He peeked up. “You’re not the first to ask for help. We get a lot of rebelling rich brats here.”
Unnecessarily harsh. I tossed my hair. “Is that so?”
Licky Lips stood tall again. Whether he meant the gesture as a subtle reminder of who would win in a fight between us or not, I took it that way and my muscles coiled in readiness to run.
The man didn’t advance, and I relaxed after a few seconds.
He’d labelled me as a rich brat with a single look, but I wasn’t like the other runaways he came across.
Swinging my bag off, I flipped the top back and reached into a small zip pocket. Riffling through the notes, I drew out a one-hundred-dollar bill.
“Here. Have this. For your help.” I smiled encouragingly at him.
The money was gone from my fingers in a flash.
Phew. Pretty quick when he wanted to be. Entering this alley wasn’t my best idea.
He inspected the note as though I might have handed over Monopoly cash. “The last one gave me five hundred.”
The last one!
My jaw dropped. “The last rich brat gave you money too?”
Licky Lips shrugged a shoulder. “They all do. Usually on an I feel trapped bender.”
... I feel trapped bender.
I swung my pack on again and pressed the heels of both palms into my eyes. This guy’s manners were atrocious. Then again, they weren’t. Even if the comments he offered weren’t particularly tactful.
I didn’t need his approval.
And I didn’t need the approval of my wealthy friends and their parents.
Even my grandmother’s approval came second to me living in the way I saw fit.
“Thanks,” I said shortly, backing away before spinning on my heel.
“Got any drugs?” the man asked.
I quickened my step, laughing nervously. “No, not my scene. Good luck with… that.”
The urge to look over my shoulder heightened and I shoved back the instinct. When I reached the corner and turned right, I only increased my pace and didn’t slow until several blocks away.
Note to self: Profuse lip licking may indicate usage of drugs.
Still, he’d given me directions, so that was a win.
I stretched out my legs into a comfortable stride that my grandmother would have called an unladylike stomp. Though she always made the comment and half blamed, half complimented the stomp on my Amazonian legs.
I wanted to get to Tommy’s as soon as possible.
Asking to be dropped off close to Tommy’s house might have been a better idea. And perhaps I should have worn shoes that didn’t tear up my feet.
By the time the bright roofs of Red appeared in the distance, my Hatch flats had caused two juicy blisters on the backs of my heels.
“Fuck my life,” I muttered.
Turning left, I noticed my lengthy Amazonian stride had turned into a hobbling jig that Rumpelstiltskin would’ve been proud of. When I reached the outskirts of Red, I clenched my jaw and finally stopped to remove the damn shoes. Normal people walked barefoot all the time. Right? Sure, maybe their feet weren’t bleeding. But it was all about the spirit of being poor.
Crossing the median from Red to Orange boosted my morale enough to carry me until I recognised my whereabouts. Relief overwhelmed the pain from the raw patches on my feet, and it was only as I turned onto the street of orange-roofed houses where my best friend lived that I began to fear what I would tell Tommy.
Bleeding, filthy, stinking.
Tommy shared many of my views on the world—one that profited only a handful of people and turned a life for living into a life for working to make ends meet. Yet on my inheritance… hell, even on my allowance, I could have lived a full life. One where I catered to each of my whims and interests. My friend didn’t have that luxury. She busted her ass six days a week to get by. How to tell someone, even my best friend since childhood, that I didn’t want to be handed a life of riches and luxury on a silver platter?
I wanted a real life. I didn’t want to play their rich fucking game.
My feet slowed and, facing Tommy’s house, I traced the cracked paint of the cream cladding and the burnt orange of the house’s roof tiles. I shifted my gaze to the orange door, and to the uneven path leading around the left wall of the abode.
Sneaking into her room via the window felt immature for my twenty-one years of age. However, Tommy was my Plan B for a reason. Her father worked for my family’s estate and had for most of his life. I didn’t know if my grandmother would have eyes on me or not. I did know that Mr Tetley would feel morally bound to inform my guardian of my safety and location if he answered the front door.
I moved to run a hand through my coiffed blonde tresses before glimpsing the grunge streaking my palm.
Nope. Call me a coward. Or a rich brat. I was going for the window.
Hobbling down the uneven path like the goblin I was, I rapped gently on her dusty windows.
“Tommy,” I hissed.
I waited and knocked again. Please be home. She’d mentioned a hot guy named Dean when we last spoke. She usually made them jump a few hoops before any sleepovers occurred, but she’d seemed enamoured by this new specimen.
“Tom.”
The curtains were yanked apart. I choked on surprise and watched anger, shock, and relief flicker over my friend’s oval face in quick succession.
So everyone knew I’d run…
I didn’t have time to message her before storming out—and I’d stubbornly left all my electronics at the estate. Tommy must have heard through her father.
Leaning forward, I breathed on the window to fog it up and wrote, H E L P.
The corners of her brown eyes crinkled, and she propped open the window.
“You’re okay?” she asked immediately. Her soft voice was a balm to my soul.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Tommy scanned me from head to toe. “You’re fine in the same way the loser of a boxing match is fine.”
I glanced down at my feet and winced. “Yeah… didn’t pick great shoes.”
“Oh, they’re great shoes,” she said, whistling low. “Just not practical shoes.”
My shoulders sagged. “Can I come in?”
“Like you need to ask. Come to the front door.”
I hesitated. “I don’t want your dad to see me and tell my grandmother.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Basil.” She cocked a brow. “The only people who come to my window are drunk you, lonely you, angry you, and idea you.”
“Have all four versions of me ever shown up at the same time?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face.
“One time, I swear there were five. It was a real party.” She surveyed me again and shook her head. “Front door, Basil. Now. You need a shower. Stat. Maybe three. Then I want to know what the hell is going on.”
2
“Basilia Le Spyre, wake yo’ ass up! There’s work to do.”
I jolted to life, bolting upright in a disorientated mess. “Where me?”
Tommy, used to my delirious waking moments, merely cracked a grin at my disjointed question. “You in my house.”
I’d left the estate. Slept on the street. I was in Tommy’s house in Orange.
Sagging, I focused on my breathing until my heartbeat stopped thundering in my ears. “How long did I sleep?”