Page 5 of Crossed
When I was little, long before Quinten was born, my mom used to pack us up right after I’d get comfortable in whatever place we were in and then plop us down somewhere new. I learned quickly that making friends was a useless skill and that having a sense of belonging was a pipe dream I read about in books, not one I got to experience in real life.
The last thing I want is for Quinten to have that same experience with me.
He’s my world. The only thing that matters.
I reach out my hand, holding it in front of his curled-up form, waiting until he places his palm in mine. I squeeze, giving a broad smile as I pull him to a stand and lead him back into our home.
Once we’re inside, he immediately walks to the small rectangular kitchen table and slips into the worn wooden seat, grabbing his tablet and getting lost in his safety net. Can’t say that I blame him; if I could, I’d be running to curl up in my bed or headed to the nearest pole studio, just to blow off steam and get lost in my body instead of my mind. Pole dancing is the only thing that’s ever made me feel likeme.
The unpaid internet bill winks at me from the kitchen counter where I’ve stowed it away and tried to forget that it exists. But this morning and the way Quinten just ran to his tablet are stark reminders that his apps aren’t just a luxury, they’re anecessity, and if I can’t pay the bill, then he can’t feel safe in his own home.
Tonight’s Monday, which is usually my night off, and it’s one I had planned on spending with Quinten vegging out and relaxing, but before I can second- guess myself, I grab my cell phone to send a message to my only friend—and roommate— Dalia as I drop down in one of the chairs.
There’s a missed call and I cringe, my stomach twisting when
I read the name Parker on the screen, and I swipe away the notification to type out my text.
Me: Hey, I’m going into work tonight. Can you watch Quin?
A reply comes through quickly, and I sigh in relief.
Dalia: You bet. I’ll be home at 4.
I run a hand over my forehead and glance across the table at my younger brother. His face is emotionless, like whatever happened didn’t even affect him. Like he’s forgotten about it already.
But looks are deceiving.
Quinten never forgets a thing.
Besides, even if he appears to bounce back quickly, I don’t. The feeling that comes along with knowing some asshole kids were trying to physically harm him will stick with me forever, another notch sliced into the already marked- up surface of my heart.
In the really hard moments, I wonder if those notches will turn to scar tissue, making an impenetrable wall too thick to breach.
Some days, I wish for it.
My phone rings again, and I look down,Parkerflashing across the screen.
My heart falters, but I silence the call. It’s way too early to deal with him.
Parker Errien is the bane of my existence and the reason Quinten and I live in perpetual debt. He first showed up when he was dating my mother, after we moved here a little over five years ago.
I’m not sure how she got involved with him, but it didn’t come as a surprise. My mother was a beautiful woman. Similar to me in almost every way with her long black hair and striking green eyes. Her legs for days that accented her thick thighs and hips. When necessary, she looked the part of money easily even when she had none, and she was a siren to men, calling them over and casting them under her spell with a single look.
She and Parker started dating almost immediately after we arrived, and it was only after she disappeared that I learned he was secretly “renting” her out to his friends in high places. The type of friends who need discretion and are willing to pay a pretty penny to ensure they get it. But in public, Parker Errien and Chantelle Paquette quickly became the talk of the town, and for the first time, I felt a sense of belonging. Even when his stares lingered just a little too long and his hands wandered a little too far.
Only when she disappeared, he didn’t. He simply switched his focus from her to me.
He didn’t like that she left him high and dry, leaving his “clients” out of a woman to warm their bed and money they’d already paid for the privilege. So now, I’m stuck paying off her debts. Most of the money I make ends up in Parker’s dirty hands, and he thrives on making me need him in any way he can.
A shiver sprints up my spine, and I shake my head, turning my attention to Quinten.
“You hungry, Quin?” I ask, my nails tapping on the worn wood of the table. It’s a piece of shit, just like everything else in this place. I grabbed it from the dumpster down the street five years ago right after my nineteenth birthday, which was also right after our mom made me the town enemy and then disappeared, leaving a note that said six words.
I’m done. He’s your responsibility now.
Funny how having a daughter when she was fifteen was manageable, but an oopsy baby with one of the many “loves of her life” at thirty-three who showed signs of being on the spectrum was too much to bear.
Fuck her.
