Page 32 of SNOB

Hoisting myself through the trailer window, I push the yellowed sheet they use as a curtain aside. The musty smell of mould and mildew hits me before I pull my black shirt to my nose. My shoes hit the particleboard floor with a thud as my eyes move around the room.

It’s worse than I imagined.

A single bulb dangles above a mattress sitting on milk-crates. My wet blazer lays on the floor next to loose sheets of paper with little drawings. The peeling wallpaper would be as depressing as this room but something stands out. A spray painted mural of her name. The letters E-M-B-E-R pop out amongst flames like they’re coming out of the wall. Impressive. Art like this is far too chaotic for The Hill.

Crouching, I pick up a sketchpad that almost falls apart in my hands. Flipping through, I stop on a drawing of a beautiful woman. She looks familiar but I can’t quite place it. Turning the page, there’s another. Same woman. Slightly different. I’m about to flip the page again when my eyes land on an old tattered duffel by the door, half filled with clothes.

Don’t even think about it, Butterfly.

The sound of water running comes to my ears as I rise. Following the sound, I move to the flimsy wooden door, careful as my boots knock against the cheap flooring.

Outside the room, an older man lies asleep on a gross-looking sofa. A packet of chips sits on his stomach, a beer dangling from his hand. His face looks familiar…

Pow!

My body stills, that memory flooding back.

Focus, McKinsley.

If I’m caught here, I’ll only make matters worse.

My eyes follow the sound to light coming from the bottom of another wooden door. Moving towards it, I reach for the bronze knob. It wobbles when I turn it but my ear to the door tells me someone’s in the shower, and I know who.

Pushing in, my muscles tense, a jump in my pants as my eyes settle on the silhouette of that curvy body behind a vomit-green curtain. It matches the rest of this place, the smell of urine hard to ignore even with the smell of fresh soap in the air.

She scrubs hard, the sound of her sniffles blending with the sound of the shower. The dim lighting makes this almost sensual, but the stains on the wall helps with that.

She stops moving.

So do I, my body inches from the shower.

“Uncle Jake?” Her hand reaches for the curtain.

I wait.

When she pulls it back, my hand flies over her wet mouth. “Going somewhere, Butterfly?”

TEN

EMBER

What.

The.

Fuck?

His strong hand muffles my cries, my naked body exposed to him.

Is Malcolm McKinsley in my fucking bathroom?

He steps into the bath like he lives here, like he belongs here.

Is there no escaping this maniac?

“Where do you think you’re going, Butterfly?” he asks, that nickname making my stomach flip. His free hand trails my arm, his finger grazing my naked skin. It’s the first time he’s touched me since he cradled my body in his arms.

Since he kissed me.

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