Filfthy (41 page)

I park in front of a vacant pump, and Demi grabs her bag.

“I’m going to get us some wine for tonight.” She points inside and gives me a wink that sends a twitch to my cock.

I fill my thirsty car and grit my teeth when the credit card machine is down. It instructs me to go inside and pay, but there’s a line ten people long.

Guess I don’t have a choice.

All I want to do is go back to my place and lose track of time for a few hours with Demi. She’s the only highlight of this shit-tastic day, and she’s so fucking gorgeous I want to devour her from head to toe.

She needs to be naked, in my bed, her curvy legs wrapped around mine and her nails digging into my ass as I bury my cock inside that perfect pussy of hers all night long.

From outside, I see the top of her head as she peruses the gas station’s fancy wine selection. Pulling my wallet from my pocket, I head inside and get in line.

“Oh, hey,” she says when she sees me. I take the bottle from her hand.

“You can head on out if you want.” I nod to the car.

The line grows shorter when a second checker comes to the front. A couple more people and I’m next.

My cock throbs when I think about what we’re going to be doing in T minus fifteen minutes.

“Okay, I’ll see you in a few.” Demi kisses my cheek and heads out, the bells on the door chiming as she skips through.

But then my stomach drops. For reasons I never could’ve anticipated.

Two more people are ahead of me, but I fish a fifty out of my wallet and slap it on the counter, telling the cashier to keep the change.

I have to get outside.

Now.

D
emi

“
H
ey
. Hey, you.” A woman leaning against the brick façade of the gas station calls after me as I head to Royal’s car.

I turn around, doing a double take. She looks familiar, but I can’t immediately place her. Matte, dark hair frames a round face, and pencil thin eyebrows accent blue, almond-shaped eyes. She wears a lot of makeup, like a woman with secrets for days, and her full lips are bunched into a hidden smirk.

She reminds me of a Bratz doll, pretty by her own standards and looking like she’s completely up to no good.

Stopping and adjusting the purse strap over my shoulder, I stare a little harder and rack my brain.

I know I’ve seen her before . . .

The woman motions me closer. Her knee is bent, her foot pressed against the back of a cage of propane tanks now.

“Excuse me, do I know you?” I ask, stepping closer.

Glancing inside the Conoco station, I see Royal slapping some cash on the counter and rushing to get out the door.

“You don’t know me, no.” She produces a lit cigarette from behind her, tapping the ash on the sidewalk and taking a slow drag. Clear gray smoke curls in front of her face and she laughs. “But we have something in common.”

Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

Royal bursts through the doors, the bottle of my wine under his arm.

“What the hell are you doing here, Pandora?” he asks.

She takes another drag and a couple of steps toward him, blowing a puff of smoke in his face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She smirks. “What, I’m not allowed in Glidden ‘cause all of a sudden you think your fucking cock is too good for me? Running around with this rich bitch now, so you can’t be seen associating with me?”

“Royal, what is she talking about?” I move closer to him.

“This is my boss’s daughter. Pandora.” His jaw clenches when he says her name, and he watches her every move. “We used to . . . hang out. In our free time.”

“Oh,” I say. “
Oh
.”

That’s where I’ve seen her. At the garage the other week.

She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman I imagined Royal with over those lost years. In fact, she’s the opposite of what I ever pictured for him.

I won’t judge him though. Rixton County is slim pickings. All the smart, pretty, ambitious girls always move to Manhattan.

Royal hooks his hand into the crook of my elbow and nods toward the car.

“Let’s go,” he says.

Pandora’s nose scrunches, and she flicks her cigarette, grinding it into a paper and tobacco stump with the scuffed toe of her pleather boots.

“Do you know?” Pandora looks directly at me.

“Do I know what?” I ask.

Royal leads us away from her. But she follows.

“Do you know that he’s a sex offender?” Pandora yells after us. A man heading inside stops, stares, and then continues. A woman pumping gas takes a step closer to her sedan. “That’s right. Your little knight in shining armor is a fucking perv.”

My ears ring, and I can’t bring myself to look at him.

Sex offender?

His hands have explored every inch of my body. His cock has felt me from the inside. His mouth, his fingers, his tongue . . .

My stomach rolls and flips, and I feel a dry heave forming in the base of my belly.

Not to mention the fact that being associated with a sex offender is career suicide when you’re an elementary educator. No one, and I mean no one, wants their child’s teacher to be fucking a sex offender.

For a moment, my disgust fades and everything turns red. My head spins, and my chest thumps. I’m trembling, but I’m not scared.

I’m furious.

No wonder he didn’t want me to know.

No wonder he kept delaying. Distracting. Prolonging.

No wonder my parents want nothing to do with him.

My mind is flooded with every disgusting, sick, and vile assumption it can conjure, and my legs wobble as he leads me to his Challenger and opens the door.

“Get in, Demi. I’ll tell you everything.

R
oyal

{
s
even years ago
}

I
’m barreling
down the highway in my truck, northbound to Saint Charmaine where my fifteen-year-old kid sister spends most of her days getting herself into all kinds of trouble.

Last time I saw Misty, she was strung out on something, showing off a homemade cross tattoo she got from one of her foster brothers. We’re not even religious, but she claimed she’d been having visions.

And the following week, I heard she was expelled from Saint Charmaine High.

The week after that, she was apprehended for shoplifting makeup and liquor from the local Wal-Mart. The store manager let her go, but she earned herself a lifetime ban from store #82746A.

She’s a lost soul, and I can’t blame her.

She’s grown up never knowing the love of a parent. Never having guidance and boundaries and expectations. Never having a family like the Rosewoods take her in and treat her like one of their own.

I know for damn sure I wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for the Rosewoods. They’re the closest thing to an actual family I’ve ever known.

Cranking the window, I let the wind hit my face and glance down to check my phone. I haven’t been able to reach her since I got her distress text earlier.

The only time I hear from Misty anymore is when she’s in trouble, and she needs me to bail her out. And as her older brother, I don’t have a choice. I’m all she’s got.

She has no one.

The state failed her, though no one admits it.

She’s one of eleven foster children in a group home setting in Saint Charmaine, and the foster parents don’t give a rat’s ass what she does. She stays out late and comes home looking like death, and they don’t question it.

As long as they pass their inspections and visits, that’s all that matters.

Meanwhile, they sit back and collect all the benefits they need. Money meant to give her food and shelter, she doesn’t even see. She shouldn’t be as skinny as she is, and she shouldn’t be wearing hand-me-down clothes from the Sears juniors department.

Misty told me once she spends most of her time at her best friend, Sierra’s, house. Her father, Rick, creeps me the fuck out, but Misty said he’s like a daddy to her. And she used that word. Daddy. Like she’s a fucking kindergartener.

Rick’s missing a couple of teeth, and his daily uniform consists of holey jeans and wife beaters, and the dilapidated shit hole he calls home leans to the left, and the paint peels from the siding in thin, curled strips. The yard is more dirt than grass, and the roof sags in the middle. Can’t take care of his shit, but at least he keeps my sister fed and minded, which is more than anyone else in Saint Charmaine has ever done for her.

Misty sent me an SOS text this afternoon when Demi and I were coming back from getting ice cream. The text was our secret code word: FEBRUARY. February was the month we were taken from Mona’s care and separated, and as a code word, February is our way of saying, “I need you. It’s an emergency.”

I’ve always told her to say the word, and I’ll come running. No questions asked.

And that’s what I’m doing.

I pull off on an exit, heart pounding, and head toward Sierra’s house.

I know exactly where it is, because I’ve dropped her off there before when she begged and pleaded and cried for me not to take her back to the foster house. She claimed two of her foster brothers were bullying her, making her show them her tits and trying to sneak into her bedroom at night. She claimed she sleeps with the dresser in front of the door, at least when she’s there, but most of the time she sleeps at Sierra’s.

I guess it’s the lesser of the evils.

I filed a complaint with her caseworker once. Evidently her claims were unfounded, because she was never removed from their care and life seemed to go on for the caregivers and all involved.

But the thought of anyone touching my little sister like that makes my blood boil. The first time she told me, I got black-out angry. I wanted to kill those motherfuckers, and I would have had Misty not stopped me.

She said going to them and threatening them would only make it worse, and I certainly didn’t want to do that for her.

By the time I pull up to Sierra’s house and fly out of my truck, all I hear are screams. People yelling. Male and female.

The slam of a door rattles the windows on the front of the crooked house. Clanking and shattering and stomping sounds grow louder as I approach. Rick’s truck is parked outside, the driver’s side door partially ajar like he was going to go somewhere and changed his mind.

Or like he was grabbing a shotgun from behind the truck bench.

Fuck.

“Misty!” I bang on the rickety screen door and then walk in. I don’t have time to be fucking proper. “Misty, where are you?”

The house smells like chemicals, and my eyes burn the second I step in. After a few breaths, my lungs burn too.

“Royal!” The stomp of Misty’s feet down the stairs pulls my attention in that direction. She flies into my arms, her cheeks damp with tears, her bleach blonde hair pulled in every direction, and her clothes ripped and torn. The swelling on the side of her face tells me that fucking bastard hit her.

“Shit, Misty. What’d he do to you?” I brush the hair from her face, and her dark eyes fill with tears. “I’m gonna kill him. I’ll fucking murder him for hurting you.”

“Who the hell is in my house?” Rick’s voice booms from the top of the stairs. The tinny clinking of his belt as he fastens his torn jeans is all I see from my angle.

Rick’s a big man, and each step he takes makes the stairs creak and crack and the handrail lean.

“You just come in my house?” Rick spits when he talks.

“What’d you do to Misty?” I fire back.

She stands behind me, taking fistfuls of my shirt and holding onto me for dear life.

“You fucking hit my sister? My fifteen year old sister?” I ask. “Answer me, asshole.”

“Ain’t none of your damn business, son.” Rick pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and flicks the top of his lighter open, flashing a smug, yellow-toothed grin as he lights up. “What, you think you’re the fucking po-lice? Busting in my house, demanding to know what the hell me and my girl are doing in the privacy of our own home?”

My stomach deadweights. I’m going to be sick.

“You . . . are you touching my sister?” I turn to Misty and she stares down at the dingy, matted carpet beneath her feet. “Fuck, Mis. Tell me you’re not screwing Rick. You’re fifteen.”

Misty may have seen and done more things than most adults in this life, but she’s still a goddamn child.

Rick takes heavy steps toward us, brushing his shoulder against mine and grabbing my sister by the arm. I reach for him, pushing him off her, and he shoves me hard enough that I land on top of a nearby coffee table. The thing collapses beneath me, shards of broken glass embedding into the palms of my hands.

I’m cut, bleeding, but I don’t feel it.

All I see is red, and I want to fucking murder that motherfucker.

Rising up, I brush the beads of glass off my clothes and move by the front door where Rick is messing with Misty. He grabs her ass, giving it a squeeze, and she adjusts her torn shirt, trying—and failing—to cover up a little more.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” I say.

Rick spins to face me, peering down his bumpy nose and sneering. He takes a drag off his ashy cigarette and blows the smoke in my face.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” Rick laughs. He hooks his arm around her shoulders, and she hunches down, pleading for help with her dark-as-midnight eyes. Rick kisses her forehead and laughs. “We’re in love. Your sister loves me. And she needs me. Ain’t that right, babe?”

He lifts her lanky arm, the one she’d kept hidden and pressed against her body since the moment I walked in.

It’s covered in track marks.

And now it makes sense. Rick is her supplier. He got her addicted, he’s feeding her addiction, and he has complete control over her.

I have to get her out of here. I have to get her out of Saint Charmaine. She’s coming back to Rixton Falls with me. I’ll beg and plead with Robert and Bliss to take her in if I have to, but she can’t stay here.

She’s going to die here.

I have to save her.

I’m the only one who truly gives a shit about this lost little fifteen-year-old.

“I said,” Rick nudges Misty. “Ain’t that right, babe? Tell your brother you love me.”

Misty’s bottom lip trembles, and for a second I think she’s upset because he’s coercing her.

“I . . . I’m sorry, Royal.” My heart stops in my chest with her words. “I . . . I do love Rick. I love him so much.”

That forty-year-old asshole wears his smug smile loud and proud. “See. Told you.”

“You’re a kid, Mis. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re addicted. He’s got you all addicted, and you’re afraid to be without him.” I reach for her, trying to pull her into me. “Come on. You’re coming home with me. We’re getting you out of this shit hole. You need to get clean.”

Misty shakes her head, fat tears sliding down puffy, bruised cheeks.

“Why’d you text me?” My voice is low, not like it makes a difference. Rick is watching our every move with a celebratory smile because he knows nothing I’m saying is going to get through to Misty.

That’s how it works with addicts. Addiction always wins. Addiction always gets the last word.

“I thought you were in trouble. That’s why I came,” I say. “What happened?”

Rick squeezes her shoulders before patting her back. Hard.

“She just had a little performance anxiety, that’s all,” he says, slicking a wet tongue across his crooked teeth. “Was her first time. She was a little nervous.”

Without thinking, I pull back and sock him across his jaw with a right hook. He stumbles backward, knocking over an empty plant stand and hitting the back of his head on the wall so hard it leaves a dent.

He seems out of it for a second, so I hook Misty’s arm and pull her toward the door.

“We’re leaving.” I’m seething, my hand balled into a pained fist and throbbing.

She jerks her arm back. “I don’t want to.”

Rick rises, gains his footing, and stumbles my way, looking like he’s two seconds from charging me like a linebacker into a quarterback. Almost in slow motion, he rears back and then lunges. Misty blocks him and he pushes her to the ground. She yelps when she lands on her elbow, and I fall to her side.

“You, okay?” I ask.

She squeezes her arm with her opposite hand and nods, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

“Come on, let’s go.” I pull her to her feet. As soon as I get her to my truck, I’m calling the police to deal with him. And I’ll make damn sure he’s sent away for a good, long time for statutory rape. Drug possession and distribution. Assault. Anything and everything.

“You’re not going anywhere with her.” Rick grabs her by the wrist, nearly snapping it, and yanks her away like a fucking rag doll.

I bet Misty doesn’t weigh a pound over eighty.

“Baby doll, you know I love you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.” Rick combs his meaty fingers through her hair and she stares up into his eyes with equal parts love and fear. “That was a misunderstanding upstairs. That wasn’t me. You’re just so damn sexy, I couldn’t keep my hands off you. I couldn’t wait. And you were
so
good.”

I’m going to be sick.

“Baby, I need you. Don’t go with him. He’s your brother, but he ain’t never gave two shits about you. Only pops up when you’re in trouble, like he’s some kind of babysitter or some shit.”

My chest burns. I fucking hate that Rick’s right. I should’ve been here more for my sister. I should’ve been around for the good times and not just the bad.

“You still love me?” Rick asks, flashing deceptive puppy dog eyes at my sister.

I’m sure she’s starved for those words. It wouldn’t surprise me if she can count on two hands the number of times she’s heard those words in her life. And I’m sure Rick knows it. He’s capitalizing on this broken, fragile girl who wanted nothing more than for someone to give two fucks about her.

“You know I’d do anything for you, babe.” Rick kisses her forehead, pretending I’m not standing there. His voice is soft and tender, like a loving partner, like someone who wants to protect her, keep her safe and warm and happy. He’s not acting like he just fucking raped and beat her an hour ago. “You’re my world, Sugar Bee.”

Misty
smiles
.

Fucking smiles.

“He’s manipulating you.” My fingers hook on my belt loops, and I shake my head. “Don’t listen to him, Misty. He fucking raped you. You’re leaving with me. And I’m calling the police. Rick’s a fucking monster, and I’m going to make sure he’s locked up for fucking decades.”

Misty’s smile fades, and her eyes grow round. She turns to Rick, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and clinging onto him like she clung to me a little bit ago. I recognize that look on her face. She’s terrified. Terrified of losing the only man who makes her feel loved. And coincidentally, the only man who keeps her addiction nice and satiated.

“Don’t let him, Sugar Bee,” Rick coos. “Police come, they’re gonna lock me up for good. Send me away. You’ll never see me again, ‘cept for maybe when you’re testifying against me in court. You wouldn’t want to do that now, would you? Send me away? Ain’t nobody ever gonna love you like I do. You know that.”

Misty nods, licking the tears off her lips.

“And shit, they’ll lock you up too,” Rick adds. “You know they’ll find every reason they can to stick you in juvie, and you don’t belong in there. You wouldn’t want to be sent away, would you, babe?”

She looks to me, then to Rick, then to me again.

“I love him, Royal.” Her words are jagged and defeated. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I love him
so
much. And he’s right. You only come around when I’m in trouble. Rick’s always been here, having my back, loving on me like I’m the greatest thing in the world.”

Taking a fistful of my hair, I tug on the ends and stare at the grimy carpet so hard my eyes hurt. She thinks she’s in love and fucking
Rick
is her first love. I know firsthand how powerful first loves are. That bond, whether rational or irrational, is impenetrable.