“Zack.” Jamal shakes the guy’s hand. I look up, right into his dark gaze. He’s caught me staring at the woman. I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m not. I stare at him instead. He doesn’t look away. He’s not threatening, but … he’s not going to back down.
“This our niece, Alexa,” Jamal says to the woman. I have to look away now, or be rude. I can’t afford to be rude. I turn to the woman, who smiles at me.
“Nice to meet you, Alexa,” she says. “I’m Anna Bradley and this is my son, Zack.”
We look at each other.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I repeat. This time he’s the one who breaks the stare. He looks bored, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Get in fucking line, buddy.
The adults talk for a minute before saying goodbye. I cast another glance at Zack, but he’s not paying any attention to me; he’s focused on his mother.
“Anna looks good,” Krys says as we cross the parking lot. “I think Zack’s even taller than the last time we saw him. You’ll probably be in some classes with him, Lex.”
I shrug. “Okay.” I hope she doesn’t hold her breath waiting for us to become friends.
We leave Jamal at his car—a silver SUV—and Krys and I return to hers.
“So,” Krys begins after we’ve been driving for a bit. “What do you think? You want to take a chance on us?”
Is she trippin’? “You sure you wanna take a chance on me?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Okay, then.” I glance out the window and back at her. “What if I said no? Would you let me go?”
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. “I would have asked for another chance, gone home and cried a bit, and tried again, because no—I’m not giving up on you.”
“You might not be able to fix me,” I warn her.
“I don’t want to fix you, sweetie. I want to give you the opportunity to have the life you deserve. You can fix yourself, if you think you need fixing.”
My throat is tight. I swallow, but the lump won’t go away. “Thank you.” I say it because it’s the right thing to say. Part of me even means it. But another part of me? That part wants to unbuckle my seat belt, open the door, and roll out into traffic. That part of me would prefer pain and death over this small shred of hope I’m hanging on to. Pain and death rarely let you down, but hope? Hope’s a heartless bitch.
* * *
That night, I lie in bed and think about Mitch. I miss him, and I hate him. I’m scared that I don’t know what I’ll do if he shows up. What if he tries to take me back?
The police haven’t caught him. They’re looking for him, but Mitch is a snake—he knows how to hide. He’s got a lot of places where he can lie low. I’ve been to a few.
The first time I met him was at a party. Mom’s boyfriend, Frank, had people over. There was a lot of booze and pot and other stuff. I was in my room with my headphones on when he opened the door and walked in.
I took off my headphones and looked at him. He was tall and lean with longish dark hair and dark eyes. He was almost pretty, like Ashton Kutcher on That ’70s Show, but older.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
“It’s not,” I said.
He grinned and walked in anyway. “I’m Mitch.”
“Lex.”
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing home on a Saturday night, Alexa?”
I frowned. I didn’t like being called by my full name. A name he apparently already knew. Still, he thought I was pretty. “There’s nothing going on.”
He leaned against my dresser. “When I was your age, there was always something going on.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Want to come out and join us?”
Party with a bunch of old people? I’d rather chew off my own toe. The guys always got grabby. “No, thanks.”
He nodded. “Okay. Maybe next time. Nice talking to you, Alexa.”
I wrinkled my nose as he left the room. He was hot, but that was it.
The next time he came over, he brought me new headphones—good ones. They were expensive. He grinned at me and said, “They’re noise-cancelling.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Thanks.”
My mother beamed. “That’s a real nice gift, Mitch. Give him a hug, Lex.”
I froze. Hug a guy I didn’t know? She didn’t think that was creepy?
“She doesn’t have to do that,” he said, and I smiled at him. It wouldn’t be the last smile he manipulated out of me, but it was the first, and the one I regretted the most.
* * *
I bolt upright in bed, a silent scream tearing from my throat. Gasping for air, I clutch at my neck but there aren’t any hands there but mine. No one’s trying to strangle me.
I’m in my bed at Sparrow Brook. Sarah is asleep a few feet away. Moonlight shines through the window, illuminating everything. My gaze darts around the room, searching …
Mitch isn’t there.
My heart slams hard in my chest as I squeeze my eyes shut. I suck in air. In … out … in … out. The pounding slows.
When I open my eyes, Sarah is sitting in bed, hair standing up. She’s in pajamas, like me. “You okay?” she asks.
I nod, wishing she’d at least pretended to still be asleep.
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“I have nightmares too,” she confides. “I was forced into the life by my stepbrother and some of his friends.”
Is it wrong that all I can think is how glad I am that Krys and Jamal don’t have a son my age?
“They got me all done up at a party—cocaine, E in my drink. Passed me around and took photos, then threatened to show my parents if I didn’t do what they wanted. When that didn’t work, they threatened to show my grandparents. That worked.”
“Assholes,” I say.
She smiles slightly. “Anyway, I keep having this one nightmare that I’m back in college and I have to write an exam, but when I get to the exam room, there’s a bed in the middle of the room and a line of guys around it—professors, students, strangers … The exam is that I have to be fucked by all of them, and if I don’t do it, they’ll fail me, and my grandparents will not only find out I’m a ho, but all the money they gave me for school will be wasted.”
“What do you do?”
She tilts her head. “You know what I do.”
Once you’ve been hurt and survived, you’ll almost always do it again to protect people you love. To protect them from you.
“I dreamed I was being strangled,” I confess.
“By your pimp?”
“No. He made one of the other girls do it.” Ivy. Mitch had told Ivy to kill me. And she did.
“That’s harsh.” She throws back the covers. Her stuffed cat, Mr. Whiskers, is tangled in the blankets. “Hey, come on.”
“Where?” We’re not running away, because she’s not getting dressed.
She grins. “I know where they keep the hot chocolate.”