The first time I laid eyes on my new stepmom, I thought she was a MILF. She had the doe eyes, shoulder-length blonde curls, massive tits, and bouncy ass of every MILF that starred in my favorite pornos. I resisted all of twelve hours before rubbing one out to the thought of fucking my new stepmom from behind. After that shameful first session, which lasted all of six minutes, I vowed to never think of Veronica Hawksworth—no, Ainsworth now—in that way again. Except I broke that solemn vow the very next day, then the next day after that…until every single damn night, I couldn’t fall asleep unless I’d pictured her naked first, bent over the kitchen counter.

Teenage lust. That’s what it was. That’s what I kept telling myself. I was sure it would pass when I hooked up with Cassie Sullivan. She was younger than Nica. Hotter than Nica. Her pussy was probably tighter than Nica’s. But she wasn’t Nica.

For six, maybe seven months, Nica never suspected a thing. She treated me with respect but stayed out of my way. I went to school during the day, so we only ever saw each other around dinnertime. Dad was rarely home because he was busy with his campaigning. Nica made shitty dinners that tasted worse than canned dog food, but I scarfed it down anyway because I didn’t know how to cook, and because eating dinner with her was the only time I spent with her. Usually, after dinner, I’d load up the dishwasher and she’d go read in the sitting room. I’d then go upstairs, sometimes rub one out, then drown myself in video games until one in the morning. It went that way for months. Months, before I even had the courage to smile at her. I was so nervous that she’d see through me, down to my darkness, my twisted imagination.

If she suspected anything, she never let it show. She never flirted with me. Never said anything that could’ve been misconstrued in any way. I thought she wasn’t interested. I looked good for seventeen going on eighteen, but I didn’t really work out. I didn’t have abs, or a nice ass, or anything really that made me a better catch than the rest of the male population. But I did have a sense of humor, and I was easy to talk to.

The first time we had a real conversation, it was about something trivial, like the Mets. Or maybe it had been about the weather, even. I’d cracked a joke, and she’d smiled for the first time in months. I could see the loneliness etched on her face. Sometimes she spent weeks sleeping alone in the master bedroom because Dad traveled so much. No young bride deserved that kind of treatment. I was used to the traveling. In fact, I relished the days Dad was gone because those were the only glimpses of freedom I ever got living under his thumb. But Nica…she was miserable. Bored, too. She never had many friends, and now that she’d moved to Ashland, she had no one. Dad isolated us in a gilded cage so he could control us. I didn’t know it then, but he was cutting off our support system so we were forced to rely on him for everything.

He never treated Nica the way he treated me though. She was his precious flower, and I was his punching bag. Nica didn’t know at first. I never told her. We shared neutral conversations, terrible meals, and banal neighborhood gossip with one another for months.

Until the day Dad beat me within an inch of my life and threw me down two flights of stairs.

Somehow, it took bloodshed to open up the lines of communication between us.

It took four broken bones for Nica to feel something other than apathy towards her new stepson.

It took ten stitches for Nica to realize the monster she’d married had rained down almost seven years of unimaginable abuse on his own son.

It took a shiner the size of a golf ball to convince Nica that Dad was the villain, and I, the victim.

After that, instead of being frightened, instead of running away, Nica became nicer to me. She made more effort to cook me healthier meals. She changed my dressings and cleaned my wounds. She healed me. And somehow, at some point, stilted conversations became fluid ones. Stolen glances became heated ones. Platonic hugs became passionate embraces.

And we fell in love.

Growing up motherless made me believe I was incapable of love. I’d always believed that my stone heart would never soften again for anyone.

That I’d sooner cut it out and toss it in a dumpster before I handed it over to another human being.

Before Nica, I’d slept my way through half the girls in my senior classes and never felt towards them a fraction of what I felt for Nica.

Nica made me believe.

Nica and I made plans.

Nica and I wanted to run away.

Nica was leaving him, my dad.

Then she got pregnant. Of course she told Thomas it was his. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure who the real father was.

In my heart of hearts, I knew it was mine. I pampered Nica because I always believed that she was carrying my child. While Dad thought I was unusually excited about the imminent birth of my new half sibling, I was actually thrilled about the imminent birth of my child.

I promised Nica I’d never be like my dad. I promised Nica I would love our baby with everything I had. I promised I’d look after our family, and by God, we’d make the greatest family in the world. Nica, me, and the baby.

Dad stole that future from me. He stole everything from me, as he always did.

* * *

The gangly boy with blond dreadlocks stubbed out his cigarette. “Where you from, boy?”

“Does it matter?” I asked, wrapping the threadbare blanket around myself. My teeth chattered from the cold, and I desperately wanted to get closer to the fire. A fine drizzle made my hair damp, and my eyelashes heavy. My eyelids sagged; my corneas so dry it felt like they’d been coated in sand.

“If you want to stay with us, you better start talking,” someone else said. Some ginger dweeb who didn’t look a day over thirteen. Who did he think he was?

“I was born in Ashland. Then moved to Northbridge,” I grumbled. “Listen, I don’t want to tell nobody my life story, all right? I just need a place to stay for the night.”

“Why should we let you stay here?” the gangly boy demanded, hands folded across his chest. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Not like you own the place,” I said, gesturing to the dump. Abandoned cars, scrap metal and used needles littered the ground. “Public property, isn’t it?”

“Actually, it’s not. This is The Turning Place, and you’re trespassing,” Ginger corrected. “Now scram.”

“There’s nothing for miles. Cut me some slack,” I grumbled, holding my hands out to the fire. “I’ll leave first thing.”

“You deaf, man? Billy said scram,” Gangly Boy threatened. He looked like he was younger than me, but with his face so filthy, it was impossible to tell.

“Or what?” I countered. “You gonna beat me up?”

“Nate over there is crazy as fuck. If I sic him on you, he’ll probably stab you with one of those needles,” Gangly Boy said. “Go back home, loser. You’re not one of us.”

“I have nowhere to go back to,” I mumbled. “I got kicked out.”

“What for?” Ginger, a.k.a Billy, asked, suddenly very interested.

“Oxy,” I lied. “Dad didn’t want a druggie under his roof.” It wasn’t even close to the truth, but I hoped they’d buy my bullshit.

“We ain’t got Oxy here,” Ginger said. “Move on, buddy. Maybe try your luck in Glen County.”

“I’m not looking for Oxy,” I insisted. “I just want somewhere to crash for the night. I’ve been walking ten hours in the sun.”

Gangly Boy’s features softened a little. “Touch my shit and I’ll cut your dick off,” he said. “You can crash on that couch over there.” He gestured to a ratty green couch, which was torn open in several places. All the stuffing inside was covered in sawdust and spilling from the seams.

“Thanks. What’s your name?” I asked. “I’m Ryder.”

“Call me Evan,” Gangly Boy said. “That’s Nate, Billy and Pete.”

“‘Preciate the help, Evan,” I said. I held out my hand, but Evan didn’t shake it. Instead, he wiggled into a gray sleeping bag, and turned his back toward me.

“Just for the night,” Nate reminded me, eyes furrowed. “Then you leave, first thing.”

I nodded. “Got it.” I walked toward the damaged upholstery and sank into it. The cushions gave off a funky smell, but they were surprisingly soft. I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy couch. So many things had happened in the past twenty-four hours, I was probably still in shock. I tried to erase the memory of my dog’s corpse, but how could I? I tried to forget Dad’s furious expression, his cracked knuckles and the feel of his boots against my sternum…but how could I forget?

And where the fuck was Nica now? How could I ever find her and tell her what happened?

I had so much shit I wanted to do, but not enough resources and strength to accomplish any of it. Instead, I was relegated to sleeping in a junkyard with a ragtag band of modern-day Lost Boys, a group of misfits probably more fucked up than I was. I had no money, no friends, and no home now. Just a duffle bag full of clothes, and a haphazard goal: to reunite with my pregnant stepmom, and pray to God Dad hadn’t shot her in the head.

Nica and I hadn’t planned on falling in love. I tried so hard to stay away from her. She never came on to me.

We didn’t start an affair because we wanted revenge. We slept together because we were in love. Yes, she was twelve years my senior. Yes, she was my stepmom. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and mine called out to hers. She saw what Dad did to me, and sympathy lit a fire in her she didn’t know how to extinguish. We were two damaged souls caged by the same jailer, and we wanted to run away together. Start over. Live free.

Too bad bliss and happily ever afters were the stuff of nonsense fairytales.

Too bad we were star-crossed from the start.

Too bad, too bad, too bad.

When I woke up the next morning, The Lost Boys threw me a lifeline, and I took it. The first day, they put me through a hazing ritual. Challenged me to rob a convenience store. I’d already robbed an old lady when I hitchhiked over from Northbridge, so cleaning out a G-Mart was a piece of cake. Once I was accepted by the boys, I began earning my keep, and their respect. I paid my dues, and when the time came, they nicknamed me Villain. I was the brooding, sometimes disturbed young man nobody messed with. The man with no past, no future, and no conscience. Nate, Evan, Billy, Pete and I painted the town red for years, and thought we were unstoppable…until Pete got shot by the cops, Billy, arrested, and our gang disbanded, each member looking after themselves. After I left The Turning Place, I never saw them again.