13

ELLIOT'S SMELL IS FADING from the hoodie he gave me, and more than anything, I want it to stay.

The scent of his laundry detergent whisks me away from the underground parking lot I'm in. It's freezing, but I don't want to walk in that blizzard anymore. When Elliot texted me earlier, asking me to go over to his house again, I wonder if he had any clue about where I really am. I wonder if he has any idea at all about who I really am.

Shivering, I hug myself tighter. There is that Dylan guy—he told me if I'm ever desperate, I can go to his place to crash. He's all right and he has a car, but the problem is, he'll expect sex. I've never said no to him before, and in the face of rejection, people tend to show their ugliest sides. I don't need to find out if Dylan has one.

Instead, I dream about a warm place to stay or a couch to sleep on, or a floor next to a fireplace, under a Christmas tree, maybe with a boy at my side, one who doesn't want to use me for anything, who just wants to know me.

Is Elliot in bed right now? Does he ever think about me there? I admit it, the more I'm exposed to him, the more I like him.

It all seems so childish. I can't be worrying about some guy right now; I need to find a more stable source of income. Busking is okay, but I'm lucky if I make thirty dollars a night, and that's not enough to get me on my feet. Like an idiot, I spent some of my money adding texts to my phone so I could talk to Elliot. Like a slightly lesser idiot, I printed off some resumes to hand out to shops, hoping to find someone who will pay me under the table.

My resume is all lies.

Fake Lucy is eighteen, has serving experience, and graduated high school.

Real Lucy doesn't even know her social insurance number.

I hate doing it; the lying, the begging for a chance. When I'm actually eighteen, things will be different. I just need a few more months. When I have the money, I'll be able to build my own shelter for other people like me. With proper security, so no one has to feel unsafe.

Not wanting to think about reality anymore, I close my eyes and stuff headphones in my ears. Only one works and it's all crackly, but I listen to Iron Maiden. The heavy guitar riffs are an untainted nostalgia for me, no trauma attached, only visions of the past year I've spent on the streets. Everything before that was dictated by Slater; what I ate, what I listened to, where I slept. He owned me.

As hard as things get out here, I'll always be grateful for what I have as long as Colton Slater isn't anywhere near me.

When footsteps on gravel echo, I tug out my headphones. Two shadows emerge from the entrance. They could be workers, or cops, or worse—street kids. Not one's like Hal and Chay, the kind you don't want to run into.

If I get up and run, they'll see me, so I sink into the wall. Please don't notice me. Please don't notice me. Two female voices scrape the silence. A broad-shouldered girl stomps in with a tall, pole-like one at her side. My stomach drops. Not these two. On quivering knees, I stand, because there's no way they'll ignore me. Run. I have to run. But I know them. Bev's massive and Rosie's quick.

I'm screwed.

"Hey!" Bev shouts.

I grab my stuff and bolt, but the only exit is behind them. A tremendous weight smashes into me and pain shoots through my spine as I'm thrown into the jagged wall. Bev presses her hand to my chest so hard my ribcage might crack. Her black-painted lips curl in a devious smile, her piercings gleaming in the sickly yellow light of the lot. Rosie slinks up behind her. Chalky, scaly skin, stringy blonde hair—she hasn't changed a bit. Fear pounds through me, but I won't dare show it.

"I can't believe it!" Rosie's voice is shrill. "Lucy, Lucy! You're a missing woman, you know that?"

Bev drops me from the wall, but keeps me cornered. "Yeah, Slater's been looking for you."

His name is venom; it poisons my insides and makes me sick. I should have known this place wasn't safe. I should have seen this coming. Slater is rarely in town anymore, but he's still a major drug supplier and people know him. Everyone on the streets knows him.

"Don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Yeah, you do." Bev chuckles, deep and throaty.

"Bev," Rosie whispers, "we should take her."

Bev's eyes trail up my body. "Nah, it's too much trouble. We've got nowhere to put her."

"But Slater would totally reward us!"

I clench my fists. "If you touch me, he'll kill you."

They both laugh.

"Yeah, right," Bev says. "Word is, he wants to kill you."

"Well, what should we do?" Rosie asks.

"Nothing. Isn't our business. But let's check what's in the bag."

"No!"

Bev yanks the straps of my backpack, but they're tangled in my hands and I won't let go. My body jerks forward. She's too strong. I'm powerless. The strap rips and the contents of my backpack scatter the tarmac: my flannels, two pairs of jeans, my underwear. Buttons, a lighter, my toothbrush, three packs of ramen noodles. Finally, my wallet tumbles to the pile.

That money's all I have left—it's all I have, I need it more than they do. I can't let them take it. I have to try, but I'm so weak, I don't stand a chance. I dive at Bev anyway, snatch the wallet, and get a knee to my stomach that knocks the breath from my lungs. When the clips of my violin case unclick, everything slows. Rosie pulls it out, smiles at me, then smashes it off the concrete. It splinters into a million little pieces. Before I can scream, Bev grabs my shoulders and sends me hurling to the ground. A sharp kick pierces my gut and it burns.

Kick. Kick. Kick. I spit blood on the tarmac. Kick. Kick. Kick.

I don't feel pain anymore, only a smoldering heat, and then nothing. Bev's voice resonates around me.

"You're a runt, Pembroke. Don't forget that."

Footsteps clap the ground, and everything goes black.