The Tattered Gloves

by J. L. Berg

  Copyright © 2016 J.L. Berg

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jlberg.com

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Custom Photography: Kelsey Keeton, K.Keeton Designs, www.kkeetondesigns.com

  Editors: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com, Ami Waters, Book Glam, www.bookglambyami.com

  Formatting: Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction, www.loveaffairwithfiction.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9983912-0-5

  For Hannah.

  Thank you for pushing me to be more than ordinary by being extraordinary in everything you do.

  I love you, baby girl.

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  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

  Epilogue

  The Tattered Gloves Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  HEAD DOWN.

  Don’t look up.

  Never make eye contact.

  These were the rules I’d learned to live by while growing up in a house where men frequented but did not stay. When I was very little, I’d always assumed my mother had a lot of friends. Big, strong, manly friends who protected us since I didn’t have a daddy.

  How naive I had been.

  The men who had visited only wanted one thing, and my mother was happy to give it — for a price.

  She’d never made any desperate attempts to shadow this particular part of her life or protect me from it.

  The most I’d gotten was a flippant warning when I started showing signs of puberty.

  “Willow, you might want to keep out of sight more now,” she’d said.

  Thanks, Mom.

  And then, when I’d garnered more than a glance or two, she’d say, “Stay in your room at night. Don’t come out.”

  But, even with all the rules and warnings, I couldn’t keep them all away.

  I couldn’t keep him away.

  He’d managed to snuff out every bit of me in a matter of minutes.

  Whatever remnants of innocence I’d had from my childhood was gone like a puff of smoke.

  But, in our darkest hours, sometimes, even the weak could find the light.

  I did, and this… this was my story.

  THE LONELY BUS rambled on, rattling down the dusty road, as the idle passengers fell into a false sense of security under the dim lights above.

  Stupid fools.

  As others on the bus slept in awkward positions, curled around each other like wolves, leaning against the cold, dark window, desperate for a few moments of peace, I sat rigid and alert, keeping a lookout on my surroundings.

  So trusting they were. So naturally inclined to lie back and let the world take care of them.

  I pulled my duffel bag close to my chest and rested my head against the back of the seat, letting my eyes close for the briefest moment. My back ached from sitting and leaning back, so allowing myself one second of peace released a bit of tension that had been creeping up my spine.

  The subtle jostling of the road never seemed to cease. Not since we’d left the city.

  It was different — this road. I could feel it in the way my body moved back and forth as the miles rushed past us.

  The country.

  That was where I was headed. To live with an aunt I’d never known existed until yesterday. In a matter of days, my entire life had been turned upside down, and I hadn’t had a single choice in the decision.

  The joy of being a minor.

  Sitting upright once more, I looked out the window, noticing the sheer number of trees that passed by. Country roads seemed more constant than the city roads I was accustomed to. They were rough and rocky, but it gave the bus a kind of movement that reminded me of a baby carriage — gentle and even.

  In some cities, there was no such thing as constant, and that included roads. With their deep potholes and quick patch jobs, they could take a passenger on a wild ride with no regard for the outcome. I should know. I’d grown up in the slums of Washington, DC, and I had the scars to prove it.

  Looking out the window, I found myself smiling. Maybe a smirk was more accurate. Roads were sort of like people. There were those who were gentle, maybe a little rough around the edges, like the dusty road I was traveling down at this very moment in time.

  And then there were the city roads. Patched and bandaged beyond repair. So full of holes and problems, it was hard to decide whether it was even worth repairing.

  Which road was I?

  I took a glance out at the darkened path that went on for miles ahead of us, and then I looked down at the bright red gloves that covered my hands.

  I was the road that no one wanted to walk on. The scary alley everyone avoided.

  Because there was damaged, and then there was just plain broken.

  And I was one step beyond all that.

  MY MOM HAD never been much for organization.

  Unless it came to her business.

  Yes, she actually called it that — her business. Even though she was paid in all cash and her wardrobe mainly consisted of… well, never mind. But, beyond her business, the woman couldn’t remember to stock the fridge with food, pay the electricity bill on time, or do any of those other pesky things adults had to deal with.

  So, I didn’t know why I was surprised to find myself alone under a curtain of rain two hours after I was dropped off on the outskirts of a deserted town in the middle of nowhere. Did I even have an aunt, or was this my mother’s desperate attempt to get rid of me for good?

  As fall hadn’t completely settled in Northern Virginia, the sticky air of summer still lingered, making me both cold from the rain and sweaty from all the humidity around me. Looking around for the tenth time as I huddled under the pathetic excuse for a rain shelter, I finally gave in, grabbing my phone and taking matters into my own hands.

  With nothing more than a single lamp illuminating the tiny bus stop, I wasn’t about to let this place be my home for the evening. Using the prepaid phone I’d bought months ago with my own money, I fired up Google in a last-ditch effort to find a way out of this mess.

  Within minutes, I found my answer.

  And, soon, headlights appeared, and a tall, slender woman who mirrored my mom in her likeness — minus the fake boobs and horrible wardrobe — stepped out of a car to greet me. She looked younger, livelier, but still, it was all there. The baby-blue eyes, the flawless cream skin, and that megawatt smile. My mother only awarded it every so often, usually when it involved me doing something that benefited her. But when she did? I would feel like the most important person in the world.

  It was probably why men always kept coming back for more.

 
I shook my head, rearranging my thoughts, and gave a stiff wave. My aunt — her name was Addington — seemed a little taken aback by me, her eyes briefly pausing on my covered fingers and my less than welcoming appearance.

  I knew what she must be thinking. Who wears gloves in September in Virginia?

  I was pretty sure I was the only one.

  She waved back, once again giving that smile that set me on edge. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

  “Call me Addy,” she said, her voice smooth like silk.

  My mother’s voice was rough from years of smoke. Addington’s — or Addy’s rather — was different.

  Different was good.

  “Why don’t we get your things into the car?” she offered in that velvety voice once more.

  I gave her a long, hard stare before looking down at the modest bag of belongings I’d brought with me.

  Finally, I nodded.

  I didn’t trust her.

  I didn’t trust anyone anymore.

  But I guessed a woman who looked like my mom but didn’t sound like her was a better alternative than sleeping on a bench in the pouring rain.

  “I’M SORRY I wasn’t there to pick you up, Willow,” Addy said as the car traveled down the darkened road.

  I held my hands tightly together before wrapping my arms around my waist as I tried not to reach up and flip on the interior light.

  It’s too dark.

  I could feel sweat beginning to bead around my temples, mixing with the leftover rainwater. Both trickled down my face as I stared into the lights of the oncoming traffic.

  If I were in the city, it would be bright.

  Even at night.

  The sky would be alight from buildings, cars, and stoplights. The city never slept.

  Out here, in the country — or what I considered the country — the only light in the sky was from stars. For most, it would be a welcome sight.

  But, for me, it was just darkness.

  And hell.

  My mind began to backtrack. Back to that night… back to that room.

  “She didn’t tell me what time to pick you up,” my aunt chimed in again.

  I thought she was trying to apologize, but I couldn’t seem to pay attention. Not when the black of night was closing in on me.

  Finally, we pulled into a driveway, and she pushed the car into park. The overhead lights came on, and I exhaled, relaxing, before the breath returned to my lungs, and the memories faded.

  “It’s okay,” I finally responded. “It’s not the first time she’s forgotten about me.”

  And it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  Addy offered to help me with my soggy bag of clothes, but I declined, grabbing it out of the back of her rusty hatchback. Looking around, I noticed she lived in a small, well lit neighborhood. It appeared dated but well kept, nothing like the filthy apartment building I’d come from.

  Following her toward the front door, I took note of the many plants and shrubberies that lined the walkway. There was even one of those dumb little gnomes you would see on TV. Hers was dressed like a ninja, making it hard to see in the dim light, but the pointy little hat was hard to miss.

  I waited for her to unlock the front door, taking my time to absorb every little detail — from the hand-painted single initial F on the door to the tidy doormat that matched the season.

  Who is the woman?

  And how did she and my mother share a womb?

  Although my aunt might look younger, it was only because, while my mother had been busy growing her business, my aunt had been buying garden gnomes and planting flowers.

  But they were, in fact, identical twins.

  Or at least, that was what I had been told two nights ago when my mother informed me I was being shipped off to Sugar Tree, Virginia, to live with the woman. I didn’t know much about my elusive aunt, but as I stepped into the house, I realized she couldn’t be more different from the woman I’d just left.

  “I know it’s not that much,” Addy apologized, looking around, “but it’s cozy and all mine. There are only two bedrooms. One I was using for a craft room, but I’m going to clean it out for you. I just need some time. So, for now, I’m going to have you sleep here.” She pointed to the couch. “I hope that’s okay. This was all a bit sudden.”

  I looked at the cozy couch, pausing briefly before turning back to her. Swallowing nervously, I nodded.

  “Okay!” she exclaimed. “Let me get some bedding. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

  Comfortable?

  Right.

  As she scurried off to find linens, I moved around the room from one corner to the other. Knickknacks and random little pieces of art were everywhere. Thinking of that song Ariel sung in The Little Mermaid about gadgets and gizmos, I swore, in that moment, I felt like I’d stumbled upon her underwater cave, only it was in my aunt’s living room.

  Who in their right mind collects this much crap?

  “I’m a bit of a crafter,” Addy spoke up.

  I turned around to see her with her arms heavy with blankets and pillows.

  “I’ve been single for years; decades, it feels like.” She laughed. “And I guess it gives me something to do in a town where there are literally no single men. Kind of pathetic, right?”

  I looked back at the display shelf that housed everything from crocheted animals to stained glass before glancing back at her silently.

  Because I had no words for that.

  A life without men?

  It sounded like heaven to me.

  HUNGER GNAWED AT my belly, making sleep impossible.

  Every time I closed my eyes, my mind would conjure a mental image of the kitchen, filling it with food. Rather than barren cupboards and empty shelves in the refrigerator, there would be plates of ham and cheese, fresh bread, and no peanut butter anywhere.

  I hated peanut butter.

  My mom must love it because she constantly bought it, believing it was a stable source of nutrition. I thought my doctor would argue with her on that one… if I actually had one.

  I tossed once more, adjusting my lumpy pillow under my head.

  Sleep never came.

  Growing even more frustrated, I sat up, looking at the door with longing.

  “Don’t leave your room. Ever.”

  Her instructions had been clear. Ever since I’d sprouted boobs, I was to stay in in this room until morning. But she’d had some early clients arrive before dinner, so I’d been stuck in here without food for hours.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

  Breakfast maybe?

  I needed food.

  Maybe just this one time…

  Quietly moving across the room, I wrapped my hand around the doorknob, my body on high alert. I could hear the music across the hall — my mother’s attempt to drown out the noise.

  It was exactly the sign I needed.

  Turning the knob, I stepped out into the hall.

  Freedom at last, I thought.

  Until my body was jerked backward.

  And I was plunged into darkness.

  Forever.

  As my body came awake that first morning in the unfamiliar house filled with handmade crafts and goofy art on the walls, I noticed the lack of silence almost immediately.

  Tugging my knees into my body, I lay still, my hands still shaking from the dream that wasn’t a dream at all — just a memory on repeat.

  A man coughed down the hall, and I heard a toilet flush. My heart instantly began to race, thumping in my chest like a scared little firefly caught in a glass jar.

  My fight-or-flight instinct took over, but there was no fight in me. I wanted to flee.

  But I couldn’t move.

  I was frozen.

  A door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed against the old wooden floor. My fingers dug into the yarn of my gloves as I tightly wrapped the quilt around my body, hoping to become invisible.

  Head down.
r />   Don’t look up.

  Never make eye contact.

  The rules that had been drilled into my head since birth played over and over like a mantra in my mind as the unknown male made his way closer. I could feel my body quivering, the waves of terror matching the rapid fire of my heart.

  “Hey! You ready?” my aunt said, her familiar voice cutting through like a knife.

  Oh no… not again. Did that run in the family, too?

  “As I’ll ever be.” The man laughed.

  There was a brief moment of silence before she replied, “Great. Just give me a second, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  A door shut, but my body still refused to move. Still refused to leave the safe cocoon of blankets and warmth I’d created for it.

  “Willow?” my aunt called out.

  Nothing. No response.

  I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

  She stepped into the room with small movements and little sound, as if she were approaching a gentle gazelle in the wild. As she sat on the wingback chair in the corner, I saw the tips of her feet dangling in front of me.

  She was wearing tie-dye socks with no shoes. For some reason, that slightly calmed me.

  Looking up, I found the rest of her outfit equally odd. A matching tie-dye shirt and tattered denim overalls that looked older than me.

  Was this woman for real?

  “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay because I can clearly see the answer to that question just by looking at you. What I am going to ask is, what did I do, and how can I fix it?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but the words were still not there.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself into an upright position but kept my gaze downward. Maybe talking to the floor would be easier.

  “The man? Is he… will he be here often? Are there others?”

  I wasn’t sure of how to phrase the question, Are you a prostitute?, to an aunt I’d just learned existed.

  There were several moments of silence.

  I wanted to look up to judge her expression to my question, but the floor was safe. The floor was easy.

  So, I kept my head down, like I’d been taught.