Four

Winnie

I’d do anything for some fresh air, to run through the hydrant water one last time. But all I can do is press my cheek against the windowpane and pretend I can feel the cool droplets on my skin. I’d even settle for sitting on the porch. It’s too risky in the dark though. There wouldn’t be enough time to get away if someone came by. I wouldn’t see them round the corner until it was too late to run.

All that’s left for me to do before bed is take a shower, and just as I stand up from my window seat, I hear the rumble of the motorcycle return. It’s the same bike as last time, and he’s still covered from head to toe in leather with a shielded black helmet covering his face.

He’s still as much of a mystery as he was the first time I saw him.

A few minutes later, a truck pulls up behind the bike. The driver’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Another guy hops out of the passenger side, but it’s too dark to make out either of their faces. Either the three men chose to move at night because it’s cooler or they want as little attention on themselves as possible. Everyone in Carillon seems to be running or hiding from a ghost.

They work fast though, and before long, they’ve unloaded a couch, kitchen table, and a bunch of boxes. It doesn’t seem like enough stuff to belong to an entire family, but I have so little, you’d never even know I lived here.

If I were a good neighbor, I’d warn them to stay away from Tess before she had a chance to introduce herself. But I could hold a Caution sign above her head, and men would still be drawn to her short skirts, long, dark hair, and deep-blue eyes.

Even when she’s wasted, she’s a deadly combination of looks and charm. Judging from the motorcycle, she’ll be all over the new neighbor the second she sees him. It isn’t fair really; he’ll never see her coming until he’s wasted and she’s digging in his pockets, milking him for every cent he can give her. And he will. They always do. He’ll hand the cash over with a smile as she licks her lips, a promise of what she’ll do to him later.

“Winnie, where the fuck are ya?” Tess yells as she slams the back door. The door only she’s allowed to use because it leads into her bedroom—a convenient way for her to get her drugs inside without ever being seen.

Considering it’s only midnight, I have no idea why she’s here and not at work. Something must have happened, and I’m almost too afraid to find out what it is this time, especially if she’s here, looking for me.

There’s no use in hiding though. This late at night, I’m always home. Nothing’s open, except for The Whip, and I’m not old enough to get inside. Every other place I’d go is too far to walk to.

Without knocking, she flings open the door to my bedroom. “You and those fucking bells. It’s not Christmas.”

I want to tell her those bells are there because of her. That the only way I can stay safe is to set a trap in case I fall asleep. But I know better. If I told her that guys came into my room, she’d call me a liar—not before she called me a slut.

“What’s going on, Tess?” With the way she’s staring through me, my pulse is hammering in my ears because I don’t know what to expect. For a minute, I worry she’s about to kick me out.

But then her mood shifts from pissed off to needy when she says, “Give me money. Where’s your stash?”

She opens the dresser and slams each drawer shut when she finds it empty. The only things inside are a couple of old quilts that nobody uses. I keep them in case the roof starts dripping when it rains.

Her hands are shaking, and little beads of sweat are building at her hairline. Flushed face and all, she stares around the room, plotting her next move.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her. Not because I care, but because she’s freaking me out.

If we’re getting evicted again, I need to know. This time, I’ll need more than five minutes to gather my stuff. But she doesn’t answer me. She lifts my blankets and shoves her hand between the box spring and the mattress. Too weak to lift it on her own, she only gets as far as her elbow before she stops rooting around for cash.

“You don’t have shit, do you?” she asks.

“No.” I have money in the floor, but she’ll never find it unless she crawls underneath the bed and presses on one specific floorboard. “You know I don’t have any money.”

She starts blinking so fast, I’m not sure she even sees me. Watery tears spill down her cheeks, smudging her eye makeup and making her mascara run. “Then, I need you to go work for me. Ronnie’s working the door; he’ll let you inside.”

“What? Tess, I’m only seventeen. I can’t serve alcohol.”

I’m smart enough to know serving isn’t the only thing I’d be expected to do tonight. I’ve overheard conversations about the special clients she serves in the back room—with her body and her mouth.

“You’re going, Winnie. I’ve supported your ass long enough. It’s time you help out around here.” She pulls her skintight black dress over her head and drops it on the bed. “Wear that. Your tits are big enough; you’ll make a shit-ton of tips. I might even let you keep half.”

None of her words are slurred, like when she’s drunk. Her pupils aren’t the size of saucers, and she doesn’t reek of smoke. Nothing about the way she looks is normal, yet this is one of the most honest versions of Tess I’ve ever seen—because I think she’s actually sober.

The shakes. The sweating. The crying. All withdrawal.

“You couldn’t score any coke before your shift, so now, I have to get you the money, right?”

I’m the same height as her, but she’s in my face so fast, and she has her hands wrapped around my throat before I see them coming. “Listen, you little bitch, this is my house. And you’ll do what I say. I need you to go to work for me, so fucking shut your mouth and do it.”

When the staring contest ends, my shoulders sag in defeat, and she can tell I’m about to give in. What other choice do I have if I want to keep a roof over my head?

“What if I get caught?”

Releasing me, she says, “You’re resourceful. Don’t get caught.”

“I’ve never had a job, Tess. And I don’t know the first thing about bars or clubs.”

Wearing nothing but a thong, she rolls her eyes and points at the dress. “Everyone at The Whip knows who you are. They’re the only family you’ve got, so I suggest you do whatever you’re told to do tonight.”

“I have a mother and a father.”

“Don’t you dare bring up your father, Winnie!” she screams.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

I’m not trying to make her cry, and that’s what she does whenever his name’s mentioned. To her, he can’t exist. Not even in memory. When we buried his body, that was the end.

“And your precious mother didn’t want you. You’re lucky I even kept you.”

Lucky. That’s one way to look at it. Maybe we’d have some kind of relationship if she got help and tried harder. But reality is too painful, and it’s easier to stay high and drunk than to try to make sense of the person she’s become.

Nothing I say to her will make her change. The drugs are in control now.

I know it was never my choice to make, but I still pretend like I have a say. “Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”

She watches as I slip the dress over my head and adjust the straps.

“I don’t have any shoes to wear with this.” The only shoes I own are sneakers and flip-flops, nothing high and pointy like Tess wears to work.

She kicks off her sky-high stilettos and says, “Put them on. And find some makeup.”

The heels are two sizes too small, and my toes hang over the sole, but they look the part, so I keep them on.

Tess takes care of the makeup, too, and by the time she’s finished with me, I look as cheap as I feel. One glance at my reflection, and I feel more shame than when Trey saw the bloody bandages on my thigh.

I swore I would never be this girl. I promised that, no matter how desperate times got, I wouldn’t resort to The Whip. But this isn’t my desperation; it’s Tess’s. Maybe I look like a whore, but I’d rather die than become Tess.

“Get out of here,” she says. “And don’t screw this up.”

In as little as a half hour, she’s forced me to feel everything the razor numbs. If I had more time, I’d make one more trip to the bathroom, alone—just me and the blade. Because does it really matter that I’m solving Tess’s problems if I’m creating more of my own?