Chapter 1
The air inside Judith’s Diner always had that heavy, greasy perfume—french fries and scorched beef, like the scent soaked right into your skin and hair. It was packed, as usual, every booth and counter stool claimed by Arberholy’s faithful: couples, familes, teens—all bathed in the diner's warm, greasy glow. Me and Lucus had our corner booth, a plate of onion rings and buffalo wings between us. Grease shimmered on the Formica.
Every girl in here looked like she’d stepped out of a summer catalog—flower-print dresses, sandals, toenails painted baby pink or traffic-cone orange. I clocked all the colors, all the giggles and whispers. I was the sore thumb, the misfit with the icy blond mullet, cat-eye liner winged sharp enough to cut, my mouth permanently twisted into a mean smirk. Punkrock belly shirt, ripped jean shorts, the same outfit I wore week after week. I was broke as hell, living out of the same thrift store bag, poorer than a possum under a highway overpass.
Lucus—my boyfriend, my keeper, my problem—sat across from me. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d ever been hungry. White T-shirt stretched over his chest, arms carved with muscle, bald head shining, dark tattoos crawling up his neck and scalp. He looked mean as hell, and that’s what first got me. But it’s easy to get hooked on a snake if you’re cold and lonely. He took care of me, sure, and I paid him back by taking his punches. That was the deal. I’d gotten used to it, or at least that’s what I wanted him to think. Deep down, I was plotting, making my quiet escape plan. But for now, I played the loyal girl, sitting beside him in the “fanciest” spot in our dump of a neighborhood—a joke if there ever was one.
I watched him, eyes half-lidded, and I saw where his gaze went—trailing after some girl walking past, a pretty thing with a blue dress and long brown legs. I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. He saw.
“What is it, girl?” he said, his voice thick with that drawl, syrupy and sharp at the same time.
“Nuttin’.” I shrugged, but honestly, I envied those girls. I wanted a dress like theirs—blue, with white flowers, something soft and dainty. I wanted to feel pretty, wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere other than the inside of Lucus’s fists. But he never gave me money for nice things. Wouldn’t let me work, either. Said his future wife “wouldn’t lift a damn finger.” It was just another leash. Still, I dreamed about that dress, short and bright, the kind of thing that costs more than I’d ever have.
Then, out of nowhere, Lucus slid a tiny box across the table. My heart jumped—I thought maybe, just maybe, this was him trying, finally, to do something right. Maybe jewelry, maybe something that meant something. I reached for it, hands trembling.
“Happy anniversary, Pickly Butt.” He grinned, proud and smug.
Maybe things would change, maybe he’d start to treat me better. I opened the box. It was a cheap charm bracelet, the kind you get at those mall shops that reek of plastic perfume and teenage desperation. I felt my eyes go hot, vision blurring. Anger, sadness, all mixed together. Five years. Five years of this shit, and all I got was a trinket worth less than a tank of gas.
“Tears of joy?” he asked, grinning, clueless.
“Yeah.” My voice was sharp, bitter, a laugh caught in my throat. Sarcastic as hell.
He stood, stretching. “Let’s get out of here. Really celebrate.”
I knew what that meant. He wanted to get laid. What a fucking perfect anniversary. I stood up too fast, dizzy with rage, leaving that stupid bracelet behind. He noticed, but didn’t say a word, just tossed a couple of bills on the table and followed me out. I stomped across the parking lot, gravel crunching under my sneakers, heading for his battered pickup. I leaned against the door, arms folded tight.
Three girls sauntered by, all dolled up, whispering and laughing. One of them stared at me too long. I glared back. “What the fuck you looking at?”
She sneered. “You. Trailer trash.”
I straightened, ready to throw hands, but Lucus stepped between us, gripping my shoulders so hard it hurt.
“Pickly Butt, you forgot your gift.” He held out the bracelet.
The girls snickered at the nickname, and God, I hated that. Lucus just looked confused, then distracted—his eyes roamed their bodies like I didn’t even exist. That made me snarl, a sound low and furious.
“Open the fucking door, Luke,” I snapped, voice shaking, knowing it’d earn me a slap.
The girls wandered off, and Lucus finally unlocked the truck, his stare dark and dangerous. He slid into the driver’s seat, me in the passenger, arms crossed tight. I didn’t care if he was pissed. Let him be pissed. The air between us was thick, electric with anger. Then, without warning, his fist came down across my cheek. Pain flared, my mouth filling with blood. I cradled my face, biting back tears. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But inside, I was breaking. This was normal. This was love, in Lucus’s world.
“You’re an ungrateful bitch,” he spat, voice cold and jagged. “I put a roof over your nappy head, and this is how you act?”
I wiped my mouth, tasting blood and shame. “You look at every girl that walks by. And then you get me a cheap gift. I just wanted real jewelry. We’re not kids. I just want—”
He hit me again, my head slamming against the window. The tears came, hot and silent. I tried to go still, to disappear.
“I’ll beat your ass in this car if you don’t get it together, Bobby Ray. You forget who you’re talking to.” He was breathing hard, eyes wild. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, quick, desperate.
He glared. “You know what I mean. Show me you’re sorry.” He unzipped his jeans, pulled out his rigid dick. My heart sank. This was my life.
—
We pulled up to the trailer, my lips raw, face swollen. Our driveway was a patch of dirt, neighbors too close, everything about our world small and suffocating. Lucus strutted up the porch, unlocked the door, let himself in like a king. I followed, arms wrapped tight around myself. I went straight to the bedroom, peeled off my clothes, pulled on an old t-shirt. I wanted to scrub the night off, wanted to pretend none of it happened. But Lucus crawled in beside me, boxers on, pulling me into his chest.
“You know I love you, right?” he mumbled.
I nodded, silent. I was here because I had nowhere else, because I was broke and stuck. That’s probably why he picked me—easy prey. If I could have left, I would have. Instead, I waited for him to drift off, his snores filling the tiny room like a curse. I slipped out to the living room, curled up on the sofa with Mama’s old blanket—she crocheted it for me before she died, back when she was the only person I trusted. People used to say she looked like my older sister, same sharp jaw, same wild hair. Never knew my dad; Mama said he ran out for milk and never came back. Bullshit, but she wouldn’t tell me more. “Better you don’t know, Bobby.”
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the same thoughts chewing holes through me. Night after night, stuck on repeat. Waiting for a new day that never brought anything better.
—
I woke up the next afternoon, arms stretched overhead, bones aching. It was 1pm. I always slept late—no reason to get up. I did the bathroom shuffle, shit and brush and shower, dug through my clean clothes for something decent. Found my pink fluffy shorts, pulled them on with a white crop top, slipped into my sneakers. I needed a smoke like I needed air.
Lucus was gone—probably at work, maybe hustling weed on the side. He never shared his stash unless he was in the mood. I headed across the street to the Quicky-Mart, which was stuck to a sketchy little massage parlor. Luke called it a “sucky joint,” and he wasn’t wrong.
The bell chimed as I walked in. Mr. Lee was at the register, always keeping one eye on the door and one on the cameras. I slid over, handed him my last ten bucks.
“Hey, Mr. Lee. Pack of Industrials.”
He frowned, counting the bills. “Twelve fifty, not ten.”
I jutted my lip out, gave him my best puppy-dog eyes. “Can I bring it later? Luke’s getting paid today.”
He grunted, eyeing me up and down, lingering a second too long. “Fine. Only because you’re cute.” Then he laughed, eyes landing on my cheek. “You got another mark. Lucas beat you again, huh?”
I snatched the smokes out of his hand, face hot with shame.
I tore open the pack before I was even out the door, desperate for that first drag. Last night played through my mind like a movie I couldn’t turn off. My life. Mom. Everything. My hands shook. The cigarette calmed me, just for a minute. I sat on the curb, staring at my trailer, trying to find something to be grateful for. I had a roof, but I was empty. Hollowed out. Happiness was a language I didn’t speak.
Back inside, I rummaged through the cabinets and the fridge. Nothing to eat. Not even a crumb. I pulled out my phone, called Lucus.
“Lucas,” I said, voice small.
“What?” He sounded annoyed.
“I’m hungry. There’s no food here.”
“What happened to that ten I gave you?”
I hesitated, heart pounding. “Spent it.”
He groaned. “Come on, Bobby! I’m at work. I’ll bring you something in a bit.”
“Mmmkay.” I slipped into my baby voice, the one that usually worked.
He sighed. “Soon.”
An hour later, he stomped in, dropped a bag of thrift store clothes and another of food on the table.
“Got you some shit from the thrift.”
I dug through the clothes. “Thanks.” It wasn’t much, but it was something. I grabbed the burger and fries, scarfed them down. Eating with him was the only time I almost felt normal. Almost happy. He watched me the whole time, eyes heavy.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he finally said. “Didn’t mean to mark you up.”
I hadn’t even realized he did. We didn’t have a mirror. But Mr. Lee noticed.
“It’s just your cheek and lip,” Lucus said. “But you were ungrateful.”
I kept my head down, cleaning up. “I just wanted real jewelry. It was our anniversary. Or to go somewhere nice.”
He bristled. “What’s it matter where I take you? I spent money. That was a nice necklace. That cubic zarinonium shit.”
“It’s zirconium,” I muttered.
“Whatever.”
“You say that like it ain’t cheap.”
He sighed, standing up, towering over me. “You’re ungrateful. Look at you. You don’t do your hair. Dress like a damn gothic goon. Why would I take you anywhere nice?”
“Maybe if you bought me real clothes instead of people’s hand-me-downs. Or paid for a real stylist. But no, I cut my own hair and wear this shit.”
He loomed, fists clenched. “Watch it, Bobby.”
“Or what? You gonna hit me? I’m sick of this shit, Luke. If you want this to work, you gotta do better. No more threats, no more anger. And if you don’t want me working, you better provide.”
He stood there, jaw twitching. For a second, I hoped he’d listen. Then he lunged at me. I ran for the bedroom, tried to slam the door, but he kicked it in, the handle smacking me in the forehead. He didn’t care. He hit me, backhanded me, fists flying.
I hunched over, blood dripping onto my hand. “I’m sorry,” I whimpered, hoping to calm him, but then I heard him undo his belt.
“You need to be taught a lesson, Bobby Ray.” He came closer.
I looked around, desperate. My hand landed on a fork on an old plate. I grabbed it, lunged, stabbed it deep into his thigh—hard enough to make him scream. I grabbed the thrift store bag, my cigarettes, and I ran. Didn’t look back. Not once. He would never touch me again.
