by Eva Ashwood
His fingertips ghost over my back, and I realize he’s tracing the outline of the tattoo on my shoulder.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
Then he slides out of me and turns me around, pressing my back to the rough brick before fixing our clothes. This time, there’s nothing to wipe up his cum with, but I can’t even pretend I fucking care.
When we’re somewhat put back together again, he takes my face in his hands, threading his fingers through my hair. And then he kisses me.
It’s not as heated or frantic as any of our other kisses. Instead, it’s just deep.
Bone deep.
Soul deep.
Bottom of the fucking ocean deep.
My hands come up to cling to his, and I’m practically up on my tiptoes as my body strains to take the kiss just a little, impossibly, deeper.
When our lips finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine for a second, and for the first time since I caught sight of him in the bar, I don’t sense the heavy cloud of pain that I recognized so well in him.
And in this moment, I don’t feel it in myself either.
I feel… peaceful.
Gray lets out a deep breath. His lips press to mine in a kiss that could almost be called chaste if he hadn’t just fucked me raw next to a dumpster.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Then he backs away, shooting me one last lingering glance before leaving the alley.
4
Three Months Later
I don’t think about the day Jared died often.
At least, not when I’m careful.
I don’t think about my visit to the Medical Examiner’s Office or the encounter with the gorgeous stranger in the bar either.
But as I pack the last of my scant belongings into a duffel bag, it’s hard not to remember that day. It’s been months since I was called in to ID Jared, then called back a few days later to collect his ashes since he had no burial plans—and even if he did, who would’ve paid anyway?
I took his ashes up into the foothills and scattered them. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to dump them where I did, but I don’t really give a fuck.
Generally speaking, I don’t let myself dwell on that day, or on missing my friend at all. But today, I really wish he was here.
Today’s my last day in foster care, and even though I’m glad as hell to be getting out, I feel... I don’t know.
Unsettled. Rudderless.
I’ll spend a couple days in a halfway house for “youths in transition” until the meeting with my caseworker solidifies my future. If I’m lucky, I’ll get approved for a work-study program at a community college.
I don’t bank on being lucky.
As I sit on the duffel to wedge it closed, Brody McAllister appears in the doorway, a looming shape I can just see out of the corner of my eye.
Goddammit.
My foster father is a large man—broad in the shoulders and round in the gut. He’s a retired police officer, but judging from his skills as a foster father, I’m guessing he was a terrible cop. I’ll miss the free rent once I leave this place, but if it means I won’t have Brody coming in and out as he pleases, to do what he pleases?
Fuck. Sign me up.
I don’t acknowledge him, except for a passing glance. But I can feel his gaze on me as I begin pulling my artwork—sketches, paintings, lots of abstract images—from the walls. I need to pack these a little more carefully than my clothes; I value them more than anything, except maybe my tattoos. All my own artwork, all immoveable from their place inked permanently into my skin.
He watches me in silence for a few moments, invading my space like he’s got a fucking right to. When he gets sick of me ignoring him, his heavy steps enter the room as he comes to stand behind me. I pause only long enough to give him an unimpressed look before going back to my art.
“I won’t be long,” I say pointedly. “Just need to finish packing up, and the social worker’s office is being nice and arranging a cab to come get me.”
“Shame,” comes his response. I hear two more footfalls, then he stops so close to me that I feel his breath blow through my hair. He settles his hand on my shoulder, turning me around to face him. “Seems only yesterday you came through our door. Now you’re going back through it, out into the big wide world.”
“Yup. That’s how turning eighteen works,” I say blandly.
For some inane reason, that seems to amuse him. He chuckles and leans in. I’m afraid I’m gonna trip over the art I just packed up, so I side-step before I can break anything, and he comes with me.
I’m used to this stupid fucking dance. We’ve been doing it for years.
It starts with him tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, moving his fingers down my neck. They’re rough, years of work embedded in the callouses.
From a wanted lover, this touch might send a thrill down my spine. From Brody, it just makes my whole fucking body feel like ice.
I allow him his exploration of my body, the side comments of how hard it is to say goodbye, as one rough hand cups my tit and the other slides down my exposed midriff. I allow him the idea that maybe I’ll let him have a parting memory of my body and the heat between my legs he’s so eager to press against. I let him think that even though I’m free now, he still has some sort of hold over me.
I let him have that for just a moment before I grab his hand and look him in the eyes.
“Since it’s so hard to say goodbye, maybe we should get your wife up here too.” I keep my voice bland, although my jaw is tight. “You know. For moral support.”
His face hardens, his expression turning sour. “Excuse me?”
“Melissa. She’s downstairs getting dinner ready, right? If goodbyes are so damn hard, why don’t we make it a family affair? I can call for her—”
Brody yanks his hand out of my hold and steps away from me. I watch him with a detached sort of satisfaction as his face goes red.
“You know, I’m actually glad you’re leaving,” he spits out. “Useless, ungrateful little whore like you? Living here all these years, and you’re still stuck up and uppity like you’re something. Well, let me tell you something, little missy. I’ve seen a lot of bitches like you in my time on the force. All of you end up on the streets, spreading your legs for rent or begging for it. You think you’re something, all that attitude. Well, you’re nothing. Less than nothing. I’m glad to see you go.”
I shrug. “That makes two of us.”
The redness flares deeper on Brody’s cheeks, almost a mottled purple in some places. “Ungrateful bitch. I hope you rot like Jared.”
The final insult comes when he pauses at my door. I have a new piece of art on the wall next to the doorway, its placement intentional since I see it every time I leave my room.
It’s a sketched portrait of Jared, his eyes closed like that day I saw him on the slab—except in the drawing, I took out the sag of dead muscles and the waxy pallor of his skin. He looks like he’s sleeping. He looks peaceful.
Brody’s gaze lingers on it, and I feel the preemptive hardening of my heart as I realize what my foster “father” is about to do. I look away as his hand comes up, tearing the paper from the wall and crumpling it up.
“Ugly fucking mug,” he mutters, still clutching the wadded paper in his fist as he slams the door behind him.
The air is thick when he leaves, and as I turn away from the door, dizziness floods me. My hand shoots out to brace against the wall as I breathe through it, trying not to pass out.
This happens sometimes. Sudden waves of nausea and dizziness hit me, usually exacerbated by stress.
I don’t remember a lot of my childhood, but from what I’ve been told, it wasn’t a good one. I was picked up on the streets when I was eleven and put into the system, and before that, my life is a big fat blank.
All I know for sure is that it wasn’t good.
Doctors say my body shows signs of old injuries, and although nobody knows who my parents wer
e, there’s a good chance they were drug addicts. The kind of memory loss I have is usually associated with trauma, abuse, and neglect.
I huff a laugh as my vision slowly starts to clear.
If only my memories of this place would conveniently lose themselves too.
I steady myself against the wall, eventually pushing away from its surface. Brody doesn’t matter, and neither do his words. He’s a piece of shit. A washed up cop who can only get his kicks molesting foster kids half his age.
It’s alright, though. In a few hours I’ll be free of him, and my only demons will be the ones that hide within my mind.
The halfway house is surprisingly nice.
It has ten bedrooms, none of which have to be shared among the tenants. There are only eight of us here—me and seven other “youths in transition.”
Given our collective circumstances, we all bear the markings of a shitty life. Some of us are heavily tattooed, and I notice a girl with track marks so numerous I’m surprised she has any veins left. Most of us are quiet, and those of us who aren’t hang out with the other needless extroverts, blessedly leaving the handful of us who want to be left alone outs of it.
On the second day after my arrival at the halfway house, I have my scheduled meeting with my caseworker.
Ms. Nielson is a stout older woman with dark skin and long, silky black braids. She’s one of the few people in the system that I actually like, though she’s still very much a product of her job. She smiles at me as I sit down and take my seat in silence.
She’s always the first one to speak. I like that. She doesn’t try to make me make the first move like a lot of social workers try to do—like they’re playing a fucking game of chess or something.
“Hello, Sophie. Good to see you again. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
Her eyebrows drop a little at my one-word answer. “Are you sure? Adjustment periods can be rocky. And the last few months have been a constant adjustment. Dealing with Jared’s passing, graduation, all of that. Now you’re no longer with your foster family, and your next moves are crucial.”
I manage to crack a half-smirk. “Careful, Nielson. You’ll make me feel like I’m in therapy, and we both know how it worked out the last time a shrink tried to scoop out my brains like an ice cream sundae.”
The look she shoots me is only marginally indulgent of my shit. “I’m serious, Sophie. You’ve been through a lot in the last few months, and that doesn’t even count your life before. Little to no recollection of your home life before the state took you in, lingering medical issues, several foster homes between your initial intake and your placement with the McAlisters. It’s important to acknowledge these things. It’s how you work with and then overcome them.” She smiles. “Which is why I’m actually quite pleased we’re having this meeting today. I have some good news for you.”
My skepticism rises at her claim to have “good news” following the laundry list of “bad news” that’s been my life for the last eighteen years.
She pulls a manila folder from her desk, and I watch her flip it open and page through the contents, looking pretty fucking pleased with herself as she does so.
“Do you remember those scholarship applications I had you submit earlier in the school year?” she asks.
I shrug. “Vaguely.”
She clicks her tongue against her teeth and shakes her head. “I need you to be more mindful of these things, Sophie. Anyway, as your caseworker, I’m made privy to your acceptances and rejections—”
“I don’t think we need to go over rejections,” I cut in.
She smiles. “This isn’t about rejection. This is about acceptance.”
Acceptance? Really?
Picking through my brain’s crackled memory, I think back to all those stupid scholarship applications she had me fill out during our sessions. The details are fuzzy, but I remember thinking how inane the whole thing was.
All those forms promising the false hope of a better future. Gilded prizes allotted to kids just pathetic enough to appeal to rich philanthropists—the kind who don’t actually care about the underprivileged, but who do care about what pretending to give a shit will do for their public image.
I wasn’t a terrible student; I actually made good grades. But I’m not dumb enough to believe that my good grades are enough. I didn’t have any extracurricular activities to boast about, because like hell was Brody going to support something like that for free, and it wasn’t like I was a star athlete or some shit.
I don’t look at my future prospects with the same optimism Ms. Nielson does.
Honestly, I don’t know why she’s trying so hard.
She looks up at me. “Do you remember your application to Hawthorne University?”
“No.”
“Well, they certainly remember you. Enough that the usual one new scholarship student they take every year has been expanded to include two. And one of those students is you.”
I stare blankly at her. “So, what? They gave me a scholarship? I still can’t go. Do I look like I can afford everything else that comes with going to some fancy-ass university—”
“When I say scholarship, I mean not only is your education covered, but your room and board, your meals, as well as a general living stipend awarded to you every month. Your biggest responsibility is to go to class and prosper.”
I know there’s supposed to be some sliver of gratefulness when Ms. Nielson tells me this information.
I know I should be elated, over the moon and back. I should be happy.
Yet I sit here across from her feeling nothing but a vague exhaustion. None of this is anything other than a false hope that things can get better. Rich boys and girls go to college off the money that their parents make. Rich boys and girls go to college, get educated, and sweep another rich boy or girl off their feet so they can get married and have rich babies, and perpetuate the cycle through a new generation of rich boys and girls.
Girls like me get jobs at bars that don’t have a problem employing someone who isn’t even old enough to legally drink the merchandise.
“That’s all well and good, but what’s the point? Send me to a school with all those snotty rich kids, and what does that accomplish? I’m still who I am, and their world isn’t mine. Why should I bother?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” she counters. “What is there to lose, Sophie? Other than the wasted potential that is your life if you pass this up? I’ve seen many kids come and go through this office. Many kids who have potential. Some do something with it, others don’t. But I always see the potential, even when kids like you don’t. Take the opportunity. You’re at a crossroads right now. Why not take the path that could do you the most good?”
She’s trying hard. Her tone is as encouraging as it is pleading.
My stomach twists as I wonder whether, when it was his turn to sit here and get this speech, Jared’s social worker was this concerned about his future. What potential did Jared have offered to him? Did anybody help him? Encourage him? Or was he, like so many kids in our position, ushered in and out as quickly as possible, because social workers are too underpaid for the amount of investment that’s expected of them?
These are questions I have no answers to. Jared is dead, and that’s not going to change.
For the second time today, I think about him lying on that cold, stainless-steel slab in the morgue. I think about his ashes drifting in the wind. Is that the future my path is leading to?
I can’t get the image of Jared out of my head, any more than I can force away the image of myself lying on that same cold table.
That is the path I’m on. Unless I change it.
Drumming my fingers over the arm of my chair, I sigh.
“Alright. Tell me about Hawthorne University.”
5
Hawthorne University is an intimately sized private university just north of LA that’s so elite it takes on exactly one thousand new students every year—no more, but sometimes
less, and that number includes the one scholarship student who’s accepted yearly.
Well, two this year.
Backed by a board of wealthy investors keen on supplementing the education of America’s best, it provides over fifty degrees from tech to the arts, molding young minds for a bright, successful future.
At least, that is the impression that Ms. Nielson tried to instill in me when she told me the ins and outs of the school.
Standing before it, I can admit that Hawthorne is pretty to look at, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t give off the most pretentious vibes I’ve ever seen in a building before. Probably doesn’t help that the lot is packed full of equally pretentious, equally expensive sports cars.
Brody had a thing for car shows, and he kept a shit ton of magazines around the house. I recognize the models in the lot from all those magazines, from all the times Brody practically gave himself a boner babbling about those cars.
Aston Martins. Maseratis. Ferraris.
They’re all here in the lot, in cobalt blues and liquid silvers, in flashes of candy apple reds for the ones needing to stand out a little more among their peers.
Me? My sexy ride is a shuttle bus, dropping me at the front of this sea of opulence. That is a courtesy of the school, and I have the school to thank for the preemptive delivery of my belongings from the halfway house to the dorms here at Hawthorne. The admins seem determined to prove their goodwill toward their underprivileged students.
I reach into the back pocket of my ripped jeans and pull out the pamphlet detailing everything new students need to know to “adjust and acclimate” to campus life. A handy little map is laid out on one page of the pamphlet, telling me where to find the administration building.
It’s a Friday afternoon, and classes won’t start until Monday, so the campus is pretty dead as I walk across the manicured lawn.
No complaints here.