“No lies?” she asks, leaning back slightly as though she knows I’m caught.
I haven’t lied to her. Oh shit, I forgot about that one little white lie. I’m completely fucked here.
My answer takes too long because she says, “That’s what I thought.” She opens the door, walking away then turns back. “I know about the cameras.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
PAIGE
AGE 15
“Please,” I hear my mom beg. “Please just give me a little.”
Her bedroom door opens, her “boss” stomps toward me, my mom clinging to his shoulder. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of noise-canceling headphones to block out a whole slew of noises.
“Washed-up whore,” he sneers, pushing her off him.
He should know. He created her, paying her with drugs, using and abusing her. And me.
Attempting to ignore them, I stare down at my books. Honors Chemistry is not going to learn itself. These books are my way out, my path to a different life.
She tugs at his belt, saying, “Suck you off, right here.”
I can feel the heat of his stare on me. “Paige, what do you think?” I don’t look up. “Should I let your mom suck my cock for a few Oxy?”
My eyes land on my mother, so thin and small. She looks like she needs those pills more than she needs to breathe. And she probably does need them. To do the things she does, they are probably essential.
“Let her study,” my mom whispers, and for the slightest second, I see something in her eyes. A glimmer of the woman she could’ve been. A speck of the mother I could’ve had.
“No,” I say, getting out of my chair and walking over to the only parent I’ve ever known. Wrapping my arms around her, I say, “Mom, I can get a job on the weekends and after school. I’m old enough to help. We can get you help.”
He grabs me by the elbow. “You’re right. You’re old enough to work.” I try to yank away, but he’s too strong. “For me.”
“Never!” I scream, trying to tear myself away, but he punches me in the gut. I double over, all the air in the room gone. I’m coughing and choking on my own tears. Looking up at my mom, she just stands there. His fingers stroke my face. “Pretty girl like you. Your mother, she’s all washed up, but you . . . That sweet pussy of yours could make me a rich man.”
“Mom,” I cry.
He holds a pill out to her. Reaching for it, she looks at me and says, “Nothing less than five hundred.”
My mouth falls open. “Mom, please,” I beg, but he’s dragging me toward my bedroom.
I scream and start to kick and hit, my arms flailing around like a wild animal. He lands a hard backhand to the side of my face, then another and another. I fall to the floor, and he kicks my back, his boot sinking deeper and deeper with each contact.
He leans down, pulling me up into his arms. “I can be rough if you want.”
“Don’t, please.” Tears run down my face. “Please.”
He exhales, and for half a second, I think maybe he has one decent bone in his body, but then he takes hold of my shoulders and tosses me down on the bed like a rag doll.
My head starts to spin. His body is over mine. His fingers go through my hair, and my body shudders. “Open your mouth.” I shake my head, pursing my lips closed. He chuckles, holding up a pill. “This will help you relax.”
Suddenly, I realize I’m about to become my mother. I don’t know how she became the woman she is, but it could have easily been just like this.
“No,” I whisper, slipping my hand under my pillow.
With one hand, he grabs my wrists, pinning me down. His other hand reaches under my shirt. I feel myself starting to slip away, drifting up out of my body, like I’m watching a horrible movie, like I’m not the star of this tragedy.
He pulls me to his mouth, his tongue invading my mouth, rough and hard. I’m not going to win a fight. I can’t overpower him. But if there’s one thing my mother has taught me, it’s how to manipulate a man.
Closing my eyes tightly, I move my tongue with his. Am I doing this right? He moans. Guess I am.
He grinds into me, the length of him between my legs. My instinct is to fight, but instead, I moan, my hand slipping back under my pillow.
“Horny little bitch, aren’t you?” he asks, smiling down at me.
In one smooth motion, I push the button on the blade and hold it against his dick, that one little pierce causing it to deflate.
His eyes flare, but he holds his hands up. We both know he could probably get this knife from me, but he’s not going to risk his balls over it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
PAIGE
I take Finn’s little finger, tracing the raindrops rolling down the window of the trailer. Of all the crappy places I lived as a child, I never lived in a trailer park. Sometimes, I wish we did, envying those double-wides. They can be very nice.
I used to love this game as a child. Never having many toys, I always loved it when it rained. Rain meant mud puddles, splashing, and hopefully, rainbows. I never did any sports teams, not that we could’ve afforded it, plus I was more of a loner, preferring the library to the baseball field. Now the rain means I’m stuck inside with Finn, who’s not yet old enough to play outside in the rain. So I share my favorite rainy-day indoor activity with him.
Raindrop chase.
Basically, you just trace the path of the raindrop as it twists and turns down the window. You can get really creative and use two fingers, racing to see which raindrop makes it to the bottom faster.
Finn smiles up at me, and I kiss his little finger. My new office stinks. Basically, it’s a trailer with a desk, a chair, some file cabinets, and a playpen and play area for Finn. There’s a little bathroom, but that’s it. I shouldn’t complain because it’s actually not that bad. I’m just in a bad mood.
My argument with Slade this morning set the tone for the whole day. He’s obviously still pissed, too, because I haven’t heard from him all day—not one email, text, or phone call. That’s not like him. Well, actually, it is kind of like him, but I thought boyfriend Slade would be different.
It’s not him I’m even mad at. I’m mad at myself. I’m not even mad about the cameras in the house, yet I used that as ammunition against him, making him out to be a liar, scapegoating him to take the heat off myself. Deflection is one of my strengths. Some would call it a character flaw, but I call it a means of survival.
I’m the real liar here. We both know it. How long before he gets sick of it and starts demanding answers?
The thing is, I have answers. They differ from the truth, but I still have them prepared. Any good liar has to have a story, something plausible, believable, something you say with a smile to shut people up, to diminish suspicion. I have my story. I have the story of Finn’s birth, his father, my pregnancy. I have the whole thing, but when push came to shove, I didn’t want to look into Slade’s blue eyes and lie.
I begged him not to make me.
But he couldn’t let it go.
The truth is not an option. I wish he could understand that.
“Come on, Finn, let’s go home,” I say. No work is getting done on the house in this weather, no deliveries are being made. I can’t even walk to see the horses, so there’s no use in staying except to use the trailer as a hideout, and I’ve already been doing that most of the day.