I wake up in an unfamiliar bed and I don’t like it. Not the bed. The bed is the shit. It’s soft but firm at the same time and the sheets are buttery smooth, not like the scratchy pieces of crap that I’m used to, when I actually slept on a bed with sheets. Lots of times it was just a sleeping bag, and those nylon sacks get smelly after a while.
This bed smells like honey and lavender.
All this luxury and niceness feels threatening, because in my experience, nice is usually followed by a real nasty surprise. One time, Mom came home from work and announced that we were moving into a better place. A tall, thin man came and helped us pack our meager belongings, and several hours later we were in his tiny house. It was adorable, with plaid curtains on the windows, and despite the small size, I even had my own bedroom.
Later that night I woke up to the sound of shouting and glass breaking. Mom rushed into my room and pulled me out of bed, and we were out of the house before I could take a breath. It wasn’t until we’d stopped two blocks away that I saw the bruise forming on her cheekbone.
So nice things doesn’t equal nice people.
I sit up and take in my surroundings. The whole room is designed for a princess—a really young one. There’s a gag worthy amount of pink and ruffles. It’s really only missing Disney posters, although I’m sure posters are too low-class for this place, just like my backpack sitting on the floor near the door is.
Yesterday’s events flick through my mind, halting at the stack of hundred dollar bills. I leap out of bed and grab the backpack. Ripping it open, I sigh with relief when I see the stack of Benjamins on the top. I thumb the bills and listen to the sweet sound of the paper shuffling, replacing the silence of the room. I could take this right now and leave. Ten grand would keep me afloat for a long time.
But…if I stay, Callum Royal has promised me so much more. The bed, the room, ten grand each month until I graduate…just for going to school? For living in this mansion? For driving my own car?
I tuck the money into the secret pocket at the bottom of the bag. I’ll give it a day. There’s nothing stopping me from leaving tomorrow or next month or the month after. The minute things go bad, I can jet.
With my money secured, I dump the rest of the bag’s contents out on the bed and take stock. For clothes, there are two pairs of skinny jeans, the baggy pair I wore home from the strip joint to avoid attention, five Tshirts, five pairs of undies, one bra, the corset I danced in last night, a G-string, a pair of stripper heels, and one nice dress that was my mother’s back in the day. It’s black, short, and makes me look like I have more upstairs than what God gave me. There’s a makeup case, again mostly things my mom used, but also castaways from various strippers we met along the way. The kit is probably worth at least a grand.
I’ve also got my book of Auden poetry, which I guess is the most romantic and unnecessary part of my belongings, but I found it lying on a coffee shop table and the inscription matched the one on my watch. I couldn’t leave it there. It was kismet, even though I generally don’t believe in that stuff. Fate is for the weak—those people who don’t have enough power or will to shape life into what they need it to be. I’m not there yet. I don’t have enough power, but I will some day.
I rub my hand over the cover of the book. Maybe I can get a part-time job somewhere waiting tables. A steakhouse would be good. That’d give me some spending money so I wouldn’t have to dip into the ten grand, which I’ve now deemed untouchable.
A knock at the door startles me.
“Callum?” I call.
“No, it’s Reed. Open up.”
I glance down at my oversized T-shirt. It belonged to one of my mom’s old boyfriends and mostly covers me, but I’m not facing the accusing and angry glare of one of the Royal boys unless I’m fully armed. Which means dressed up and with a complete layer of bad girl makeup on.
“I’m not decent.”
“Like I give a shit. You’ve got five seconds and then I’m coming in.” The words are flat and forceful.
Jerk. With the guns on that guy, I have no doubt he could break down the door if he wanted to.
I stomp over and fling it open. “What do you want?”
He gives me a rude onceover, and even though my shirt hangs down far enough to cover anything racy, he makes me feel like I’m completely naked. I hate that, and the distrust that planted itself last night grows into genuine dislike.
“I want to know what your game is.” He steps forward and I know it’s meant to intimidate me. This is a guy who uses his physicality as both a weapon and a lure.
“I think you should be talking to your father. He’s the one who kidnapped me and brought me here.”