It’s the only physical thing I have that connects me to my son. I wasn’t allowed pictures or any other reminders from the nine months I carried him or the few hours I spent with him after his birth. Not that I would need them—he was embedded in me, a piece of my soul that was taken from me before I was strong enough to fight for myself or him.
When I was sixteen, I met a guy. His sister used to compete in pageants against me, and he would show up at the competitions and sit in the crowd, looking annoyed about having to be there. He would growl at his mother, telling her how wrong it was what she was doing to his sister. He fascinated me. I wanted someone like him to fight for me or teach me how to fight for myself.
Not long after the first time I saw him, he found me in one of my favorite hiding spots. At first, he was rude and distant, only recognizing me as another snotty pageant girl, but then I told him that I hated it. I explained that I didn’t have a choice and what would happen if I didn’t perform.
After that, we met often. I trusted him. He told me what I wanted to hear—we could be together, he had an apartment, and he would save me from the life I was living. For a girl who was broken and didn’t know any better, he was perfect. It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with him and give him the piece of myself that was the only real thing I had to give another person. I thought he loved me too; I thought he was willing to fight for me. He used my weakness to get what he wanted.
In the end, I learned a hard lesson. Not only did he not care about me, but when I ended up pregnant, he turned his back on me, allowing my mother to send me to a home for young girls to give birth to my son before being forced to give him away.
I pull my pillow over my face and cry into the soft material as images of my son flash through my head. I think I memorized everything about him during those few short hours. He was so tiny, weighing only six pounds. His small head was covered in dark hair and his eyes were bluish grey. I remember praying that I would be able to see them one day to know what color they turned out to be.
He had a birthmark on his right thigh. I looked at the small area of discolored skin for a long time while I held him. The shape was unique, just like him. Not long after moving to Vegas, I was walking down the street and looked into a tattoo shop window. I hadn’t wanted a tattoo until one of the posters on the wall caught my eye and I saw my son’s birthmark. I went inside to find out what it was.
The old guy behind the counter got on his computer and looked it up for me. He told me that the symbol was an Ankh, the origin was Egyptian, and it represented eternal life or the giving of life. I couldn’t believe that his birthmark had that kind of meaning behind it.
I knew that my son was the one who’d actually given me life; he’d made me fight harder to get out of my mother’s grasp. I had hated her before he’d come along, but after she forced me to give him away, I knew the kind of evil she really was and fought until I was finally free.
I must have fallen asleep again, but when I wake up, I feel like I have only been asleep for an hour. The sound of the doorbell going off again registers, and I wait to see if I hear Kenton answer it. The house sounds quiet, and I hope the person at the door leaves. When the bell rings again, I let out a frustrated huff.
“Seriously?!” I yell as the pounding starts.
I climb out of bed, stumble out of my room, run down the stairs, and swing the door open without thinking. The alarm starts going off and I run to the keypad, typing in the code quickly before turning and going back to the door.
“Can I help you?” I ask a guy who looks no older than twenty-one. He’s tall and lean with tousled, blond hair. He looks like he just came from the beach.
“Holy shit.” He looks me over from head to toe, and I groan when I realize I once again forgot to put on pants. “Shit. Please tell me the carpet matches the drapes,” he mumbles.
I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the promise I made myself the last time those words were said, but I walk towards him slowly, swaying my hips, my hands going up to his shoulders. His eyes go wide when I touch him, and then I bring my knee up, connecting with his nuts.
He groans, his knees hitting the floor with a loud thud. “What was that for?” he asks me in a breathy, high-pitched voice, holding his junk.
“That was for asking an inappropriate question. Weren’t you raised better than that?”
“What the fuck is going on?”
I turn at the sound of Kenton’s words. He’s standing on the stairs, wearing nothing but a towel. His eyes come to me then lower down my body. I make a mental note that, from now on, I will wear pants at all times. When his eyes stop on my hip, where I have a nice-size bruise from last night’s run-in with the lunatic, they narrow.
“How did you get that?” He looks at the guy on the floor then back at me. His jaw goes hard, and I put my hands up in front of me.
“That’s from your girlfriend last night.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” the guy I kneed says, whimpering as he stands.
“Why’d you knee Justin in the nuts?” he asks, walking the rest of the way down the stairs.
I try to take my eyes off him, but they feel glued. His wet hair is dripping onto his body. His abdominal muscles flex with each step. The deep V of his hips disappears beneath the small towel that is also showing off his well-endowed package. He walks past me and goes to the couch in the next room, coming back with a blanket in his hand. I don’t even have a chance to think as he wraps the blanket around my waist. I slap his hands away from me, taking a step back to glare at him.
“Oh shit. I’m in love,” the guy named Justin declares, smiling at me.
“Why are you here, Justin? I told you I would be at the office late,” Kenton growls, taking a step in my direction. I take another step away from him.
“I know, but I needed to talk to you and it couldn’t wait.”
“You should have called,” he scolds.
“I did. You didn’t answer.”