by Nicole Dykes
“You sure?”
I just glare at him, folding my arms over my wide chest, daring him to ask me again.
He doesn’t. He just mumbles something as he leaves. When he’s gone, I move to the front and lock the door, changing the sign to “CLOSED” before moving back to behind the counter, seeing the girl on the floor. Her knees are pulled to her chest, and her arms are wrapped around them.
“Please don’t make me go back with him.”
Fuck! My chest hurts with how hard my heart is pumping. My ears feel like they’re going to explode from the pressure as I lean down. “Is he your father?”
Her head shakes from side to side as she lifts her gaze to mine. “Foster father.”
I might actually puke. The way she looks. So tiny and afraid. Fuck.
I stand up, fighting to breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
She’s staring up at me, horrified. I’m scaring her.
I force my lungs to cooperate and suck in a big breath before letting it go and crouching down again. “What did he do?”
She looks down at the floor.
No.
“He hurts me.”
I want to kill him. I feel my hands form fists involuntarily, and my breaths become rapid, but I remind myself to slow down my breathing. I don’t want to scare her. “I won’t make you go with him.”
She looks up at me with big, hopeful eyes that gut me.
I know why this kid looks so fucking familiar to me now. I don’t know what brought her here to my shop, but fuck, maybe we’re kindred spirits or something. I can’t explain it, but I know I'm supposed to help this kid.
I’ll be damned if I let that fucker ever touch her again.
“What’s your name?”
“Bree.”
I nod my head, liking that she doesn’t ask me mine. I haven’t earned her trust yet. Good girl. “I’m Rhys.”
She just gives me a curt nod because she’s a tough kid. Taken in by a sick, twisted rich motherfucker who dresses her up like a doll.
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
I fight the bile trying to rise in my throat. I can’t puke in front of her. That won’t inspire any confidence.
“Okay, Bree. I gotta make a call, but the door is locked. Just stay here.”
She doesn’t move, and I go to the back to grab my cell phone and dial the only person I think I can remotely trust right now. Logan’s stepmom. She’s a social worker in Kansas City, and even though I’d rather cut off my arm than talk to another social worker again, she’s pretty decent.
“Hello?”
“Gillian, it’s Rhys.”
There’s a beat. I wonder if she’ll even talk to me. Quinn is her stepson’s girl, and when she first moved in with Logan’s parents, it was after I had fucking hit Quinn after a bender. My stomach aches, thinking about that. I hit her. I did so many shitty things when I was high.
“Hi, Rhys. Are you okay, sweetie?”
I flinch, not liking any term of endearment. “I’m fine, but a kid just came into my shop. She ran from her foster father, and she told me he hurts her.” I swallow the sickening feeling and press forward matter-of-factly. I don’t want her to read me. “I can’t give her back to that sick motherfucker.”
She takes all the information in. “Okay. I’ll give you a contact for St. Louis. If she has bruises or any proof.”
She won’t. Not anywhere they can see, and she won’t let them dig too deep. Because she’s fucking terrified. “This contact, they’re legit?”
“Of course.” She thinks they are. I know the system. I’ve been fucked many times by the system.
“And if she doesn’t have any visible bruises?”
She’s quiet. “If she’s afraid and tells them that, they’ll investigate.”
I lean my back against the wall, the phone pressed against my ear. “She’s scared.”
“It will be okay, Rhys. You’re doing the right thing. You need to take her to Family Services there and ask for Morgan Winters. She’ll help.”
I nod and then hang up, walking back to the girl. Bree.
“I’m going to help you.”
She looks frightened and so very alone. “You’re gonna take me to the social workers.” She says it like she already knew what I’d do. Because a kid in the system knows it better than anyone else.
“Yeah.”
She stands up, her shoulders drooped. “They’ll just put me back in his house.”
“I won’t let them.”
Her head moves from side to side sadly. “He has money.” Her head lifts, and she looks at me, her gaze so fucking heartbreaking I want to punch a hole through the wall. “A lot of it.”
My stomach wretches, but I don’t let myself throw up. “Let’s go. I’ll protect you.”
And I mean it even if I have no idea how I can do that.
I drive her to Family Services, and we walk inside. The way she walks slowly at my side, it’s like I'm guiding her to her slaughter. I fucking hate every step.
We go into the main office, and I holler, “Is there a Morgan Winters here?”
Not too much later, a woman in her forties comes to our aid. “I’m Morgan. Are you Rhys?”
So Gillian called ahead. “Yes.”
She smiles warmly, like they’re trained to do, as she looks down at Bree. “And you are?”
“Bree.”
Morgan nods her head, still with that friendly smile. “Is that your full name?”
The girl huffs, probably having been through it all before. Looking much older than her mere eleven years. Because kids like us grow up fast. “Aubrey Lynn Prescott.”
Morgan looks pleased, nodding in approval. “That’s great. What a pretty name. And your foster father’s name?”
“Mr. Herrington.”
Morgan has a little notepad she’s scribbling on, nodding her head faster now. “Great. And is he married?”
Bree nods her head. “Yes.”
“Okay, that’s wonderful. Let me go and do a little bit of research, you guys are welcome to wait for me in the waiting area over there.” She points to a line of chairs next to a rack of magazines.
The setup is one I'm painfully familiar with. I lead Bree there, and we sit for all of ten minutes before Morgan summons me to her, leaving Bree to sit and flip through magazines.
“So, who are you to Ms. Prescott?”
“No one. She just ran into my tattoo shop, asking for my help.”
She looks over at Bree and then back at me, and I don’t like where this is headed already. “Aubrey was placed with the Herringtons a few months ago. They are an upstanding family. Their income is high above the requirements. The mother stays at home. They have two young children. They are more than capable of being her foster parents. They’ve been doing this for about five years, and there have been zero complaints.”
My eyes move to Bree sitting there all alone, her head down, and then I turn back to Morgan, my teeth gritted. “So money. They have money, and they can do whatever they want to that kid.”
She looks horrified. “No, of course not, but there have been no complaints.”
“So he makes sure they’re nice and afraid of him. It’s not really hard to do with kids that have nothing.”
“And how do you know that?” She’s looking at me like I'm the predator. Because I'm rough around the edges in jeans and a t-shirt with tattoos. It’s a lot easier to see me that way than the man in the expensive suit.
“Because I lived it.”
She studies me and then sighs. “We will look into it.”
“Bullshit.”
There’s that scared look again. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You have, what, a hundred kids you look after?” She doesn’t argue. I know the system is flooded, especially in the big cities. “She’s one. Your investigations are bullshit.”
She swallows, and I watch her throat as she gulps with fear. “We’ll investigate
this. If she’s scared, we won’t make her go back with him yet.”
“Yet.” I look back over at Bree, who is looking up now, meeting my eyes in a silent prayer. I turn back to Morgan. “She can stay with me.”
“What?” She looks shocked.
“She can stay with me until you can find her somewhere safe.”
She shakes her head adamantly. “No. It doesn’t work like that, and if you’ve been in the system before, you know that.”
“Oh yeah, I know.” It’s almost a growl. “What do I need to do? File some paperwork?”
“Yes, you would most certainly need to file paperwork and prove employment.” I can see the way she’s looking at me. She doesn’t believe I have any employment.
“I own my own business.” Not a lie, although with Chris fronting the bill, it doesn’t feel like the truth either.
“That’s impressive.” And she clearly didn’t expect it. Gillian might trust her, but I don’t. I can feel the judgment. “How old are you?”
“My age matters?”
“Yes.” She nods without hesitation.
“Twenty-three.”
Her lips form a thin line, and I know it seems too young, even though I feel forty. “I see. Are you married?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She acts like she’s trying with me but I'm on her last nerve. “Listen, you’re a young, single man wanting a young unrelated female to move in with you. Do you know how that sounds?”
“I would never fucking touch her.” I’m struggling to stay calm. Even the subtle hint that I might be interested in her for anything other than to protect her makes me sick to my stomach.
“But we can’t place her with you. You have to understand that, right?”
“Just give me the fucking paperwork. I’ll do the rest.”
She huffs and searches through her desk. “It will take days to process, or weeks.” I look over at Bree, knowing she doesn’t have weeks. She hands me papers, and I grasp them tightly in my hands. “She’ll have to stay in an approved temporary home.”
“But not with that fucker?”
She flinches at my language. You’d think she’d be used to it by now, working with foster kids and all. “No. If she’s afraid of him, we will investigate.”
I only have a couple of days. I know it by the way she’s talking. She wants to get Bree back into the so-called “good home.” The one she feels is one of her easy cases in a clean, upstanding neighborhood.
“I’ll be back.”
She nods her head solemnly as I walk away from her and explain the situation to Bree. The kid doesn’t cry. We don’t cry. We don’t show weakness.
“I’ll be back for you, Bree.”
She doesn’t believe me. I get it.
I leave her with my promise, but I know it means nothing until the action is there.
As I walk out of the building, my heart is racing for a whole new reason because I know who I have to go to for help.
And she doesn’t owe me anything because I’ve never given her anything.
About a year ago
We’re finally back from that godawful trip, and I wish I could just not think about Blair. That would be great, but I can’t stop.
My body wants a release.
And I swear, she’s the only one who can give it to me at this point.
I show up at her house, hoping Melody isn’t here.
Blair answers the door, looking shocked that I'm here, and all I can see is that fucker grinding on her at the bar.
The hickeys on her neck the next day.
“What the fuck do you want?”
I stand there and stare at her, and she walks out of her house.
“Oh, that’s right. You don’t answer questions.”
She’s that fucking pissed-off that I won’t talk about my childhood? Seriously?
“Did you fuck him?”
She scoffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder and acting like I'm ridiculous. “And if I did? What the hell do you care, Rhys?”
What do I care? I don’t own her. I barely even like her. But seeing that fucker’s hands all over her did something to me I don’t understand. I wanted to break his face and toss her over my shoulder, dragging her ass out of the bar.
“I don’t.”
“Exactly.” She lifts a finger in the air, pointing at me. “You don’t care. So why are you at my house, huh? You want me to strip for you?” She’s spitting venom. “You want me to press up against the wall and let you pound into me? Your own personal little fuck doll?”
I bare my teeth. “And what do you care? Isn’t that what we’ve always done?”
She’s seething with rage. She looks like she wants to hit me. “Not anymore. You can’t give me any fucking thing back, then no. You can’t use my body anymore.”
Give her anything back? What the hell does she want from me? I scoff, and it’s cruel. “So why the fucking change because you didn’t seem to mind me using your body until before the trip. Never expected something from me.”
She swallows, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she had tears in her eyes. “Because I won’t be tossed away like trash.” She turns and walks away from me, but I hear, “not by you,” under her breath before she walks inside her house.
I have no idea what the fuck just happened.
I should be the one who is mad, if anyone is. She fucked some other guy on a trip with me. Well, a trip with Melody, Sean, and me.
But still.
What the fuck?
I can’t give her anything, but that was always part of the deal she knew about, right?
As soon as I left Family Services, I called Gillian and told her everything. While she sounded sympathetic, I didn’t end the call too hopeful. I know I sound like a crazy person. That on the surface, Bree’s foster parents seem great. But I saw her face. I know something is very, very wrong.
She’s going to do her best to pull some strings in the system, and I’m going to do my best to make myself look good on paper.
Because I can’t let that girl I just met down. I can’t.
I park my car and walk up to Ashton Inc.’s St. Louis office, looking for the one person who can help me.
And lucky for me, she’s walking down the stairs before I even make it there. She looks horrified when she sees me. “Rhys?”
I nod dumbly. “I need your help.”
She does exactly what I expect. She laughs, brushing past me. “You drove a long way for me to tell you to fuck off.”
“So, then don’t.” I follow behind her as she starts toward the parking lot and stop when she spins around to face me.
“What could you possibly want? It really wasn’t that long ago that I let you fuck me in a bathroom stall.”
I ignore that, knowing she’s trying to bait me. Blair likes to push buttons. She wants the challenge, but I don’t have time for that. “Move in with me.”
Blair is rarely shocked, but her jaw is almost touching the sidewalk. “What?”
“I need you to move in with me. I need a steady, live-in girlfriend.”
“Are you high?” She takes a step closer to me but doesn’t touch me. She’s always respected that. “You have to be.”
“I’m sober.” I know I sound insane. “Blair, I need your help.”
“You want me to move in with you? Leave my job and my new house and just move back to Kansas City with you?”
I reach around the back of my neck, gripping it with my hand, knowing she’s going to be really pissed now. “I, uh . . . actually live here now.”
“What?” Yup. Pissed. “What the fuck are you talking about? Here where?”
“Downtown St. Louis. Chris gave me my own shop here, and I live above it.”
I expect her to give me shit about my long sentence, but she doesn’t. She’s just plain furious because she’s smart and connected the dots. “You knew you were moving here when we fucked in the bathroom and I told you I was moving to
St. Louis?”
I nod because she already knows the truth. I look guilty as fuck. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” She doesn’t let me answer and throws her arms up in the air. “Of course, you didn’t fucking tell me. Because that would be offering information about yourself, letting me in slightly. And you don’t fucking do that.”
“And I've never hidden that fact about myself.”
Her eyes roll, and I'm glad she folds her arms over her chest because she looks like she wants to claw my eyes out. “No, you haven’t. I’m just a fucking idiot.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughs, but it’s cold. “Why the fuck do you want me to move in with you here? Are you lonely, Rhys?”
It’s a cold mocking tone. “No. I need your help with a little girl.”
Her eyes narrow, and I see the curiosity under the fury. “A little girl.”
“An eleven-year-old foster girl. I need to get her out of the home she’s in.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A month,” I answer quickly. No point in lying and again, no fucking time. I need to get all of this moving.
“And you’ve already met an eleven-year-old girl who needs your help, and you want to what? Adopt her?”
“No.” I shake my head, dropping my hand from my neck. “I don’t know. I just need to be a temporary place for her to stay until they can get her into a good place. And I can’t do that as a single man.”
“So you want me to play house with you to help get you a little girl?”
I groan, “Please don’t say it like that. That’s fucking creepy.”
“Yeah. It is.” She waves her hands, dismissing me and starts toward the parking lot again. “Find someone else. I’m sure you can get some dumbass girl to pretend to love you.”
I follow her across the street to the parking lot and run in front of her to make her stop. “I can’t do this with a stranger, Blair. I need your help.” I hate asking for help. The words taste bad in my mouth. But there’s no way I could do this with anyone else. Even if she’s mad at me, Blair gets me on some level. She knows I’m fucked-up.
