Page 6 of Wild (Chicago Underground 4)
“She said she’s thirteen.”
Unexpectedly, my stomach lurched. She wasn’t the youngest I’d seen on the streets, but suddenly she seemed like a baby. I was getting too old for this. How long had it been since I was her age? At least a decade—more. Back then, I’d lived in a fancy house with a princess bed and frilly clothes. I’d earned them.
“So,” I managed to say. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”
“Shelly.”
Her voice was too soft, too kind. Too damned understanding when she didn’t know a single thing.
“You look tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”
I went to sleep just fine, to my regret. The nightmares were like quicksand—the more I struggled, the faster they pulled me under. “I’m fine.”
“We have therapists here. They can—”
“What can they do?” I scoffed. What could they do except make things worse?
“PTSD is not uncommon in women who—”
“Enough.” I took a deep breath, looked away.
Was it true? Did I have PTSD? Maybe. Probably. What did it matter?
When I was in the tenth grade, I tried to seduce my World History teacher into a higher test score. He’d looked at me with shock, which had morphed into that damned understanding I’d learned to despise. Then came the therapists.
At the end, the teacher had been fired, courtesy of good old dad, and my home life got a hell of a lot tougher in retaliation for making trouble. I’d figured out then I was better off alone, and nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.
“You’re breaking the rules,” I told Marguerite.
She made a little sound of resignation. “Okay, we won’t talk about it.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know why you pretend you don’t care.”
So much for not talking. “You should know by now that no one cares about whores.”
“Then why do you do it?” she challenged.
I flashed her my wicked smile. “Getting rid of the competition.”
“Okay, Shelly.” She blew out her breath. “You’re right. I broke the rules.”
I handed her the envelope. Marguerite accepted it with a grim face. Ah, something Ms. Faust and I had in common: taking money from someone we didn’t like. I wondered if it ever got easier for her. Every month I brought a wayward girl to this place. Each time, Marguerite pried another secret from my lips. I wasn’t worried. It would take far too many months, years even, to get them all, and I would never last that long.
“How’s your cop?” Marguerite asked, as if we were two girlfriends shooting the shit.
My heart beat faster, but I donned a mask of polite curiosity. I had mentioned Luke once, offered his services in getting a restraining order for one of the boyfriend pimps. Marguerite had refused, housing the girl until she could move her to another city through her network of shelters. The operation was costly and dangerous but still preferable to dealing with cops. Another thing we shared.
“Haven’t spoken to him in a while.” Unfortunately, the truth. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering what he thought about you getting out.”
She was fishing. No way she could know I had quit or had tried to.
“It’s not really his business,” I said blandly. Not really your business.
She shrugged. “Seemed like you really liked him.”
