Copyright 2013 Tess Thompson
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
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Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]
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Cover Photo by Clare Barboza
Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Jennifer D. Munro
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. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-142-6
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-238-6
For further information regarding permissions, please contact
[email protected].
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013939798
For Jacqui Farnsworth,
My forever Bestie.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Jennifer D. Munro for your kind and careful editing. Greg Simanson, for this beautiful cover. Clare Barboza, for the use of your stunning photo as inspiration for the cover; your work is truly art and I'm grateful for both your friendship and the added beauty you bring to this world.
I am rich in friends. This was never more obvious than during my recent personal difficulties and professional success, both of which taught me who my true friends are. You know who you are and so do I. Thank you for every time you picked up the phone, the invitations to dinner, packages in the mail, and encouraging words during my darkest days. I will not forget.
Katherine Sears and Kenneth Shear. Thank you. Words are not enough, but I know you know.
And, finally, to my partner in this crazy book business, Heather Ludviksson. You are the Lee to my Annie. I couldn't do it without you. I love you more with each passing day. Thank you. Our time will come.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
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Prologue
2003
FROM THEIR BEDROOM, Annie waited for the sound of Marco's boots on the hardwood floor and then the slam of the front door. After this, she watched the second hand on the small plastic alarm clock make its way around the clock five times. She dressed quickly in a long-sleeve shirt and jeans even though it was August and hot. It was habit now, this hiding of her bruises in the daylight. Adrenaline coursed through her body and it was like a drug propelling her forward in spite of her fear that Marco would know she'd left home without his permission. Looking behind her a dozen times, she marched to the bus stop, her mind reeling. What if he came home unexpectedly? What if he became ill at work and had to come home? What if he called the apartment and no one answered?
The 310 bus dropped her two blocks from the Planned Parenthood building. It was hard to breathe and she dripped with perspiration under the hot sun as she zigzagged between other pedestrians. She marveled, as she always did, at the diversity of the faces and attire. Other people. How long had it been since she'd been anywhere but the neighborhood grocery store? She couldn't say. Maybe six months. Perhaps longer. After the last time he'd come home and she'd been out, she decided the subsequent beating wasn't worth it. She would stay inside and cook and clean. This was her life now. There was no way out.
Her hands shook as she filled out forms in the tan and orange lobby, waiting her turn. She didn't bother to look around at the other young women waiting. There was nothing to see in the other women's eyes she couldn't see reflected in her own image. Women without funds, without insurance, without choices.
The forms asked her the question no one had asked in her isolation. “Are you in a safe environment at your home?”
She marked the box: no.
The nurse weighed her. Annie was shocked at the number on the scale. But she should not be. She ate compulsively now, the only thing that gave her pleasure, or perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was a shield against Marco. The bigger she got, the less Marco forced himself upon her in the long, bleak night.
Fat Cow, he called her now when he hit her. Sometimes, Blubber Ass.
“You're eight weeks along,” the doctor said a short time later, her eyes scanning Annie's exposed skin. There was no hiding here. The gowns were short. Annie stared at the wall. It was impossible to miss the bruises covering the backs of her thighs and backside where he'd beaten her with his belt and the ones in the shapes of fingers on her upper arms. They were two days old, and purple.
The questions came then.
“No, I'm not safe,” Annie said, no louder than a whisper. “But I can't get away from him. He'll find me. I've tried before.”
“You must get away from him or this baby is in jeopardy,” said the doctor, not unkindly or even with judgment, but Annie felt hostility towards her anyway. Yes, it was easy for her to say, to advise, to counsel. She was in her forties, Annie guessed, and wore a plain gold band on her wedding finger. After work she would get in a car that ran consistently and go home to a safe house. There were probably children and a yard and Saturday afternoons where they all went to the Santa Monica pier and ate corndogs. She probably slept well at night knowing she was using her skills and training to help poor girls like Annie. But the truth was, this doctor with her salt and pepper ponytail, comfortable sandals, and crushed-cotton blouse could not possibly understand what it was to be twenty years old and in a prison of sorts with no hope of ever getting out.
Next, the idea of shelters and other options were presented. Phone numbers and pamphlets were thrust into her hands. Annie pretended they were viable options, tucking them neatly in her purse. But she knew they weren't. None of them could protect her from Marco's rage. She was under his control, isolated from all her former friends and her mother.
She had no job. He'd taken even that away. You stay home and cook for me, he told her one night, pinning her against the sink in their small apartment, after she'd made the mistake of mentioning how much she was learning as a prep cook at the restaurant where they'd met. This is what good women do. If your slut mother knew that maybe she could keep a man.
She had no money of her own. No car of her own. No way to escape.
But later, riding home on the bus, as she gazed out the window as they passed the small rundown shops slathered with the gang graffiti of South Los Angeles, something came to her like a voice one could not locate
in a crowded room. She must reverse their lives. Marco must go to jail so she could be free.
He had two drug convictions from before she knew him—both for selling meth on the streets. Another drug offense, a third offense, would mean extensive jail time.
She put her hand inside her purse, feeling for the hundred dollars she kept hidden in the lining. It was there, after months of taking a dollar here and there from the money he gave her for groceries every week.
On the corner several streets from her apartment complex, next to a shop with a sign that read “Donuts and Chinese Food,” there was a perfume store. She pulled the bell cord and the driver stopped. She jumped to the sidewalk that smelled of urine, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. Inside the shop, she asked the clerk for a sample of a man's cologne to take home. “Something my boyfriend can try to see if he likes it.”
The clerk handed her several samples in small glass containers. She tucked them inside the lining of the purse, next to the only money she had in the world.
On the street, squinting in the bright sunlight, she walked block after block, searching for someone selling drugs. She finally spotted him in front of a smoke shop, a skinny, nervous looking young man with pocked skin. Making eye contact, he nodded, ever so slightly, and indicated with his eyes to meet him in the alley. She did so, sweating under the glaring sun of late afternoon. “What can I get for 100 dollars?” she asked, her voice trembling.
He handed her a small white package. “Not much.”
Enough, she thought. For my purposes.
That night, just shy of midnight, she opened the window wide enough for someone to jump through. Dressed in lacy lingerie, she painted her mouth with lipstick. She sprinkled the pillows with drops of the men's cologne. Then she climbed into bed, clutching the telephone in one hand and the meth in the other. And she waited.
Marco came home twenty minutes later. Annie knew he was the plus ten kind of drunk by the way he slammed into the hall table and the subsequent heavy and unsteady footsteps down the hallway as he made his way to the bedroom. She'd invented a scale to gauge Marco's drunkenness. Five was the afternoon kind of drunk while watching football with some of his buddies. He was harmless then, almost playful. Anything above an eight meant that he would have his fists on her before he passed out on the bed.
His footsteps were closer to the bedroom now. She dialed 911, speaking quietly into the phone. “I'm being beaten by my boyfriend. Send police to 8011 Alvarado right away.” She hung up, bracing for the worst, hoping they would arrive in time.
Then he was in the doorway, his red eyes scanning the room, taking in the open window, her lingerie, and her painted mouth.
He yanked her from the bed, tearing the front of her nightgown apart so that she was in only her panties. “You little slut. You had someone here? In my bed?” He went to the window, shouting into the night like a crazed animal, “Where is the son of a bitch?” Slamming the window shut and locking it, he turned towards her, utter rage displayed on his now almost purple face. A vein popped from his forehead; his pulse beat wildly at his neck. Then, he lurched towards her, yanking her up by her mane of thick curls. She closed her eyes, knowing the pain was coming, and slipped the meth into his pants pocket.
Please, God, don't let him hurt the baby.
He slammed her against the wall, smashing his fist into her face. She felt blood from her nose mixing with tears she could not control. But she did not cry out. She did not beg him to stop as she sometimes did. This time they were coming. She must hold on until they got here, until they could see what he did to her.
He shook her now so that her teeth rattled inside her head. “What? You're not bothering to lie to me tonight?” He punched her face again, slamming her head against the wall. He tossed her on the floor and straddled her before slamming her head into the floor over and over. Then he was up, leering over her. He kicked her in the side, hard, with the toe of his boot. She cried out from the pain. She moved her hands over her stomach. She couldn't get a breath. Had he cracked her rib? Please, God, protect the baby.
He was on top of her again, slamming her head on the rug.
Next, she heard a loud thump. Was it the sound of the door being kicked in? Yes. That was it. There were footsteps, too. Running feet. They were here. Finally someone would see what he did. Her sight was blurry now, her eyes swollen almost shut and stinging from the blood that dripped into them. But she no longer felt the pain. It was as if she were out of her body now and merely a spectator. And then suddenly Marco was no longer on top of her.
Through her dim vision, she saw there were two of them, dressed in blue uniforms and carrying long black sticks. One of them smacked Marco on the head with his club. Marco cried out and held his head in his hands.
“Check his pants pocket,” she managed to croak out.
One pulled Marco's arms behind his back while the other searched his pockets. “Meth,” he said, opening the package.
One cop handcuffed him as the other one read him his rights, just like in the movies.
“You piece of shit,” said the shorter cop to Marco. “You're going away for this and the drugs.”
“The lying whore had a man in here,” said Marco. “Everyone knows I have every right to kill the bitch.” He turned to look at her. “You'll pay for this if it's the last thing I ever do.”
She turned her face away as the cops shoved him towards the door.
An EMT was above her now. He was tan and had blond hair bleached almost white from sun. A surfer, maybe. The pain had found its way back to her consciousness. She moaned as he examined her.
“Bastard broke her arm. And a rib too, I think.”
“I didn't have a man here,” she whispered.
“It's all right. Don't talk.”
“I'm pregnant.”
His eyebrows went up and down. There was alarm in his eyes but his voice was soothing. “Okay, kiddo. You're gonna be fine. The ambulance will take you to the hospital.”
“I don't have any insurance.” Her throat was so dry. If only she had some water.
“Don't worry about it. We'll figure that out later.”
“Am I dying?”
“No, you're gonna be fine, kid. Just hang in there.” He was gently probing her stomach, his fingers pushing into the extra flesh.
“I'm sorry I'm so fat,” she said, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes.
“Shush now. Just stay still. It'll be all right soon.”
“Hold my hand until they come?”
“Of course,” he said, taking it between both of his. Her hands were the only part of her body that didn't hurt.
“Jesus, what an animal,” she heard him say as she felt herself drifting away.
And then it all went black.
Chapter One
2013
ANNIE SWUNG THE TWELVE-POUND KETTLE BELL over her head, then allowed it to drop between her knees before thrusting it towards the ceiling once more. Sweat soaked through her workout top. Twenty more swings of the torture device before she could stop. Just twenty more. You can do it, she thought. Don't be a baby. She counted down, mouthing the numbers. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen. Could she finish? Her thighs ached. The callouses on the palms of her hands, thick now after a year of regular kettle bell exercises, were raw and tender. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. Her gaze skirted to Tommy. He'd finished his one hundred swings two minutes ago. And he wasn't even sweating. Thirteen, twelve, eleven. Ferdinand, she thought, swinging the kettle bell over her head. Yes, that was it. Tommy looked like that lazy, flower-smelling Ferdinand the bull, from the children's story Alder was so fond of when he was little. Her hands were sweating. She tightened the grip around the handle. Ten, nine, eight. No one should look like Ferdinand right after something this difficult. A feeling close to hatred filled her. Seven, six, five. Why did he make her do this? What had he said last year? Your extra weight is a shield against men. Four, three, two. Let me train you.
One. She
grunted and tossed the kettle bell on the floor. “I hate you,” she said, wiping the sweat dripping into her eyes.
“Now is that the right attitude?” asked Tommy.
“I really don't care.”
“You're done for today, anyway.” He laughed. “We'll work on that attitude tomorrow.”
“It won't be any better.” She grimaced. “I'm sore already. What's wrong with you?”
“Go big or go home.” Tommy grinned in the way Annie thought of as charming when he wasn't training her. But right now he was a smug bastard—a smug machine of a bastard that looked like Ferdinand with his big brown eyes and tranquil manner.
“I want to throttle you when you say stuff like that.” She looked at herself in the wall-to-wall mirrors of the community center. Staring back at her was someone svelte and petite when only a year ago she'd been thirty pounds overweight, not easy to hide given her small frame. Tiny, everyone called her now instead of just short. The only thing recognizable from the plump person she was a year ago was her mane of curly blond hair. Her unruly hair never changed. As usual, it was wild about her face despite the fact that she'd tried to tame it by putting it in a ponytail.
“You love me every time you look in that mirror. Admit it.”
She smiled. “Maybe a little. But I still hate every moment of it.”
“I know you hate it but you've stuck with it. And it's not easy to diet when you're a chef. Not many people could do what you've done. I'm proud of you.”
“You're just trying to butter me up.”
He shook his head, looking serious. “I'm not, actually. I admire you.”
She blushed, feeling embarrassed. “Well, it's better when Lee works out with us. At least I have someone to complain with.”
Tommy laughed, putting her kettle bell on the shelf next to the bigger ones. “I find it suspicious my wife scheduled a conference call during our regular workout time, don't you?”
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