Perversion (Perversion Trilogy Book 1)

by T. M. Frazier

  I didn’t want to go back to juvie, but it would be a cakewalk compared to jail. I really didn’t want to go there.

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Tristan! If Mr. Fuzzy doesn’t get adopted at the shelter, they’ll put him to sleep!” She sucked in a loud, shaky breath. “At first, that don't sound so bad, you know, ‘cause who don’t need a good night sleep? Aunt Ruby is always sleeping or napping when she’s not at the casino over in Lacking, but my best friend Gabby Vega’s teacher volunteers at the shelter, and she told her it’s all just a lie they tell kids.”

  She sucked in another shaky breath and leaned in closer, her grip tightened around my arm with every word. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “Sleep don’t mean sleep at all. It means…” She finally released me to cover Mr. Fuzzy’s ears. I rubbed my arm. “It means they kill it.” She let out a strangled cry, covered her mouth with her hand and backed away a step. She looked up at me, pleading with her giant glassy eyes.

  All I was thinking about was a way to get this girl to go home, but I wasn’t thinking fast enough because she’d started bawling again, the sound echoing between the houses.

  I don’t ever show emotion, mostly because I don’t feel all that much, but this little shit had me clenching and unclenching my fists. I had to get the girl to shut the fuck up.

  It’ll be okay? I said inside of my head, giving the girl a nonchalant shrug.

  “How? How is it gonna be okay when Fuzzy’s nothing but worm food?” she wailed.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuck.

  I took another drag off my cigarette, holding the smoke deep in my lungs. Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d suffocate myself, and this would all be over.

  I glanced into the kitchen window and met Marci’s gaze.

  Fuck, I ain’t staying in the group home because of this fucking kid.

  “Shut up,” I commanded. But my voice was low. Too low for her to have heard me. I barely heard myself.

  “And nobody wants him!” she cried. She tipped her head, mouth open wide to the sky. Her shoulders fell in defeat, so low I swore they were about to hit the god damned ground.

  I looked toward the house again. My case worker moved and was now standing at the window, pointing toward the scene that played out in front of me.

  Shit.

  I waved for the girl to follow me to the side of the house, out of view of the window. She did. When we were safely out of sight from the kitchen window, I took a hissing Mr. Fuzzy from her arms.

  Her smile brightened. She nodded enthusiastically. Her cries halted completely. Finally, I’d hit her off switch.

  “You’ll take Fuzzy?” she said with a smile, exposing teeth too large for her head.

  Emma Jean didn’t wait for an answer I wasn’t about to give.

  “Yes! Thank you! Thank you!” she exclaimed, hopping up on her tip-toes to wrap her arms around me in a one-sided hug.

  She lifted herself onto her toes to kiss me on the cheek, but I turned my head at the same time, and the kiss landed on my lips. I didn’t turn away. It was the shock that kept me immobile. She didn’t pull away either.

  One second. Two. Three.

  Fuzzy, squashed between us, meowed loudly. The front door opened and then closed. Emma Jean pulled away with her eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

  I looked away just in time to hear the voices of Marci and my caseworker.

  “Where did he go?” Marci asked, sounding concerned.

  “Maybe, he ran away,” my caseworker said, casually. “We could call for him, but it’s not like he can answer. Are you sure you want to do this? It’s the ones who are slow, you know, mentally challenged, that seem to cause the most behavioral problems, and he’s already exhibited most of those problems. Big and dumb is a lot to take on without the added stress of the violence he’s shown to be capable of.”

  I chuckled. Like that bitch had any idea what I was truly capable of.

  I looked down to Emma Jean who’d been listening intently to the conversation. Her face reddened. Her fists balled at her sides.

  Marci began to speak, but Emma Jean jumped from the side of the house.

  “How dare you!” she screamed, pointing an accusing finger at my caseworker. “Tristan isn’t dumb. You’re the dumb one because you don’t know shit.”

  Shocked that a kid who didn’t know me beyond the past ten minutes was now defending me like she’s known me my entire life, I was both confused and amused.

  “Who are you?” the caseworker asked in a practiced, yet fake as fuck soft tone. She bent down and placed her hands on her knees, lowering herself to Emma Jean. “And, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. He doesn’t talk, sweetie. I’ve been his caseworker for years. He’s never said a word.” She stood back up.

  “Shows what you know.” Emma Jean placed her hands on her bony hips. “Lady, how the hell do you think I know his name is Tristan?” She waited a beat. “Oh yeah, because he TOLD me.”

  “He…he talked?” she asked, eyes darting to me over Emma Jean’s shoulders.

  “Duh.” Emma Jean rolled her eyes. “Did you ever stop to think that he doesn’t speak because he doesn’t want to talk to you? Or maybe while everyone else is yappin’ away with shit words and empty promises that maybe he’s keeping to himself because he doesn’t want to listen to your dirty whore mouth say one more meaningless thing?” She spoke as if she was not only defending me but somehow defending herself. “Tristan isn’t the stupid one.” She huffed. “That would be YOU!”

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  Marci stood behind the caseworker with her shoulders shaking in silent laughter, her hand covering her mouth.

  Emma Jean bent over to tie her dirty shoe laces then leaped back up with her middle finger in the air while my caseworker stood frozen in stunned silence. Emma Jean lowered her hand, glaring hatred at my caseworker with her bulging jewel toned eyes. Her stare was so powerful it beamed through the air like lasers. Her innocent tears from moments before now looked a lot more like experienced pain.

  “In the words of the great Bob Dylan,” Emma Jean spat out at my caseworker, “‘Don’t criticize what you can’t understand.’”

  Emma Jean looked to me while my caseworker picked her jaw up from the ground. She smiled sweetly at me. A completely different girl than the one crying over a cat. “See ya, Tristan!” Heading down the driveway, she called over her shoulder, “Take good care of him, lady!”

  “I will, sweetheart,” Marci said with a laugh.

  Emma Jean didn’t look both ways as she’d made a big show of doing earlier. She darted across the street and disappeared between houses without a glance.

  The kitten in my arms hissed and clawed at the sleeve of my hoodie, reminding me of his presence. I adjusted him, but it only gave him more room to dig his claws into me deeper, cutting tiny slits into the thick cotton fabric and scratching my skin.

  Little shit.

  My caseworker grumbled to herself as she climbed into her Buick. “Good luck,” she muttered, before pulling out into the street and driving off. My eyes didn’t follow the car; I was still staring across the street where Emma Jean has disappeared.

  What the fuck just happened?

  “That was Miss Erikson getting her ass handed to her by a little girl,” Marci voice answered, as if I’d spoken the question out loud. I turned my head and found Marci standing beside me, her hand on a sparkly black belt that hung from her hip. She glanced at Mr. Fuzzy. “And you being conned by one.” She smiled, tight-lipped like she was trying not to laugh although I wasn’t sure what the hell she found so funny. “I assume she cried and begged you to take this little furball, here.”

  Fuzzy hissed again, pushing against my forearm with his hind legs.

  “Fuck,” I swore, surprising myself yet again. Normally, even my mental reactions were kept silent.

  Marci didn’t correct my language, and her smile grew larger. “That little girl?” She raised her chin and joined me in looking across the road. �
��Just used one of the oldest cons in the book. Finding stray animals’ homes…” She pressed her closed fist against her lips, then shrugged. “By whatever means necessary.”

  I glanced back down at the mangy thing in my arms, rolling my eyes at my own stupidity. Completely dumbfounded. The kid was a lot smarter than she’d let on.

  I looked at Marci and then back across the road.

  “Reminds me a lot of myself at that age,” she mused. “Those are the ones you gotta watch out for. A con artist with a heart.”

  Emma Jean Parish. I talked to her. She touched me. She defended me. She kissed me.

  SHE CONNED ME.

  I was confused. Pissed off.

  And kind of impressed.

  “Aren’t you adorable.” Marci scratched the cat’s head and cooed. The little shit purred at her, leaning into her palm.

  She took Mr. Fuzzy from my hands and held him against her chest. “That kind of girl is gonna either take over the world someday—” She lowered her sunglasses from the top of her head over her eyes. “—or be the one who fucking destroys it.”

  I didn’t doubt that. Not for a second.

  Marci walked around her Firebird and opened the driver’s door. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  Home?

  Not A home. Not THE home.

  Just home.

  “Oh, and you might want to check your wallet.” Marci got in the car with Fuzzy on her lap. She started the engine.

  With the passenger door open, I dug my hand into the back pocket of my worn jeans.

  Nothing.

  Son of a fucking bitch.

  It was the first time I was conned by Emma Jean Parish.

  It wouldn’t be the last.

  Two

  Twelve Years Old

  Tristan.

  That was a super cool name.

  He had tattoos. A lot of ‘em.

  Plus, he was tall and mysterious with that whole hoodie thing.

  He smoked cigarettes, which I know are bad for you, even so, he looked good doing it.

  And despite what that bitch in the suit said about him being dumb, she was wrong. He’s far from it. I could see his intelligence shining in his golden eyes.

  He’s perfect.

  I never thought anyone was perfect before. I never even thought a boy was handsome or even cute.

  Until Tristan.

  I felt a zap of energy run through my arm when I touched him, and I knew he felt it, too, because he looked downright shocked.

  We zapped. Surely, that was in a fairytale somewhere. And it wasn’t static electricity because I wasn’t anywhere near a carpet and I wasn’t barefoot.

  I looked down at the torn fabric wallet in my hands, and a strange sensation came over me to return it.

  Humpf. That’s a new one.

  I’d never felt guilty before. I wasn’t going to start now. I pushed the unfamiliar feeling aside, because I had an overwhelming need to open it. To know more about this Tristan who was unlike anyone I’d ever met before.

  The driver’s license inside revealed Tristan’s last name. Paine.

  No middle name.

  Then again, I didn’t have a middle name either. Just two first names. My parents died shortly after I was born, so I’ve always imagined my own version of how I might have come to have two first names.

  My mother really wanted to name me Emma, and my dad really wanted to name me Jean, so they compromised and decided to call me Emma Jean. Of course, they decided this while holding hands and looking down lovingly into my bassinet, singing me lullabies in perfect harmony until I drifted off to sleep.

  I was always making up stories. It was my way of escaping. Right now, was starting to think about a quiet bad boy prince.

  Tristan. I said his name a few times in my head.

  Aunt Ruby walked into the living room with her hair a tangled mess and a cigarette dangling from her mouth with last night’s lipstick smeared across her chin.

  I quickly shut the wallet and tucked it behind the curtains on the window sill.

  “What you got there?” she asked. Reaching behind me, she plucked the wallet from its hiding spot.

  I made a panicked grab for it. “Wait! Mine!”

  “Shush, child. We both know that’s not true.”

  I had TWO first names. Aunt Ruby never called me by either of them. Child was the most endearing thing she’d ever called me.

  Aunt Ruby didn’t bother looking at the ID. Her only concern was cash. She took out a folded piece of paper and glanced at it briefly before dropping it to the floor. She removed the few bills and counted it out. Thirty-four dollars. She tossed the wallet at my feet, tucking the cash into her bra.

  “At least, this little hobby of yours yields results,” she muttered, the stub of a cigarette hanging from the corner of her wrinkled lips. She grabbed her keys from the cluttered hall table. She didn’t tell me where she was going, but she didn’t have to.

  Because I already knew.

  The casino in Lacking, two towns over. It was always the casino. She put out her cigarette and lit another. Grabbing her purse from the floor, she opened the front door and flinched when the sunlight hit her face. She shielded her eyes with her hand. Without so much as a goodbye and with last night’s makeup clumping her eyelashes together, she was gone.

  I sunk to the floor and picked up the folded piece of paper. My shoulders drooped in defeat. I really was going to give it back this time.

  Maybe.

  I unfolded the paper, but it wasn’t paper at all. It was a photo of a little boy version of Tristan and a woman with the same piercing golden eyes. He had his arm around her and they were both wide-eyed and…smiling.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Emma Jean!” Gabby said, running through the front door with her older sister Mona close on her heels. Mona ignored me and headed upstairs. Gabby looked panicked. Her long dark hair was matted with sweat on her forehead. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears.

  “What?” I said, standing and tucking the picture into my pocket.

  “I’m leaving,” she whispered. “Marco, my brother, he’s taking me and Mona in.”

  “When?” I asked, panicked. Gabby was all I had.

  “Next month,” she said before bursting into tears.

  That night, I was upstairs with my foster sister and best friend, Gabby sleeping next to me in my bed when Aunt Ruby came home laughing with a man in the kitchen. I tried to drown out the noise and close my eyes, but all I could think about was Gabby leaving next week. I reached for the picture tucked under my pillow and held it to my chest.

  I tried to fall asleep, imagining that I was a princess trapped all alone in a tower until Tristan came to rescue me. Only he was trapped, too, and I was the only one who could save him. I saw him reaching for me, but no how matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stretch far enough to get to him.

  The light grew dimmer and dimmer until the last thing I saw before the darkness took hold was the bright golden eyes of my very first kiss.

  My very first crush.

  And crush me he would.

  Tristan,

  I’m sorry I stole your wallet. Here’s your thirty-four dollars back that was inside plus five dollars interest. My Aunt Ruby actually stole the money to go gambling, but I earned it back by selling vodka lemonades outside of the high school. I still have your picture. Would it be stupid if I kept it for a while? You look so happy in it. It makes me smile even when I’m feeling super sad.

  Again, I’m sorry. Like, for the first time ever, I actually mean it. I went to give it back to you, but they said you moved on to another place. Do you like your new home? I’ve got to go now. The new magic special just came on PBS, and I never miss one.

  -Emma Jean Parish

  PS-I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. The people at CPS wouldn’t give me your address but said I could send this to you through them.

  “Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit t
hem.” -Bruce Lee

  Three

  When you’ve been in the system as long as I had, you learned to look for certain warning signs when placed in a new home. Drugs, ulterior motives, ect.

  I thought that was exactly where we were heading when we drove through a town looking like something straight out of a war zone. Lacking was the name of the town. I’d heard of it before. My mother had worked at the casino here.

  The house we pulled up to might as well have been in another place. A large two-story with dark brown siding and an immaculate green lawn. A mansion surrounded by ruins.

  Marci didn’t flash any warning signs either. She didn’t look strung out or desperate. Quite the opposite. Her eyes were clear and a deep brown. Her shoulder length black hair was wavy and glossy with a whitish blonde streak running through the front part swept to the side of her forehead. Her nails were painted a shiny red and matched the color of her lipstick. She wore ripped black jeans and high heeled black boots. Her Led Zeppelin t-shirt torn was torn at the collar hanging off one shoulder, revealing her red bra strap. Her makeup was smoky and heavy around her eyes, but it suited her, just like her clothes did.

  Just like the house did.

  On the inside, framed band posters with signatures hung on the high walls along with dozens of black and white photos of groups of people riding motorcycles and color photos of people I didn’t recognize peppered every mantle, coffee table, and windowsill.

  “Thank god we’re free of the suit. Now, we can talk,” Marci said with a sigh, plopping down across from me on a worn, comfortable-looking leather chair in the living room while I took a spot across from her on the couch, my garbage bag at my feet. She opened a candy dish on the end table and pulled out a joint. She lit it and took a deep drag before shucking off her boots and crisscrossing her legs underneath her body.

  She passed me the joint. I hesitated, wondering if it was some sort of test. She rolled her eyes and pushed it into my hand. “I’m not the suit. You’re not gonna hang for a little weed. Not in this house.”

  I took the joint and a hard hit that burned my lungs. I had to clear my throat to keep from coughing. I NEVER coughed. Not only did my new guardian have weed.