Damaged Goods

by Nicole Williams

  * * * *

  Damaged Goods

  The Outsider Chronicles

  Copyright © 2014 by Nicole Williams

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations

  Editing by Cassie Cox

  Formatting by JT Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  SOME PEOPLE LET the world define them, and some people define their world. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of person I am.

  I knew what kind of person I wanted to be, but I’d learned a long time ago that I could want until I was blue in the face. That wouldn’t change the way things actually were. I had been born into a world I wanted no part of and grown up wanting a different world altogether. Finally, I’d escaped my mother’s ramshackle trailer, fled from that suffocating town, and gone in search of a new life and a new opportunity.

  I took a chance to break free of the stigmas and stereotypes of growing up fatherless and nearly motherless, making it through school on free-ticket lunches and secondhand sneakers. No one had expected me to make it through high school, let alone college. No one would have bet that one of Kitty Bennett’s daughters could make it past junior high without getting knocked up. No one would have guessed twenty-two-year-old Liv Bennett would one night drop her apron on the floor of the diner she’d worked at since she was sixteen, hitch a ride out of the only town she’d ever known, and never be heard from again.

  No one would have thought I’d leave in search of a different life.

  No one, that is, but me.

  I’d been living that different life for three years, and if it were up to me, I’d continue living it until I ran out of life to live. It wasn’t a glamorous one, nor was I rolling in a sea of wealth and privilege, but I was standing on my own two feet and working toward a better future.

  I was a work in progress, each day getting me closer to that nameless point on the horizon. I wasn’t exactly sure what would be waiting for me when I got there, nor was I exactly sure why I was so desperate to get there, but I was on my way. At least I was moving forward, a concept so many people took for granted. But moving forward in life wasn’t a birthright; it was an occasion to rise to.

  More days than not, I rose to the challenge. Some days felt less about rising and more about gritting my teeth and doing what I needed to to conquer the next challenge. Much of the road was paved with one means to an end after another. For example?

  My night job. Not that kind of night job—I wasn’t that desperate—but the kind of night job that entailed serving overpriced, under-liquored drinks to L.A.’s upper crust from nine to four every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. It might not have been an ideal part-time gig, but the tips were solid—mostly thanks to The Water Cooler’s “uniforms.” We servers had maybe a scrap of fabric more than the girls down the road at Bottoms Up wore as they worked their magic on the pole.

  Thankfully, most of the customers that strolled through the door of The Water Cooler were a bit more tame and better behaved than the ones who slipped through the matte black doors down the road—and for those who thought a complimentary grope came with their drink, we had an army of bouncers who I swore got off from tossing five-thousand-dollar-suited douches out the back door. Hell, after some of the customers I’d encountered in the last two years, I’d come close to getting off on watching them get tossed on their asses in the back alley.

  Case in point? I’d just delivered a round of bourbon to a group of guys who looked about my age, and from the bleary-eyed, cocky smile on one of them, I knew he would be trouble. I’d developed a sixth sense about these kinds of things, as had every server who worked at The Water Cooler for more than a few months. Line up a dozen guys, and I could identify the biggest douche of the bunch every single time. It was a gift.

  After one of the guys paid me for the drinks and tacked on a generous tip, I thanked him with a smile before making my way into the crowd. From the corner of my eye, I noticed cocky-smile guy stand. He was coming after me. Dodging and evading drunken ex-frat boys came standard with the job. Too bad I underestimated Douche McDouche’s speed, level of drunkenness, or determination, because before I’d made it halfway to the bar, a large hand groped my ass and gave a hard squeeze.

  “Damn. It really is as tight as it looks.”

  I would have thought that I’d be used to these kinds of assholes saying and doing these kinds of asshole things enough to let it slide and keep going . . . but no, I hadn’t gotten used to it. Twisting around, I dropped my tray at my side to remove the temptation to thrust it into his throat. Instead, I lifted my other hand to his crotch and groped him hard enough he winced.

  “Damn,” I said, twisting just enough that the wince transformed into a grimace. “It’s as disappointing as you look.” Once he looked close to going cross-eyed from the pain, I released him and hollered for the nearest bouncer. “Hey, Bear! I’ve got an ass grabber who needs to be shown the door. You up for it?”

  A crooked smile slid over the giant bouncer’s face as he shoved through the crowd toward us. I inspected the still grimacing guy in front of me. That cocky grin was long gone. Once Bear was done with him, he would need ice for more than just his crotch.

  “I hope it was worth it. Asshole,” I tacked on before disappearing into the crowd. I made a mental note to not return to that table when they wanted their next round of drinks. I’d let one of the new girls have the honors.

  “Jesus, Liv. Was that another one Bear had to bounce the hell out of here?” January asked once I’d slid under the bar keep.

  I nodded and got to work on the next order—a round of cheap tequila shots. Fantastic. My next table was a group of actual frat boys. I would be keeping Bear busy tonight. I adjusted my Water Cooler-issued shorts—known as cheekie panties to the rest of the world—because ass grabber had managed to finagle them even higher up said ass.

  “What number’s that tonight? Three?” January finished the tray of drinks she was working on and handed them to another server before sliding beside me to help with my frat-boy-approved order.

  “Four,” I grumbled. “If I’d have known a Wednesday night around here was like anarchy, I wouldn’t have offered to cover Mel’s shift.”

  “
Why did you offer to cover Mel’s shift? Because you know I love you, girl, but you’re not exactly the charitable, take-one-for-the-team kind of person.”

  I elbowed her. As a testament to the pro bartender January was, she didn’t spill a single drop of tequila as she poured the round of shots. “Well I didn’t pick up an extra shift just so I could switch from saline to silicone like the rest of you are so concerned with. And it’s not so I can have a thousand-dollar purse hanging off my shoulder either.”

  “So if it’s not for the new and improved fake boobs and it’s not the purse . . . it must be for Botox, right? Because what are you, twenty-five now? That’s basically middle age in L.A., and I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but since you’re my friend and I’m your friend and this is what friends do . . .” January inspected my face, her eyes narrowing on the space between my eyebrows. Her finger traced a small line on my face. “You’ve got a nasty wrinkle right here. You better get that taken care of pronto, or else you’ll soon be mourning the days four guys grabbed your ass in one night.”

  I flicked her hand away.

  “Mourning,” she emphasized before laughing.

  “Less talking. More pouring.” I grabbed a handful of lime wedges and tossed them into a cup.

  “How are your sisters?” January nudged me, teasing gone from her voice and expression. She’d worked at The Water Cooler for about as long as I had and was one of my only friends, which meant she could tease me about blowing my tip money on implants and designer bags, but she knew exactly where my money went.

  “They’ll be doing a lot better when they turn eighteen, graduate, and can get the hell away from that woman, that trailer, and that town,” I said with a sigh. “But right now, they’re doing okay.”

  “And you’re working an extra shift because . . .?”

  “Because it’s getting close to the end of the school year, and there are a couple events the school has planned that cost money—”

  “Which won’t happen unless you step in and fund it,” January finished for me.

  “Pretty much.” I tossed a salt shaker on the tray.

  My sisters, Reese and Paige, were fifteen and seventeen, still in school, had managed to avoid getting pregnant, and most importantly, still had dreams. They planned to get the hell out of that dump as soon as they had their diplomas in hand. They might have been under our mom’s supervision and care, but they took better care of each other than she did them, so I mailed the oldest, Reese, a couple hundred dollars every couple weeks to help with the necessities that Mom considered wasteful luxuries.

  Yeah, having a bra that fit and wasn’t threadbare wasn’t a “wasteful luxury” in my book.

  So I worked extra shifts when I could, sent money that Mom knew nothing about—or else it would have been gone in one wild weekend of meth and alcohol—and tried to be the voice of reason whenever I could. I wasn’t looking to fill Mom’s shoes, or their dads’—between the three of us, we all had a different dad—I was just looking to give them a sliver of something no one had given me when I was their ages: hope.

  I hoped that if I guaranteed Reese and Paige that Death Valley, Nevada, wasn’t as grand as life got, they would flee the city limits at eighteen instead of waiting four more years like I had. And yes, I knew there wasn’t an actual Death Valley in Nevada like there was in California . . . but if you’d have grown up where I did, under the same conditions I did, you would have “endearingly” named the barren land a couple hours east of Reno Death Valley too.

  “You’re a good person, you know that?” January bumped her hip into mine before handing me the tray of tequila shots.

  “Shush. Don’t say that. They don’t allow that kind of person around here. I’d be kicked out of the state the day before finals, and if that happened, I wouldn’t be anything close to resembling a good person.”

  “Hey, yeah. That’s right. Aren’t you supposed to be cramming for your first exam tomorrow morning?” January followed me to lift the bar keep so I could slip out.

  I slipped a folded sheet of notes out from the side of my knee-high boots. “I am cramming. I’m just serving tequila shots and ass grabs in between.”

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You do realize you’re the only young, pretty girl who fled to L.A. who isn’t looking to become an Oscar-winning actress one day, right?”

  “Hey, I’m living the dream. Not chasing one.” I shot her a wink before weaving into the crowd in search of a herd of frat boys thirsty for cheap tequila. I considered bringing Bear along for a little preventative insurance but decided against it at the last second.

  I could take care of myself. I always had, and now was no time to stop.

  MY NIGHT COULDN’T have gotten any worse.

  If I weren’t so realistic, I might have actually bought that—along with assuring myself that the rest of the night could only go up from the moment I finished my shift at The Water Cooler.

  After setting a record eight ass grabs and getting nine guys bounced out of the club—one decided to go for the chest grab . . . moron—along with serving so many shots that I might be the one responsible for a forthcoming tequila shortage in the greater Los Angeles area, I was spent. My feet hurt from the high-heeled hooker boots, my head hurt from the techno music, and my ass would be a purple speckled mess tomorrow morning from all of the grabbing and groping.

  I wanted to go to bed. I needed sleep. But my first end-of-junior-year final was in less than six hours, which meant bed and sleep would have to wait. I needed to study, and with the help of some caffeine and pain relievers, I could press on. I hadn’t worked my fingers to the bone for the past three years to succumb to exhaustion when it was go time. I hadn’t sacrificed and bled to give in to a few hours of sleep when finals were looming. After the next few days of finals, I had one more year, and I was done. One more year of school before I was a college graduate. Twelve more months until I’d proven to everyone that fate had more in store for me than a rundown trailer and welfare-approved cereal. Three-hundred-sixty-five days until I’d proven that to myself.

  Nothing strengthened my resolve like the reminders of my past. Some people were motivated by the promise of their futures, and I was all for moving toward a promising future, but that wasn’t my main motivator. The absolute horror of being swallowed up by a past like mine was enough to keep anyone going forward at a hundred miles an hour.

  My apartment was only a few blocks from the Water Cooler, so once I’d exchanged the Pretty Woman boots for my comfy Keds, I half-walked, half-jogged home—partly to get there faster so I could hit the books, and partly to force some adrenaline into my bloodstream to wake me up.

  I’d made decent tips that shift, which somewhat made up for all of the unwelcome fondling. After my first final, I’d slip a couple hundred into an envelope and mail it off to Reese. And yes, I knew mailing cash was frowned upon, but the silver lining to something becoming so frowned upon was that no one did it anymore. While the little thieves sorting through mail looked for gift cards and checks, my four fifty-dollar bills folded up in a piece of paper slipped by them every single time.

  I’d never asked Reese for an account of where the money went or what she and Paige spent it on. Partially because I didn’t care—Reese was an old soul, more mature than me it seemed—and partially because I knew where it was going. At least a portion of it. My sisters loved to dance, like I had too at one time. They loved to pirouette and jive and move as much as, if not more than, I had. It was the one thing, outside of school, that got them out of that trailer, away from our mother, and surrounded by a positive environment.

  Back when I’d been dancing, I’d felt like the world wasn’t so hopeless. When I danced, I realized there was more to life than decaying in Death Valley. But once Mom discovered this little thing known as meth, the money that had gone to my dance lessons got shot into her and her “boyfriend” at the time’s veins. I was fifteen when I stopped dancing. Reese was seventeen, a
nd Paige was fifteen, and they were both still dancing. They could keep dancing until they were in wheelchairs if they wanted—I’d keep paying for lessons as long as they wanted to take them.

  Next to paying my tuition, sending money to my sisters for their dance lessons and school clothes and movie nights and whatever else they needed it for was the best way I could ever spend my money.

  When I hit the halfway point to the apartment, I went from a jog to more of a run. More adrenaline meant sharper study time. I had on a light trench coat, not because it was cool but because I didn’t want to waste time changing out of my Water Cooler outfit. In the club, it identified me as a cocktail waitress, but on the dark streets late at night, it would have identified me as something else. Not that I was worried about some random guy propositioning me—because if my colorful reply didn’t ward him off, the Taser in my purse certainly would—but I didn’t want to waste any time getting back to the apartment. My books and notes were already laid out on the table waiting for me. If Blake, my boyfriend, was still up, maybe he’d have a cup of coffee ready and waiting for me. Most nights, he was already asleep when I got in, as I didn’t wander through the door until five in the morning, but I’d managed to plead my way out of there a couple hours early when the buzz had started to die down.

  Blake and I’d been together for close to two years now. He was studying to become a Physician’s Assistant and had one more year of school, just like me. We’d met at a coffee shop late one night while we’d both been cramming for exams. After a few dates, Blake had admitted he was tired of the typical L.A. girls, and I’d admitted I was tired of the typical L.A. guys, and our relationship was solidified. Our pairing was mutually beneficial, one that made sense, and one that wasn’t founded on butterflies and all-consuming passion.

  We made sense together, and that was what I wanted. I didn’t want the extreme highs that came with a passionate relationship, because I knew extreme lows followed. I didn’t want fire, because it came with ice. I wanted my nice, trustworthy, future-P.A. boyfriend who studied beside me in bed and made love to me as though it were a release, not a religion. I wanted normal and average and mediocre because that was ten times better than the life I’d known. I didn’t want to grasp for greatness because I was certain it was a fallacy. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.