My cheeks heat as Blue studies me. Could she have been any more obvious? I don’t want to give him any ideas. Not that I think he’s struggling for them. No, I can feel him thinking, calculating, weighing what I’ve done every time he sees me.
I don’t even see him cross the room. Suddenly he’s standing right in front of me, his eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”
“God,” I say. “No.”
I’m not sure why I say that when I must smell like I bathed in whiskey. And he doesn’t exactly believe it. If anything his expression becomes more severe. “Are you high?”
“Nooo,” I say, drawing out the word as if that will convince him. Or at least make him stop looking at me. Because it’s uncomfortable in a twisty, hot, itchy way. “I would never do that.”
“Liar.” His voice is mild, but I know he’s not just talking about right now.
“I don’t owe you anything,” I shout. Then I cringe, like he might slap me. Tears sting my eyes. I need to get control of myself, but whatever was in that bottle and that pill, whatever happiness means, I can’t seem to think straight.
“Christ,” he mutters.
“Don’t hurt me.” My voice is small and weak, and I really wish I’d stop saying everything I feel.
He just studies me, judges me. Another man might reassure me. I’m not going to hurt you. But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t lie. We both know he’s going to hurt me, even if he hasn’t yet.
And if I’m really honest, he already has.
“Let’s get you home,” he says instead.
“I don’t need your help.” But when I try to stand and tumble into his arms, I prove myself a liar. He’s strong and firm and warm. Like a bear. I think he’s like a big beautiful bear. And even in my drunken state, even now I know you’re never supposed to run from a bear.
“You can barely stand up, much less walk.” He sounds disgusted. “I can’t believe she got you high knowing you’d have to walk through one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city.”
“We were having a sleepover,” I sniff.
He doesn’t respond to that. Instead he leans me against a wall and finds some clothes in my bag. He holds them out to me. “Get dressed.”
I don’t take them. Clothes seem so complicated. I mean, I’m a stripper. What’s even the point? Taking them off, putting them on. “Why?”
“Because if you go out into the street like that, you’ll start a fucking riot. Now get dressed.”
He shoves the clothes at me, and I catch the shirt while the sweatpants fall at my feet. It’s not that I want to philosophize about clothes right now. It’s just that all the holes and directions seem like a puzzle. And I can’t really bring myself to care. Or stand up straight.
“Christ,” Blue says again, but with more anger. I like that because it seems more honest.
And beautiful. He’s so beautiful when he’s angry.
He takes the shirt back and helps me put it on. Then he puts my legs into the pants and pulls them up.
It takes me a few moments to process that. He just dressed me like a doll. And now he’s talking to me, saying something like, can you walk?
“Duh. Can you walk?”
He shakes his head, but I don’t think he’s saying no. I think he’s frustrated with me. “God, Hannah.”
I flinch, because that’s not my name anymore. I’m Lola now, fierce and sexy. On top of the fucking world, that’s me. Hannah is my old name, the old me. The one who gets pushed around. The one who gets touched.
Like I got pushed around today. Like I got touched.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
“I’ll take you there.”
He doesn’t know that I don’t really have a home. Not one that’s mine. Nothing much has changed after all. Lola’s just a name. She’s not a real person. In the end I’m still dumb little Hannah, with nowhere to go and no one to care.
Except Blue.
Chapter Four
“Did you see the new boy?”
I don’t look up from applying lipstick at the mirror. It’s not my lipstick. I swiped it from one of the older girls before she ran away. It’s also not my mirror. Nothing here is mine except the vacant eyes staring back at me. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
Lucy smirks. “They say he’s dangerous.”
I have a lot of experience with dangerous boys. “I’m not afraid.”
“You will be.” She lowers her voice. “They say he killed another kid at his last home.”
My eyes widen. Okay, that’s new. I’ve been in the system a long time. I’ve been in homes with a lot of strung out, violent kids. But I’ve never met a murderer. “What for?”
A shrug. “Dunno.”
It’s enough of a mystery to propel me to the window. I look downstairs where a maroon town car sits in the driveway. Mrs. Moreno is my caseworker too. She stands with a clipboard, her gray hair frizzy in the summer heat. A boy lounges against the hood of the car, his body relaxed, his expression bored. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and black boots.
Was he wearing the same thing when he killed a boy?
All I can think about is if the blood spattered on his white T-shirt.