Page 8 of Bound To Me

I closed my eyes and leaned my cheek into his hand.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Now

I checked into the East Hollywood hostel in a shared dorm room where I would be staying for the foreseeable future. It was all I could afford until I got a job. I had a small savings that I reserved for an emergency such as this, and it would probably only get me by for about a month if I only ate Top Ramen for every meal. And then I would be homeless. I figured that was better than staying in New York City, where I would constantly be reminded of Michael and where he would probably end up finding me once he got out of prison. I didn’t want to know what he’d do to me if he saw me again.

There were three bunk beds with only one space available on a bottom bunk by the window. The place wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be—it was clean, the staff was friendly, and there were a lot of amenities like free breakfast and a common room with couches, a TV, and computers with WiFi. But I still had to share a room with five other women and question if my belongings would be safe in the little locked closet I had. I had been robbed of things in some of the many hostels I stayed in before. My room almost reminded me of my stay in a “teen mental health hospital” when I was sixteen, right before I ran away. My foster parents decided that my sneaking out and partying with friends meant I had psychological problems. I knew that I had problems, but the least of them were my drinking and partying.

I made myself comfortable as I lay in my bunk, applying for any job I could find. I hoped my extensive restaurant history, especially in New York City, would take my resume to the top of the candidate list.

And then my mind wandered to Elliott. I wondered where he lived. Probably somewhere like Beverly Hills or somewhere nice in the valley. And of course, I had to google him. I easily found his website where his picture popped up, his bright blue eyes staring into mine. He was clean-shaven and looked extremely professional, a stark contrast to the relaxed, natural demeanor I saw at the airport. I decided to check Instagram; maybe I could find out more about his life on there. I found him again but his profile was private.Damnit. It was probably best though; I had an obsessive, addictive personality, and I needed to stay away from him. I couldn’t let myself get close to anyone. I would never be able to trust anyone anyway.

I had a couple of calls the next day for interviews. I took the bus to each interview and reminded myself that I needed to get my license if I was going to make it in LA. A couple of days had passed, and there were still no callbacks. I started to panic.Why couldn’t I have just stayed in New York? Sure, everything there reminded me of Michael, but I could have just moved to a different neighborhood. I didn’t need to move across the country, did I?

I hadn’t had a drink in several months. I had tried countless times to quit on my own, even going to rehab a year before, but inevitably, I relapsed. There was still nothing else that could take away that dull ache in my chest. And being back in California felt lonely as fuck—I didn’t know a single soul out here. I needed to mingle.Fuck it, I’m going to a bar.

There were a lot of bars within walking distance in the neighborhood I was staying in. I found a cute little retro bar only about a three minute walk away. It gave classic Hollywoodvibes; the 1920s Art Deco style was evident in the light fixtures, the bar backdrop, and even the sign for the place itself. There was a DJ playing modern music on the side, and in the crowd were a mixture of people: younger, older, hipsters, professionals. I made my way to the bar and looked over their menu as I sat on a stool. I was immediately approached by the bartender, a gorgeous blonde with matte red lipstick. She reminded me of Hana. My heart stung at the reminder of Michael again.

“What can I get you, babe?” she asked, a warm smile spread across her face.

“Um.” I looked back down at the menu, its extensive cocktails making my head spin. “Can I just get like, a vodka seven?”

Her friendly grin grew wider. “Of course!” She walked away and started on my drink.

I grabbed my phone out of my purse and scrolled through apps, wondering whether or not to sign up for another dating app.You fucking moron–look who you met last on a dating app. I shook my head at myself. I was trying to work on talking nicely to myself, something I had worked on in therapy, but it was hard to focus on that when I was stressed and living in a place that felt foreign to me now.

“Your vodka seven, my dear.” The bartender put my drink down in front of me. “Do you want to open a tab?”

I looked around and wondered how long I’d be staying. “Sure.” I shrugged then dug for my card in my purse.

“Where are you visiting from?” she asked as she waited.

“Uh.” I laughed.Am I that obvious?“I just moved here from New York City, but I grew up here,” I explained.

“Oh, nice! Welcome back!” She walked away with my card.

I sighed heavily to myself as I took a gulp of my drink. Fuck, the burn down my throat to my stomach was such a nice feeling. I tugged on my sleeves, a nervous habit, always highly aware of the horrid scars on my body.

Someone to my right approached me. “Can I get you a drink?”

I glanced over and a bearded, nice-looking—albeit younger-looking—guy smiled at me.I should say no,but I’m broke as fuck.

“Sure.” I smiled back.

“I’m Jesse.” He stood closer to me; I immediately felt uncomfortable.

“Jackie.” I nodded to him.

“Hey Zee, can I get this beautiful lady another one?” He waved over at the friendly, blonde bartender.

I looked over at her as she nodded.

“You live around here?” he continued.

I sighed, not nearly drunk enough to start the small talk flirting.

“Yeah.” I was being vague as he inched closer.

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