#outside fic

You fight to stay awake, trying hard not to fall asleep with him there, since you can’t seem to find the words to ask him to leave. After all, if he kicks you out, you’ve got no place left to go except crawling back to your mother, and you’d rather die than do that. You can’t help it though, and sleep comes for you regardless. 

You wake with the scent of his aftershave in your nose and your head on his pillow. Sitting up, you realize you’re alone in the room again—and maybe the whole apartment, too. You’re grateful for it, considering the way you’d embarrassed yourself the night before, sobbing and crying into his arms. You should have kept it together, and now… you want to curse at yourself for your weakness. 

Curtis already thinks there’s something between you—wants there to be. Falling asleep in his arms is ammunition you didn’t need to give him, no matter how good it felt. You can’t let him get under your skin, you know too well what he’s capable of. What all men like him are capable of. You steel yourself as you get out of bed and peek into the hallway, but it’s as you suspected—you are alone. 

Make yourself at home, Ladybug. 

You set about unpacking, organizing the remains of your life. It had felt like so much when you’d been throwing it into bags and begging your mother to reconsider, but now as you pull damp books out of garbage bags and fold up the hastily balled up clothes, it doesn’t seem like much at all. You wonder if Curtis really had “his guys” go back for the rest of your things, but you don’t really have a way to check. 

I guess I could call momma.

The very thought sends a nervous jolt to your belly. No. You’d rather not know. Most of what you’d left had been clothes anyway, the most important things are here, with you. Your father’s bass lays against the wall where you’d propped it up, just next to the amp, and just looking at it makes you feel a tentative sort of relief. 

You don’t have enough clothes to fill the massive dresser or the walk in closet in your new bedroom, which shouldn’t be embarrassing, but somehow is. You feel like a pauper amongst all of Curtis’ obvious wealth—new money, but you would be blind not to see it. Like a thing that doesn’t belong. The feeling lodges itself beneath your skin like a splinter.

When you’ve unpacked enough to feel sane, you decide on a shower before you pick through Curtis’ extremely meager options for breakfast. This place is nice, you realize, but it’s a bachelor-pad through and through. The only things in his fridge are a half-stick of butter, a carton of eggs of questionable date, and milk you won’t even bother to open. It is only when you close the fridge that you notice the money clipped to it with a magnet, and your stomach drops. A crisp, one-hundred dollar bill. 

The note on top of it reads “Get yourself something to eat, Ladybug. Meet you after class.” 

How did he know you have class today?

You shiver. He’d gotten your schedule from Damien—you’d kind of already suspected it, but now you can’t doubt it. Does he know about Peach’s? You doubt it—he still seems to think you work uptown, near—damn it.

Near here.

How are you going to explain away your commutes? Your hours? But you don’t want him to know, don’t want his pity or his feelings. Or worse… his ownership. Peach Rings isn’t the worst job you’ve had—okay, maybe it is the worst job you’ve had, but it’s still a job, and you refuse to be dependent on Curtis for more than necessary. After a brief moment of debate you decide you won’t touch it. You walk out of the kitchen, suddenly not hungry.

You’ll just move a couple hundred from your savings—just until you get paid again. You won’t take Curtis’ money. 

No matter how bad things get. 

—

“I think it’s obvious what happened. The officer’s account pretty much lays it out—”

“It’s not that cut and dry.” You interject, rolling your eyes. “You need to get more than one angle before you decide you have the whole picture. There are multiple eye-witness accounts that corroborate the victim’s claims, Chase. You can’t just dismiss them.” You chance a peek at Professor Greenbalm, who is nodding in agreement. The knot that had formed in your belly the moment you’d stepped onto campus begins to undo itself.

“So you’re taking the word of some random thugs over a police officer?” He asks, incredulous. You roll your eyes again. 

“No, I’m taking the word of multiple eye witnesses over an officer who has everything to lose. It’s not like I’m making up evidence, here. Look, Chase, I think you have some obvious bias—”

Your opponent’s face colors. “I’m not going to be lectured on bias by someone failing a class about it.” Your own face heats as a murmur passes through the rest of the class, along with a snicker or two.

“You’re done, Mr. Baglioni. That was inappropriate and I won’t have personal attacks during a debate. You should know better.” It doesn’t matter that the professor’s reproach is swift and loud, the words are already out, the knowledge public, and you feel shame curl in your belly. “I want you both to stay after class, understood? Next pair.” 

You return to your seat, face burning and eyes wet. You refuse to cry, though, blinking back the tears of frustration and outrage as you sit down with your head held high, even though all you want to do is run straight for the door. You clench your hands together under the desk. 

Fucking asshole. 

How had he known? Did he listen during your talks with your advisor? Had he seen your grades somehow? You stare down at the podiums with your lips pressed into a tight line. More likely he’d just heard you asking about extra credit during class sessions and inferred the most likely answer. Your cheeks sting even harder at this, and you wonder who else had guessed the same thing. 

You barely hear the next debate, raising your hand arbitrarily when the teacher asks for a vote. Every whisper feels targeted, every giggle a jab. The class you’d been so excited for now feels like a prison, and you wonder how you will get through the next half of the lesson.

The embarrassment makes you second guess everything you think to say, and so you end up not raising your hand at all, keeping your eyes on the board as you count down the minutes. The notes you take are disjointed at best, random words and phrases you know you won’t be able to parse out when you return to them later for study. You can’t be present in the moment, your brain locked on earlier classes. Had your statistics and art history classes both been fine, or had you made a fool of yourself there too without realizing? 

When the professor finally calls it, you’re eager to get out, packing up your things and rushing for the door. 

“Wait, please,” the professor calls your name and you wince, turning around. Oh. Right. Stay after class. Your escape foiled, you return to the classroom and wait for the rest of the students to file out. Professor Greenbalm turns to Chase. 

“I don’t know where you got that information, but I think you owe this young lady an apology.” 

Chase rolls his eyes. “Overheard it.” He says casually. “Sorry.” He shrugs, already bored with you and the professor. The apology in and of itself is just an exercise in futility. “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“Thanks.” You say flatly.

“I expect mature and adult behavior out of the both of you going forward. No personal attacks during a debate. We’re all too grown for that.” She’s trying to do the right thing, to be impartial and firm, but all it feels like to you is capitulation. You force a smile. 

“No problem.” 

You’re almost glad to see Curtis waiting for you, leaned up against the Jag. The button-up shirt he’s wearing is open, exposing the white tank underneath. The sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, exposing the thick weight of his forearms. You can still see the corner of the yellowing bruise disappearing beneath his collar if you squint. 

“Hey Ladybug.” He calls, nodding as you approach. “How was class?” 

You can’t help the scowl that crosses your face. “Great. Can we go?” You sink into the passenger’s seat, your stomach tight. “Please.” After a moment he follows you into the car, getting behind the wheel. He doesn’t turn the car on, though, doesn’t slide the key into the ignition. 

“Something happen?” He asks, fixing you with that heavy stare. When you don’t answer, he sighs. “Can’t make it right if you don’t tell me, Ladybug.” There’s a steady stream of students out of the doors, all of them heading into the parking lot. You watch, eyes narrowed as Chase practically skips down the steps, sliding into his Benz. You doubt he’s even thinking about what he did anymore, about you. Like it’s just a fucking Tuesday for him. I guess it is. You look back at Curtis, and realize that he’s watching you watching Chase.

“It’s not something you can make right.” You say, shaking your head. 

“How’s about you let me try, first?” 

You roll your eyes. “You can’t fix my whole fucking life, Curtis.” 

“I dunno,” he says, the corners of his lips curling into a barely-there smile. “Seems t’me we’re already makin’ some big improvements.” Your chest goes tight as you think of the night before, of Curtis’ big, warm hands on your body through your clothes. He jerks his head at the Mercedes as it peels out of the spot, forcing another driver to slam on their brakes and honk. 

“Who’s the asshole?” He asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“Ugh. Chase Baglioni.”

“He in your class?” You nod, scowling at his retreating tail lights. 

“A few of them.” 

“He say something to you?” You catch Curtis’ eye in the rearview mirror, and they’re dark. Brooding. 

“N-no. He’s just a dick.” 

“You tellin’ me the truth, Ladybug?” He asks, and you swallow thickly, nodding. 

“O-of course.” He holds your gaze for a moment more before he releases you, turning the key in the ignition. “You’re… you’re not going to do anything, right? He’s just an asshole.” You reiterate. 

“He the reason you’re this worked up?” 

“No.” Another lie. “Just a hard class.” He looks at you again with that unreadable expression before nodding. 

“Then let’s get some dinner in you.” 

—

Curtis exhales the thick, acrid smoke through his nostrils, watches it spiral up into the dark night sky. He’d left you watching some show—Bob’s Burgers, he thinks—while he’d gone out to run an errand. 

An errand named Chase Baglioni. 

He shouldn’t be smoking, he knows you don’t like the smell. Curtis doesn’t either, but it settles him, calms his nerves. He exhales another cloud of smoke before flicking the remains of the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. 

He’s just a dick. You can’t fix my whole fucking life, Curtis.

He smirked, but there was no mirth in it. Oh Ladybug. You got no idea. Edgar’s text message is still pulled up on his phone when he takes it out. 

Edgar: Chase Baglioni, 23. Parents are Genevieve and Louis Baglioni. They own that club in Midtown, Rumpus Room. 

Curtis knows the club. He practically owns all of Cobb, Douglas, Fulton and Clayton counties, but Rumpus Room toes the invisible line between his territory, and the territory Rogers shares with Barnes. Even if he oversteps a little, he knows they won’t mind him putting a little scare into the kid. 

Or roughing him up a little. 

He hates that you didn’t tell him the truth, that he has to hear about it from the girl in your class that Edgar’s dating, but that’s a conversation he’ll have with you another time. For now, he’ll settle for making sure that no one, least of all Chase Baglioni, feels like they can treat you like less than you’re worth. 

And you’re worth everything. 

Curtis takes another drag on the cigarette. He tries hard not to smoke since he got out, but it’s been hard to give up the habit, even knowing how much you hate it. 

It makes the waiting easier, though. 

He checks the watch at his wrist. Nine-fifteen. Which means Chase has been in the Rumpus Room, running up a tab on his parent’s dime for the better part of two hours. Curtis is patient, though, he knows how to wait—it’s what had gotten him through five years of prison, after all. Besides, maybe you’ll be asleep when he gets home, and maybe you’ll let him hold you again. A grin threatens to erupt across his face at the thought.

Maybe you’ll let him do more.

The door to the club opens, and Chase stumbles out. 

“Just bill my folks, you know the drill asshole.” Chase is yelling back into the club, his voice obnoxiously loud above the thumping bass-line. “They’ll—hic—take care of it.” Curtis is moving before he really knows it, flicking the cigarette into the gutter as he pushes off of the Jag. He only has a few minutes until the valet comes back around with the car, but that doesn’t deter him. 

After all, he only needs a few minutes. 

  Chase doesn’t notice Curtis until he’s a few steps away, turning bleary, irritated eyes on the other man. 

“Can I fucking help you?”

“You can.” Curtis doesn’t stop until he’s practically on top of him. He knows how big he is, knows his size makes folks nervous—in fact, he’s counting on it. Chase takes a shaky step back, casting a look back at the club like he’s weighing going back inside. 

“See, I got a problem, I’m wondering if you can help me out.” 

“Look, whatever problem you have with my dad—”

“My problem’s with you, Chase.” Curtis watches with satisfaction as the younger man’s eyes widen a fraction. 

“Me? I don’t even know you, dude—wait.” The fear in his face ebbs a little in the wake of his recognition. “I do know you. You’re that thug who’s always waiting for little-miss-fucking-perfect after class. What, did she tell you she got her feelings hurt today?” He sneers. “Fuckin’ pathetic bitch.” 

Curtis’ lip curls. His arm snakes out faster than the drunk idiot in front of him can counter, and he grabs onto his collar, hoisting him up by it. The fabric digs into Chase’s throat, and his breath escapes his parted lips in a shrill wheeze. 

“Call her a bitch again.” He says lowly. “I want you to.” Weakly, Chase swings at him, arms flailing, constricted by his jacket. After a moment Curtis drops him in an undignified heap on the sidewalk. He knows how this would have been settled inside, and he almost aches for the simplicity of it. There was, after all, something to be said for meting out a punishment with your fists in the yard, but this isn’t the yard, and Curtis isn’t inside anymore. 

He’ll have to use a lighter touch. 

“L-look, I’m sorry, okay? Just back off—”

“You’re sorry? Do you even know what you’re sorry for?” Curtis asks, cocking his head. When all Chase does is sputter, he sighs. “I didn’t think so. Here’s what’s going to happen, because I want your apology to be as loud as your disrespect. You’re going to apologize to her in front of the class. You’re going to get on your knees and beg her to forgive you.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or I break the other fingers.” Curtis catches Chase’s left hand in one of his, and without warning he wrenches two of the fingers back until he hears a satisfying snap. Chase screams and Curtis smiles. He feels the grin spreading across his face, and doesn’t even try to stop it as Chase cowers, clutching his hand to his chest. It’s a clean break, no bones jutting through the skin, no blood. But Curtis can tell by the way they hang limp and awkward that he’s done what he wanted, that Chase is hurting just like his Ladybug was hurting. 

“I’m sorry,” he blubbers, and Curtis rolls his eyes. “I’m, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me—” There’s a growing dark stain on his pant leg, and Curtis chuckles at the realization that the kid’s pissed himself. Good.

“Save it for class.” He bends down, ruffling Chase’s hair with one hand. He flinches. “I’ll know if you don’t.” 

—

You wake up as Curtis unlocks the door, sitting awkwardly up on the couch with a little stretch. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the streaming service you’d been watching has an “Are you still watching?” message posted on the television, so you know you’ve been out for at least a little while. Curtis hangs his jacket on the hook by the front door before toeing out of his shoes. 

“Didn’t mean t’wake you, Ladybug.” He apologizes before heading to the kitchen. He pulls a beer from the fridge, and there’s a crisp snap as he pops the top. “You been havin’ a hard time, you need your rest.” 

Your face warms. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“S’like askin’ the sun not to shine,” he laughs. “Can’t do that.” Curtis takes a long, slow sip. “I’m just tryin’ to ease the burden some.” 

”I can handle it.”  

“Never said you couldn’t, Ladybug.” His eyes are so heavy on yours over the top of the bottle that you almost want to look away. “Just that you shouldn’t have to.” He drains the bottle in another few sips, and tosses the empty in the recycling bin. “Wes got the rest of your things from your momma’s place. They’re in the storage unit downstairs, I figure we can bring ‘em up in the morning, yeah?”

So he didn’t forget after all.

“Thanks, Curtis.” You look down at your knees. “I feel like I’m saying that a lot, lately.” 

He leans against the counter with a grin. “You could always stop. I’m gonna keep doin’ for you.” 

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” The silence that follows feels heavy, and you don’t quite know what to do with it. “You think I’m doin’ any of this because I have to? Sweetheart I want to take care of you.” He crosses the room to stand in front of you, and you almost flinch at his closeness.  

Your chest goes tight with panic and something else you don’t want to name. Because the thought of someone wanting to care for you is…tempting. You want to know what it feels like—but you don’t want to want that with Curtis. Curtis means danger. Curtis means staying. Your mouth is dry as you fight for a way to diffuse this, a way to turn things backward, but he speaks again before you can force words out of your aching throat. 

“Ain’t anybody ever taken care of you?” He asks, but then shakes his head. “I guess not, not with a momma like yours.” He pulls you against his chest, burying his nose in your hair.

Your heart pounds as his hands caress your sides. It shouldn’t feel this natural, his touch. This good. And oh, you want to lean into it, to press your face against his chest and inhale the scent of his cologne, but you hold yourself still. There is blood on his hands, you remind yourself. He’s just like Damien.

But what if he’s not?

The thought makes you shiver. 

What if he’s not? 

Curtis’ hands keep finding new places to rest themselves, your hips, your waist, the small of your back. You aren’t touching him back, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, there’s no way to know which. 

“You gonna let me?” He asks, and this time, you feel a thousand words all rushing to your tongue, but the ones that leap from it are the ones you want to hold in. 

“I shouldn’t.” Immediately you regret them, wishing you could suck them back into your lungs. Not that you can’t, that you won’t—but that you shouldn’t.

Almost like you want to. 

“And why’s that?”

“B-because I—I—You’re dangerous, Curtis.” You stammer, looking down at your hands pressed against his chest. Quietly, you add, “You’re a murderer.” 

“Some people need killing,”

“You’re like Damien—” This time, he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up towards his. 

“How many times do I have t’tell you, Ladybug?” Curtis says lowly. “I’m nothing like Damien.” He crushes his mouth against yours. 

There is an eager hunger to the movement of his lips against your own, and your gasp of surprise all but allows him access as his tongue sweeps into your mouth. You don’t know when his hand left its place squeezing the curve of your hip to knot in the hair at the nape of your neck, but he holds you still, deepening the kiss. Curtis’ other arm is an unmovable iron bar at your back, keeping you in place. The movements of his tongue are slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to kiss you, like you’re all that matters. 

Heat pools in your belly.

“Taste like honey,” he rasps. “Knew you would.” And then he claims your mouth again before you can work out a protest, the words stuck in your throat like taffy. You can feel him walking you backwards, but you still gasp in surprise against his lips when the backs of your knees hit the couch. You land on the cushions with a huff, and Curtis is between your thighs instantly, kneeling on the carpet as his massive hands settle on your knees. 

Your heart speed up until it’s practically hammering against your ribs. He begins inching your leggings down bit by bit, cold blue eyes locked on yours from his position kneeling between your legs. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

 God you actually want to. 

You don’t know what’s wrong with you, what’s so broken that Curtis-fucking-Everett wants to fix you. You hate that it feels like maybe he can, like being treated like you’re precious might actually make it true. 

Your waffling and indecision allows him to shimmy the stretchy fabric down over your knees, and suddenly you’re on the couch in your shirt and panties, wondering how exactly you’d gotten here. 

“Curtis, wait, wait, I—” The touch of his tongue, even through your panties, is electric. It turns the protest on your lips to garbled nothing as he pulls the cotton aside and presses his mouth to your slick folds. 

“Sweet here too,” he mumbles. “Fuckin’ sweet all over.” 

You know you’ll be ashamed after, when he’s finished taking care of you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care now, to make him stop the way you know you should. How can you? Your hips roll against his face as he slides his tongue in delicious circles around your hopefully swelling clit. And Lord his fingers. They dance up your trembling thigh before pressing at your cunt. 

“Oh.” Your mouth forms the letter as he sinks a finger inside, curling it against your pubic bone. You mewl out another syllable as he adds a second one, and you feel Curtis smile against you. 

“Greedy.” 

He feels so much better than your own fingers, every touch smooth and sure. It’s like Curtis is memorizing you with every pass of his fingers, mapping out your core with his tongue. You’re desperate for something to ground you, to keep you from flying off into space into a million pieces but there’s nothing to tether yourself to. Your hands pass over the close shaven stubble on his scalp before settling on his shoulders and squeezing.

He hums. 

“You’re so tight, Sweetheart,” he says, though it’s more to himself than to you. “Wonder if I can fit another finger inside…” He tries to, and the added pressure is enough to send you flying. You hate the embarrassing gush of wetness that coats his fingers, the pathetic whine that escapes your lips as you cum—and the way his name on your lips follows after. 

“Curtis!” He places a tender kiss on your inner thigh even as your legs twitch and shake in the aftermath.

“Good girl.” His voice is soft, so muffled you almost don’t hear him, pressed as he is to your thigh. He stays like that for a little while, his lips moving against your feverish skin. They feel like velvet. Curtis is reluctant to release you, his fingers slowly uncurling from their position anchoring your hips to his face. He holds your gaze as he draws the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping the slick evidence of your orgasm from his face. 

“C’mere, Ladybug.” He helps you up to your feet, clucking his tongue as you stumble, knock-kneed. Your shirt barely comes down to the tops of your thighs, and he chuckles as you tug it down as far over the mound of your cunt as it’ll go. “Don’t be shy, now,” he pats your bare hip with a large hand. “Get on t’bed, now. I know you got work tomorrow night.” 

I shouldn’t have done that. The regret slams into you full force as you nod stiffly. “Yeah. Work.” You can barely think about that now, there’s no space for it around the shape of your shame. You’re supposed to be good, to be bright and right and better—but how can you be when Curtis makes the dark feel so… safe? 

He isn’t supposed to feel safe. 

“Curtis, I—”

“Don’t.” Your regret has to be plain on your face because Curtis holds up a hand, shaking his head. “There’s a lot I’ll put up with, Ladybug, ‘specially from you, I’m not ashamed to admit that. But what I can’t—what I won’t do, is hear you lie to me when I still got you sticky on my fingers.” Your mouth goes dry and you feel a hot pulse at your core.

“We just—I don’t think it’s a good idea.” You say, looking down at your bare feet. Fuck, I wish he’d let me keep my goddamn pants on. “You and me.” In fact, you know it’s not. He might not be dealing anymore, but you know by the sight of his bloody, bruised knuckles that he’s got no intention of ever going straight.

And why should he? Living the way he does has got him living nicer than the straight and narrow has ever gotten you. Curtis leans forward to cup your face, and the smile he gives you is positively wicked. 

Getting up feels like a chore, one you do at some expense. With a sigh, you shuffle toward the bedroom door and down to the bathroom. You look tired in the mirror despite your rest, and you wonder if you shouldn’t just go back to bed and stay there until August. The thought is tempting. You drag yourself through a shower before heading down to the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal for breakfast. 

Your mother is seated at the table when you walk in, her hands clasped tightly atop a multicolored pile of folded papers you recognize from last night. Lead forms in your belly at the sight of her—you know someone prepared for a fight when you see one. 

“Morning Momma.” She doesn’t answer you, only looks at you with an emotion you can’t name, her eyes narrowed and lips pressed thin. “I saw those on the step last night and brought ‘em in.” 

“You opened them.” Her voice is accusatory. “Is your fucking name on them?” She asks, slamming her palms down on the table. Her breath smells like cheap gas station liquor. You glance at the microwave—10:45am. “These were pinned on the fridge. You got something to say to me?” For a moment, a ghost of the all consuming rage you’d felt last night bubbles back up in your belly, hot and wild.

“I wanna know where the money I’ve been giving you is going, since it isn’t to these bills,” you say before you can stop yourself.  The air shifts in the room, and you regret the words immediately, wishing you could unspeak them. Your mother’s face contorts, fury 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Your mother is standing now, a finger pointed accusatorially in your direction. “What the fuck did you just say?” 

“Momma I’m sorry, I just meant—” You’re scrambling to de-escalate things now, your hands held palms out. “Things aren’t good, okay, and we need to—”

“No, you shut your fucking mouth. Ungrateful, disrespectful—” You’re half afraid she’s going to come across the table at you. You’ve seen your mother angry—but not like this. Her lips are curled into an angry snarl, eyes cold with hate. Your chest aches sharply—that’s what it is. It’s hate. Your mother hates you. “Do you ever get fucking tired of being a problem? Of causing problems?” She snarls at you, and you flinch.

“Momma, the neighbors are gonna hear you, just—”

“Good! You think I give a damn? You think this house runs on whatever pennies you throw me every few weeks? How do you think your brother’s court fees, his fines, how do you they all get paid?” Your knees go weak at her admission. You want to scream. But when you open your mouth to try, no sound comes out.

“You-you’re paying his—are you insane?” You ask, your voice getting louder. “Ma, do you hear yourself?”

“He’ll go back in if they don’t get paid!” She snaps.

“So fucking let him!” You can’t hold the curses back anymore. 

“He’s my son!” You flinch.

“And I’m not your fucking daughter?” Your voice breaks. “I’m yours too, Momma, and I’ve been right here with you while D’s been running the fucking streets and locked up and—” You shake your head, an exasperated, defeated laugh escaping your parted lips. Your mother rounds on you circling the table and grabbing your shoulder hard. The pain makes you hiss, and you push her away. 

“God it’s like you’re blind on purpose!” You card your fingers through your still damp curls. 

“You sound just like your fucking father!” She spits the word out like it’s poison, like the comparison is an insult. 

“Good! The only thing he had the good fucking sense to do was get away from you—”

The palm of your mother’s hand cracks hard across your face, silencing you.

You lift trembling fingers to your stinging cheek, holding it as you stare at her. Your mother looks angry, not sorry, as she glares at you. She hit me. You can’t do anything but blink at her, stunned. She actually hit me. She almost looks like she wants to do it again, her hand still held high and trembling. You stare at each other for a few heartbeats, the pain rising in your cheek as you clutch your face, dumbfounded. 

“Get out.” The words she breathes are almost too low for you to hear. You stare at her, hot angry tears welling up behind your eyes. This isn’t happening. 

“W-what?” 

“Get out. I want you out!” She shoves you. “Get your fucking shit and get out!”

“Momma I-I’m sorry.” you choke the words out through the tears you’re trying desperately to hold back. “Momma please, please don’t do this, I’m sorry—”

She only looks at you with something like apathy and relief. “I never wanted another baby.” She says it like she’s wanted to for a long time, and only now given herself permission to share. It shouldn’t hurt to hear the it, because it isn’t like you don’t already know. Like she hasn’t shown you every day of your life. But it hurts anyway, a dull ache that settles behind your ribs. 

“You don’t mean that, Momma,” You sob, grabbing for her hand. She shakes you off, sneering. “You don’t!” 

“I mean it when I say I want you out of here.” Her glassy eyes are hard. 

“I don’t—I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say, chest tight.

“You’re grown aren’t you?” She sneers. “You’ll figure it out.” 

—

Your mother stands in the doorway of your room as you shove your clothes and other personal items into a duffel bag and a suitcase, and when you run out of room, garbage bags. Your heart is pounding against your ribs the whole time, praying that she’ll reconsider, that she won’t throw you out onto the street. 

The hope that your mother is just angry, that this, too will blow over curdles quickly in your chest as she kicks a pair of shoes in your direction. 

“Don’t forget these.”

You’re crying, you’re dimly aware that you are, salty tears dripping down your chin as you ferry things down from your bedroom to the porch outside. A thin drizzle is still falling, leaving everything coated in a fine layer of misty dew. You cover your books as best you can with the garbage bags as your head spins. 

What do I do? You don’t have anywhere to go—you don’t feel comfortable asking any of the girls from work to take you in, you don’t even have half of their phone numbers to ask. Where do I even go? How?

Curtis. 

Curtis would give you a ride, you know he would. At least you can figure things out from there, can’t you? You dig out your phone and face away from the front door, hoping your mother doesn’t ask for it back, too. You type out a message with shaking fingers. 

I’m sorry but I need you to come get me Curtis. 

You’ve barely lifted your finger from the send button before his response comes.  

Curtis: I’ll be there in 30.

Curtis: You at home? Did something happen?

I’m home. Can we just talk when you get here?

It only takes him twenty minutes, you recognize the Jag as it comes speeding down the road. He jumps out, his expression hard as he takes in the sight. The contents of your life all thrown into garbage bags on the porch as you stare up at him tearfully. Curtis takes the stairs two at a time, pulling you against his chest as he sighs. 

“She’s putting you out, Ladybug?” he asks, though you know by his tone he already knows the answer. “Drunk bitch is off her rocker.” You almost want to laugh—but your chest won’t expand. “I’m gonna start getting this stuff into the car. We’ll fit as much as we can, I’ll have my guys come back and get the rest, okay?”

You nod slowly. “Okay.” 

You work with Curtis to pack the trunk and back seat as full as you can of your things. 

“Can we leave the—“

“No.” You place a protective hand over your amp and the bass guitar you don’t know how to play. “It comes now.” You can’t bear the thought of your mother doing something to the instrument, hurting it more than it already had been by time and her own negligence. Though this time you’re less worried about accidents and more concerned about her vitriol. Curtis grabs your chin as you’re shoving a bag of your clothes into the trunk, trying to fit it into the tiny space left beside your amp. He turns your face with a sharp frown.

“She hit you.” You don’t answer as he runs his thumb over the sore, swollen spot on your cheek. You wonder if it’s bruised. For a moment, Curtis looks like he wants to march inside but he just clenches his fists over and over, staring at the house. 

In the end, only a few bags of your clothes and things are left sitting soggy and miserable on the porch as you climb into the passenger seat. 

“Sorry I keep getting your car wet.” You say softly. “I’ll pay to get it cleaned.” Curtis shakes his head, but doesn’t respond. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, shoulders high and tense. His brows are creased together in a way that speaks of more than just irritation, and you curl in on yourself, wondering if you’re the cause. You watch the house disappear in the rearview. 

“I don’t want your money, Ladybug.” Curtis says, his eyes still locked on the road. “Don’t be sorry, either. I’m glad you called me.” 

“I don’t know where to go,” you admit. “I… I know there are shelters…” You trail off as Curtis snorts. 

“You think I’m lettin’ you stay in a shelter?” He actually looks at you, incredulity there in the raise of his brows. “You’re staying with me.” Curtis’ grip tightens again on the steering wheel and he lets out a long measured breath. “She hit you. Why?” 

You look down. 

“I—we got into it bad, Curtis.” You thread your fingers together. “Really bad. We both said some shitty things, and then…” You trail off, gesturing at your aching cheek. “You know the rest.” 

“Ain’t nothing you could’ve said worth putting you out over.” He says through gritted teeth. “And nothing—and I mean nothing, Ladybug, is a good reason for her to hit you.” 

“I said—”

“I couldn’t give a fuck less what you said.” He cuts you off sharply. “Nobody puts hands on you. You understandin’ me? Nobody.” Curtis fixes you with another hard look, one you’ve seen on the faces of the patrons watching their favorite girls dance, the possessive, righteous anger summed up in a single word. 

Mine.

“O-okay.” 

Curtis scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, Ladybug. I’m not—I’m not angry with you. Never with you. None of this is your fault.” 

“I don’t know,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh. “I could have just kept my damn mouth shut.” You know you should have, should have simply stuck it out until August. 

“I’m happy you called me, Sweetheart.” Curtis reaches over to squeeze your  hand. “You shouldn’t have to live like that.” 

You lean back against the seat. “Why do I want to defend her right now?” You say, shaking your head as you stare at the upholstery. “Maybe that’s just how good she’s trained me.”

“Maybe.” He agrees. “But it doesn’t have to stay that way.” The neighborhood outside changes drastically as Curtis navigates from city to highway to city again.

“You live in Midtown?” You ask, changing the subject. For a perilous moment you wonder if he’ll let you. Then he nods. 

“Yeah. Got a place out here when I got out.” You make an impressed noise in the back of your throat, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Expensive.”

“I make it work.” Your stomach goes cold. Oh yeah. You’d almost forgotten who he is—what he is. It had felt good to slip back into that old routine, natural even. But you aren’t sixteen anymore, and the last thing you should feel around Curtis Everett is comfortable. This is temporary, you think pointedly as Curtis turns into a parking garage, pulling a permit from the glove box. You shiver as his fingers graze your thigh.

This is just temporary.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he says as he parks. “Just grab a few things for now, Ladybug. I’ll get the rest.”

“I can’t let you—”

“You can. You called me for help. So let me help.” Curtis grabs a few garbage bags in each hand, and you do the same before following him to the elevator on the other side of the garage. 

“Let me show you up.” He presses the button for the thirty fifth floor—the top. “I’ll get you a key tomorrow, okay Ladybug?” 

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll try not to be here too long, just till I get myself together.”

”You ain’t even gotten upstairs yet and you’re half out the door,” he laughs. “At least put your things down. Get your bearings, maybe we’ll order some dinner.” 

“I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage,” you reply, cheeks warm. “That’s all.” The elevator opens onto a short hallway with only one door.

“I wouldn’t care even if you were.” Your stomach twists in the beat of silence that follows as Curtis unlocks the wide metal door. “Go ahead in, I have a call to make.” He pulls out his phone, taps the screen and begins to dial, making a shooing motion with his hand. “I’ll be right there.” 

Inside, you kick off your shoes in the entryway out of habit, and then, carrying two of your bags, you make your way into the house. The living room is wide open, one floor to ceiling window taking up an entire wall, spanning from the open kitchen to the far end of the living room. The city is spread out like a map before you, the cars and people like tiny toys as they move through the streets. 

You don’t feel comfortable going much further without Curtis, regardless of his instruction, so you use the time to explore his kitchen instead. It’s nice, clean, in a sterile sort of way. You don’t imagine Curtis does much cooking and the kitchen seems to reflect that; clean counters and an empty sink. On the other side of the room is a hallway lined with doors, ones you assume lead to bedrooms, bathrooms, the places you’re too nervous to go on your own.

“You’re not exploring.” Curtis says from behind you, and you jump. You hadn’t heard him come in. 

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to invade,” you reply. I don’t want to see something I shouldn’t. Curtis frowns at you. 

“Ladybug, I’m not Damien. The apartment’s your home till you say it’s not, okay?” 

“O-okay.” 

“Let me show you were to put your things.” 

Curtis leads you down the hallway you’d been right about. “Bathroom’s here. And this is you.” He pushes open one of the dark wood doors to reveal a bedroom. It’s empty aside from a bed and an armchair, but it’s big—bigger than your room in your mother’s house by at least half. The ceiling doesn’t slope down or leak, and the door closes easy, no shoving required. You stand there awkwardly as Curtis sets down a few of the garbage bags. 

“I have something I have to take care of, but I’ll be back tonight. You go ahead and get comfortable, Ladybug, I’ll leave you some money for dinner.” He’s not asking you anything, simply telling you how things will go. You nod. 

“Thank you, Curtis.” 

“I’m glad you called me. Wish I could say I’m surprised,” he says, and there’s pity on his face. You hate the sight of it. “She’s not a good person, Ladybug. You didn’t do anything to deserve a Momma so rotten.” You laugh tonelessly. “I mean it.” He reaches for you again, turning your face so he can look at the bruise that’s bloomed on your cheek like an angry flower. 

“Got half a mind to go talk to her myself.” 

“No!” You say quickly, your whole body going tense at the thought. “No. Please. It’ll just make everything worse.” 

“I can’t have people puttin’ their hands on you, Ladybug.” He says after a moment. “I ain’t gonna allow it.” 

You are struck with the sudden realization that you’ve made a mistake. That you’ve changed something fundamental in your relationship with Curtis by calling him for help—and what’s worse, you don’t know how you could have avoided it. Maybe calling one of the girls from work would have been better, surfing from couch to couch instead of staying here, if any of them would even let you. How can you make the right choice when the wrong one is your only option?

“You don’t have to worry about it.” You say, looking at the empty space beside his head so you don’t have to meet his eyes. “It’s my problem.” 

“Ladybug you got a bruise the size of Texas on your face and you’re telling me not to worry about it?” 

“What would it do?” You ask. “You gonna tell her she’s a drunk? She knows that, Curtis. Just… just let her stew. She’ll get over it eventually.” Curtis looks about as sure of that as you are, but you pretend, for both of you.

“Will you?” You don’t have an answer, but he waits a moment more to give  time to think of one. “I didn’t think so.” He looks at your cheek again, and you watch his eyes go hard again. “Some things you don’t forgive.” You think about Neesh and Damien. “Some things you can’t.” 

You wonder if he’s talking about you, or about himself. 

—

By the time you head in to bed, you’re exhausted. Your day hasn’t been particularly physically taxing, but it still feels like you’ve run the gauntlet as you drag yourself up off of Curtis’ comfortable sectional and shuffle down the hallway. The apartment feels even bigger now that you’re alone in it, and the silence makes you nervous. You aren’t used to the quiet, not when the block is so goddamn noisy, cars, people—not to mention Damien. 

But Curtis’ place is peaceful by comparison, and the unfamiliarity of it makes you feel out of place. You climb into bed, and the sheets are soft on your skin. You can’t sleep, though, staring at the ceiling above you with wet eyes. 

I never wanted another baby.

God, it shouldn’t feel like broken glass in your chest to think about that, but it does. Angry, hurt tears press at the backs of your eyes and before you know it you’re pushing the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids to stop them from falling. It doesn’t work, and they leak out of the corners of your eyes and track down your cheeks. Your breath hitches until you’re sobbing, loud and uncontrolled. 

You cry until you’re gasping for breath, your chest aching as you hold yourself. You don’t know how long it lasts, but you rush to quiet yourself when you hear the sound of the front door open and shut. You don’t want Curtis seeing you like this, it’s too… personal. Too intimate. And something tells you that intimate is not what you need with Curtis, not right now. 

“Ladybug? You up? I thought I heard you.” You’re still wiping at your wet cheeks when he raps his knuckles against the door. Curtis crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe. His eyes are in shadow but you can still feel him studying you. You wonder if he can see your face in the low light, swollen and puffy from crying. You know you shouldn’t care. 

“I’m good.” The words sound off through your tight throat and gritted teeth. You sniffle quietly. “I’m just… You know. Today.” You’re fighting not to cry as you shoot him a watery smile. “I’m good, really.” He cocks his head at you. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” Curtis comes to sit on the edge of the back and you scoot back to give him space, clutching your knees to your chest. His hand is warm on your shoulder through the t-shirt. “I don’t want you to pretend with me.” 

He’s too close. Your heart is a panicked rabbit inside your ribs. He smells good. You shouldn’t say anything shouldn’t let him in any closer than he already is. 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He frowns. “Please, Ladybug.” 

He’s wearing a tank top, the earlier henley gone. You swallow thickly as the thick corded muscles flex beneath his sun-tanned skin. The tattoos you’d seen peeking out of his collar are on full display now, a set of roman numerals on his collarbone. Is that a bruise? It’s still partially hidden by the tank top, yellow and purple with burst blood vessels. 

“What happened?” He grimaces. 

 “I asked you first.”

You snort. “You keeping secrets doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you.”  You already don’t want to trust him, because you know what he is—what he does—did. You suppose you have to give him credit where it’s due. Where he says it’s due. 

“Some secrets you’re better off not knowing.” 

“You hurt someone.” You say, and he frowns, before sighing. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

Curtis rubs a hand over his buzzed scalp. 

“Sometimes people have to learn a lesson the hard way. And I had a lot of lessons to teach tonight, Ladybug.” Your stomach tightens. Curtis Everett is not  a man you want teaching you the kind of lesson you suspect someone is recovering from. He’s not a man you cross. 

“Now will you be honest with me?” He asks, and you’re both afraid to lie and, if you could admit it to yourself, relieved to confess the hurt. To have someplace for it to go that isn’t deeper inside of you. 

“She didn’t want me.” Your voice trembles. “That’s what she said, Curtis. She never wanted me.” The tears from earlier return with a vengeance, blurring him until he’s just a hazy outline. 

“C’mere.” He holds you to his chest as you sob hard, fingers curling in his shirt. God it hurts, it hurts so much, like a hand wrapped around your heart and squeezing. She doesn’t love me. 

She never loved me.

Maybe that’s what’s rawest about it all, knowing that it was always going to be this way, was always going to end with her choosing Damien, every time. 

No matter the cost. 

Curtis rubs your back as you cry yourself sick, hiccoughing and panting. Slow, gentle circles as he tells you to breathe, Ladybug, breathe. You can’t for a little while, sucking in gasping, stuttering breaths as he pets you. But after a while the tears go dry, and you simply sit there, leaning against him as you blink unseeingly at nothing. You rub your swollen eyes with the back of your hand.

“All cried out, Ladybug?” He asks softly, and you nod silently. You’re even more exhausted than when you came in, and now that you’re all done crying, your swollen eyes don’t seem to want to stay open for longer than a few seconds at a time. You’re leaned against Curtis still, his other hand still drawing circles on your lower back. 

“You don’t ever have to go back if you don’t want to,” he says, and curls his fingers against your hip where your t-shirt has ridden up. Suddenly you’re more aware of the fact that your shorts are glorified panties than ever before, especially when his hand slides affectionately through the curls at the nape of your neck, and the other tugs you back against his chest. 

Sure you could have done better on the midterm, and you were still missing one paper—but failing? 

“Sweetheart are you hearing me?” Curtis rests the hand that isn’t on the wheel over your own, and you jolt in response. 

“What? I’m—-sorry, I’m…” You trail off, not wanting to tell him.

“It’s okay. You can tell me over lunch.” 

“What? I don’t—” Lunch? He was supposed to be taking you home. “I thought you were taking me back home?” You recall his easy smile. I was in the neighborhood. 

“Ladybug you said yes five minutes ago.” You don’t remember. You suppose you could have mumbled a despondent yes to his suggestion for food if you know yourself, but honestly the moments you aren’t concentrating on are blurring together into a meaningless gray soup, buried underneath the rubble of your dreams. You have to find a way to fix this, you have to—

“Besides, you look like you could use some cheerin’ up.” 

You glance at yourself in the rearview, messy hair falling across your face, red-rimmed, puffy eyes and a swollen nose. You let out a self deprecating laugh. 

“Yeah. I probably could.” Curtis is a good driver, navigating the heavy traffic with a practiced hand. You sneak a peek at him, watching his stoic profile. He’s handsome, in a forbidden sort of way. He’s your brother’s friend, after all, and you know they roll together. It sours the warmth in your belly when he purrs your nickname from the driver’s seat.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Ladybug?” He asks without looking, and your cheeks heat. 

“Just… seeing a lot of you, lately, s’all,” you reply, playing with the hem of your shorts. “What? Did I cross somebody and not know it?” 

“Maybe I just like seein’ you.” He grins, those storm-blue eyes catching yours in the rearview. “You’re practically family, after all.” 

You snort. “Practically.” Curtis had practically lived in your house, sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room before your mother had sold it for the sectional. You’re not sure what happened to Curtis’ own parents, you’d never met them. Squinting at the past in your mind’s eye, you can remember maybe seeing his mother through the window once or twice, but her face is as blurry as the memories themselves. 

“Your parents still live in the city?” 

Curtis shakes his head. 

“My mom’s down in Florida now,” he says as he pulls into a parking spot. “Dad passed while I was locked up.” 

“Oh—I’m, I’m so sorry.” You bite your lip. “I’m sure everybody says that, I just, I don’t know what else to say,” you admit. 

“I don’t miss him, Ladybug, so don’t be sorry.” He pockets the key before reaching for the door. “Now let’s get you something to eat. When’s the last time you ate anything that wasn’t microwaved leftovers?” Embarrassed, you climb out of the Jag. For the first time you get a good look at the restaurant’s exterior. It’s a brewery, with fancy stills positioned in front of the large windows. It says Porter’s Point on the door in chunky script, and a blast of welcoming air conditioning hits you in the face when Curtis opens the door. 

The hostess seats you with menus, and you settle across from Curtis, fidgeting awkwardly. This is the second time you’ve seen him in less than a week. How had he known when to wait? Where to wait? And moreover—why? What possible reason could Curtis Everett have to want your company? 

“School goin’ okay?” He asks, taking a sip of his water. “Seemed upset earlier, when I picked you up.”

You swallow thickly. “It’s okay.” You’re not sure if you’re reassuring him or yourself. “I’ve got it under control.” All you have to do is get back on track. Get a study schedule going around your new obligations. Somehow, the task feels bigger than it sounds. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Lyin’ to me, Ladybug? You know better.” Curtis takes a slow sip of his water. “Tell the truth, now, Sweetheart.” It’s true that Curtis had always had a… knack for knowing when you weren’t being honest, but you’re surprised to note that it still works, that the skill hasn’t atrophied with time. Your shoulders slump defeatedly. 

“I’m failing.” You draw a finger around the rim of your water glass. “And my professor, who happens to be my advisor, is—I just, I can’t fuck this up.” Like I fuck up everything else, you think savagely, hands curling into fists on the table. He clucks his tongue at you. 

“You’re not fuckin’ it up.” Curtis’ normally stoic face is surprisingly empathetic, his dark eyes locked on yours. “C’mon, Ladybug. You’re allowed to make a mistake.”

“That’s just it,” you reply. “I can’t. I have—I have a lot riding on this, Curtis. I can’t afford to fail.” Once the fellowship is filled, it’s filled. You’ll have to find another way to get your name on the cover of the Washington Post or the New York Times while working full time and barely scraping enough together to make the ends even come close to meeting. 

No, the fellowship at Hyde University is your only ticket out. 

“And you won’t. You gotta give yourself some grace, Ladybug.”

“What I need’s better tipping customers,” you mutter, grimacing at the thought of your last paycheck. It had barely gone beyond groceries and a few bills. “And for Damien not to have people in and out at all hours of the day and night so I can actually study.” Curtis grimaces at the mention of your brother’s name. You wonder if they’re not getting along—you haven’t really seen him at the house, lately, just outside mostly, like he’s avoiding your brother. You don’t blame him—you’d do the same thing if you could. 

“That bad already, huh?” 

“Just…” You can’t help but peek around, just in case. “I think he’s dealing again. And, I know it’s… what you do, but…” you clench your fists. 

“What I do’s a whole lot different than what he does.” Curtis says softly as the waitress approaches to take your order. You’re set to order the cheapest thing on the menu—a burger—but Curtis orders for you. “We’re both gonna have the oxtail, Darlin’. And hers with extra gravy, she likes that.” Your face goes hot as you mumble a thanks when she takes your menu. 

“How do you remember so much?” You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s been more than half a decade.” 

“Never forgot, Ladybug.” He smiles again. “When you’re inside… it’s hard not to think about the things that bring you joy.” Your face goes hot in less than half a second. 

“What, Damien not a good cellmate?” Curtis actually rolls his eyes at this. 

“C’mon, Honey. You think being in prison was fun?” He asks, shaking his head. “You don’t have a lot of things inside, Ladybug, but what you do have is time. Time to think.” No. No no no no. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. You don’t need this, the weight of his unresolved feelings, another layer of complication you don’t have time or energy to sort through. 

“And you thought about me?” 

“I did.” Over his shoulder, you spy the waitress with the plates. Your stomach turns and suddenly your hunger is gone, replaced by apprehension. “I wanted to write. Didn’t think you’d answer, though.” 

“I wouldn’t have.” You say, looking down at your hands. “I was angry.” 

“Here you go, and the one with extra gravy,” the waitress sets down the food in front of you, her plastic smile belying the wary look in her eye. The air is thick enough between you to cut with a plastic spoon—let alone a knife. 

“And are you still? Angry at me?” 

Just say no. Just say no—“Yes. A little.” You know you shouldn’t admit it—but he’ll know you’re lying. He always does. “I know you stopped selling, after Neesh…” you trail off, your eyes burning. 

“I did.” You shouldn’t believe him, but you do. Curtis is a lot of things, but he isn’t a liar. Jail hasn’t changed that. You take a few bites of your food—it’s good, but you can’t focus on it. You’re too busy thinking about what you might have missed, how you ended up sitting across from your ex-con brother’s ex-con friend, confessing that he wanted to write to you while he’d been locked up. You know every other girl on the block would be more than flattered—

But all you feel is anxiety.

“You don’t have to look so terrified, Ladybug,” he chuckles. “I’m not gonna eat ya.”

“No, just write letters to me, apparently.” Curtis laughs loudly, and your face goes uncomfortably warm again.

“I’m a good writer, if I do say so myself.” He polishes off what’s left on his plate as you continue to work on your food. “Ain’t got no need to write you letters anymore, though,” he says, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“You’re right here in front of me, Ladybug,” he says softly. “Anything I got to tell you I can say to that pretty face.”

—

Friday nights at the club are always busy, guaranteed moneymakers, and tonight is much the same. You’ve got more full tables than you know what to do with—two bachelor parties, a business meeting and a few rowdy frat boys. They’re all howling at the stages with wide, glassy eyes, and though you’re less than happy to provide them the liquid courage to act so abhorrently in public, you keep a smile on your face as you do so. 

Tonight’s costume is some sort of I dream of Genie rip-off complete with a pink face veil, your midriff bared by the uncomfortably daring harem pants and crop top. One of the frat boys leans over as you’re running their latest round of Pabst Blue Ribbon to the table, leering at you as he pops the tab on the can. One of them is wearing a jersey from your same community college, which suddenly makes you glad for the veil. 

“I dream of you in my lap,” he laughs, elbowing his friend hard. “Think we can make that happen?” He reaches for you, his fingers catching your gauzy sleeve. You snatch your arm away, scowling. 

“No. And don’t touch me.” 

He lifts his arms up, mouthing ‘woah’ as he leans away with a cartoonish expression of shock on his face. 

“Well, sorry,” he says, pitching up the end of the word so you know he doesn’t really mean it. “It’s a compliment. Lighten up.” He squints at you as you back up. “Hey, aren’t you in my civics class?” You wish you could melt into the floor and disappear.

“No.”

“No, I really think you are.” He leans closer, squinting before a grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, you’re in McNulty’s class, aren’t you? Wednesdays?” Your stomach drops. 

“You’re thinking of someone else.” 

“Am I?” He leans closer. “I don’t think so—”

“Yeah, well, you are. Do you want any other drinks?” You cut him off, grabbing the empty cans from the table. “Or do you need to see I.D?” You snap. The guy huffs, looking pointedly at the stage as you stomp back to the bar, your heart hammering against your ribs. Great, you think as you set your tray down too hard on the bar-top. And I bet he stiffs me now.

 Farrah shoots you an apologetic look from across the bar. 

“Tough night?” She asks, emptying the cans into the recycling. 

“Just assholes.” You mutter. “Always assholes.” To your dismay, even as your other tables empty and refill, the table of rowdy young men remains, growing drunker and more belligerent by the round, howling and jeering their way through two different dancers before finally leaving. 

When Howard cuts you from the floor, you make an effort to clean fast, quickly sweeping and mopping your section.

“You’re in a hurry tonight,” he says as he inspects your floors. “Someplace special you need to be?” 

“I was actually hoping to talk to Frank.” You peer over his shoulder—it isn’t hard, Howard is shorter than you by a full head—toward the bar. “He’s in the back, right?” 

“Yeah.” Howard grunts. He swipes a finger down the length of one of your tables, checking for sticky spots. “Fine. Go ahead.” He signs off on your long checkout slip before waving you away. You make your way behind the bar, twisting your fingers together nervously. Frank owned the entire club, plus two others elsewhere in the city. He usually only ever came in for one of three things, to pick up his money, to interview a new girl for the floor or the stage, or fire someone. As you rap on the partially open door to his office behind the bar, you see he’s doing the first of the three. 

Thick silver rings are stacked on most of his fingers, clicking together as he flips through bills. He’s wearing part of a suit, the jacket resting on the chair behind him. 

“Come on in, Sugar. I can see you lurkin’ in the doorway.” He says, not looking up from his counting. “Siddown.” The air in here smells like cigar smoke and cologne. Nervously you step inside, putting your bag down on the floor as you settle into the chair opposite him. With a large hand he sweeps the money to one side, stacking it neatly before folding his hands together on the desk. 

“Mr. Matheson I—”

“Frank.” 

“…Frank.” You repeat before continuing. “I, um, I have to scale back my hours a little.” He frowns. 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Care to elaborate? See I just made next week’s schedule…” He trails off, looking up at you expectantly. 

“I, well, I need more time for school, and I don’t make enough on the weeknights to really justify how often I come in…” 

“I see. Well, you’re a reliable girl, Sugar. I’d hate to see you go. But if you’re wantin’ more weekends, I could swing that.” He smiles. It doesn’t seem warm, though, more like a formality, a necessary gesture he knows he needs to complete rather than something genuine. 

“You could?” 

“Oh yes. I’ve got plenty of good stage shifts—”

“I’m not looking to dance,” you say quickly. cutting him off. “Just table shifts. Like we talked about when I got hired.” Frank nods understandingly, though his expression doesn’t change, like what you said doesn’t matter. 

“Of course, of course. I just wanted to let you know they’re open. If you’re interested in less hours. The base pay’s higher too, you know, take-home’s not bad. Bigger tips, less tip-out.” He shrugs. “It’s a good deal.” Frank nods, like he’s agreeing with his own supposition. 

“I just don’t think I’m…coordinated. Enough.” 

“Nonsense!” Frank’s booming laughter feels condescending. “You’ll do fantastic. I can put you on a few training shifts with Terri, you’ll pick it right up—”

“Thanks. For the vote of confidence, but I really just want floor shifts.” You repeat. You bounce your leg nervously. “But thanks.” He pauses for nearly a full minute, and you cannot help but feel dissected, like he’s sizing up every part of you. You get the distinct impression that it doesn’t really matter what you want. 

“No problem.” He says at last, leaning back in his chair. It creaks under his weight. “So you want I should take you off weeknights, then?” Frank busies himself digging a cigar out of the desk. He holds it between his teeth as he produces a little silver cutter to snip off the end. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“But you’ll think about it, right? Stage shifts?” 

You grit your teeth. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.” 

—-

When your taxi finally does drop you off at home, the mail is sitting on the mat out front, still uncollected. You scoop it up before opening the door, toeing off your sneakers when you step inside. There are at least four envelopes of varying ‘important’ colors; yellow, red and orange, to let you know that something time-sensitive is inside each one. The brief sigh of relief you’d allowed yourself upon exiting your uber seems to get sucked right back in again, your shoulders tightening with tension as you head for the kitchen. 

You drop the envelopes on the table, your gaze darting between them as you try to figure out which one to open first. Maybe I should flip a fucking coin, you think dryly, reaching for the yellow. 

GEORGIA POWER CO. 

Utility Billing Office

(508) 437-8890

To the residents of 134 Oak Terrace, Unit 507B, 

We are sending this letter to inform you that our records indicate your account ending in #4063 is delinquent in the amount of $348.37, including a past due balance of $186.43. Please remit payment as soon as possible to avoid cancellation of services by 9/3/25. If there are any questions regarding your balance, please contact our customer help line.

Your hands are clammy, cool beads of sweat pooling at the nape of your neck as you reach for another. They’re all the same; power, internet, cellphones, water—

DELINQUENT, the letters shout up at you from the table as you rest your pounding head in your hands. Delinquent, Delinquent, Delinquent. Hot, angry tears well up behind your closed eyes, leaking out through your fingers and down your cheeks. 

This family is a fucking black hole. 

Guilt settles on top of the shame and frustration already weighing heavily on your shoulders. You know you shouldn’t think it, but you do. A sinkhole of debt and drama destined to drown anyone foolish enough to wander into it, and you’d been unlucky enough to be born in it. You feel that ache in your chest again, that desperate, trapped tightness that makes you want to claw your way out of your skin and escape out into the night. 

A hundred dollars here, two hundred dollars there, little fires all for you to put out while your mother does God knows what with her own money. For the second time today you find your throat tight with enraged tears. It isn’t fair. 

It feels almost childish to think it; after all you’ve always known the world was not an equitable place—and yet you cannot stop wondering what sin you’d committed to deserve this. Where the fuck is the money going? Your hand curls into a fist on the table. You’re tempted to storm upstairs into her bedroom and ask, but the knowledge that she’d sooner swallow a fucking tack than answer keeps you rooted to the spot. 

Numbly, you tack the notices to the refrigerator door with a magnet rather than throwing them away, before heading up the stairs to your bedroom. It’s nearly one in the morning, but Damien’s light is on, and as you pass the door the sounds of conversation and movement are obvious, even from outside. Down the hall, your mother’s television lights up the opposing wall, a sure sign that she’d passed out inside without turning it off. 

You close your door as far as it’ll go, before reaching for the bass hanging on the back of the door. It doesn’t work—something with the pickups, the guy at Guitar Center had said when you’d brought it in to fix—but you find comfort in holding it, plucking the strings the way your father had taught you before he’d left. 

You pull down your headphones from the bedpost and lay back, the bass on your chest. You lay there in the quiet you have created, staring at the ceiling as your fingers pass over the strings, feeling the vibration against the palm of your hand. 

I wish you took me with you.

You’ve seen precious little of him since your mother’s party, settling into a tentative schedule of purposeful avoidance. He doesn’t seem to rise from the dead until late afternoon, sometimes not until after you’ve left for class if you’re lucky, which means you don’t see him at all. His firmly locked door, though, is a constant reminder of his presence every time you pass by on your way to the bathroom, regardless of whether you see him or not. Sometimes you can hear him, speaking in hushed tones on the phone you know your mother is paying for. 

As you attempt to get back to studying, the doorbell rings. It irritates and jars you, sounding three more times before you realize that you’re going to have to answer it yourself despite both your mother and brother being home. Downstairs, she’s wrapped up in her favorite blanket, the T.V. blaring and the air conditioner blasting behind her. I bet she can’t even fucking hear it. It’s barely past one, but there’s an empty bottle of grocery store wine on the table, and the glass in her hand is dangerously full as she lifts it to her lips. 

Jealously you bask in the cool air for a minute or two before the insistent knock makes you turn away from the scene before you and reach for the doorknob. 

On your porch is a man you don’t recognize, dark hair pulled back away from his face. He’s broad, like Curtis, but not quite as tall, the expression on his face less than inviting. There’s a disappointed set to his features, maybe in the press of his lips or the narrowing of his eyes, and he doesn’t try to hide it. 

“D here?” He asks, cocking his head. The New York accent is so strong it practically bowls you over. “He told me t’ stop by.” You clench your teeth. Of course he did. 

“I’ll go get him. Who should I say’s here?” 

“Tell him Bucky’s here.” You make to close the door, but Bucky’s foot finds its way between it and the frame. “Oh, and Doll?” He grins. “He told me I could wait inside.” You leave him in the entryway, fists clenched as you storm back into the house. Damien’s door is closed, like it always seems to fucking be, so you rap your fist against the painted wood hard, and then two more times for good measure. In the split second before the door flies open, there’s a muffled curse that reaches you from inside. 

“What?” He glares down at you irritatedly, blocking the crack in the door with his own body. 

“Bucky’s here.” Damien nods, his expression unreadable. 

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” 

“You tell him yourself, I’m not your fucking errand-boy,” you snap. “He’s in the hallway.” He shifts, crossing his arms. As he does so, you peek into the room around his shoulder. For the briefest of moments you’re allowed a glance inside, clothes everywhere, but the table is clean, with a scale on it. You feel his hand before it touches you, and you move accordingly, taking a step back so his push is a light tap. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You shove past him, angry tears burning behind your eyes. The fuck’s he need a scale for? Your mind is racing. He’s dealing again, he has to be—that’s why these people keep coming by the house. It’s worse than fucking dealing—it’s distributing. You swallow hard. The house had been watched for months after Damien had gone in, you remember the unmarked police cars doing rounds on the block, the plainclothes cops following you from home to school to work and back again.

You don’t want that again. 

Mind your business.

You finger the scar beneath your shirt as you close your bedroom door as far as it’ll go before turning on the old A.C. in your room. It sputters a little before the air coming out turns cool. If they can run them downstairs you’re certainly not going to be the only one in the house suffering for the sake of the power bill. You bypass your desk—studying feels more impossible than ever, now—and go straight to your bed, flopping down on it like a ragdoll. 

You know better than to meddle, now. That lesson had been hard learnt but it had been learnt, first on the bathroom floor in agony as the broken bones of your left arm shifted beneath your skin, and again when you had left the hospital. 

Sister or not, you fuck with my shit again and I’ll put you in the goddamn dirt right next to her. 

As much as you hate D, you believe him, too. 

Maybe it’s selfish—but you’re not willing to go through it all over again, to withstand Damien’s rage just to feel righteous. You know how quickly that feeling fades—how quick the pain sets in. Absently you touch your shoulder again. If you press hard enough, you can feel the screws they put in, hard strange metal beneath soft flesh. 

What will he break this time, you wonder, if you’re brave enough to challenge him again? It had felt so good, so right to empty those bags down the toilet and flush them. You remember laughing, wondering if the rats living in the sewer would get high from being in the water. And then the memory of the door slamming open so hard the wall dented, Damien’s voice louder and angrier than you’d ever heard it—

“What the fuck did you do?!”

—

The uniforms at Peach Rings changes every two weeks. This week you’re forced to fend off the rowdy patrons dressed as some type of naughty nurse. Handsy Howard, as the rest of the girls all called him, stands in the wait-station doorway, watching as you adjust the stupid little white hat on your head. 

“What, Howard?” 

“You got sat. Jerry’s here. He wants to see you.” His eyes are glued shamelessly to your ass.  “He asked for you.” 

“Yeah, I get it. Can you move?” Reluctantly he peels his gaze from you, shuffling out of the way with his hands in his pockets. And they better stay there. Candy’s on the floor, halfway to the ceiling in six inch pleasers. It’s 4pm on a Wednesday night, though, so her signature flip-split is performed in front of a practically empty room. The only person sitting there is Jerome—you refuse to call him Jerry no matter how many times he asks—leaned back in his chair like he owns the place. 

You approach him from the side, keeping your posture relaxed and casual. 

“Jerome.” 

“Oh, hiya, Sweets.” He grins at you. “Liking the new uniform?” He cocks his head like he’s genuinely curious about your answer. Like it matters. “I love it.” 

“It’s great. I’ve always wanted to cosplay at work.” You reply flatly. “Can I get you a drink?” 

“Tom Collins.” You narrowly avoid his hands as you bring back his drink from the bar. 

“Hey, watch it or I’ll get you cut off, Jerome!” No jury on earth would convict me. The Wednesday night turn out is fairly pathetic on the best of days, but you end up with a few decent tables that keep you busy, running back and forth. They usually have three girls on—but tonight it’s just you and Bridget in your matching, ridiculous costumes. Your hands are always full, either with drink trays, your order pad, or tugging down your incessantly rolling skirt. 

At the end of the night, you have just shy of two-hundred and fifty bucks to show for your grueling shift, the majority of it in cash so you don’t have to worry about your mother seeing it get deposited into your account before you manage to squirrel it away into your savings. I really should take her off my accounts. I’m not fifteen anymore. You’re usually off early enough on a Wednesday to catch the second-to-last bus, but tonight you’re rushing for the last one, checking your phone nervously, watching the minutes slip away as you perform your list of mundane closing tasks. 

Like he can sense you’re in a hurry, Howard takes his time checking you, peeking slowly beneath each table before lazily signing his name on your check-out slip. 

“Christ, Howard, some of us have places to be,” you mutter, shouldering your bag. 

“Some of us have cars.” He gloats. You watch in real time as the underused lightbulb in the pitifully empty attic behind his eyes fizzle to life. “But, um, if you need a ride…” he doesn’t finish, trailing off hopefully. 

“I’ll walk.” You can feel the heat of his scowl on your back as you make for the door. There is a sliver of power in your rejection, and you cradle it preciously as you step out into the thick, muggy evening. It doesn’t matter that you now have to walk the bus route all the way back to the train station, that you definitely won’t make the last train, that you’ll have to spend money you don’t have on a taxi ride home. 

Handsy Howard won’t have you cornered in his 2004 Lincoln town-car, his greasy hand on your thigh. Not tonight. And if you have it your way, not fucking ever. 

You remind yourself of this after the first thirty minutes of walking, when the sidewalk becomes a narrow strip on the side of the road, and cars honk at you after swerving too close. And again when your shirt begins to stick to your back underneath your backpack and your inner thighs chafe painfully as they rub together. Google maps tells you that you have another hour-and-a-half walk ahead of you, and you feel your eyes water. 

It’s not fucking fair. 

Nothing you’re not used to. 

It’s already long past dark, and when the rumble of rubber wheels on asphalt isn’t drowning out all else, the sound of cicadas singing fills your head. You’ve been walking over an hour when a sleek black sedan slows as it passes you, going the opposite way. You aren’t expecting it to whip around as other cars honk, people leaning out of their windows to cuss at the driver, pulls up next to you. 

“Ladybug what are you doing out here?” Curtis leans down so you can see him through the passenger side window. You watch as he shifts into park, ignoring the angry tide of traffic growing behind him. 

“I—I missed the bus.” You say lamely, shifting your weight from foot to aching foot. “It’s okay, I’m walking to the bus station.” You don’t want to be in a car with Curtis either, 

Curtis laughs. “The hell you are. Get in.” 

“No, really—” Your legs are aching, unused to the strain, feet swollen in your cheap, dollar store sneakers. “I’ll be fine.

“I said get in. Respectfully, it’s not a discussion, Ladybug. Look at you.” You don’t really want to walk another hour in the stifling heat on the unpaved side of the road. At least he’s not Howard. As you waffle, a fresh chorus of honking horns and loud curses makes the decision for you.

“Get in the fucking car, lady, Jesus Christ!” Someone shouts, and your cheeks heat. 

“Fine.” You open the door and get in, holding your bag on your lap both to take up as little space as possible, but also to block access—just in case. The surge of power you’d felt denying Howard evaporates as you sink into the comfortable seat. The interior is as plush as the exterior; leather seats, a dashboard screen, push to start. The air conditioning feels amazing, goosebumps rising on your sweat-damp skin. You remind yourself not to get too comfortable, clutching your bag tighter. 

“You can, um. You can just drop me off at the train station.” 

“Ladybug, you know as well as I do that there’s no trains after midnight.” He glances at you. “Why don’t I just take you home?” 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” I don’t want to owe you.

“You’re not an inconvenience.” He’s not looking at you—he can’t, he has to focus on the road—but there’s a deep frown across his features, and it makes an unfamiliar sort of warmth bloom in your chest. 

“Thanks.”

When he drops you off at home the lights are off, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Your mother isn’t the type to wait up for you, and you’re glad you won’t have to entertain her nonsense after the shift you’ve had. You make to get out of the car, but Curtis catches your arm. 

“Wait, Ladybug. Can you get your phone out for me? I want you to have my number.” He smiles sadly. “In case this happens again.” 

“No, no, don’t worry about it, I’ll just—”

“Buckhead to the Five points is a long walk, Sweetheart.” For a second you forget to breathe. Right. Nita’s. Buckhead. 

“I have friends. In the area.” 

“Not very good ones, if they wouldn’t drop you off so you didn’t have to walk miles in the dark on the side of the road.” He replies. “Just take it. What’s the harm?” 

You hesitate before opening your phone. Taking his number doesn’t mean you have to use it, right? Carefully you hand him your phone and allow him to punch in his details. 

“Sent myself a text so I don’t ignore it.” He hands you back your phone. “Just want you to be safe, Ladybug. That’s all.” 

“I told you, no one calls me that anymore.” Neesh is dead and Damien’s a fucking twat. Curtis shrugs. 

“Guess that makes it more special, then, don’t it?” 

Your mother is passed out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine teetering dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. Old habits, you suppose. Old habits that seem to flare up when your brother’s around. Damien did tend to bring out the worst in people. Your stomach knots, thinking of Neesh. 

The very worst. 

Your mother mumbles sleepily as you tidy up around her, picking up an empty glass that had rolled under the couch. Could a person change? You turn the thought over and over in your mind as you pull a blanket up over your mother’s sleeping shoulders. Could they change underneath the skin, who they were, are, would be? You don’t know. You straighten up, turning off the television. 

You won’t be around to find out. The ticket from Hartsfield-Jackson to Portland International Airport is already paid for—you’re just finishing out the semester here before you’ve got enough credits to leave and never look back. You’ve got almost enough in your savings for first month’s rent and a deposit, and you’re confident another few weeks at the club will give you the rest. 

Momma and Damien can have each other. 

You’re going to be free. 

—

“And what is that an example of?” Professor Greenbalm looks around the lecture room before her dark eyes fall on you. “Any ideas?” Nervously you finger your pen, clicking it a few times. You regret the action instantly, the noise seeming to echo in the dead quiet. 

“Bias? Uh, media bias?” 

“Yes, exactly.” Oh thank Christ. “And what else?” Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you flounder. “It draws into question…” She hesitates before shaking her head. “Journalistic Integrity.” 

I should have known that. 

You spend the rest of the lecture shrinking, hoping that you won’t be called on again. You aren’t, but as you gather up your books to leave, Professor Greenbalm calls your name. 

“Stay a minute, will you?” Nervously you wait as the last minute stragglers finally trickle out the door, and the professor runs her fingers through her short, graying brown hair. “A month ago you were at the top of the class.” She says, brows furrowing. “What happened?” You don’t want to give excuses, the bitter ones that linger on your tongue. I had to take more shifts because Momma’s check’s not going as far with three people in the house. Can’t study at a strip club. 

“I know. I’m sorry, It’s just… things are kind of difficult right now. At home.” 

“I just don’t want to see your potential wasted. You could really be something, if you applied yourself. I think a lot of the other students could learn from you. But if this continues…” She shakes her head. “The missed assignments, the late ones. I don’t see how I can recommend you for the fellowship program.” Your chest goes tight. 

“It won’t.” You say quickly. “I’ll deal with it. It’s just—it doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it.” You hadn’t had any trouble keeping up until Damien came home. The house was never quite peaceful but things had been at least predictable. You’d learned to live with your mother, learned at least how to tiptoe around the living land-mine in your home. Now it’s like there are pitfalls and sand-traps to avoid too, not to mention your increased workload.

“I’ll handle it.” You say again, as if trying to reassure both yourself and your professor. She only sighs. 

“I hope you do.” You blink back frustrated tears, practically tasting Professor Greenbalm’s disappointment. It’s chokingly bitter. You’re tempted briefly to stay, to plead your case, but you know it won’t help.

You blink hard, forcing back the angry tears that threaten to leak down your cheeks as you flee the lecture hall. The bathroom is only a few minutes walk but you barely make it before you begin to cry. You don’t even check if it’s empty, locking yourself in a stall before sitting down on the closed lid. The ability to cry silently is one you’ve perfected, quieting the gasping sobs as you clutch yourself. 

It’s the first time you’ve cried since Damien’s been home, the first time you really let yourself feel it, the raw anger, the rage. He never should have been let back inside in the first place. 

How could you do this to me Momma? How?

Before long you’re gasping for air, quiet trembling breaths that leave you aching. He’d hurt you so bad, and she just… she didn’t care. 

She’d never cared. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you emerge with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a runnyYo nose. The two girls at washing their hands at the sinks are gracious as you splash water onto your face, sniffling. 

“Is it a man?” The blonde asks, shaking her head. You accept her tissue with a stiff nod. “It’s always a fucking man.” 

Outside, the sticky Atlanta summer settles over you like a humid blanket, and you wonder if you have enough in your checking account to uber home. You don’t have to do mental math very long, though, because the sound of a horn nearly makes you drop your phone. 

“Need a ride, Ladybug?”