Page 2 of Her Crew

I didn’t start binging on food solely because I’m never sure where my next meal will come from. Constantly stuffing my face with any calories I can find carries a far better perk than avoiding starvation. The pickier men want a tiny little thing they can throw around, and that isn’t me.

The man clears his throat and stands. “Linda, you know what? I need to head to work. Maybe we can talk about this another time.”

My mother’s eyes narrow and burn through me. I’m guessing I just ruined her opportunity to score. If she wants drugs so badly, she can fuck him herself.

“Goodnight,” I say to them as I head to my bedroom. I don’t even bother hiding my smile at this fortunate turn of events.

Banging sounds come from the front door as she works to get it closed behind the man. Seconds later, her footsteps clunk down the hallway and stop just outside my room.

“You fat bitch!” she squeals from the other side of the cheap wooden door. She could burst through easily enough, but she won’t. She’ll just yell at me. “You’ve been a burden for eighteen years and you can’t do this one thing for me?”

I don’t respond. There’s no point. She loves to remind me that my meager existence has ruined her life. As if I asked to be in this world. I’ve paid her debts with my body enough to last me several lifetimes.

Her words cut a little, though. No one enjoys being called fat in a negative light, even when they work hard to retain the title.

I slip off my shoes and socks, and the scent of my feet rises to my nose. I throw the socks into the crushed hamper. A bath would be nice, but there’s no way I’m going back out there when my mother is awake and sober.

I crawl into bed and cut off the lamp beside my bed. Only once darkness snuffs out the light beneath my door does my mother finally stomp away. It’s done, and she knows it.

As I lie in bed, a tear falls from the crease of my left eye. This isn’t some fairy story where the hero swoops in and saves the damsel. If I want to be saved, I’ll have to be my own hero.

I need to get a job and get out of Galeton Park.

Chapter 2

Alec

“Ace, you’re taking Elder North Road,” my boss says as he pulls the van against the curb.

The luxury neighborhood looks as if it came straight out of one of the magazines in my backpack. I pull the bulky bag off my shoulders and dig through the collection of publications until I find the order pad. After tucking it under my arm and situating my backpack on my shoulders once more, I climb out of the back of the van.

The vehicle speeds away, and I look ahead at my destination. I know what I have to do.

I pull a knife from my pocket and whip it open. Fabric rips as I make a hole in my pants and another in my shirt. Even though I don’t have a physical home, I still don’t consider myself homeless, but I’ll tell these people whatever they want to hear if it means I can fill out an order slip and leave with a pocket full of cash.

The sun blares down as my tattered shoes dare to traipse across perfect lawns. Stone facades stare down at me, and massive bay windows pass silent judgment. There are no toys to be seen in places like this. The children are down in the playroom with a nanny, most likely.

Before I found my crew, I hated these people. Their fucking fountains amongst pristine landscapes made me want to burn everything to the ground. But now? I love them. I see nothing but opportunity amongst their pretentious box hedges and ostentatious statues.

With a slight shake to my hand, I knock on the first door I reach. I’m always nervous at first. I’m known for my sales, and I always wonder when it will end. Even at twenty-five, I can pull off seventeen or eighteen, and the younger I look, the more they’re willing to spend. My boyish looks will fade with every year in this lifestyle, though, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m on my own.

No one answers the first door, so I move on to the second, which is slammed in my face. Unfortunately for the residents in this neighborhood, I just cannot accept defeat. I’ll keep knocking on doors until I’m crawling from exhaustion if it means I’ll get the sales I need. At least the third door stays open for me.

“Hello, ma’am. My name is Jeremy. Do you have a moment to talk about a fundraiser I’m doing for school?”

The woman doesn’t welcome me in, but she doesn’t slam the door, either. Seizing the opening, I pull off my backpack and produce the stack of magazines from inside. As soon as she sees them, she shakes her head.

“I’m not interested in magazines, thank you.” She begins to close the door, but I slide my foot in the way.

“Our school is trying to fund the resurfacing of our football field after Evan broke his leg on the last one. He slipped in a divot and almost ripped the thing right off.”

Her hand rises to her throat as she clutches figurative pearls in disgust. “I don’t read magazines.”

“No one reads magazines anymore, ma’am. I know that, and you know that, but this is what the school is offering. I thought candy would be better, but I’d have a backpack full of melted product by now if they’d listened to me.” I laugh, and it draws a small smile from the softening woman. “Listen, I’ve been walking out here in this heat for two hours. Is there any way I can get a drink?”

The woman hesitates, eyeing me up and down before stepping back and letting me inside. I’m a bit surprised. Most of these women are too worried my poverty will rub off on their marble floors.

The interior is as magnificent as the picturesque view outside. A grand chandelier hangs above my head, its lights reflecting off the glasslike floor. Fresh flowers stand in a gaudy pink vase on a table in the center of the room.