My work phone rings somewhere in the darkness, pulling me from yet another nightmare involving a faceless little girl in pigtails. Flipping my eyes open, I try to catch my breath as I stare up at the cracked dry wall on my apartment ceiling, dim from the streetlight outside my window. Sweat clings to my body, and my heart races into triple time. Apparently drinking a bottle of wine alone before going to bed isn’t conducive to a sound night of sleep. Not the smartest decision when I’m on call either.

I search for the phone on the empty mattress beside me, sliding my finger over the screen to confirm what I already assumed—it’s early as fuck. Specifically, four-a.m.-early.

“Brooke Emerson,” I mumble.

“Ya think yer too good for us now? You think just ‘cause you got a fancy degree and left this shit-hole that you don’t hav’t call yer mother on her birfday?”

Violent tremors ripple through my stomach with the deep snarl of the drunken voice I haven’t heard in over two years. A voice I would’ve been more than happy not to hear again for the rest of my life.

Screwing my eyes shut, I suddenly wish I was anywhere else in the world, living someone else’s problems. “How’d you get this number?”

“We was good to ya…gave ya a place to live and kept food in yer belly.”

My fingers squeeze the phone until I’m sure it’ll crack.

Nothing about the place they provided for me to live in was safe. I spent half my childhood listening in the middle of the night for signs that he was drunk, trying to determine when it was best to hide. And my mom was a decent cook, but one time he tried poisoning my dinner so I wouldn’t go to the school dance.

I pull in a stuttering breath, reminding myself I no longer have to endure his abuse. “I’m hanging up now. This phone is for work-related emergencies.”

“Uppity bitch. Never had the time—”

Ending the call, I blink back tears. My parents tried to break me more times than I can count. I’m done letting them get under my skin. When I finally escaped the South Side, I vowed I’d never look back.

Before I’m able to fall back asleep, the phone rings again. I’m ready to chuck it across the room until I notice it’s a programmed number this time.

“Brooke Emerson.”

“Brooke, it’s Sheriff Bromeland,” his gruff voice barks out.

Despite having an intimidating nature, the sheriff is known for being a pushover when it comes to kids, making him enjoyable to work with.

I smile into the dark room. “You're up bright and early, Sheriff.”

“I’m callin’ to let you know about a new case. This one’s a real doozy. Seventeen-year-old shot his old man after he beat the living hell out of him.”

Pushing myself upright, I run a shaking hand over my forehead. It’s the kind of case that hits too close to home, hurtling me back in time six years. “Did you take him to juvie?”

“No. I’ll investigate it some more, but far as I can tell, he doesn’t belong there—was only defendin’ himself. The kid’s still in the hospital, getting checked out. The attending doctor said the degree of his injuries were similar to that of a professional fighter. There was extensive scarring all over his body from previous incidents—X-rays showed past broken bones on nearly every extremity. They wanted to admit him for a few days, but the kid refused, said ‘hospitals are for pussies.’ So they’re letting him out after they’ve run a few more tests. Have to say I was surprised when he refused to take anything stronger than ibuprofen. A South Sider could make decent money selling the kind of narcotics he was offered.”

Even though I hate it when all South Siders are assumed to be crooks, I know it’s the truth. At least there’s hope this kid isn’t a complete thug like others I’ve worked with. Nothing stops your heart faster than walking in on a thirteen-year-old with a nose powdered in blow. “What about his father?”

“Despite having a hole in his head, he lashed out at the officers that arrived on the scene, tellin’ them to let him go at his kid so he could slit his throat. An EMT had to sedate him in order to get him into the ambulance. Last I heard, they put him in a medically-induced coma until the swelling went down in his brain. From what I’m told, the son-of-a-bitch is lucky to be alive.”

One of the reasons I willingly took this low-paying job with shit for hours? It breaks my heart when kids like this come through the system. They aren’t given a chance in hell from the very start. “Does this kid have a record?”

“A handful of petty thefts, several misdemeanor assaults. From what I’ve gathered so far, he grew up an only child in Texas, moved to the city four years ago with his father. Mom’s out of the picture. Hasn’t ever been in a detention center or the foster care system.” He pauses, letting out a deep breath. “But you’ll want to tread lightly with this one, Brooke. He’s close friends with Ryker Blackwood. Not sure how far King Marty’s umbrella of protection will reach with this kid, but you don’t want his chumps paying you a visit.”

Having grown up on the South Side, witnessing firsthand the wrath of King Marty, I take the warning seriously. And the reputations of Ryker Blackwood and friends reach far beyond the shady streets of the South Side. It’s common knowledge that the “South Town Players” (or STPs as the kids at their high school call them) aren’t to be messed with, though some are dumb enough to try.

“What’s his name, Sheriff?”

“Liam Rooker.”

Rolling my eyes, I nod to myself. Of course it would be him. He’s known for having the most outrageous behavior of the STPs. A client once told me she was kicked out of a class with Liam for giving him a hand-job during lecture. The next time she met with me, she was in tears because Liam was suspended for fucking a cheerleader in the locker room. The stories I’ve heard about the little punk since I started working for the county are endless.

“Okay,” I concede. It’s not like I have any other choice. “Once the courthouse opens, I’ll get a hearing set up, and call you back with the time.”

After ending the call, I shower and throw the only suit jacket I own over a white blouse paired with black dress pants, and head into the office. By seven, I start calling as many contacts as possible before his emergency placement hearing mid-morning. It initially takes a shit-ton of coffee to get me going, but with everything I learn about my client, I’m more determined than ever to help. The poor kid has had an even rougher go than I did by the sounds of his injuries.

When the people who brought you into the world treat you like shit, you eventually start to believe it’s true, and lash out at the world as a result. But I left the neighborhood when I was his age, and earned my way through college with academic scholarships and grants so I could one day help kids like myself. I’d like to believe there’s hope for Liam too.

* * *

My glasses slide down the bridge of my nose as I race down the hallway. Right after Liam’s hearing, the sheriff called to let me know Liam was released, and he was being transported to my office building. Of course traffic from the courthouse was a beast thanks to a five-car pileup. To make it even more enjoyable, the heater recently went out on my ancient coupe. With the intense hours I’ve been pulling, I haven’t had time to arrange for a mechanic. If I could get my hands on a rent-controlled apartment, maybe I would be able to afford a newer car. Or buy stench-free furniture from somewhere other than the second-hand store. Or fix my stove so I can use the burners and not just the oven.

I finger the charm on my sterling silver bracelet, wondering if I’ll ever catch a break, or if I’ll always be forced to give up the things I want to focus on survival.

My pity-party goes out the door when I enter the interview room and meet the dark, dangerous smolder of the battered teenager waiting.

“Teenager” seem a ridiculous term for the attractive young man slouched behind the table, green and purple bruising marbling the puffy skin beneath his left eye, confident smirk pushing his full lips into a deeply-set dimple, small gauge earrings, strong jaw stubbled with at least a full day’s growth. If his birthdate hadn’t just been mentioned in court, or I hadn’t heard stories of the infamous senior, I’d think I was staring at a grown-ass man.

Liam Rooker is the type who can easily be described as beautiful without taking away from his masculinity. Dark sandy hair styled in a subtle faux hawk, cutting green eyes, the kind of toned body you’d see featured in a male review (not that I’ve been to one aside from a friend’s bachelorette party), he’s more aesthetically pleasing than a famous work of art. An involuntary shiver taps against my spine with the sight of his gray t-shirt splattered with blood, stretching somewhat too tightly across his curved chest and thick arms. The start of a large anchor tattoo snakes up his left bicep.

When he tilts his bruised face and smirks, green gaze still locked with mine, I realize I’ve been staring at him way too long.

“See something you like, babydoll?” His voice is as smooth as dark chocolate and sexy as sin. One thick eyebrow cocks toward the ceiling as he pops an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

For a horrifying second, my knees tremble and I’m sure they’re going to give out. Who the hell reacts that way to the crude suggestion of a high schooler? A twenty-three-year-old who is all alone except for an occasional stray cat, and hasn’t been laid in far too long.

Running my fingers over my sleek ponytail, I shake off the inappropriate reaction. I’m not about to put my career on the line by entertaining his crude flirtation. “My name’s Brooke, and you can’t smoke in here.” I reach across the table, intending to pluck it from his lips. “In fact, you’re too young to be smoking, period.”

His thick hand clamps around my wrist. As he studies the heart charm between his fingers like he wonders how much he could get for it at a pawn shop, the electric charge of his touch zaps all the way down to my toes.

Tingling through my center.

Doing nearly the same job as my battery-operated lover.

Green eyes fall on mine, dilating to the size of saucers. They’re clear and vibrant, surrounded by a thin line of gold, evoking images of a grassy field on a sunny day. It’s not something you’d expect to see with a kid like him, especially considering his injuries. They’re shockingly beautiful despite the lifetime of pain and disappointment hidden behind them.

He leans in until he’s uncomfortably close. I’m assaulted with an oddly pleasant odor of nicotine, sweat, and cologne. His heavy gaze flickers down to my mouth like he’s going in for a kiss. I hold my breath, shocked when I realize just how badly I want him to do it.

Then he wets his thick lips and meets my shining eyes. “Wasn’t plannin’ on lightin’ it…Brooke.”

Oh. My. God.

My name on that beautiful mouth. He may as well be probing his tongue into my center the way it’s throbbing, starved for more.

Get a grip! He’s a minor!

I pull away from him and readjust my black frames, surprised they’re not fogged over. Clearing my throat, I settle into the chair across from him, grateful for the added distance. Either they’ve cranked the heat in here, or my body’s growing increasingly heady as an aftereffect of his touch.

“I’ve been assigned as your social worker,” I tell him, folding my hands and setting them on the table between us. It’s the only way I can be sure they won’t visibly shake when I meet his amused stare. “Want to tell me in your own words why you’re here?”

He plucks the cigarette from his full lips and tucks it behind one ear. Every movement he makes is slow and deliberate, seeping with confidence. One shoulder lifts as he holds my gaze. “Got tired of my old man’s shit.”

“Is he the one who gave you that black eye?”

Lips quirking, he chuckles. “What do you think?”

“I think that based on your medical records, you’ve been through a lot of bullshit.”

“You allowed to swear around me like that, babydoll?”

Holy hell. I know I should be offended, but the nickname sounds sinfully scandalous as shit in his husky voice. Chills ripple through me as I hold his hard stare, unwilling to cave. I can take the attitude. I expect it, really. He wouldn’t be a South Side kid otherwise.

But why does he have to be so damn hot? Why must my body react to him like a deformed camel, desperate for another hump?

Focus, Brooke. Now’s not the time to display a lack of professionalism.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, tugging at the neckline of my shirt. “Are you still in pain?”

His brow lifts again as he tilts his head. “I’d feel a helluva lot better if you’d come a little closer so I can bend you over the table and yank on that ponytail.”

“Liam!” His name comes out with a deep groan, mistakenly sounding a lot like passion. A humiliated part of me wants to crawl under the table and hide until he decides to leave, or turns eighteen, whichever comes first. “You can’t speak to me like that!”

“Why not? You have a boyfriend or something?” His tongue smooths over his lips and he smiles maniacally, appearing aroused by my reaction. “Or is it because I’m making your panties wet?”

“Stop. You’re a minor, for shit’s sake!”

“Not for much longer,” he answers with an exaggerated wink.

I jump to my feet and head for the door. It’s urgent that I evade this kid’s prodding. Maybe I can convince my supervisor to take the case. She’s over sixty, homely as hell, and as stern as a nun in a Catholic school. Liam wouldn’t have as much fun messing with her. Would serve the little shit right for making me think things that are both illegal and highly immoral.

“Where you goin’?” he calls out behind me, humor heavy in his tone.

With heat rising in my chest, I push my glasses up before glancing over my shoulder. “I’m going to run to the mall…get you something clean to wear. What size are you?”

“Nine. Inches,” he answers, his tone bursting with pride.

I turn with my arms crossed, waiting for him to laugh. The way his eyebrows rise in challenge, I’m scared he’ll insist on proving it.

“This is serious shit! You almost killed your father this morning! If he hadn’t been so belligerent with the cops, or they hadn’t seen your injuries, it’s likely you would’ve been spending tonight behind bars!”

“Exactly,” he snarls, stabbing the table with his finger. “They’re going to haul my ass to juvie. So why are you busting my balls, offering to buy me new Nikes, Brooke?”

“You’re not going to juvie. There was an emergency hearing while you were in the hospital, and I convinced the judge to release you under my supervision. I have the perfect placement for you. He’s—”

“No fucking foster homes!” For the first time since I entered the room, his expression darkens enough that I feel the need to take a step back. With all I really know about Liam Rooker beyond heresay and a handful of reports, he could be a sociopath working his way toward a goal of becoming a serial killer. The kid shot his own father. I should be afraid…terrified.

Instead I feel the insane urge to wrap my arms around him. I’m starting to get the impression that he wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with himself if someone showed a kind hand.

Popping the unlit cigarette back between his lips, his voice lowers when he mutters, “People like you have no clue what goes on in those goddamned places.”

Except I do know. More than a person should. “I wouldn’t place you anywhere unsafe.” I lift my hand between us in a calming gesture and give him the most raw, honest expression I can muster. “This guy’s a personal friend.”

He lets out a barking laugh before leaning over the table. “You mean ‘personal’, like in the biblical sense?”

“Enough!” I screech, pounding a fist on the table.

We both flinch. Liam, only a fraction. His cracked lips draw into a firm line as I realize my mistake. How could I raise my voice to him after his dad used him as a punching bag?

Heart slipping down to my worn ballet flats, bile slithers up my throat. I take great pride in my work, wanting to make a difference for disadvantaged kids to make up for the system that once failed me. Wrapping my pounding hand over my forehead, I stare at my dangling bracelet. Truth is, I suck at making the right choices.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It’s just that I want to help, and you’re not making it very easy.”

“No sweat,” he answers in a much quieter voice.

I glance up to find him staring at the ceiling like he’s attempting to count the pinholes. Dropping my shoulders forward, I release a long sigh. I’ve already screwed this intake all to hell. May as well go for gold. “Wanna go outside to smoke?”

Surprise sparks in his beautiful eyes when they return to mine. “Yeah?”

I nod. I could use one myself if I hadn’t given up the expensive habit in college. “Come on,” I say, opening the door and motioning for him to join me. “As much pain as you must be in, you’ve earned it. Just don’t tell my boss I let you do it. I have a steep rent to pay.”

Suddenly 6’2” of mass looms over my 5’7” stature, threatening to swallow me whole. A savage shiver ripples through me before I clutch the doorframe. Liam grabs my elbow like I’m about to face-plant on the tile. I lean into him, not so sure I won’t.

“Careful, babydoll,” he whispers, full lips a half inch away from my earlobe. Despite my best shot at willpower, I become lost in his mystical scent. The way his hard body radiates warmth onto mine. Those beautiful green eyes swimming with lust. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

The double entendre doesn’t go unnoticed. I shake him off like it had, leading him out through the office and up the back stairwell toward the parking ramp. By the time we’ve reached our destination, my pulse returns to a steady beat, and I’m no longer vibrating with need.

Though the fifth floor’s uncovered and does little to stop the cold March wind from whipping around us, we’re given complete privacy since no one hardly ever parks this high up. Once it occurs to me what this means, I trip over my own feet. It’s too private of a place to be with a horny teenage who could very likely make someone as destitute for sex as myself come in record time.

Oblivious to my frozen state, Liam makes himself at home on the ledge, dangling one foot over the side while holding his cigarette over a cheap lighter. His eyes penetrate me as he inhales, holding it in a moment before forcing it out through his nose like a bull. I fight back the urge to lean into him and breathe in his essence mixed with nicotine. Since I gave the habit up, it’s normally a turn off with guys. With Liam, however, it’s hot as shit.

“What’s your story?” He squints as if the answer’s written somewhere on my face. “Aren’t you a little young to be supervising delinquents like me?”

“I’m twenty-three,” I blurt, surprised by how much I'm at ease now that we’re no longer inside my place of work. It’s also as if we’re suddenly on common ground, like I no longer have any authority over him. He’s treating me like…a human. Not okay. “I started working here when I was twenty-one.”

“Aren’t we ambitious.” He laughs in a deep, rolling sound, taking another drag while motioning to my hair. “Based on how tight you’ve tied that ponytail, it doesn’t surprise me. You probably weren’t anything like a normal twenty-one year old who only cares about finding the best clubs.”

Presumptuous asshole. What does he know about clubbing? With a deeply set frown, I once again run my hand over the sleek ends of my ponytail. “I don’t see what my hair has to do with anything.”

“You need to let it down.” Another stream of smoke shoots from his nostrils. “Allow yourself to have a good time for a change.” His eyes dart off into the distance. “And for the love of fuck, quit palming it like that. I’m trying like hell to control myself over here, and that’s not helping.”

I glare him down, hoping to appear offended by his assumption rather than curious if he’s really turned on. In reality, he nailed my personality. Since I started working for the county, I’ve played it safe and avoided drinking in public, opting instead for a glass or two of wine in the privacy of my own four walls. Part of the reason is due to the fact that my clients frequent bars, although most of them avoid anything on the north side. Most of all, I’m terrified that I’ll be forced to interact with random men who want to give me more than a stiff drink.

How is it a seventeen-year-old can see right through me in mere minutes the way my peers can’t? I’ve spent months dating reserved guys who assumed I was something else. No one’s ever made me this self-conscious about my appearance, either. The way his beautiful eyes keep sizing me up, I may as well be standing here naked. Before long, my nipples draw tight beneath his gaze and my skin prickles with excitement. Then a gnawing ache builds between my legs—one I’m not sure I’ve ever felt with any guy.

Sex is another thing I’ve avoided. It’s too intimate. Too complicated.

And it’s certainly not happening with a minor. A client.

“You should give my friend a chance,” I say, crossing my arms over my sensitive breasts. “Jordan’s a good man. We go way back. He’s not a licensed foster parent, but I pulled some strings to make him an emergency guardian. He already agreed to take you in. I trust him more than I trust anyone else.” I eye him thoughtfully, huffing through gritted teeth. “Don’t make me send you to a juvenile center, Liam. You don’t belong with those delinquents.”

His brows raise in question. Every time he makes a facial expression, his bruised eye contorts, reminding me of the hell he’s been through. “How do you know?”

I inhale a shaky breath, fingers itching to run over the ends of my ponytail. Guys like Liam Rooker don’t tolerate bullshit. They’ve seen the worst in people, and they’re all to aware not everyone can be trusted. The only way he’ll believe that my empathy is genuine is if I lay down all the cards I’m willing to reveal without becoming too exposed.

“Because I know your type,” I tell him, resisting the urge to add, I was one myself. “You don’t always abide by the law, but you’ll do what’s necessary to survive.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

Because there’s hope for you. I don’t want to see another kid from the old neighborhood get sucked into this way of life simply because no one gave you a chance.

Sucking in a shallow breath, I shrug. “It just…is.”

While taking a long drag of his smoke, his bruised gaze studies me until a warm flush spreads across every inch of my skin. Until I’m ready to submit to him and do whatever he asks. I’m so out of my damn mind that I’d let him use me in whatever way he desired until I collapsed from exhaustion.

Smoke passes through his thick lips before they press together. “If I agree to stay with this friend of yours, what will I get in return?”

“W-what?” I stutter, assuming the implications of his request to mean something inappropriate. “You’re getting a safe shelter out of the deal. That should be more than enough.”

He drops the cigarette on the pavement and hops off the ledge, crushing what’s left of the filter with a combat boot. Then he storms toward me, taking my face in the palm of his hand. Before I’m able to stop myself, I lean into his touch, feeling as if it’s the one thing I’ve been missing my entire adult life. He rests his body on mine, his raging erection taut against my stomach. A quiet moan slips through my gritted teeth.

In this moment, I’m extremely aware of the intense connection I share with his misplaced soul. As products of the South Side. As kids who were cast aside by their creators. We’re both…lost.

The playful act is gone as clear green eyes search mine, overcome by a grave expression. “I wanna know, Brooke. How will you return the gesture?”

I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I had the power to become invisible. What the hell is this kid’s game? What’s he going to accomplish from making me all wet and achy? Something to beat off to later when he’s alone?

“What are you asking for?” I whimper. “I have nothing to offer you outside of my position with the county. And even that’s not much.”

It’s the truth. I’ve been through my own hell and back enough to last five eternities. I’m penniless and tired. Broke from a defective system. Weary from going up against those in charge who don’t give a damn about kids like us. Exhausted by trying to survive, and live a decent life.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he whispers, his smoky breath hot on my lips. His beautiful eyes dance back and forth between mine, drawing my nipples even tighter. “One day down the road, I’ll need something from you. Doesn’t matter what or when, just know it’s coming. Are you willing to give me that?”

And that’s when the truth finally clicks into place. This seventeen-year-old isn’t hot for me. He’s been toying with my emotions all this time, hoping to get me worked up enough to promise that I’ll one day grant him a favor. He wants to insure that there’s a responsible adult on his side. Kids from the South Side think everyone’s out to get them, and they’re absolutely right.

Someone who endures regular beatings from his old man doesn’t trust anyone outside of his tightly knit circle. He’s looking for an olive branch.

I’m pathetic as hell for thinking this was about anything else. There’s an entire high school filled with female asses in their prime at his disposal. What would he want with me?

Dropping my shoulders, I dip my chin twice with a slow, hesitant nod.

He releases my face, taking a step back. Then he throws me a flirty smile, followed by a wink. “Guess I’ll give this friend of yours a try.”

Hallelujah. As soon as I can get this jailbait out of my hair and placed into a safe home, I’ll be able to breathe without worrying whether or not I’ll go to Hell for soaking through my underwear in his presence.

The day Liam Rooker is taken off my caseload can’t come soon enough.