“You agreed for both of us that we were just fucking,” he says. “And then you agreed that you were mine. So, how much do you need?” He reaches for his wallet, but I hold up a hand.
“You don’t owe me anything. I already forgave you, which means at this point, I’m just racking up debt. Stop trying to buy me shit.”
“Stop trying to stop me,” he says, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. “Is that enough?”
“Royal, no,” I say, pushing it back. “I’m not taking money from you. Then I really would be a whore.”
“I didn’t say anything about fucking you,” he says. “You agreed to my terms. You’re mine, and I’ll keep saying it until you get it through your head that I’m damn sure going to take care of you, whether you like it or not. Now, how much do you need?”
I close my eyes and take a breath. This letting go thing is harder than I expected.
I talk myself through it one step at a time. I no longer want to be on my own. I want friends, want to let people in, even want to let them help me. He didn’t get where he is without help. No one does. The rich people all take care of each other.
But I still hate letting someone take over and take care of me. I’ve done it so long, it’s part of who I am. And after what I did to Royal, and considering what everyone else wants from him, I can’t let him think that I’m after his money.
“If you really want to help me, you can come by my house with me and help me get my stuff,” I say. “I’ll be fine until Friday, and I’ll book a fight then.”
“Why are you getting your stuff out?” he asks. “Going somewhere?”
“Just my toothbrush and tampons and stuff,” I say. “I’m not moving. Or hey, you could just give me Magnolia’s gun. I can give it back to her when I’m done.”
“Why do you need a gun to go home?” Royal asks, his voice going quiet in that intense way it does when he’s mad and lowers his voice instead of raising it.
“My mom’s hooked on that fucking Alice in Wonderland shit your brother’s cooking,” I say. “And who knows what she mixed with it.”
My heart starts hammering, and the next thing I know, I’ve spilled the whole story. Royal’s quiet while I talk, and then he gets up to throw away the trash and use the restroom. By the time he comes back, I’ve pulled myself together.
“Get in the car,” he says. “We’ll go get your stuff.”
When we pull up at my house, a huge Mercedes van sits in the driveway. I’m instantly on alert, but Royal gets out and walks up the driveway with complete confidence. I open his glove box and get out his Glock, tucking it into my waistband before following. Two men have gotten out of the van and are talking to Royal when I walk up.
Olive stands on her porch, her hands braced on the railing as she jumps up and swings her feet between the bars before dropping back down onto her heels. I’m sure she’s more interested in the van than she is in us, but I still keep my voice low when I ask Royal what’s going on.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me toward our front door.
“You brought bodyguards?” I ask when the two men follow us inside.
“Is that you, Harper?” Mom calls from her bedroom. “It’s about time you got your ass home. I was about to—”
She breaks off when she steps into the hallway and sees me with three big men at my back. Recovering, she runs a hand through her fried blonde hair and gives a little giggle. “I didn’t know you brought company. I was about to call the authorities, I was so worried about you.”
“Harper’s here to get her things,” Royal says, his voice cold and hard. “And these men are here to take you to Cedar Crest.”
“What?” she asks, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. “Oh, I don’t need all that. I’m doing fine, just fine. Aren’t I, baby?”
Her eyes are full of warning, the kind of look she’d give me when I was in elementary school, and she told me not to take off my hoodie at school because a teacher might see the bruises on my arms from where I fought too hard when she dragged me down the hall.
“Royal,” I mutter. “You know we can’t afford that.”
“For the last time, shut up and accept that this is happening,” he says. “Your mom is your family, and she needs help. So, we’re going to get her the help she needs.”
“This is a bad idea,” I warn. “She doesn’t want help.”
“Nobody better lay a hand on me,” Mom calls, backing toward her room.
“We’re not going to touch you,” says one of the men. “We only take voluntary admissions.”
“Then get the hell out of my house,” she says. “I ain’t going nowhere with your asses.”