by Geri Glenn
I flick my gaze toward my father, but it’s useless. He rarely gets involved in Mother’s quarrels, and he avoids offering his opinion whenever possible, even if it means siding with me.
When I’d chosen to turn down the offer to attend Harvard Medical School, my mother had nearly had a heart attack. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that I wanted to make a career out of making a difference instead of grabbing myself some sort of medical degree, or even focusing on simply finding a rich man to attach myself to.
But being a social worker is something I was dead set on. I knew that it would cause issues with her, but for the first time in my life, I was going to do what I wanted, and that meant standing up to my mother and taking control of my own destiny. Was being a social worker in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the country going to make me rich? No. But I grew up rich, and the proof that money doesn’t buy you happiness is sitting right in front of me, blinking back at me with her ever-present disparagement.
“Thank you, Mother, for a lovely dinner,” I say, placing my napkin across my plate. She gasps in shock, but I ignore it as I turn to my father, and if I’m not mistaken, I see a gleam of pride in his gaze as he nods back at me. “Daddy.”
Without another word, I too make my exit, out of the dining room and up the stairs to my bedroom. I really need to get my own place.
TRIPP
The hotel is nothing fancy. Just a simple, clean, low-budget hotel, perfect for traveling families and single men on a budget. It’s also, apparently, the perfect place for married women to meet with young men they pay to shower them with the attention they’re no longer receiving from their husbands.
I pull out my phone for the hundredth time and read over the text. Room 219. 8pm.
A couple of years ago, when Zack had started doing this, I’d thought he was crazy, and I’d sworn to myself that I would never stoop so low as to join him in this little venture of his. But desperate times call for desperate measures, or so they say.
My stomach knots as I step onto the elevator and press the number two button. As the heavy doors slide closed, my pulse pounds in my temples.
According to Zack, the woman I’m about to meet is in her late fifties. She’s rich and beautiful, but lonely. Her husband works out of town a lot, and she’s just looking for someone to make her feel beautiful again. Other than that, the only thing I know about her is that her name is Olivia.
I shudder. I can’t believe it’s come to this. It’s not that I don’t enjoy sex. I’m a twenty-two-year-old man, so of course I do. But this is different somehow. I’m not picking this woman up at some bar, or banging a teacher with a nice ass. I’m about to go into this hotel room, have sex with a total stranger, and get paid for my time. I’ve become a fucking hooker.
Room 219 is just down the hall from the elevator, and as I lift my hand to knock, it swings open. The woman standing on the other side is wearing a black, super short robe, and I can tell from the see-through material that she isn’t wearing a damn thing underneath. Her brown waves are pulled up into an artfully curled ponytail at the back of her head, and her makeup looks fresh.
“You must be Tripp,” she coos, posing in the open doorway, giving me a sneak peek at what she has under that robe. “Come on in.”
I step into the room and wait as she closes the door, fighting an internal war and doing my best to convince myself that I’m not selling my soul. It’s just meaningless sex with a beautiful older woman in exchange for some money to get the gas turned back on in my house. No big deal. Yeah, right.
As I stand facing the room, a perfectly manicured hand with impossibly long, red fingernails, curls over my shoulder. “My, you are brawny, aren’t you?” she purrs, running her palm along the contours of my arm over my thick fall jacket. “Let’s get this off, shall we?”
I force myself to meet her gaze as she comes around in front of me and pushes the jacket off my shoulders and down my arms. Her eyes take in my muscled shoulders and wide chest, straining against the material of my shirt. “Would you like a drink?” she asks, her voice husky.
“No, thanks.” I look around the room, wondering what to do next. Do I make the first move? Do I follow her lead? I need to make a decision because standing here like a deer caught in headlights isn’t getting us anywhere.
She doesn’t make me wait long. “You’re a very handsome young man, Tripp.” She runs the tips of her fingers down my chest until they stop just above my belt. “Have you done this before?”
I stare into her eyes and swallow, shaking my head.
She nods and presses her body up against mine. “Good.” She presses a soft kiss to my collarbone. “I like knowing that you’re all mine.” I stand there, frozen, as her mouth trails up my throat while her hands wander down my back until they’re cupping my ass. “We’re going to have a wonderful time,” she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes closed as her mouth covers mine, reminding myself of how cold it was inside our house this morning. Max had to wear his jacket at the breakfast table for fuck’s sake. With that thought, I compel myself to move, bringing my arms around her waist and entangling my tongue with hers.
I refuse to let my doubts and worries have even a fraction of my thoughts as she beings to rip off my clothes. This isn’t wrong. This is what I have to do for my family.
Five
Georgia
Tripp Fletcher had been right. I should have read Hailey’s file before calling him the other day. That’s why I had come in to work two hours earlier than was necessary today, determined to review the files of each child in my care in the after-school program. What I’d found had been shocking.
Most of these kids come from broken homes. A surprising number of them have parents in prison, and even more of them have a long history with the police themselves. The thickest file of all had been the one for Krista O’Malley.
Tripp had referred to her as a bully and a thug, but she’s much worse than that from the looks of things. Since the age of four, Krista has been in and out of foster homes, been in several fights, and arrested twice for armed robbery. And she’s only fourteen!
Hailey Fletcher, on the other hand, is the perfect picture of what a kid should be. Though there are several fights on record between her and Krista, Hailey has always been the victim and rarely came out on top. She has a surprising number of academic awards from her school, and is noted as being a helpful contributor to our program. In other words, Hailey is a good kid, living in a world that’s made it almost impossible for her to be successful.
At three thirty, the kids from the local elementary and high schools begin to wander in. There are several rooms in the community center where these kids can get help with homework, play sports, and even play at one of our three computers. I’m the staff member allocated to run the homework room, which just so happens to be where Hailey Fletcher seems to spend most of her time.
I greet her with a warm smile as she walks into the room, her tattered backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hello,” I greet her, hoping we can get past the events of the other day.
Hailey pauses, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Uh…hi.”
The main part of my job here is to get to know these kids and provide them with a safe place to come when things aren’t going so great in other parts of their lives. I’d failed miserably to do that for Hailey when she’d gotten into that scuffle with Krista and the others. I may have seen a first punch thrown, but I hadn’t stopped to ask how or why it had started. I hadn’t been a safe place for Hailey at all, and she knew it.
I’d attended college and various workshops on working with inner-city kids for four years, and the very first day I was working with them on my own, I’d messed up. I thought I was prepared for this place, but I’d never once counted on how different the culture around here was from the one I myself had been raised in.
“Hailey?” I call out when she keeps walking.
The young girl freezes mid-step, and then slowly tur
ns to face me, but she doesn’t say a word.
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about yesterday. I may not have had all the facts, and I should have spoken more with you about it all.”
Hailey purses her lips and nods. “Okay.”
Okay. Okay. Okay is a step in the right direction. Right?
Oh, who am I kidding? Day two on the job and I’m totally failing.
As the afternoon wears on, I wander around the large classroom, helping kids with math and science. Most of it even eludes me. Twice I’ve had to go to my phone and look up the answer. What is this new math they’re teaching now, anyway?
Hailey never once asks for my help, and she visibly stiffens every time I come within just a few feet of her. I may have apologized, but it’s clear I have my work cut out for me if I want to gain her trust.
It’s nearly five o’clock when I finally get a chance to sit down at my desk. Glancing out the window, I watch as a group of teenage boys play game after game of basketball, their voices muffled by the closed windows and their cheeks pink from the crisp afternoon air. One of the boys I recognize as Carter Fletcher, Hailey’s brother.
I’d read Carter’s file as well. Though not nearly as good a student as his younger sister, he’s a smart kid with a bit of an attitude for anyone in a position of authority. He rarely comes into the homework room, and spends most of his forced sentence each afternoon here, playing sports with his friends.
He’s a good player, dodging the others with ease, his ball handling never faltering as he races to the hoop and drops it in over and over again. After meeting Tripp yesterday, I have to admit, the Fletcher’s fascinate me. Their life is so different from what I’ve always known, and I can’t help but be more than a little curious about each one of them.
From the corner of the basketball court, a group of men approach the boys. They’re young, perhaps my own age, but definitely too old to be here. Frowning, I lean forward, unsure of what I should do. If these men are a threat, I need to act now, not wait for something terrible to happen.
That’s when I see Carter and another man separate from the crowd. The two go off into the corner, their heads together as they share a private word, and the man hands him a brown paper bag as he looks around to be sure nobody is watching.
Carter takes the bag, stuffing it under the front of his shirt and tucking it into the waistband of his pants, before putting out his fist and bumping it with the man’s. They part then, the man and his friends wandering back out to the sidewalk, disappearing down the street, while Carter moves to his backpack, glances around, and then shoves the paper bag inside. The whole thing lasts no more than a minute.
As Carter lifts his head from his task, his gaze meets mine through the window, and the unmistakable look of fear passes across his face for just a moment, before it melts away and his eyes narrow. I sit frozen for several moments, watching the boy as he inserts himself back into the game, as if nothing had happened.
What had I just witnessed? There was no way that exchange had been on the up-and-up. What business could Carter possibly have with a group of grown men? And what exactly was in that bag?
I mull over those questions. As a counselor here at the center, I have a duty to do something about what I had just witnessed. But what? Do I talk to Carter directly? The look he’d given me had made it clear that that would get me nowhere. Do I call the police? That would just send officers to the Fletcher’s home, possibly ruining everything Tripp had worked so hard to provide for his siblings.
Finally, as the last of the kids clear out and head home for the night, I make a decision. Pulling out Hailey’s file once again, I flip it open to Tripp Fletcher’s phone number and pick up the receiver to the phone on my desk.
As the dull droning ring begins, I tighten my free hand into a fist, my nails digging into my palm. My heart thrashes against my rib cage, dreading the moment I have to explain to this man why I’m calling.
“Hello?”
His voice yanks me out of my worried thoughts, and for a moment, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Hello?” he repeats. He sounds out of breath, and I can hear the sounds of traffic on his end of the line.
“Yeah, uh…Mr. Fletcher? This is Georgia Addington calling from the South Side Community Center.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “What now?”
“Um…” This is the part I was worried about. “To be honest, I don’t really know what happened, but I saw something today I think you should know about.”
“Are you telling me you’re calling me now, in the middle of yet another last-minute job I managed to find, just to tell me something happened but you don’t know what it is?”
If I could crawl under a rock and die there right now, I would. “Uh…yes?”
A man shouts Tripp’s name on the other end. “Be right there!” he calls back. “I gotta go, Miss Addington. Thanks for the chat.”
He hangs up on me then, leaving me standing in my office, looking blankly at the sun setting on the other side of the window. He didn’t even let me speak! I never got a chance to tell him what I saw at all. What an asshole!
After placing the receiver back on its cradle with a little more force than necessary, I sit down at my desk with a quiet grunt of frustration. Now what?
But I already know the answer to that, don’t I? It’s my duty as a social worker to address this situation, even if I’m not one hundred percent sure what the situation even is. I can either do that the way I’m supposed to according to the policies of this center, or I can do Tripp Fletcher a favor and force him to hear me out and deal with it however he sees fit.
I don’t owe the Fletcher’s anything, but after the way I mishandled the whole thing with Hailey, I feel it’s my responsibility to try to get to Tripp one more time. I just hope I can work up the courage to get him to listen.
TRIPP
It’s almost ten o’clock by the time I get home, bone weary and ready to grab a quick shower and crawl into bed. With any luck, the heat will be working again in the house, and I can finally get a decent night’s sleep.
Reaching the top step to my door, I’m about to insert my key when I hear her rushing up behind me.
“Mr. Fletcher?” she calls. “Mr. Fletcher? We need to talk.”
With wide eyes, I spin around and watch in shock as Georgia Addington comes bustling up the front walkway, her brown hair weighted down by a knit hat, and her jacket zipped tight all the way up to her chin to keep out the cold air.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, the question coming out as more surprised than angry, though I’m not sure which I feel more of at the moment.
Her cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, and her breath billows out in front of her as she plants her hands on her hips. “You didn’t let me talk earlier, but this time, you can’t hang up on me.”
Is this bitch for real? “I didn’t let you talk earlier because I was at work,” I tell her. “And you said yourself that you didn’t even really know what you were calling about. I didn’t have time to shoot the shit with you, ya know.”
I wait for her lips to part in that cute as hell way they did the other day when I’d shocked her into silence, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, she takes a step closer and pokes a finger into my chest, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “You listen here, Tripp Fletcher. You yourself told me that calling you on the phone was the best way to handle any situation I come across, but when I did, you hung up on me. Now I’m hungry and cold, and I’m very, very tired. But you’re going to listen to what I have to say, even if it means we both freeze to death out here.”
I glance behind her and see her Lexus sitting at the curb across the street. “How long have you been waiting out here?”
She juts her chin out in defiance, her nose in the air. “Since seven o’clock, if you must know. And I’m in no mood to argue with you.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes as I watch her stare up at me, her
eyes practically daring me to argue. She really is beautiful, even if she is a stick-in-the-ass North Side chick. With a sigh of defeat, I drop to the steps. Taking a seat, I pat the cold cement beside me. “You win,” I concede. “Spill.”
As soon as she begins talking, I understand why she was in such a flurry to get me to listen. “This man you saw talking to Carter, did he happen to have a tattoo on his cheek?”
Georgia’s head tilts to the side as she thinks back. “I’m not sure,” she says slowly, “but he was too far away to see anything that clearly.”
Fucking Trey Harper. It had to be. “I think I know exactly who these guys are,” I admit. “I’ll talk to Carter about it and see if I can find out what was in that bag. They didn’t see you watching them, right?”
Georgia shakes her head, her brow creased with worry. “They didn’t, but Carter did.”
I sigh. “You leave Carter to me. But if you see any of those guys around again, don’t go near them, okay?”
Her eyes widen. “They’re dangerous, aren’t they?”
She looks so out of her element, and I have an overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms and shield her from the truth of who Trey Harper and his posse are. To keep her from knowing the hard reality about who’s really in charge on the South Side.
“They’re the worst kind of dangerous,” I tell her, dipping my head to catch her eyes, praying she understands just how serious I am. “Just promise me you’ll steer clear of them.”
Georgia nods again, this time looking more worried than she had a few moments ago. “Is Carter safe?” she questions, and for a moment, I can’t focus on an answer. All I can think about is how I’d just told her these men were a danger to her, and all she’s worried about is if my idiot kid brother is going to be all right.
