Page 2 of Bound To A Billionaire Menace 2: Episode Two

“I’m busy. Call me back.”

She hung up on me. I hated that she could still reach me like that. I hated that she knew exactly where to cut.

I stood there shaking, not with fear, but with rage. With shame. With love twisted up into something ugly. My father’s driver, Angel King, also known as Dale, manipulated me into coming to Southern California to pursue my art career, just to get me here to rape me and drug me. Yes, my father handled him, killed him, brought him back to life, and then killed him again. But I never came back from that. Not when drugs get in your system and you like it. That was four years ago, and I never went back to Northern California, because every day I was chasing a high I didn’t need.

I pushed the phone into my pocket and kept walking.

I worked at a laundromat on days when I could keep my head straight. Folding other people’s clothes for cash that barely covered food. The owner paid me when he felt like it. Said I was lucky to have something at all. I didn’t argue. I needed the money.

Other days, I sold myself.

Not often. Only when I had to. I didn’t like men touching me. Didn’t trust them. Didn’t look them in the eye. I got what I needed and left. No names. No promises.

I hated myself for it and hated the world more for making it feel necessary.

After my mother called me, I needed a fix.

Drug of force: Crystal meth.

I found my dealer on the same corner as always. He smiled when he saw me.

“You came to see a nigga, huh, supermodel?”

I held the cash out. “Just the usual.”

He looked me up and down. Slow. Greedy. “You know I can make it cheaper.”

I shook my head. “I’m not fucking you.”

He laughed. “Everybody fucks me eventually.”

“Not me,” I said.

He stepped closer. I stepped back. I kept my voice calm, even though my heart was banging.

“I pay. Or I leave.”

He stared at me like he was deciding something. Then he took the money and handed me the bag.

“Next time,” he said.

“There is no next time,” I said.

I walked away before he could answer.

Behind the building, I settled into my spot. Pulled my hoodie tighter. The concrete was cold through my jeans. I did what I came to do and let the edge soften.

The noise in my head didn’t disappear. It never did. But it slowed. Gave me room to breathe. I wasn’t the addict that got high and spazzed, I was the kind that got creative while numb.

I pulled my sketchbook from my bag. It was worn. Pages bent. Charcoal smudged into the corners. Drawing was the only thing that ever quieted everything at once.

My hand moved without thinking.

A man’s face began to form on the page. Strong jawline. Sharp light brown eyes. Calm expression. Not soft, but not cruel either. Someone who looked like he stood his ground.

I didn’t know him. But he felt real.

I shaded his hands next. Big hands. Steady. The kind that didn’t shake.