“See you around,” he says, before he opens the door and walks out. He doesn’t wait for my answer. Not that he would’ve gotten one. What was I supposed to say? ‘Yeah, thanks a lot. Leave the money on the table, please’?
I feel disgusting. And small. So fucking small. I feel even worse when I think about the fact that this is not the first time it’s happened. It happens all the time. With the straight men—it’s always the “straight” men.
And I just take it. I’m basically used to it by now. The giving but never receiving. So, it’s not just that he left me here, blue-balls and all, or that he patted my cheek—it’s what he said before that. Right before he came with a roar, he grunted, “You’re so pretty like this. With my cock in your pretty little mouth.”
I froze. Just one word and I froze. I almost feel like I deserve a medal for being able to keep going after that. That I got him off at all.
I hate that word. Hate being called pretty. Because I’m not.
It’s not that I think I’m ugly per se. I guess I’m kind of good-looking—like if I squint a little in the mirror, I can see it.
I’ve got my mom’s slim nose, and dark blue eyes. High cheekbones, and sometimes when I smile, I get a dimple in my left cheek.
I’ve got a good sense of style—I’ve always loved clothes. My taste is a little on the expensive side, but being the only child of two attorneys comes with both trauma and privileges.
But I’m not pretty. I’mnot.
Wow, you look pretty tonight.
I shake my head in a poor attempt to suppress the memories.
How the fuck did I end up here?
The thing is, I like people. I think most people are good, and if they’re not, then there’s probably a reason for that. I don’t think you’re a dick just for the fun of it.
And I think most of what people say are said with good intentions, and what they’re saying is true. And that means I adapt. I’m adaptable because it’s easier that way. Because I want people to like me too.
But I know I can’t control other people, or their perception of me, and when what I present isn’t what they see, I spiral.
And as always when I spiral, I keep to myself. I bottle it up. I sit in it, let it fester inside me until I choke on it, before I swallow it down and move on.
If you’re not thinking about it, it’s not there, right?
2
Kaden
“Whatchustilldoinghere?”Mom stands with her hands on her hips, staring at me sitting on the couch. The rings on her fingers glinting in the light from the lamp next to her.
“What?”
“It’s Saturday night, K. Get!”
And that pretty much sums her up. No fuss, no beating around the bush. Take it or leave it.
I’m not saying she’s not a very loving mom—she is. She’s the best, honestly. I wouldn’t be where I am without her.
And I mean that literally.
My biological mom dropped me off at a fire station when I was a day or so old—claiming I wasn’t hers to avoid any legal trouble. And I got thrown into the system for a few years before I ended up at Alisha’s.
She used to be a social worker before she got sick of seeing all the abandoned kids day in and day out, so she quit, and she and her cousin moved to San Diego together, where my mom turned her house into a foster home. I was the third kid she took in. And the youngest.
“Get where?” I ask.
“What do you mean where? You don’t have plans with Seth?”
“No?”
