Page 59 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
“So if you live with him, is he like your sugar daddy?”
She crunched up her nose. “I hate that term.”
“This from the girl who prefers the word ‘whore’ to ‘escort.’”
She laughed. “It’s for the same reason. Girls want to act all uppity, but it’s all the same.”
“Colin is like my sugar daddy, you think?”
She shook her head at me—not “no,” but more like it didn’t matter. “You did the right thing. We all make deals to get what we need. Everyone has a price.”
Colin had once said the same thing to me. Everyone did, and I suppose it was a small comfort that mine was high. Oh, not as high as Shelly’s, especially not in terms of hard cash, but choosing me with all my issues, taking in a little girl, spending time with us, that all counted for a lot.
And even when I tried to box it into a neat little agreement, it didn’t fit. He could get straight sex from Shelly or someone like her, or just one of those other girls at the club. No, somehow he actually liked me. And I liked him right back, despite his gender. Fucking complications, feelings.
Shelly handed me one of the mugs she’d been preparing.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“Anything,” she said.
“They’ve been in contact with Andrew. I need you to find out where he is.”
Chapter Seven
An hour. That’s how long I’d been in bed staring at the ceiling while Colin was downstairs, “finishing up a few things.”
My thoughts were not friendly company tonight.
Rick’s accusations stung. More information than I’d wanted, and yet less than I really needed to act on. I wasn’t in a position to have any leverage with Colin.
And while I was glad that I’d cleared the air with Shelly, our conversation had dredged up more memories. What I’d told Colin was true; I’d sat there, almost comatose, when Andrew had driven me home.
The weight of what had happened, of what Andrew had done, had sat between us like another passenger in the car. I hadn’t dared look at him, afraid I’d see the face of my friend masking a violent stranger. Or maybe I was more afraid that Andrew—sane, safe Andrew—had returned and I’d have to deal with his horror at his own actions.
Before we had even slowed to a stop, I bolted out of the car and ran into my house. I wasn’t sure how long I lay there on my bed. Movies showed rape victims rushing to take a shower, to wash it all away, but I just lay there. As if the water would make it real. Or maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, there’d be nothing left. I already knew the important things could never be rinsed off. The shame, the fear. The pain. So it was better not to feel.
I might have stayed there forever, slowly withering away, only found two weeks later when my dad returned from his route. But Shelly had come.
She’d taken one look at my torn clothes and discolored wrists, and she’d known. God, the horror of that, of someone else knowing about that dark moment, was like another thrust of the rape.
“Who did this?” she’d asked.
I couldn’t tell her. I’d seen the way she looked at Andrew when she thought I wasn’t looking. The way she invited him to everything, the way she asked after him if I’d seen him without her. I hadn’t even been able to tell her that he liked me, that he had asked me out, again and again. How could I tell her this?
As it turned out, I didn’t have to.
My silence gave it away. “No,” she’d gasped.
But she’d brought something new to the table: anger.
Anger was good. I felt it burble in me now, hot springs of wrath. Manipulative. Controlling. Asshole. This had started about Andrew, but now it was about Colin.
Why did Colin have to force things? Well, I answered my own question there. Because I’d told him no, repeatedly. To men, no just meant make me.
I had wanted Colin, but by taking away my choice, he’d degraded me as much as Andrew had. Colin hadn’t even had to do it, because I’d needed more money than I could make at the bakery. Because of Andrew. Andrew, who pushed me for custody and then disappeared. Andrew, who Colin had spoken with, but not me.
Was it possible Colin had used Andrew the same way he’d used Rick—to try and force my hand into coming to him? No, that seemed beyond even him. Still, though, the lines had utterly blurred. We’d moved from shades of gray into hot mess.
