ll be a good point guy. Keep an eye out, let us know if there’s any heat coming.”

  Bryan likes to talk like he’s some big-time gangster, using slang he’s picked up from TV shows and movies. He thinks he’s scary, when really he’s just a teenager with acne and a shit family like the rest of us. That’s the thing every one of us has in common—some kind of dysfunctional family, poverty. All of us need something—money for food, meds, clothes…you name it.

  We all hang around bullshitting until it gets dark. The plan is to hit a discount grocery store and a gas station after midnight, which means we’ve got a hell of a lot of time to kill. Chris’s older brother works at a pizza place in town, so we all pile into his shabby Ford Focus and drive there, splitting a pizza that “wasn’t made right” and then snuck out to us.

  I wonder, as we sit there munching away at pepperoni pizza and slurping up soda, what it would be like to be one of those kids on the “good” side of town. Would it be better? They’re all sitting around a dinner table right now, eating food that isn’t shitty, with two parents and a couple of siblings and a dog hovering around, hoping for crumbs to fall. There’s always enough money, enough clothes. Those kids get to go shopping at the mall, not digging around at the thrift store.

  None of our parents give a shit we’re not home. For the couple of us who do have cell phones, there hasn’t been a single call or text. Our parents are all too busy fighting, fucking, or drunk out of their minds to notice. Or, they just don’t care.

  But maybe those rich kids have their own problems. Their parents probably still don’t get along. They probably still fight—or the dad is sleeping with his secretary, or the mom drinks when no one is looking. I figure everyone probably has problems, money or not, as I cram a fourth slice of pizza into my mouth. At least today, being hungry isn’t one of them.

  Being the point guy, as it turns out, is easy. Chris stays at the wheel of his car, ready to spin out of the parking lot the minute the others come running out and pile in. It’s my job to hang out in the backseat and keep an eye on everywhere that Chris can’t see. I’m supposed to signal Bryan if something goes wrong—if I see cops, for instance. This time of night, the store is dead and the employees are exhausted and bored—way easier to slip out with what they can stuff in their jacket pockets and backpacks. And this particular discount store is known for not having any cameras.

  They’re fast, I’ll give them that. Less than ten minutes and the guys are flying out of the store, cramming into the car as Bryan yells for Chris to drive. Chris slams his foot down on the gas pedal, and we peel out with a screech and the smell of burnt rubber.

  He stops a block away from the gas station, in view of it but not too close. The guys unload everything they got from the grocery store, spilling it all out into a big garbage bag that we’ll dig through later and divvy everything up. And then they’re out again, moving quickly and quietly through the dark towards the glowing 7-Eleven sign in the distance.

  Again, it’s just my job to keep an eye out. I clutch the walkie in my sweaty hand, thinking about Rain’s face when I give her the food—and even money, if they’re really successful. The minutes tick by and I don’t see anyone coming, but my pulse is in my throat. I can feel my heart beating so hard that it hurts. What if they get caught? What if we…

  “Bro, open the door!” Devon yells, and Chris hurriedly unlocks the doors as the guys pile in. “There’s a cop coming from the far side!” Bryan snaps. “No one saw him?”

  “We didn’t!” Chris and I insist in unison, as Chris throws the car into reverse. We see lights go on in the distance, but Chris is a good driver. He darts down an alleyway, retreating back the way we came, and there’s no chance of the cop finding us. The sirens disappear into the distance, and we all let out a collective sigh of relief, knowing we’re safe.

  I open my backpack as we get out of the car at a park a safe distance away, hauling the garbage bag full of loot out and dumping it on a picnic bench. We all pick through it, snatching up packaged snack cakes and bags of chips and packages of lunch meat and cheese. Bryan holds up a six-pack of beer he somehow managed to ni
ck from the gas station and passes them out, one for each of us.

  “Congrats, Zach,” he says, tapping his Coors Light can against mine. “You’re officially part of the crew.”

  I take a deep swallow of the now-lukewarm beer. It’s disgusting, the worst thing I’ve ever tasted, but I gulp it down anyway. No way can I spit it out here, or make a face. I’m part of the crew, and I’ve gotta act like it.

  I drink the whole beer, crush the can, and look around, basking in the glow of their acceptance. It shouldn’t mean anything, the fact that this ragtag group has accepted me, but it does. I need a family, just like I needed a friend when I found Rain.

  And as I look around at them, cheering and slapping each other on their backs, I think for a moment that maybe I’ve found it.

  Maybe this could be my family.

  Chapter 7

  Rain

  Present day

  I’ve agreed.

  It’s insane, I know, but life is about taking chances. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. This man is from a whole other world than me, one where he can splurge on buying a stranger a couple thousand dollars worth of items. He’s a man, and I realize I’m still not far from being a girl. When he told me he’d have me picked up, I told him I’d get my own Uber, even though the truth is—after giving all our money to our landlord—I have $30 to my name until my next shift. He just chuckled and said it wouldn’t be an Uber picking me up, but his driver.

  He has a driver.

  It’s another reminder of why me? I’m cute, yeah, but again, I’m sure I’m not the first or the last cute girl he’s come across, and I’m pretty sure most of them weren’t caught stealing.

  After I shower, I walk into the kitchen to find something to eat. Mallory is sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal.She looks up from her phone and raises her thick, dark eyebrows at me. “You got a package, by courier,” she says, the last part in air quotes. I look at her, confused. I haven’t ordered anything. Hell, I can’t afford to order anything. A small smile finds my face when I think my mom might have sent me something, but it wouldn’t be by a courier, it’d be regular old UPS.

  “Where is it?”

  She shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth before she gestures to the plain brown box sitting on the counter. It’s a decent size, nothing like the small package I’d expect from my mom if she did send something.

  I hesitantly pick it up. It’s slightly heavier than I had expected it to be. I carry it back to the table, where Mallory is still munching on her breakfast.

  “What did you get?” she asks curiously.

  I shrug my shoulders as I sit down next to her, placing the box on the table in front of me. “I honestly have no idea. I didn’t order anything.”

  “Well, who is it from?”

  The only mark on the box is my name neatly written in marker. She looks at it skeptically when we realize there's no return address.

  “Do you think I should open it?” I ask her, now eyeing it suspiciously. Who would send me a package without a return address?

  She looks at me for a long moment. “You probably shouldn’t open packages that you didn’t order, with no return address. It’s stupid and not the best idea. But do I want you to open it anyway? Absolutely!” she says, excitement slithering through her voice. I bite my lip and shake the box, still unable to guess what it is.

  I give her one more look and take a deep breath before I tear the box open.

  As soon as I peer over the edge of the box, I know exactly who it’s from. Inside of it is a beautiful black velvet mini dress. The material is so soft it makes me question if I’ve ever felt velvet before. Both Mallory’s and my eyes go wide, looking at it.

  She lets out a gasp as I hold it up. “I know that dress!”

  I look at her with an eyebrow raised. “You do?”

  She furiously nods. “Yes. Yes, I do. I have thought about taking a loan out for that dress before.”

  “You’re kidding!” She takes it from me and shows me the sewn-in tag inside that says Balenciaga.

  Holy shit!

  I’m not the type to keep up with trends and fashion because, honestly, I’m more worried about things like electric and gas bills, but even I know Balenciaga is a shitload of money.

  “Rain, this dress is over three thousand dollars!” she shrieks, grabbing her phone. Less than a minute later the dress I’m holding in my hand is pulled up on her phone with a retail price tag of $3,400. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “Who the hell would buy you a dress like this?!” she asks, and I’m not sure if she’s afraid or excited. My face has turned bright red, and I swallow hard.

  “Spill!” she says, nudging me with a cautious smile on her face.

  “That guy…Vincent. The one from the boutique. This is from him,” I say quietly.

  She looks between me and the dress. It’s undoubtedly gorgeous. If I ever saw this dress in a store, I probably wouldn’t stop to look twice despite its beauty. This is nothing I would ever consider in my world. Even now, with it in my hands, I’m having a hard time picturing myself putting it on.

  There’s a low-cut sweetheart neckline that’s definitely meant to hug my figure. I blush at the thought of wearing it, especially out on a first date.

  Mallory reaches her hands out to me and looks at me with big pleading eyes. “Can I please hold it?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a laugh, handing it to her. She looks like she’s in heaven as she presses it up against her body, as if it’s the cure for cancer or something.

  “Either this guy is completely insane, or he’s loaded. I mean, like, more money than Benny loaded,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. “Can I try it on?” she pleads, and before I can finish my nod, she squeals a “thank you!” before running into her room with it. When she disappears, I find there’s a card in the box.

  I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to assume that you’d wear this tonight, but I’m a lucky man, so I thought I’d push it.

  Vincent.

  This is happening. This is really happening. This man just bought me a three thousand dollar dress after all the things he bought to keep me out of jail.

  Mallory appears in the dress, looking like it was made for her, and does several modeling poses with it.

  “You are going to look so good in this thing!” she says and flops dramatically onto the couch. “Why can’t I meet a guy that understands the importance of labels?”

  “I know you’re all in designer label euphoria but…you don’t think this is…sort of strange?” I ask her hesitantly. She sits up on the sofa and looks me directly in the eye.

  “Of course it’s strange. It’s insane! Especially since there seems to be nothing outwardly wrong with him. He’s hot, handsome…I don’t know, maybe he has a small dick, or he sucks at sex or something.”

  “I should send it back,” I say. What am I thinking? This is so freaking weird. What kind of guy does this? What the hell is he going to want from me? Mallory looks horrified.

  “No you aren’t! Are you crazy? If anything, just say you got sick or something, but you’re keeping this dress!” she demands.

  I sigh. “Take it off.”

  “Only if you promise you’re keeping it,” she whines. I give her a warning look. She pouts before disappearing into her room, then comes back and out and tosses it to me.

  “I’ve got to get ready for work.” She goes into the bathroom, leaving me to stare at the dress and the card.

  The clock is counting down until eight and I’m a complete wreck. I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, with the dress laid out on my mattress behind me. I need to start getting ready if I’m going, but I’m still not sure about any of this. I can’t force myself to move off my spot on the floor. With every second that passes, I’m growing more anxious about what can happen tonight. My mind is rampant with every scenario. From the little ones like there being food stuck to my teeth to the big ones that are a little too graphic to give a seco
nd thought.

  There’s a knock on my door. I don’t bother to move as I say, “Come in.”

  I hear my door open and light footsteps walk and stop behind me. “I heard you’ve landed a shark,” Dena says with a sly smile on her face.

  I try not to show my exasperation with my roommate. She’s the reason that I was in this mess in the first place. Mallory has been hounding me about Vincent all day long through texts. But I would rather endure another round of that torture than talk to Dena about this at all.

  “A shark?”

  “Hell yeah, a guy that has money out the ass. Did he really buy you Balenciaga?” she asks almost accusatory as she picks up and examines the dress.

  “You are the luckiest bitch alive,” she says after the dress gets her approval, and she flops on my bed without my permission and begins to play with her dark shiny locks. I want to ask her what she’s still doing here, but her distraction is welcome.

  “I’m lucky because I could have absolutely ended up in jail, right?” I toss back at her, reminding her she’s the reason any of this happened.

  “But you didn’t, so you should be thanking me! If the little situation hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t have a dress sitting in front of you that could pay your rent for the next half of the year,” she says, showing off her perfect teeth.