The Bad Boy’s Tutor: Hidden Masks Book 1

by Arthurs, Nia

  From home, it took twenty minutes and fifteen seconds.

  From the gym, it was fifteen minutes flat.

  The decrepit building appeared. I sneered at the broken-down sign caked with morass. A flickering bulb glowed in the dusk. Rats feasted on the garbage scattered to the side.

  The Greasy Monkey was as sleazy as the name alluded. It was in the sketchiest part of town; the clientele were men with shameful addictions; and the girls… they all had something binding them there—whether it was sex, drugs or money.

  I climbed out of the car and strode toward the door, bracing myself for what lay behind—mostly smoke, cringey EDM music, and enough darkness to turn a soul black.

  I yanked on the heavy metal bar, and as soon as I walked in, the blasting music assaulted me. Green neon lights skittered over the sea of tables and chairs. I shuffled in. The door slammed shut.

  At the sound, a muscled guy with a thick neck and a short haircut strode toward me. I only knew him by Trevor. He was the security here at The Greasy Monkey. Great at snapping two brawling men apart like they were chicken wings.

  “James, ‘sup.” His deep voice made everything sound like a threat even though I knew that Trevor—along with Carlos the bartender—had a sort of brotherly affection for me. After all, I’d been in and out of this place since I was fourteen.

  “Where is she?”

  “At the back.”

  I scowled at him. “Why do you let her in?”

  “Hey, she’s the wife of our VIP customer. What was I supposed to do?”

  I gritted my teeth and stalked past him.

  Trevor thrust out a hand. I stumbled into it and whipped my head up to face him. He lifted his massive chin. The light hit his jaw just so. It looked sharp enough to cut.

  “What?” I hissed.

  “I heard you failed your classes last year.”

  I shuffled from one foot to the other. “Yeah, so?”

  “Get your head in the game and focus. I don’t want to see you winding up in a bad place.”

  You mean like you? I pulled my lips in to keep quiet and just nodded.

  Trevor dropped his arm and I surged forward, heading straight past the red drapes to the backrooms.

  A tall, thin woman with bottle orange hair and big blue eyes met me. She wore a silky, black kimono. Her feet were bare. A golden bracelet adorned her scrawny ankle. A gift from my father.

  Cherry. It wasn’t her real name, but it was the one she gave out.

  “I came to take her home,” I said.

  Cherry put a hand to my chest and rasped, “She’s sleeping.”

  “You mean she passed out.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “What did she say?”

  Her eyes hardened. The façade cracked. I saw every wrinkle and strain Cherry’s makeup and gaudy lipstick tried to hide. “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  A laugh that sounded like an old, creaking door poured from her lips. “This late in the game, words don’t hurt me.”

  I watched Cherry, pity creeping into my heart. Thanks to my dad, I knew all the veteran girls in here, but Cherry was special.

  It was my fourteenth birthday.

  Dad said it was time I became a man. He drove me here. Dragged me to the backrooms. He paid for a show. One that both excited and terrified me.

  I got my first lap dance. Dad laughed when I squirmed and tried to hide my body’s natural reaction. Then he called for Cherry.

  “Do to him what you did to me,” Dad said, slipping her a couple hundred-dollar bills.

  So Cherry held my hand. I followed her into a private room. I was scared. Turned on, but more frightened than I’d ever been in my life.

  She sat me on the bed. I waited for her to do something.

  She didn’t.

  Instead, we talked. I found out she was eighteen and that she used to live in a small town in Kansas. She told me about her family, how they planted pumpkins for the harvest festival and won the biggest pumpkin contest every year.

  She told me about her friends, how they’d go sledding for winter, make snow angels, and build snowmen with carrots for noses.

  She said I reminded her of her little brother back home. He was twelve and he liked science. She asked me if I liked science.

  I shook my head. “I like music.”

  She smiled at me. “When you grow up, write me a song.”

  I promised I would.

  When the time was up, Cherry pressed a kiss to my cheek and shooed me out of the room.

  As soon as I emerged, my dad asked me how it was. I told him it was good. And I meant it.

  That one encounter with Cherry shifted my perspective when it came to women. Yeah, the lap dance and all the exposure to beautiful, feminine body parts stimulated me, but Cherry—and by extension all the other girls—weren’t just slabs of meat.

  They were people. With stories. Families. Friends. Feelings.

  Cherry, especially, was like an older sister. So the fact that there was so much distress in her expression haunted me.

  I couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry for… whatever Mom said.”

  “It’s nothing.” She pushed me forward. “Go.”

  I stumbled into the room and whipped the curtains back, staring at my mother curled into a ball on the thick bed laid with velvet blankets. When she sobered, she’d probably be mortified. For now, she gripped the sheets and caressed the pillows.

  I sighed and tapped her thigh. “Mom, get up.”

  “I’m going to burn this place down,” she slurred. “You stole my husband, so I’ll take everything from you. You’re disgusting. Filthy.”

  Cherry was right behind me.

  I tensed and bent over the bed to scoop Mom up. The scent of liquor overwhelmed me. I got one hand hooked behind her knees and the other aimed for her head when her eyes burst open.

  “Mom?”

  She roared and dug her hands over my skin. Like claws. Like a rabid animal. Her legs flailed. Her eyes were wild.

  Cherry hung back. She would help if she could, but Mom hated her so it wouldn’t do much good.

  “What does he find here that he can’t find at home?” Mom screamed. “What’s wrong with me?”

  My heart clinched, but I said nothing as I grabbed her up and carried her through the curtains, past the gambling tables, to the exits. Trevor gave a slow, understanding nod as he opened the door for me.

  I didn’t bother thanking him.

  Mom settled down once we got in the car. At least she wasn’t crying. I bent over to secure her seatbelt for her, holding my breath so I wouldn’t have to smell the stench on her body.

  “I just want to die,” she whispered. “What’s the point?”

  I sat facing the steering wheel. “Mom, would you stop doing this to yourself? It won’t change him. It won’t change anything.”

  She murmured something unintelligible and passed out again. Even if she heard me, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

  I took her home and helped her up the stairs to the front door. She wilted against the wall while I fumbled for my keys. Before I could find them, the front door flew open and my father stood before us.

  I tasted fear. “Dad, I can explain.”

  His jaw worked. He grabbed Mom by the shoulder and yanked her inside. She let out a frightened mewl and seemed to sober up quick. “Darius, you’re home early.”

  “Shut up. James, close the door.”

  I stood still. The moment the door clicked behind me, the moment the rest of the world couldn’t see what was happening, his fury would be unleashed. And Mom would suffer for it.

  “Didn’t you hear me!” Dad hissed. Spittle flew from his lips. Splattered all over Mom’s face. “Close the damn door!”

  Mom—beautiful, foolish, Mom—turned and smiled at me. Jerking her chin down slightly, she said, “Do it, honey.”

  Staring at them, an explosive, irrational fury grew inside my chest. Mom was happy. She was glad
to receive crumbs of attention even if it meant being on the opposite end of my father’s fists.

  I’d begged her to leave Dad. I couldn’t count the times she swore she would. But here we were. Standing in a mansion that other people envied, living a life they would scorn.

  “I’m tired,” I whispered.

  Mom studied me with a blank expression.

  Dad cursed and thrust her away. She landed in a heap on the floor.

  Nobody moved to help her.

  My eyes burned. I forced the tears back and dug my fingernails into my palms. I was big enough to take Dad on, give him a beating he’d never forget.

  But what was the use?

  Mom would take him back. She always took him back. And then he would repay every wound I inflicted by beating on her.

  So I held still.

  “You glaring at me, boy?” Dad advanced. “You think you’re big now? Think you’re a man?”

  I grabbed the knob and closed the door while glaring at him. Hating him. “I have homework.”

  “Yeah.” He smacked me in the back of the head so I lurched forward. “Do your homework.” Another smack. “It’s embarrassing.” Smack. “You spend all your time playing music and chasing girls but you can’t pass English?”

  I stumbled to my knees. My head spun. Angry tears swam in my eyes. I turned my head. Saw Mom. She was looking at me. Half-drunk. Apologetic. She was always sorry, but not sorry enough to pack up and divorce him.

  If she gave me a sign, one sign of strength and determination, I would break both Dad’s legs and run with her. Anywhere. Everywhere. Didn’t matter. As long as she was safe.

  But instead, Mom shook her head. Begging me not to fight. To stay down. To take it.

  And so… I did.

  4

  Mess With Her, Mess With Me

  Monique

  I stood in front of the mirror and swiped a liberal amount of leave-in conditioner on my fingers. Then I froze. Stared at the sweet-smelling purple glob. We had no money for rent, utilities or food. I didn’t know when I’d be able to stock up on hair products.

  I slipped half the conditioner back into the container and sparingly spread the rest through my curls. Should I give up on being natural?

  Three years ago, I decided to hop on the natural-hair train. Not for vanity. Not for health. Not to make a political statement. I just thought cutting off my permed hair and starting over with my roots would be less expensive.

  It wasn’t.

  If I wanted to look sensible at school without my hair blowing up like a frizzy lion’s mane, I needed hair oil, leave-in conditioners and gel. Then on washdays, I used a special conditioner to keep my hair from drying out and I needed a cream to help with the knots.

  This isn’t working.

  There wasn’t enough product in my hair to define the coils so it just looked like a wet, sloppy mess. I sighed and scraped the curls into a bun. My hair was the last thing I should worry about.

  I headed to the living room. My dad was snoring on the couch. Mom kicked him out of their room last night.

  I peered over the sofa and studied his face. Short white hair. Warm brown skin. Thin, near nonexistent brows. Eyes so small people asked if he was half-Asian.

  I turned around. Mom was in the kitchen. She had dark skin. Big eyes. A Nubian nose—one I inherited. Her lips were thin and drawn, most often forming a frown.

  I hadn’t seen my mother smile in a decade.

  “Hey, Mom,” I whispered, drawing closer.

  She slammed a pan on the stove. “Hi, honey.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She moved to the faucet and washed her hands.

  “About last night…”

  “I’m sorry about your father. We’ll return your money, Monique.”

  “I don’t want it back.”

  She leaned over the sink. Her short, straight black hair was thinning at the ends. It fell over her plump cheeks. Scraped the collar of her stiff white uniform shirt.

  Mom worked as a secretary for a tile factory during the day and, after her shift, she was a sous chef at a Chinese restaurant. We rarely saw each other except on Sundays when she would crash for twelve hours straight.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Her defeated posture said otherwise.

  I cleared my throat. “I’ll get a new job along with the one at the bookstore. And I’ll ask for more hours at the diner—”

  “Don’t.”

  I winced. “But Mom…”

  “How old are you, honey? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “I’ll be sixteen in two months,” I said gently. Mom not knowing my birthday or how old I was didn’t faze me. She was so stressed she sometimes forgot my name.

  “You should be focused on school.” She slapped the sink. “You should be a kid who doesn’t have to worry about grown up things.”

  “I’m not a kid. I can help you.”

  She held up a hand. “Go to school.”

  “Please.”

  “I said,” she whirled around and leveled a stern look at me, “go to school. And don’t let me hear about you slacking off to go and work. Your father and I will handle this.”

  I nodded, grabbed my backpack and headed for the door. With one last look at Dad, I sailed down the stairs and into the fresh morning air.

  As I walked to the bus stop, my mind churned. Our money was gone, but Mom would be getting paid in a few days. She’d probably take out another loan to cover the rent and the utilities.

  But how would we pay for food?

  I could spring for groceries if I asked Lauren for an advance, but the work at the diner was long, arduous and didn’t pay well. I needed something else. Something more lucrative. Something fast.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the vehicle slowing down in front of the bus stop. When the driver slammed their horn, I glanced up and took in the rusty old pickup.

  Harley lowered the window and popped the passenger door open. “Need a ride?”

  I smiled and happily bounced into the seat, slamming the door behind me. It shuddered but didn’t fall off. I turned to my best friend. “You got it running again?”

  “This baby’s a fighter,” he said, caressing the busted seat.

  I laughed. Harley had a habit of brightening my day. “Thanks for the ride. I needed this.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. If I told Harley about my troubles, he’d try to help.

  First of all, I had my pride and I didn’t want to take money from my friends. Second, Harley’s family was in the struggling middle class bracket. I didn’t want to burden him.

  “Are you worried about Sawyer?”

  I snorted. “Why would I care about him?”

  “You ditched him yesterday, right? He’s not going to let that slide.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  But I realized, when I walked into school and saw James leaning against my locker, those were empty words.

  James Sawyer was six feet of lean muscle and charm. Handsome. Olive complexion. Dazzling brown eyes that locked on me and refused to let go.

  My heart thudded.

  I cursed myself for being weak.

  Harley stiffened beside me. “Just ignore him, Mo.”

  I nodded, but as I walked forward, I realized my fingers were trembling. I dug them into the straps of my bag and stopped in front of James. “You’re in my way.”

  “Hey, Monique. I missed you yesterday.”

  I twisted my code into the lock and slanted him an annoyed glance. “I didn’t show up.”

  James shrugged. “It’s okay. Our set ran longer than expected. I was hoping you didn’t wait for me.”

  “Sawyer.” Harley stepped forward, a cold look in his eyes. “Don’t you have some other freshman to terrorize?”

  “I’m just talking, man. Chill.”

  My best friend sneered.

  James took the both of us in, and then
his brown eyes narrowed on me. “Can I talk to you?”

  “No,” Harley snapped.

  I shushed him with a look. “About what?”

  “About the article. You haven’t written it yet, right?”

  I shook my head. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about my deadline.

  “You can talk to her here,” Harley said.

  James barely cut him a glance. “I’m starving. Have breakfast with me.”

  I glanced between Harley and James. It was dangerous to go off with him. After our eyes locked at The Greasy Monkey last year, I’d kept my distance. I figured he wouldn’t want to associate himself with someone who had seen his darkest, most vulnerable self.

  And… I didn’t want to get caught up in him. There was something wild about James Sawyer, something reckless and warm that called to me. It would be so easy to get lost in those dark chocolate eyes.

  A girl needed some boundaries.

  “You promised,” James added, sensing my hesitancy.

  I turned to Harley.

  He read the look in my eyes and shook his head. “Mo, don’t go.”

  “He’ll keep bothering me if I don’t. It’ll be quick. I promise.”

  Harley shot James a burning look. “If you mess with her…”

  “I won’t,” James said dismissively. “Don’t worry.”

  From Harley’s flared nose and fisted hands, I knew he wanted to start a fight. It was one he wouldn’t win and I was glad when he held still.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I said, slamming my locker shut.

  James tipped his chin at Harley in a silent farewell and escorted me down the halls.

  As I walked beside him, I felt especially small. His height was impressive, but it was more than that. He carried himself like someone important. Like someone who knew the world adored him and figured it was what he deserved.

  “Hey, James!”

  “James, wazzup?”

  Though we kept up a brisk pace, James returned the greetings of all the people—girls and boys, freshmen and seniors—who called his name. It really did feel like I was with a celebrity.

  I studied him from the corner of my eye. What was so great about him? Apart from the fact that he was handsome. And rich. And a talented musician.