by Lexie Ray
Stronger
(Runaway Series)
By
Lexie Ray
Copyright © 2013 RascalHearts.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
“Girl, what’s so interesting about that dumpster that you be in there for five whole minutes?”
I froze, cradling the McDonald’s wrapper to my chest. “This is mine,” I called over my shoulder. “I found it.”
“I don’t like seeing folks going through the trash, especially not behind my nightclub,” the voice said. The accompanying shuffle of footsteps was my only warning before someone grabbed my shoulder and whirled me around.
I did the only thing I could think of. I shoved the half-eaten burger completely into my mouth and chewed defiantly, staring up at a black woman more than twice my size. Her heavily made-up eyes widened in shock.
“You did not just eat that,” she declared, her mouth twisting with disgust.
Clutching the greasy paper in my fist, I swallowed the cold morsel. It was the first time I’d eaten in days.
“I found it,” I repeated, wishing she’d leave me in piece. There was still cheese to be picked off the paper. If the paper was greasy enough, maybe I’d eat it, as well. The possibilities were endless and I wanted nothing more than to be left alone with my find.
Something shifted in the woman’s face. I noticed for the first time how finely she was dressed. The sequins on her top shimmered in the waning light and her pantyhose were pristine—no runs in sight. It made me feel self-conscious about my own clothes—torn jeans and a smelly, over-sized T-shirt. Her elaborate up-do prompted me to touch my own greasy hair, which hung in clumps.
“How old are you, girl?” she asked.
“I’m 18,” I said. At least I was pretty sure I was. I’d caught the date on a discarded newspaper in the dumpster that told me I’d missed my own birthday last week.
“You lying to me?” the woman demanded. “You look more like 15.”
I scowled. “I’m 18. My mom always said I looked young for my age.”
After saying this, my face fell. My mom. She probably would have been worried sick. Well, maybe she would have. It was hard to tell. Things were different when it was just me and her. We’d talk. Laugh. All the things normal mothers and daughters did.
Everything was perfect until him.
“That’s it,” the woman declared. “It’s time to get you off the streets. I don’t know how long you been on them, but you’re coming home with Mama now.”
Leaving no room for argument, the woman took me by my elbow and marched me toward a green door. I spluttered a protest as she grabbed the McDonald’s wrapper from me, but she shook her head furiously.
“No, ma’am,” she said. “You want a hamburger, I’ll fix you a hamburger.”
“Who are you?” I asked, dazzled by this force of nature.
“Why, I’m Mama, honey,” she said, peering down at me. “I own this place.”
The door opened to reveal a cavernous nightclub. Workers—all of them women—bustled around the space, preparing it for the night’s business. Sumptuous leather booths lined the walls while cozy tables dotted the floor. Velvet curtains had been pulled back to reveal a stage. Just below it was a dance floor. An enormous disco ball already shimmered above it, throwing spots of light around the room.
“Well, what do you think?” Mama asked, well aware that I’d been struck speechless. I never imagined I would be in such a nice place. I didn’t feel like I was good enough to take a nap in one of the booths.
“It’s beautiful,” I finally managed, awed by the enormous canvas paintings of attractive men and women dancing together.
“Thank you,” Mama said humbly. “Cocoa!”
One of the workers set down a tray of napkins before jogging over to us. She was as beautiful as the nightclub, her hair braided and swept past her face. Her long legs were smooth and unblemished and her body was lithe and well proportioned. She looked like she took good care of herself—or had someone who did.
“Hey, Mama,” she said.
“Hey, yourself,” Mama replied. “I need you to take—ooh, girl, how rude of me, I didn’t even get your name.”
“I’m Jasmine,” I said.
“A pretty name for a pretty girl,” Mama said, smiling. “Take Jazz upstairs and show her where she can get herself cleaned up. Meanwhile, I’ll be frying up a hamburger for her. Be a doll, Cocoa, and let her borrow one of your uniforms to wear for now? I’ll take her out shopping tomorrow.”
“Sure thing, Mama,” Cocoa said before looking at me kindly. “Let’s go.”
My legs followed automatically. I hoped this entailed a shower. My last attempt at bathing—in a fountain with a chunk of soap I’d pilfered from a gas station bathroom—had been rudely interrupted by a police officer. Since then, I’d sort of let myself go.
We climbed a flight of stairs and walked into a hallway. It was empty. Most of the doors were shut, but they were decorated colorfully. Many had names in cutout letters and posters of pop stars alongside magazine clippings of everything from cute, drooling puppies to scowling models strutting the latest fashions down the runway.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s Mama’s boardinghouse,” Cocoa answered over her shoulder. “You’ll be staying here.”
“But I don’t have any money,” I said, feeling miserable. All I wanted was a shower and a clean bed. Would I ever be able to have them again? I really didn’t think so.
“Most of us girls didn’t, either,” she said, smiling. “Mama lets us stay here in exchange for working at the nightclub. Look.”
We paused in front of a door while Cocoa produced a key from a chain around her neck. She fumbled with the lock for a moment before opening it. A flip of the switch illuminated a bunk bed, a couple of dressers, two chairs, a table, and even a small TV.
“This is my room,” Cocoa said proudly. “I expect you’ll be living with me. My old roommate, Candy, just moved out.”
Cocoa bustled around the room, pulling out a washcloth and towel from one drawer and pushing a bucket of hygiene products into my arms.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you the bathroom.”
We walked across the hall to another room. It housed three toilet stalls and as many showers. The showers were separated only by curtains, but they seemed clean enough.
“We’re all responsible for keeping our rooms clean, but we change up the other chores,” Cocoa said, practically reading my mind. “Now, undress in one of the showers and toss me those dirty clothes.”
I felt a little embarrassed that Cocoa would have to touch the things I’d been wearing for months and months. I didn’t even have underwear anymore. When a pair of panties tore, they were pretty much finished. Stepping into the shower with the bucket, I quickly wriggled out of my clothes and handed them out to her.
“Is there a place where I can wash them?” I asked, poking my head out from the curtain.
Cocoa snorted. “Sure, we have a laundry room downstairs, but we’re not washing these. These are past all hope. Besides, you’ll have my uniform to wear tonight and Mama’s going to take you shopping tomorrow. Say goodbye to this trash.”
“Goodbye,” I whispered before turning on the water. The shirt had been something I’d salvaged during one of
my many forays into dumpsters, but those jeans had been with me from the beginning. It felt like I was shedding my own skin.
Nearly all of my melancholy was washed away at the first burst of water from the showerhead. I smiled and closed my eyes, simply enjoying the feel of the liquid sluicing down my body. The hot water eased tensions I hadn’t even known I was carrying, making my shoulders sag with relief.
I could have cried at smelling the glorious shampoo. It was a coconut-scented off-brand, but I didn’t care. It was perfect. Working the suds through my hair, I carefully picked out all of the snarls. There had been a point where I seriously considered hacking all of my hair off just for convenience’s sake. That had been when I didn’t think I’d see a shower again.
Things were looking different now.
My skin seemed to tingle and glow after I got the layer of dirt off of me and down the drain. I was a little mortified by the amount of black water that pooled at my feet, but my overwhelming feeling was hope. If I’d known that a simple hot shower would affect my outlook on life so completely, I would’ve tried to get one a little harder out on the streets.
I realized showers could be had in shelters, but shelters had always scared me. The homeless people who used them seemed so desperate and lost, shuffling through the soup line like zombies.
I didn’t want to be counted as one of the undead among them. I was still alive.
But survival on the streets was something I just didn’t understand fast enough. Doing so earlier would’ve ensured a higher level of success. I’d lost my money when I misplaced my trust with a fellow runaway. I’d lost my backpack before I learned to sleep lightly. I’d nearly lost my life when I still hadn’t learned to move like a shadow, especially if I was moving by myself. A group of drunk guys rolling buns had chased me, suddenly finding the game they’d wanted to play with me much more interesting.
I’d had to become something short of human, something people wouldn’t give a passing glance, in order to survive on the streets. A breathing shadow that no one looked at twice.
It felt good—but a little bit scary—to be washing all that away. Would I really ever be rid of it? I guessed only time would tell.
“You still alive in there?” Cocoa called.
I jumped. How long had I been scrubbing myself? Was it long enough to erase the past? There wasn’t enough water in the world for that.
“I am,” I said, turning the water off. “It just felt so good.”
Cocoa chuckled warmly. “I know how you feel, Jazz. It feels good to get taken care of, and Mama’s going to take care of you.”
I reached out and she handed me the towel. It was fresh and soft, and smelled like flowers I couldn’t quite identify. I dried my hair as best I could and wrapped the towel around my body before stepping out.
Cocoa’s face was surprised before she grinned at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did I miss a spot?” I craned my neck around to try to evaluate my body.
“Mama didn’t tell me we were taking in a beauty queen!” she exclaimed. She wiped off one of the steamed-up mirrors to show me my reflection.
I ogled myself. So much time had passed since I’d seen the girl staring back at me. My black hair glistened and hung down nearly to my breasts. My latte-colored skin was clean for the first time in months and completely free from blemishes. My hazel eyes were a bit bloodshot from lack of sleep, but the mixture of greens and browns seemed to swirl together mysteriously in the steamy bathroom.
“You’re a little bony, maybe, but Mama’ll solve that,” Coca said critically, looking at my very prominent collarbones. “That’s about the easiest thing to fix around here. You won’t go hungry.”
We walked back across the hall to Cocoa’s room, where she handed me some fresh clothes.
“They may be a little big on you, but you just have to put up with them for one night,” she said. “Go on and change, now, because I bet that hamburger is about ready.”
Cocoa busied herself at the dresser, giving me some privacy as I hurriedly unwrapped the heavenly towel from around my pampered body. My growling stomach made me rush to pull on the pieces from the pile of clothes she had given me.
I never would have imagined that a pair of clean underwear would be a luxury. Slipping on the white cotton panties made me feel civilized again. The rest of the outfit was a bit baggy, but I was clean, comfortable, and clothed.
“Ready,” I said.
“Well, look at you,” Cocoa said, turning from the dresser and giving me the once-over. “Mama’s going to be pleased.”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror hung on the door to the room. I was wearing the same uniform Cocoa had on, though she filled it out a lot better. It was simple but elegant—a skirt that hit about two inches above the knee and a collared shirt to match. The buttons were sparkling rhinestones that caught the light. They provided some understated glitz to the getup, which was all black. I noticed that Cocoa had unbuttoned her shirt to display her ample cleavage, but I kept mine closed all the way up to my neck. She hadn’t offered me a bra—and I hadn’t expected one—but I wished for its support all the same.
The new clothes and the new setting made me feel like I was having an identity crisis. Who was this Jazz girl Cocoa was so impressed with?
“Let’s get you fattened up,” Cocoa said, smiling, as we left the room. I found myself hoping that I could stay with her. If I’d had an older sister, I bet she would’ve been like Cocoa—kind but honest.
Things would’ve been different with an older sister, I thought. She would’ve protected me.
Downstairs, the bustle had intensified. Every surface had been polished to a sheen and a band was doing a sound check on the stage. Beyond the heavily tinted front windows, I could make out a line of people jostling to get in. They seemed eager and several bouncers stood at the ready in case anyone got out of control.
“Is the club that popular?” I wondered aloud.
“We’re the toast of the town,” Cocoa said over her shoulder with an easy grin. “We have it all: strong drinks, pretty girls, and good music.”
“And good food,” Mama added, hearing what Cocoa had been saying as we pushed open the kitchen doors.
Chefs chopped and minced, preparing their stations for the night. It smelled fragrant and delicious even if no one had put in an order yet.
“What do you serve?” I asked, eyeing the veritable army of kitchen professionals dashing around the room.
“Tapas,” Mama said. “Lord, I don’t know what the customers love about them. They’re just teeny tiny plates. I have a pretty healthy appetite myself. I hope you do, too. We also have a chef’s special that changes every night.”
Mama turned from the grill and handed me a plate. On it sat an enormous burger, steaming and fully dressed with a side of home fries. It was the most food I’d seen—or been prepared to eat—in weeks.
“Now, let’s go somewhere where you can relax and eat and talk,” Mama said. “Cocoa, you did a fine job with Jazz. Better go out there and help those girls get everything together. Five minutes till open.”
Cocoa hurried out of the kitchen and I found myself following Mama into a lounge area adjacent to the kitchen. It was hard to remember that I was Jazz—not Jasmine, and not a shadow on the streets. If the burger was any indication, I could have a good thing going here.
“The girls come in here if they need a break from the floor,” Mama explained as we sat at a small table. The room was sparsely furnished but comfortable enough. There was even a framed watercolor painting of a flower hanging on the wall. I guessed that the room served its purpose—a quick refuge but not a place to stay for a long time.
“Eat, child!” Mama exclaimed, laughing as I jumped. “I know you’re hungry—not an hour ago you were digging through my dumpster!”
I didn’t need any more encouragement. Closing my eyes ecstatically, I tore into the sandwich. The meat was tender and juicy, cooked to perfection. The
crisp lettuce and succulent onions combined with the ripe tomato slice, offering a bouquet of tastes. I groaned softly in appreciation. Now this was a good burger.
The memories of dumpster banquets faded with each subsequent bite. The food warmed me from the inside out. Almost as an afterthought, I balanced a mound of home fries on my fork, drizzled them with ketchup, and shoved them in my mouth. The outside was crispy and the inside was soft—perfect. Everything was perfect.
In what seemed like a matter of seconds, my plate was clean. I looked up, embarrassed at what was probably an appalling display of table manners. Mama only smiled and offered me a napkin and a glass of water.
“I always keep food in the kitchen for everyone,” she said as I contemplated the divine fullness I was experiencing in my shocked belly. “There’s a fridge marked ‘Girls’ in there—that’s the one you eat out of. Everything else is nightclub food, not yours.”
I nodded eagerly, looking forward to having a refrigerator back at my disposal.
Mama smiled, leaning back and watching me. “Look at me, getting ahead of myself,” she said. “I want to know how such a pretty girl ended up gnawing leftover McDonald’s in my dumpster.”
I took a long sip of water while I weighed my options. I was eighteen now. Mama couldn’t turn me in to the authorities for being a runaway anymore. I was done hiding from police cruisers in the night. I was an adult. I figured I had nothing to lose with the truth.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I said by way of introduction.
“I’d be happy to hear it,” Mama said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her fist.
* * * *
Though it felt like it sometimes, I hadn’t always been on the streets. There was a time when I’d been a normal girl, going to school and talking to my girlfriends about crushes I had on boys.
I lived with my mom. It had been only us for as long as I could remember. When I was very young, I rubbed my tan hands over her coffee-colored ones, the difference in color and size too apparent for my curious mind to ignore any longer.
