Page 22 of Undisputed Player
The words itched over my skin like insects. I gripped the door tighter, knuckles white against the scarred wood as I fought not to snap at him. "I'm not late, am I?"
He smirked, showing teeth stained yellow. "Not yet. But you know how it is. Rules are rules. Wouldn't want to see you and the boy out on the street."
His eyes dropped to my legs, lingered there, then crawled back to my face. "Though I'm sure a pretty thing like you could find... alternative arrangements."
The implication was thick and rancid as spoiled milk. My skin crawled, but I kept my expression neutral, carved from stone and necessity. I'd learned long ago that showing fear to men like Owen only made them harder to handle.
Alternative arrangements. Like I hadn't heard that suggestion from every landlord, boss, and authority figure who'd realized I was young, alone, and desperate enough to consider options that would destroy me.
"You'll have your money," I said, my voice flat and clipped.
He shrugged, pretending to be magnanimous while his eyes continued their inventory of my body. "Just looking out for you. A nice girl like you, all alone in this neighborhood with a kid that ain't even yours..."
He let the sentence hang, then stepped back with obvious reluctance. "You ought to be more careful. Pretty girls like you attract the wrong kind of attention."
The wrong kind of attention from men exactly like him. I bit back a snarky remark.
"Monday," he called over his shoulder as his heavy feet thudded down the walkway like a countdown timer. "Don't forget."
I closed the door hard, the sound echoing through our thin walls. My hands shook as I turned the deadbolt and slid the chain beneath the handle.
I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, willing my heart rate to slow, willing the anger and revulsion to settle into something manageable.
I hated that he could get to me, that a few words could unravel the fragile peace I'd built for myself in these stolen morning hours.
Alternative arrangements.
The phrase echoed in my head like a curse. Men like Owen looked at women like me and saw opportunity wrapped in desperation. Young face, no wedding ring, no father or boyfriend to object, I might as well have worn a sign advertising my vulnerability.
"Elle?"
Leo's soft voice cut through my spiral of rage and self-pity. I turned to see him blinking sleep from his eyes, hair sticking up as usual, clutching his stuffed T-Rex to his chest.
I smoothed my expression, burying the fear and disgust where hecouldn't see them. "Just Mr. Owen," I said, forcing warmth into my voice. "Nothing to worry about. Go wash up, okay? I'll make pancakes."
His face lit up like I'd offered him the moon served on a silver platter. "The kind with chocolate chips?"
“Of course.”
He hurried to the bathroom, clearly excited. I watched him go, my heart performing its daily routine of breaking and mending simultaneously.
I set about making breakfast, pouring the cheapest batter money could buy into our dented pan. The sizzle and sweet smell filled the kitchen, covering the lingering scent of Owen's desperation and my own fear.
My mind drifted to the emergency money hidden in the tampon box under the sink—$1,412 in emergency funds, everything I had to my name.
Not enough for anything but another week of barely scraping by. No matter how much it added up, it never equaled enough.
Leo returned with clean hands and a shining face, climbing onto his chair with the focused determination of someone scaling Mount Everest.
I slid a plate in front of him, watching him arrange the chocolate chips into a smiley face before devouring the first pancake in three bites.
"Are you working today?" he asked between mouthfuls, syrup already decorating his chin.
"Just a few hours," I answered, wiping his chin. "You can draw while I'm busy. Maybe later we can go to the park?"
His grin could have powered the building. "The one with the big slide?”
"The one with the jungle gym.”
