Sexy Shorts

I was homeless. I fended for myself on the streets of Emblem Hill. I quickly learned the more I kept to myself the better. I’d been on my own since nine. Don’t get me wrong, when my mom died, I was placed into foster care because no one in my family wanted a Hershey-chocolate skinned, gray-eyed, small-boned orphan. I went through about six cruel homes before I heard on the news about a girl who ran away and was never found again, who later became the queen of Stetonbrook Hall. I decided whether I was a queen or not, I would most definitely be running away to never be found again.

I packed my bags and took every ounce of Bratwurst’s (that’s what I call that thief because of his putrid smell) cash and a good gun with plenty of ammunition. Oh, yes, I know how to shoot – learned when I was about four. Not to mention, how do you think my momma died? Yes, I was there, but no one believes a grief-stricken eight-year-old, so yeah.

Anyway the story isn’t about my traumas. Truthfully, I’m just giving you a little background. So, back to the story; I packed my bags and left. I kept a low profile and ate all manner of disreputable food until I learned that guns weren’t only for people. With so many farms around Emblem’s outskirts, I found plenty of veggies. They never even knew any was missing, and with Trailknot Place being a huge hunting ground not too far from that, I ate plenty of meat. At eleven I was fully self-sufficient.

It is also worth mentioning that I often caught rides with strangers who didn’t know I intuitively had a gift for picking locks right into their trunks. That’s how I got to Emblem Hill. I was originally from Carlton Highground which is a couple thousand miles west of here. Point being, just like the queen, no one ever found me.

I always dressed like a boy too, so that helped. Oh, and I am also gifted with any type of paint brush you give me including a makeup brush. I used to make myself up all the time starting from the age of six, and no one ever tried to take that away from me, not even Bratwurst and Cigarette, his wife who thought my talent would get them drug money. So I took my makeup and face painting stuff with me when I ran. No one had actually seen what I really looked like, not even my foster parents. I wore fake skin lightener and baggy, long-sleeved clothes. I doubt my social worker would have known anyway. She never looked up from her various devices.

I was living very happily by myself. The area over here is much more rural though in a “stay to yourself ignore newcomers lest they keep on showing their faces and mind your own damn business” kind of rural way. Hence why I chose it.

One day I went to a store deeper inside of Emblem. I bought myself all of the necessities and everything I would need. I had long been wearing baggy clothes, but I needed a few new things, so I grabbed some of those too. My only mistake that day was saying “thank you” to the guy who handed me the can of beans I couldn’t reach. I have a deep husky voice that very few people had the pleasure of hearing, but somehow it caught this guy’s attention. He decided to follow me around the store the rest of the day, and I guess he saw me steal the pack of tampons too. I thought he was gone, but when I came outside with my bags he asked me, “Can I give you a ride home?” (which was odd since I was wearing a mustache). I gave him a flat “No” then went on my way.

By this time I was a whopping thirteen years of age… I think. I can legally be married, but obviously that isn’t on my mind. I had missed about eight of my birthdays due to the instability of my life, so I definitely wasn’t thinking about raising a family, attending women’s learning or housewife finishing school, so yeah, it wasn’t happening. I eventually made my way home after ensuring said “pay-attentioner” was out of my hair, or so I thought.

I was chilling inside my little self-renovated cabin. I had put all of my groceries up, reorganized my closet, and was standing completely naked in front of a two feet mirror wiping the last vestiges of cool water from my face when a tap came to my door. I pulled my wig on crooked, slipped on an oversized hoodie, pulled on some boots, grabbed a butchering knife, and went to the door. It was a good thing I had previously fixed my deadbolt, but the window was so flimsy it didn’t matter. “Who is it?” I purposefully croaked. “The owner of this cabin,” a familiar voice answered. I slid down the door and let my head fall against it. Dang it! It was him. Stinking stalker. “Are you going to open the door?”

Dragging myself to a standing position I prepared my apologies. I undid all of the latches and deadbolt and let the door creak open. I forgot I had removed my makeup until he looked me up and down like I was a stranger, surprise lighting on his features. He held out his hand to me. I don’t know if it was because I felt my meager thirteen years, his commanding presence and perfectly muscled body, the look in his eyes, or the fact that he knew I had the knife that made me give it to him, but I did, and that made me feel weak and small. As soon as I gave it to him, he stepped in the cabin and shut the door behind him. Slowly he stepped up to me, and we were standing nearly breast to breast. Well let’s be honest, I was staring at his collar bone, seeing that he was a bit taller than me. He placed his hand on my head and grabbed the crooked monstrosity. A gentle tug and he pulled my wig off letting it fall to the floor. His eyebrows lifted as he muttered a nearly silent, “Woah!” He gave the room a once over and questioningly acknowledged, “So you have been draining my power source and draining the west well, huh?”

Feeling as stupid as ever looking at this caramel-colored god with warm brown eyes, I stuttered out a “Ye...ea…ah.”

“Mmm. How old are you?”

“What day is it?” I sassed.

“February 9th.”

“Thirteen.”

“When is your birthday?” he interrogated.

“Today.” I told him truthfully.

He smiled. It was the most glorious smile I had ever seen in my life. I don’t think anyone had ever smiled at me before without ill intent except for my mother. He strode across the small room and plopped down on my, I mean his, bed. I snatched a pair of lacey underwear from beside his thigh and dropped it behind me flaming from embarrassment when I realized that he could see them behind my booted feet. I swiftly kicked them away and looked down at my outfit. A little gust of winter wind seeped up my hoodie reminding me that I hadn’t bothered with putting on any undergarments. I didn’t know much of anything but street smarts, but that was enough to let me know that I was actually in a very dangerous position. He placed the knife on my nightstand (block of wood) and patted the bed beside him beckoning me to sit, and I joined like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“So what is your name?”

“Cinderella.”

He lifted an eyebrow at me but went on, “My name is Hudson. Why have you been living on your own?”

“I’m an adult,” I proudly retorted while raising my chin defiantly.

“Yeah, as of today, but you’ve been living here for a year or so if my power bill is any indicator.”

I moaned and fell back then popped up to ensure my body was covered. “I don’t have any family, and my foster families weren’t working out, so I live by myself.”

“So you’re a runaway?”

“But you can’t really prove that.” I snapped back.

“Okay. Look I’m not going to report you. Besides, at this point it wouldn’t even matter considering you’re a lady by all rights.” He leaned back and looked around muttering about what needed to be fixed. “I live by myself, and no one bothers me. You live on my property anyway, so why don’t you come live with me? It is cold in here.” Looking at his face I could see he was sincere, and his cheeks were slightly red from the chill. It was cold. I nodded, and that is how I came to live with Hudson.