At least, not when I’m careful.
I don’t think about my visit to the Medical Examiner’s Office or the encounter with the gorgeous stranger in the bar either.
But as I pack the last of my scant belongings into a duffel bag, it’s hard not to remember that day. It’s been months since I was called in to ID Jared, then called back a few days later to collect his ashes since he had no burial plans—and even if he did, who would’ve paid anyway?
I took his ashes up into the foothills and scattered them. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to dump them where I did, but I don’t really give a fuck.
Generally speaking, I don’t let myself dwell on that day, or on missing my friend at all. But today, I really wish he was here.
Today’s my last day in foster care, and even though I’m glad as hell to be getting out, I feel... I don’t know.
Unsettled. Rudderless.
I’ll spend a couple days in a halfway house for “youths in transition” until the meeting with my caseworker solidifies my future. If I’m lucky, I’ll get approved for a work-study program at a community college.
I don’t bank on being lucky.
As I sit on the duffel to wedge it closed, Brody McAllister appears in the doorway, a looming shape I can just see out of the corner of my eye.
Goddammit.
My foster father is a large man—broad in the shoulders and round in the gut. He’s a retired police officer, but judging from his skills as a foster father, I’m guessing he was a terrible cop. I’ll miss the free rent once I leave this place, but if it means I won’t have Brody coming in and out as he pleases, to do what he pleases?
Fuck. Sign me up.
I don’t acknowledge him, except for a passing glance. But I can feel his gaze on me as I begin pulling my artwork—sketches, paintings, lots of abstract images—from the walls. I need to pack these a little more carefully than my clothes; I value them more than anything, except maybe my tattoos. All my own artwork, all immoveable from their place inked permanently into my skin.
He watches me in silence for a few moments, invading my space like he’s got a fucking right to. When he gets sick of me ignoring him, his heavy steps enter the room as he comes to stand behind me. I pause only long enough to give him an unimpressed look before going back to my art.
“I won’t be long,” I say pointedly. “Just need to finish packing up, and the social worker’s office is being nice and arranging a cab to come get me.”
“Shame,” comes his response. I hear two more footfalls, then he stops so close to me that I feel his breath blow through my hair. He settles his hand on my shoulder, turning me around to face him. “Seems only yesterday you came through our door. Now you’re going back through it, out into the big wide world.”
“Yup. That’s how turning eighteen works,” I say blandly.
For some inane reason, that seems to amuse him. He chuckles and leans in. I’m afraid I’m gonna trip over the art I just packed up, so I side-step before I can break anything, and he comes with me.
I’m used to this stupid fucking dance. We’ve been doing it for years.
It starts with him tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, moving his fingers down my neck. They’re rough, years of work embedded in the callouses.
From a wanted lover, this touch might send a thrill down my spine. From Brody, it just makes my whole fucking body feel like ice.
I allow him his exploration of my body, the side comments of how hard it is to say goodbye, as one rough hand cups my tit and the other slides down my exposed midriff. I allow him the idea that maybe I’ll let him have a parting memory of my body and the heat between my legs he’s so eager to press against. I let him think that even though I’m free now, he still has some sort of hold over me.
I let him have that for just a moment before I grab his hand and look him in the eyes.
“Since it’s so hard to say goodbye, maybe we should get your wife up here too.” I keep my voice bland, although my jaw is tight. “You know. For moral support.”
His face hardens, his expression turning sour. “Excuse me?”
“Melissa. She’s downstairs getting dinner ready, right? If goodbyes are so damn hard, why don’t we make it a family affair? I can call for her—”
Brody yanks his hand out of my hold and steps away from me. I watch him with a detached sort of satisfaction as his face goes red.
“You know, I’m actually glad you’re leaving,” he spits out. “Useless, ungrateful little whore like you? Living here all these years, and you’re still stuck up and uppity like you’re something. Well, let me tell you something, little missy. I’ve seen a lot of bitches like you in my time on the force. All of you end up on the streets, spreading your legs for rent or begging for it. You think you’re something, all that attitude. Well, you’re nothing. Less than nothing. I’m glad to see you go.”
I shrug. “That makes two of us.”