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“I don’t know much about a girl’s nails.”
“What are you asking Leka for?” Beefer says in annoyance. He’s finally noticed what little Camella has on. “Why aren’t you wearing actual clothes, girl? Shit, you’re always complaining about how you’re treated like trash. Maybe you should stop dressing like you want a bed in the stable.”
“This is Gucci!” she fires back.
“I don’t care if it’s from the Pope himself. You look like a slut. You might as well hang a for sale sign around your neck.”
“Like you did?” she taunts.
His hand comes up so fast I almost miss it. Almost. I push Camella out of the way and grab Beefer’s arm on the downstroke. He trembles beneath my grip. Beefer’s carrying a lot of extra weight around the middle, but he’s still strong as shit. The thing is, though, he doesn’t want to fight his daughter. He’s wracked with grief and guilt and this is how it plays out for his family. His daughter acts out. He hits her. She replies by wearing even skimpier clothing and doing harder drugs and worse men.
“Go out in front. The girls will get dinner ready,” I say quietly.
Beefer backs down and turns on his heel, but as he’s leaving he swipes his arm across a stack of stainless steel bowls, sending them crashing to the floor. He picks up a pan and whips it against the wall. Mary ducks as some plaster rains down above her head. Camella’s still cowering into the corner where I pushed her.
“Go ahead and make the meal, Mary,” I direct.
“I didn’t sign up for this shit,” Mary declares as she pulls a pan off the shelf. “When Cesaro gets here, things are gonna get straightened out.”
Camella makes a noise in the back of her throat. Bringing up Cesaro’s name is a dirty hit. I grab my black suit coat off the hook and toss it to Camella. “Put this on,” I order.
She lets it fall to the ground. “Does my body bother you? Aren’t I good enough for you?”
“Stop your whining,” Mary snaps, but Camella’s been triggered and she’s not paying any attention to Mary anymore.
Her mind’s back on the night that Cesaro took her. The night her dad gave her to a monster. And she’s desperate to wipe that night out from her memory banks, taking drugs to numb her mind, taking men to replace the pain.
She tugs at her top, pulling the stretchy lace down so far her tits fall out. “What’s wrong with these? They’re tight and bouncy. Is it my pussy? You haven’t even seen it. I take care of myself. I—”
I rub a hand over my eyes, which is the wrong action.
“Look at me!” Camella screams. “What’s wrong with me? Don’t like the used goods, is that it?”
“You’re a disgrace,” Mary sneers.
“That’s enough,” I order as I grab a tablecloth from the stock room and throw it around the younger girl’s shoulders.
Camella tries to wriggle out of my hold, but I keep her wrapped up, hustling her out the door and into the back of one of the delivery cars that don’t have handles in the rear. These cars are used to deliver things other than food.
I jerk my head toward a fairly new recruit who I know isn’t going to take advantage of Beefer’s daughter. She’s not his type. “Mason, get over here and drive Camella home. If you so much as look at her, I’ll take your eyes. She’s not doing well, okay?”
Mason nods and climbs behind the steering wheel without another word. I like him—as much as I can like anyone not named Bitsy.
“Why don’t you want me?” Camella pounds on the window. “I’m hot. Look at my body!”
Mason turns white.
“Go.” I slam my fist on the top of the car.
At my order, he peels out of the alley, driving a wailing, demoralized girl away. I don’t understand why Beefer can’t see her pain. She’s not mine, but her tortured eyes appear in my head when I close my eyes at night.
I’ll be dead before Bitsy comes back here.
24
Bitsy
“Why don’t you stay for one more day?” Audie suggests as I cart my suitcase down to my car. All the boxes are stacked in the back seat. I only need to grab one laundry basket upstairs and I’m set. “We’ll go to a party! I wrangled an invited from Rachel Hoover. She’s been seeing this guy Max Trent for like six months now. He’s on the football team. I think he’s a back, a quarterback or fullback or half-cup back. Something like that. It’ll be fun.”
We aren’t into sports. The only reason we know about the runner is because the track can be seen from our third-floor lounge.
“I’m going home, Audie.”
“Look at Trent’s Instagram feed. He’s got some hot friends.” Audie waggles her phone in front of my face. Instead of the picture feed, the phone’s message app is open. I spot my name.
