Page 9

Chapter 8

Merci

I flip the pencil in my hand, letting it spin across my knuckles, and squint at the practice test in front of me. The words blur for a second before snapping back into focus. The numbers mocking me, making me want to set the entire workbook on fire.

No.

I’ve got this. I’m not stupid. Actually, I’m smart as hell. Yet that doesn’t mean I enjoy proving it by answering a bunch of standardized test questions designed to make me feel like a dumbass.

And it’s New Year’s Day. The first one in years where I’m not nursing a hangover after shaking my ass for tips the previous night or servicing some rich prick with a coke habit. Instead, I went to bed at ten.

Progress, I guess. Or maybe not. Like who wants to study? It’s as if I traded one hell for another.

My new phone buzzes beside me, and I glance over. It’s just some spam email letting me know I can win a free cruise if I click a sketchy-ass link. Cute. I silence it and turn back to the GED prep book spread out on the mattress.

The algebra problem is still there, waiting patiently for me to give a shit. And I should. This is the first step in whatever the fuck this new chapter of my life is supposed to be, one that has me completely lost, like I’m some astronaut who got sucked through a wormhole into the middle of fucking nowhere.

I groan, drop my pencil, then flop back on the bed like a starfish, staring up at the ceiling. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

No one answers, obviously.

Three days back in this house and it still feels like stepping into a time capsule. My old room is pretty much the same as I left it—navy blue walls, constellation decals on the ceiling, obnoxiously bright sunlight coming in through the window. It’s both familiar and foreign, like putting on clothes that don't quite fit anymore.

I roll to my side and stare at the empty doorway. No door. No locks. Just wide-open space where someone could walk in at any second.

Not that anyone’s bothered. Mr. Knight’s busy working, Mom’s downstairs cooking, and Zach . . . Zach hasn't shown his face since he stormed out after throwing that probably priceless vase.

Which, like, mood .

And if the psychopathic asshole wants to sulk off into the great unknown, he’s welcome to it. Good riddance.

Except he’s living rent-free in my head. Every time I let my guard down, there he is—those steel-gray eyes boring into mine, the lap dance, his stupid pierced cock—nope.

Not going there.

The thing is, he knew it was me. So why didn’t he stop me from grinding on him like the whore I was being?

And he was hard. Did he even come?

I sit up abruptly, pushing that last question away and going back to my GED book.

Focus, Merci. Numbers. Words. Shapes. Anything but him.

Christ, he wanted to kill me. If his words weren’t enough, the glittering rage in his usually expressionless eyes communicated it loud and clear. So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him in a way that gets me . . . aroused.

A knock on the door frame startles me from my thoughts. Mom stands there, holding a mug in her hands and wearing that soft, gentle smile. “Hey, sweetheart. How’s the studying going?”

“Oh, you know. Just trying to figure out how x equals ‘get me the hell out of here’.”

She laughs, stepping into my room. "Mind if I sit? "

I gesture toward my bed. "Mi casa es su casa. Well, technically, it's Mr. Knight's casa, but you get the idea."

She sets the mug on my nightstand, then sits next to me. “You’ll do great. You’ve always been so smart, Merci.”

“Yeah, well, being smart never paid the bills.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Stop that.” Her voice goes firm in that mom way that makes me feel simultaneously loved and scolded. “You don’t have to do it all at once. Take your time.”

I don’t reply because I can’t seem to break free from living day to day. Life has been all about survival. Taking time to do anything—to look beyond the needs of today—has never been a luxury I could afford.

Until now.

But it’s not easy to get used to.

"Merci. . . " Her voice is soft, hesitant, making my stomach twist. "We need to talk about where you've been."

Cue fresh waves of anxiety. "Mom—"

"These past five years . . . I've imagined every possible scenario. Every horrible thing that could have happened to you."

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"I do." She reaches for my hand. "Please."

Fuck .

How do you tell your mom you’ve been selling your body just to survive? That you let strangers use you in ways that would make a porn star blush?

But looking at her face, seeing the pain there . . . I can't lie. She deserves the truth. Even if it’s ugly.

“I . . . I danced,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “And . . . other stuff.”

Her brows furrow. “Other stuff?”

I take a deep breath, toying with the hem of my shirt. “I . . . I fucked people for money, okay?”

Her grip on my hand tightens, tears well until they overflow and stream down her face. "Oh, sweetheart. . . "

"It's not—I mean, I chose it. Nobody forced me. And I was good at it. Really good.” Ugh, why tell her that?! “Can we . . . can we leave it at that?"

She pulls me into a hug, and for a moment, I let myself be held. Let myself feel cherished and safe and loved. Should I tell her about Zach? About the warehouse? About how he kidnapped me?

No.

Mrs. Novotny didn’t say anything, and if I bring it up, it’ll only open a whole new can of worms.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking.

“You don’t have to apologize.” She kisses the top of my head like she used to when I was younger. “You’re home now, Merci. And we’re going to figure this out together. ”

I want to reassure her, so I say okay and try to cement a smile in place as I pull back and look at her. A smile that’s more a shield than an engine for connection.

She clears her throat as she wipes her eyes. "I'll make you some lunch. Your favorite grilled cheese?"

"With the fancy cheese Mr. Knight buys? Hell, yes."

Mom stands, then turns to leave. I stare after her, my breath heaving in and out. “Mom, I’m so sorry I ran away. I—I just wanted you to be happy.”

She pivots, looking me right in the eyes. “You are my happiness, Merci. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

When she’s gone, I exhale a shaky breath and let my head fall into my hands. My chest feels unbearably tight like the air itself is conspiring to suffocate me.

There’s no way I’m getting any more studying done right now. Closing the book, I flop back down onto the pillow, emotionally exhausted.

Although Mom looked sad when I first arrived, she’s happier now. And she looks healthier too. After we escaped from that abusive prick of a bio-dad, shit was tough.

Then she met Mr. Knight, and they started dating. While I was still struggling from the years of abuse, at least we were finally safe.

Until my bio-dad found us .

My pulse rate starts racing as I remember the way he broke into our apartment and dragged Mom by her hair, saying how he wasn’t going to let her leave. I tried to help, but he swung at me, split my lip open, and knocked me to the floor. The fuck spit on me after, calling me weak.

I thought we were going to die, especially when he took the knife off the butcher block. That’s when I heard the bang—or loud pop. Mom screamed and crawled to me as my father crumbled to the floor. Behind him was Mr. Knight.

He’d saved us.

Not sure what happened between Mr. Knight and Mom after because he stayed away for a bit. I did overhear them talking once and he mentioned wanting to give her time to process.

I snort. Guess emotional maturity skipped a generation.

Maybe I shouldn’t have run. Maybe things would’ve worked themselves out and I could’ve had a family. Stability. A life that didn’t revolve around survival.

Fuck, I probably could’ve even had friends.

Because the only thing close I’d ever had is that stupid redhead fuckface. And now I’m alone again. With no one to talk to about all the shit going on .

I grab my phone, lips pressed into a thin line. If there’s one emotion clear as fucking day right now, it’s anger. And I know who to aim it at.

Me: You're dead to me.

Raiyne: You’re still alive?

Me: Go fuck yourself with a rusty spoon.

Raiyne: Look, they told me you tried to kill Zach. And . . .

Me: Sorry, can't hear you over the sound of you being a backstabbing whore.

Raiyne: Says the actual whore.

Me: Takes one to know one. Don’t think I didn’t see you sucking off my stepbrother’s friend.

Me: Oh, and Zach made sure to mention you two fucked around as well.

Raiyne: First, you know he makes people sign an NDA.

Raiyne: Second, care to fill me in on what the actual fuck’s going on?

Me: You should’ve asked me that back in Miami, you absolute walnut. And what do you mean he makes you sign an NDA?

Raiyne: Yup, wants to make sure I keep my mouth shut and not sue him if I had gotten hurt.

Me: (rolls eyes)

Raiyne: Now tell me the whole story.

Me: I had a panic attack—for reasons—and accidentally pushed him down the stairs.

Raiyne: Accidentally?

Me: Hello, panic attack. Did you even read? And he had me locked in a closet at the top of the stairs.

Me: I didn’t even realize what I was doing.

Raiyne: Shit. I’m sorry, Merci. I fucked up.

Me: Yeah, no shit.

Raiyne: Let me make it up to you.

Me: Unless you're offering to let me stab you in the dick, I'm not interested.

Raiyne: God, I missed your bitchy ass.

Me: Fuck off and die.

Raiyne: Please forgive me.

Me: Maybe . . . I’ll think about it.

I toss my phone aside, my chest tight. I’d never told him about my past and we weren’t exactly BFFs, just friends. That’s why I can’t hate Raiyne.

Not completely.

My brows furrow. Mom decided it was best to be vague with what they shared with Zach. But did they at least mention my problems with closed spaces? He might not have thrown me into the closet if he knew .

Or maybe he still would have.

I rub my hands over my face. Fuck. These half-truths . . . or omissions . . . they’ve caused so much shit. But there’s no guarantee anything would’ve been different either.

As mad as I want to be at Zach, I do understand where he’s coming from. He didn’t sign up to have a stepbrother—or any type of brother—especially one with extreme claustrophobia. And he definitely didn’t sign up to have the person who’d just moved into his house shove him down the stairs and nearly kill him.

God, this is so complicated. Things are so much easier when they’re black and white. But hello, trauma. You thrive in shades of gray, fuck you very much.

I want to scream and laugh in equal measure.

Tears fall as I stare up at the ceiling. Opening up to my mom wasn’t so bad. I could do the same with Zach. Maybe it would help him understand that night truly was an accident and give him a different perspective.

We could possibly move on. I take a shuddering breath. But that also means I have to do the one simple thing that never crossed my mind throughout all of this.

I never fucking apologized to him.

Sorry might not mean much, but it’s a start. I just hope he’ll listen.