I’m on the porch of my mom’s trailer, clutching the envelope in my hand. Six hundred dollars. Cash. It feels so thin, but I know the six bills are in there because I put them in and took them out so many times. I looked online and saw there are cruises she and Ronnie could afford for that much, even if they weren’t the nicest. I had to go to one of those scammy quick loan buildings to get the money. I already got my five thousand from the club, but it went straight to paying the most important bills and to make sure I have something to eat for the week. I think I’m paying thirty percent interest on this loan, but it’ll be worth it just to get the added stress of my mom out of my life. I raise my hand to knock on her door and pull it back, sucking in a breath.

Six hundred dollars. I’m going to get paid five grand a week if I keep up my weekends at Club Crave. I just have to keep it up. My money problems will be behind me, and I’ll just have to keep my nerve and hold down the job long enough to pay back all the money I owe. That won’t be hard, I think with a tinge of guilt. There have hardly been five minutes that have passed since last weekend where I haven’t replayed the images of my time at the club. The thrum of the sensual music. The diffused sconce lighting. The deep reds and blacks of the decor.

And him.

I feel a chill run through me. It’s strange thinking of the three sides to Logan I’ve already seen. I saw him half-naked in his towel; raw and exposed, rough around the edges and hard. I saw him for coffee; charming, polite, and kind. And then there was the Logan from the club: masked, dangerous, strict, and absolutely dominant. My core clenches around nothing just at the memory of him.

I’ve been with beautiful men before. I’ve been with kind and charming men. Some of them have made attempts at dominance, but I can see it now for what it was. False bravado. Nothing more. When I was within Logan’s power at the club, it was complete. I hung on his every word and breath, waiting to be commanded, craving his orders. Even though I had just met him, I felt completely safe in his control.

I haven’t been able to put my finger on exactly what has me so drawn to the experience, but maybe that’s it. I was able to give myself over to someone and felt complete trust in the submission. The freedom of knowing he was ready to explore my limits and boundaries. The experience was thrilling, but beneath the thrill and apprehension was a deeper sense of trust and acceptance. Maybe I’m imagining it all after the fact. I feel silly putting so much stock in a five minute encounter, but stupid or not, I can’t change the way I feel.

It could be that a lifetime of the people I care most about betraying my trust slowly poisoned me. It made me numb. But this new kind of relationship Logan has introduced me to isn’t just about pain and domination. The deep, all-encompassing kind of trust required to submit so completely is like a release for me. It’s too soon to know why or how, but I think being with Logan could be good for me. It could be exactly what I’ve been needing.

I feel sexually awake for the first time in my life. I feel ready to be taken, dominated, and used. I don’t even care how dirty that is, or how much it makes me sound like a whore. I have suffered through enough traditional relationships and enough traditional sex to earn the right to try something new.

I realize I’m still standing, hand poised to knock. I suck a breath through my teeth and get it over with, rapping my knuckles against the door two times. I wait, hearing the rattle of empty cans and plastic bags rustle from inside the small trailer.

Ronnie swings the door open. He’s tall, but not as tall as Logan, and not nearly as built. He’s lanky except for the beer belly pressing through his stained wife-beater. The smell of beer and stale sweat emanates from him, making me want to plug my nose. Like my mom, he has the look of a former high school star who peaked early and has only gone downhill since. He still has strong features, but his once powerful jaw line sags and his hair is creeping back from his forehead. He wears a dark expression until he sees its me.

“Emmaline,” he says, smiling wide “Come in.” He kicks a ripped trash bag that’s leaking liquid out of the way and gestures for me to step inside.

“Actually, I’m in a little bit of a hurry. Is my mom home?”

“Who’s that Ronnie?” asks my mom from inside.

“Get your ass out here!” Ronnie yells, voice full of sudden anger and annoyance. I hate the way he talks to her. My dad was always timid with her, and Ronnie couldn’t be any more different. He treats her like one of the trash bags littering the floor of their trailer, and she lets him. Maybe it was her misguided way of getting back at my dad for leaving. Maybe she thought the more miserable she made herself, the more guilty he would feel for leaving. She should have guessed he wouldn’t care.

My dad was indifferent to anything but his own best interests. Most men quickly learn to put themselves second when they start a family. Mom always said that part of my dad’s DNA was missing. I still remember when he stole the six dollars Mark had spent weeks saving up. Mark wanted to buy some stupid pack of cards because all his friends were into that. But dad used the money to buy beer. Or how he spent years promising me a car for my sixteenth birthday and I learned he ended up using the money to get himself a motorcycle instead, which he crashed a month later. If I had known there was a way for him to get his hands on my trust fund, I would’ve guessed he’d steal it a long time ago. I was dumb enough to let a few quick Google searches answer the question about whether he would have access.

My mom emerges, hair in disarray. She quickly ties the robe she’s wearing, even though it’s four in the afternoon. Her eyes go straight to the envelope in my hand. She lights a cigarette and clamps it between her wrinkling lips, reaching to grab the envelope from me.

It’s hard to see her now. It wasn’t that long ago when we were all together. It was never perfect. It wasn’t even close, but the years have not been kind to my mother, the former homecoming queen. Now her once smooth skin is speckled with spots and fine lines. Her fingers are almost skeletal, stained yellow between forefinger and middle finger from the cigarette that’s always jammed there. If she stopped smoking for two weeks, she could probably afford the vacation on her own. It’s an ugly thought and I push it down.

My mom doesn’t deserve any kindness from me. I know that. I don’t do it out of weakness. I’m doing it for myself, to prove I’ve risen above the path she laid out for me. If my mom gets her way and thinks she pulled one over on me, so be it. I can be above that. I can let it not matter to me. She tucks a strand of her straw-dry blonde hair behind her ear, licking her lips.

She and Ronnie both lean over it, tearing it open like kids on Christmas. My mom’s eyes light up when she sees the bills, but she pulls them out and counts through them twice, forehead creasing.

“Six hundred? That’s all?” she asks.

The show of good humor on Ronnie’s face fades as he rounds on me. “That’s all family is worth to you, Emmaline?”

I take a deep, slow breath, pushing down the first words that threaten to spill out. Ungrateful. Bitch. Bastard. I focus on the decision that led me to do this. This is for me. It doesn’t matter how they respond to it. “There’s a cruise to the Bahamas leaving in a month. If you book it this week, it’s only five hundred and seventy dollars. With tax. You’d have some extra money there to get a few drinks on board.”

My mom’s face says it all. It’s not enough. It’s not what she wanted, and she’s disappointed. As much as my intentions were set on doing this for me, the look on her face breaks through my resolve. I feel a swell of emotion rising up. Sadness. Anger. It would be one thing if she had bent over backwards to take care of me my whole life. Instead, she and my dad both took turns screwing my brother and I over to get themselves a step ahead. I can thank her for keeping me alive, but even that feels like a stretch when it seems like her sole motivation was the hope that I’d be a lifeline she could cling to.

Something inside me snaps. All my good intentions evaporate in an instant. I reach out and grab the money from her. “Fine. If you don’t want it--”

My vision goes blinding white as something hard collides with my face. I blink through the confusion and feel a pulsing pain explode in my cheek and my head. I’m lying on the filthy carpet, sideways. Ronnie stands over me, hand still across his body from backhanding me. My mom kneels beside me protectively, glaring up at him.

“You fucking touch my daughter again and I’ll kill you!” she shouts.

“Watch. Your. Fucking. Mouth,” he says to her, finger stabbing periods between each word in the air as he advances on her.

“Mom. Come on,” I say, struggling to get back to my feet and pulling at her.

She stands, shoving me out the door and locking it behind me. It was all a blur. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds. I’m outside, the chilly air biting at my skin. She’s in there with him. I tug on the doorknob as I hear the two of them shouting at the top of their lungs and plates breaking.

It’s not the first case of domestic abuse I’ve witnessed, not by a long shot, but it’s the first time Ronnie has actually put his hands on me. I walk to my car slowly, stunned and hurt. My whole face is throbbing painfully, and I can’t stop the tears that stream silently down my cheeks. I’m still shaking with rage when I get in my car and dial the police to let them know they need to come out to the trailer park. I wish it was the first time I had made that call. I speak in low, flat tones and hang up when the operator tells me to wait on the scene.

I know Scarlett will be at the office working on the design for a new series of milestone onesies we’re planning, so I drive straight there. It’s a short drive from the trailer park, but I spend the entire drive buried in thought, face still throbbing from where he hit me. I avoid looking in the rearview to assess the damage.

Am I so sexually fucked up because I’ve only ever watched my mom be a doormat with men? First she stood by while my dad gambled, drank, and wasted all our money. Now this. My stomach clenches when I realize how turned on the thought of Logan dominating me makes me. Why do I want something so close to the shit I see my mom getting put through? It makes me sick to see Ronnie mistreating her, and yet the thought of going back to Club Crave has had me giddy all week. It still does.

I run a hand through my hair, not letting the fresh wave of tears that threaten to come fall. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to enjoy it the same way this weekend. Knowing my fantasy may have roots in something I hate so much… It feels wrong.

And yet I don’t think Logan Steel would be so interested in me if it wasn’t for our encounter at the club. I don’t know how he’ll react if I’m not able to bring myself to submit to him again, but I have a strong feeling it won’t be good. I’m not sure whether the idea of him walking out of my life scares me more than the idea of giving in to this perverted fantasy of mine, but I’m going to have to make a decision one way or another this weekend.