by T. L. Martin
Confusion rolls through me as I notice the full glass of juice beside him. I glance from the juice to him, then back again.
I feel it. The warmth of his body touching my skin. Heating my neck. Making my palms clammy. I’m standing between his casually spread legs, between his hands resting against his jeans. The slightest movement, and his thumb will graze the outside of my thigh. His eyelids lower lazily, and his gaze travels down my face, my throat, the curve of my breasts. Fire plunges down my body, settling between my thighs.
The feeling’s too heavy.
Too easy.
Too consuming.
The foundation bottle slips from my grip.
Clank.
“What—Eva. My goodness, will you be more careful? Do you think Giorgio Armani grows on trees?”
With shaky fingers, I pick it up, set it on the counter, and jerk my backpack off the floor. “All set,” I announce, avoiding eye contact.
Bridget’s gaze narrows. “Remind me to never trust you with luxury products aga—” She pauses, presses a button on her earpiece. “Hello? Yes, this is she.” She walks away, and Easton’s gaze burns my face.
Before I go up in flames, I’m out the front door. I dig my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my contacts.
“Eva!” Easton’s deep voice collides with my back, tickling my neck. “Wait.”
I cut through a neighbor’s yard and head toward the alley behind their house. It’s a longer detour to school, but I could use the extra time to get my shit together.
It’s not the first time Easton’s made me . . . feel. But it’s usually in the dark. Beneath my sheets. When I’m alone and desperate for release.
I send a text before I can change my mind.
Me: You free tonight?
One second.
Two.
Three.
Elijah: Absofuckinglutely.
Eva
(Thirteen years old)
Wiping my mouth, I stand and turn around, facing the bathroom stall. The shuffle of clothing sounds behind me. The buzz of a zipper. The click of a belt. There are brown stains on the wall and numbers and corny names in black sharpie. I can barely see the color it was supposed to be beneath. I wonder how long it took to become so dirty. I wonder how long it would take to scrub clean. I wonder if that’s even possible.
“You were great, darling. Getting much better.”
I don’t respond.
“Such a good, sweet girl.”
The stains blend together, twisting and swirling, swirling and twisting, until they resemble the contents of my stomach.
Good.
Sweet.
Dainty.
Docile.
The sound of change hitting concrete, muffled slightly by dollar bills, brings me back to the present. My stomach knows that sound. It pangs with the yearning for food. My fingers twitch against my ratty jeans, eager to snatch it up, but I wait. I always wait.
“See you next time, Princess.”
The door opens and closes. I spin around so quickly nausea makes my knees weak. Bending down, I clamber for the money, making sure I don’t miss a single dollar or cent. He’s one of my cheap ones, but when I can swing it, I prefer them. They don’t try to keep me longer. They don’t pressure me for more. Sometimes, they even keep their hands to themselves. Sometimes, it’s not so bad.
There’s almost twenty bucks in dollar bills, the rest is mostly in quarters and dimes. Carefully, I shove everything into my jean pocket without holes. After washing my hands at the sink and rinsing my mouth with water, I pick up my backpack and exit the bathroom with my head down.
It’s dark out, but it should still be early enough to pick up a few things at the dollar store and catch the bus I need. As long as I don’t get stopped.
“Yo, Princess.”
I cringe, my feet cementing to the pavement. Beverly’s raspy smoker’s voice has sent chills up my spine since the first day I met her, four months ago.
“How much you got there?” She walks up from behind me, circling me and getting right in my face. The pores in her boney cheeks are big enough to swallow me whole.
“Not much,” I mutter. “You know he’s broke.”
She snorts. “That what he tell you again? That’s why he comes to you, you know? It’s not ’cause he likes you; it’s ’cause you let him walk all over you. Any other girl, any woman, and he would’ve paid up.”
A thin arm wraps around my neck, pulling me away from Beverly, and my shoulders instantly relax when I stare into Monica’s big brown eyes. “Leave her alone.” Monica moves in front of me, bends down, and pushes a strand of greasy hair behind my ear. “Was he good to you, honey?”
I shrug.
“He hurt you?”
I shake my head.
“Then you’re good.” She gives my cheek a peck, and her red lipstick sticks to my skin. “Don’t let Bev boss you around, hun. You know you don’t have to give her a dime if it’s your own client, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Get going, now. And get yourself something to eat, honey. You’re getting skinny.”
Beverly snaps at her, but I don’t stay to listen to their argument. Their voices fade as I cut across the street and slip into the dollar store.
I weave through the aisles and fill a basket with chips, water, protein bars, and any other food items small enough to carry. Next, I grab a toothbrush since mine was stolen, hand sanitizer, and bodywash from the baby aisle. I like the kind for babies because it’s shampoo, conditioner, and soap all in one. After calculating how much it’s going to cost, I snatch up a clean shirt and make my way to the register.
Monica tells me I shouldn’t spend so much at once, that I need to learn to stash my money in case of emergencies. But I don’t know how anyone in The Pitts saves a dime when there’s so little to begin with.
After checking out, I head toward the station around the corner and sit on the bench to transfer everything into my backpack. Sometimes, when I get rid of the plastic bags, I can almost convince myself I’m just going to a sleepover.
The soft squeal of bus tires hits my ears, and excitement thrums under my skin so ferociously my eyes start to tear. I’ve been waiting for this bus since the moment I got off it this morning.
I’ve just finished packing my food when I’m knocked sideways. My face hits the bench, a burn slicing through my cheek.
I groan as I place my palms on the handrail and push myself upright. By the time I look up, all I catch is a petite, shadowed form in a hoodie peeling into the empty parking lot behind me. A girl. The same size as me, dirty blond hair knotted in rats’ nests.
Dread turns my bones to liquid as I look down. At where my backpack should be.
My throat burns.
The bus pulls up in front of me.
I dart my eyes from my ride to the girl, then back again.
My empty stomach screams at me.
The doors open, and a light sweat breaks out on my forehead.
“You comin’ or stayin’?”
“H-how many more runs are there tonight?” I squeak, even though I’ve memorized the schedule.
“Last one for four hours, honey. Make up your mind.”
I sniff and look behind me. The girl has stopped beside a building, already rifling through my things. She looks like she needs it. Maybe more than I do.
I know myself well enough by now to understand that food can wait. My heart, on the other hand, can’t take another minute.
Decision made, I pluck up the plastic store bag from the bench and step onto the bus. I pay and find an empty row in the back.
With trembling hands, I open the bag and peer inside. An ache spreads from my empty stomach to my dry throat. At least I have my toothbrush, bodywash, and new shirt. I let out a snort. Right, because that’s all it will take to get a girl like me clean. Rolling my eyes, I sit back against the seat and count the stops.
I’m on alert every second, every bump, every turn.
My eyes sting as the first wave of music touches my ears.
I did it.
I made it another night.
The guitar’s gentle strums carry me past the pool’s nightlights. Making my way to the shed, I sink onto the fresh grass. And I listen. I don’t want to cry. But each stroke of music feels like Mom, and I can’t stop the wetness slipping down my cheeks. I’m as close to home as I’ll ever be.
Scooting back to lean against the shed, my palm lands on something cold and smooth. I look down. And I don’t believe what I see.
My mouth salivates.
My stomach pangs in anticipation.
A sandwich, a ziplock bag of Doritos, and a small glass of orange juice.
Without thinking, I lunge and stuff my face. I catch myself when I’m halfway finished with the PB and J and slow down. I’ve learned my lesson about keeping food down. It’s not until I’m gulping the orange juice that a movement from the second story window catches my eye. The music has stopped.
Freezing with the glass against my lips, I look up.
A face hidden in the shadows. It’s all I see before the curtain closes, but it’s enough.
He watches me.
The boy who plays sad music.
Eva
(Present Day)
“I gotta say,” Elijah murmurs, “I was surprised you texted me. You know, with you and Carter hookin’ up again and all.”
I stare at him.
“But who can blame you? I knew one time with me wasn’t gonna be enough. I’ve been thinking about you too. A lot.”
“Wow,” I respond in a monotone. “I feel so special.”
His gaze moves hungrily up and down my body. His eyes are too bright, expression too eager. When he reaches for me, I shake my head and step out of my skirt. It only takes a second for him to figure it out.
“Baby,” he sighs, “I thought we’d do more than that this time.”
“Don’t call me ‘baby.’ Do you want me to stay or not?”
He’s on his knees within seconds, hands on my hips. I watch the top of his head at first, the shaggy dark strands falling messily over his face. When he looks up at me, I can almost pretend the color of his eyes is warm whiskey.
Almost.
Closing my eyes, I do what I always do. I try to be normal. I tell myself it feels good. As good as it feels when I touch myself. As good as it feels when I pretend my fingers are Easton’s.
But for a long moment, I feel nothing.
No pleasure, no disgust.
I’m a drop of water in a motionless ocean. Trapped by the sea of stillness encasing me. I listen to the sound of my steady breathing. Then the loud beat of my heart.
Thump, thump, thump.
Soon, that’s all there is.
Thump, thump, thump.
Persistent and grating, nails against glass.
Relax.
It pounds louder.
Shut up.
It beats faster.
Get out of my head.
The rhythm thrashes inside me until my stomach is in knots.
Stop thinking.
I asked him to do this—
It feels good.
His grip is too sweaty—
I like it.
His hands are on my ass—
It’s what people do.
I’m not the one on my knees—
I’m not broken.
The grey walls around me blend and swirl, swirl and blend—
Stop.
STOP.
Backing out of Elijah’s reach, I yank my skirt up my legs with unsteady hands. Frustration soars inside me, and the stupid thing is, I can’t blame anyone but myself.
“Shit, that was fast.”
I don’t look at Elijah, but I hear the cockiness in his voice as he stands.
“That good, huh?”
He’s clueless, watching me fix my ponytail and eye the window. “Tonight, bab—Eva.” He tugs his shirt over his head before reaching for me. “Tonight, I wanna show you what I can really do.”
I shake my head. “No sex.”
“What? But that’s twice now I went down on—”
“I’ll give you head.”
His brows shoot up. “Okay.” He undoes his jeans quickly, as if I might change my mind at any second.
This is all wrong. It’s always fucking wrong.
A pack of cigarettes slips from his pocket, and he kneels to grab them. When he starts to get back up, I’m stopping him before I can register my grip on his shoulder.
He shoots me a sideways look. “Not exactly the best position for this . . .”
I can’t stop staring down at him. My head tilts. My throat constricts a little.
It happens in snippets. Flashing and tugging and clawing at my brain. My knees on the rug. Bushy fingers in my hair, yanking my head back. Long nose, blue eyes. Slow, icy smile.
Bile reaches the back of my throat.
My pulse ticks.
The room sways.
“Beg,” I whisper.
Elijah hesitates. “Are you for real?”
My voice is underwater. “You either want it or you don’t.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and then he shakes his head. “You already know what I want.”
“Then it shouldn’t be too hard to say.” Say please. “Prove to me how much you want it.” Convince me you’re worth it.
His lips thin, and he looks around the room like he’s making sure we’re alone. He grits his teeth. “Will you give me head, Eva?”
I continue to stare.
He clears his throat. “I want . . . I want you to make me feel good. I want it so bad. Please, I’m begging you.” He mumbles a few other things, but they all drown in the same tank of water my voice is trapped in.
When I finally give him what he wants, I push myself back to my tiny spot in the ocean. Still and tranquil. I lose myself in it until I’m drowning. The cage becomes my sanity, and I drift away, away, away, only returning when I hear a distinct zip.
He’s buttoning his pants when he asks, “So, you don’t mind if I tell my friends we, uh, did a little more than this, do you?”
I pause halfway to the window.
“You know . . . it’s just, we have fooled around, and they’ve all had sex with you anyway.”
I laugh, resuming my walk to the window. He’s right in a way. I have had sex with his friend, but it’s singular. Carter was my one true mistake, and I’ve regretted that night ever since. “You’ll tell them what you want no matter what I say.”
I don’t add that I like it. The rumors, the gossip. Being the school slut. I’ve done my part to keep the girls talking for entertainment and the boys lying for the sake of their pride. I’ve been the “good” girl before—dainty, docile. And I was ripped in half. So, yeah. Maybe I’ve dragged myself through the mud since then, but even mud hardens beneath your shoes. I must be standing on a mountain of it by now.
And no one can touch me from way the hell up here.
Easton
I check the clock again. 12:02. A minute later than when I last looked.
I growl, fall back onto my bed, and drape my forearm over my eyes.
Where is she?
Who’s she with? Marco? Elijah? Fucking Carter?
Unwanted images—hands, lips, skin—flood me. My jaw clenches and unclenches. None of the guys at school know what to do with a girl like Eva.
When the clock ticks by and there’s still no trace of her, I get up and pull a T-shirt over my head. I make my way down the hall, looking from one end to the other in case my mom’s up refilling her wine glass. I quietly open the door to Eva’s room.
Her unmade bed is the center of my attention. The white sheets are crumpled like she just climbed out of
them.
Swallowing, I avert my gaze and move to her bathroom. I turn on her bathtub faucet and watch as the water runs smoothly down the drain. Like I figured, Maria called someone to fix the drain again. I gotta give her credit for staying on top of it. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the cotton swabs I snagged from the hallway cabinet and stuff them into the drain, then check that it’s clogged. Satisfied, I leave her bedroom door open so I’ll be able to hear her better, then return to my room, lie on my bed, and continue to wait.
Last year, when I first started sabotaging her bathroom, I told myself it wasn’t for me. I do it to make sure I can see with my own two eyes she’s okay when she gets home so late. But clogging her bathtub isn’t the only questionable thing I do anymore.
I know it’s fucked up. I’m crossing lines brothers aren’t supposed to cross. Reminding myself I’m supposed to be her brother, that I’m not supposed to want her, isn’t enough to stop the obsession from spiraling, but I do it anyway. Because otherwise, I might do things—take things—I’m not supposed to have.
Her words from this morning replay in my head, over and over.
Maybe she deserves it.
Maybe you don’t . . .
My eyes pivot to my bedroom door when her window slams shut. I rake a hand through my hair as I cross my room and crack the door open another inch.
Nothing wrong with making sure she’s okay.
That’s all I’m doing.
I listen for a minute. First, to the sound of something hitting the carpet. Then, drawers opening and closing. Then, clothing rustling. My grip tightens around the knob, and I look away even though I can’t see her. It’s been sixteen hours, and I haven’t been able to shake the feel of her standing between my legs. Fingernails trailing my jaw. That flush working up her smooth throat, full lips slowly parting—
I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. My skin’s hot, sticking my damn shirt across the span of my shoulders.
By the time the bathroom door opens and closes next door, I’m like a furnace trying to cool off. You’d think she would have at least stripped down to get this reaction out of me, not put makeup on my damn face. Three years I’ve watched her, three years she’s teased me, dancing circles around me unlike any little sister should. I should’ve known the sight of Eva’s body finally between my legs wouldn’t be easy to shake.