Page 11 of Golden Burn

And Juniper, too.

As time drags on and my list remains empty. I come to a staggering, saddening conclusion.

Other than the police or the FBI, I have no one to call who might come to my rescue.

I have no serious close friends. When you work almost eighteen hours a day and never take holidays, friends slip away to live their own lives, unaware that yours is stuck in the same place and beginning to rot from the inside.

I have no family. My mother’s parents died when I was young, my mother just recently. She was close with her siblings, but they live all over the place, and I only speak to my cousins at Christmas and the occasional wedding or funeral.

I have no one.

Fuck. I really am the most perfect person to steal.

The tears increase to a chest cleaving sob.

A WWI movie I saw a few years ago comes to the forefront of my mind. The harrowing scene where young men, blown to pieces and strewn across a muddy battlefield, called out to their mothers with the last few breaths in their lungs, tears streaming down their burnt faces.

Although my situation is vastly different and lacking the horrors of war, I understand the desperation, the keening call to a parent who provides the only safety, comfort and love that a person in their most dire hour needs.

God.

I want my mom. I want my mom. I want my mom.

My arms wrap around my naked middle, trying to hold my soul together as the foundations shake, the pieces pulling apart. In the year since my mother passed, I have cried rivers. Oceans. My loneliness only ever abated for brief respites, when I was forced to go to the clinic to continue her work, and eventually, clean up her unintentional mess.

The bitterness of her passing, the crushing grief, hits me as hard as a cannonball to the stomach every time I remember she’s nothere. She’s… gone. And I can’t ask her for a hug right now. Not ever. I’ll never hear her say, “What’s up, chicken?” I’ll never hear her full belly laugh. I’ll never watch her skilled hands stitch and pet and help and cook.

And she’ll never be able to be there for her only daughter left on this fucking earth without her guide. Her home.

The next few minutes, I have to gulp down breaths, forcing myself to forget. To focus. I watch the water mix with my snot and tears until I can no longer spot the difference. Then I stand tall, shove it aside. I lather every part of me with the fancy soap available, scrubbing till my skin is raw and as exposed as my very being. I rinse off for an absurd amount of time. If they can afford this place, they can afford to pay for the water.

By the time I decide to turn off the shower, I’m hungry, hollow and desperate for answers. Facing those three men is going to be incredibly hard. But I have to do it.

I take comfort in the fact that this residence is fancy. That they didn’t remove my clothes when I was passed out. That they haven’t physically harmed me beyond a few pointed shoves and tight grips.

I dry my body, wrap myself in the luscious robe, and stalk toward the door.

My hand is hovering in the air when the handle twists and the door swings on the hinges. I freak out and step backward, my hands flying up to cover my face with two nervous fists.

Beyond my knuckles, Ford stands in the doorway.

His expression is… unreadable. Is he annoyed? Amused? Do I look fearsome in my warrior pose and fluffy robe?

He clears his throat and says, “Come with me.”

Okay. At least he’s not going to take me by force. This is good. My fists unclench as I begin walking after him.

He’s in a new suit since I saw him last. More casual, less bodyguard. His deep brown hair is perfectly styled, and his cologne is woodsy, yet soft. Just peeking through the top of his collar, below his hairline, is the top of another tattoo. Clouds maybe. Or some cotton candy? I don’t know why that comforts me, but it does. Better than a knife, or a gun, or you know… a dead woman.

5

Etta

‘Gangsta’ - Kehlani

“Eat. There’s plenty here.” Dominic gestures to the coffee table in the living room laden with a continental style breakfast. It’s a far cry from my usual protein bar as I run out the door every morning, and thank God for that, because I’m starving.

The magnificent floor to ceiling windows overlook a foreign city. Grand and imposing, the juxtaposition of sandstone buildings bordered by metallic high rises gives the illusion of a time warp. I can’t see the street, so I’m assuming we are a significant distance from the ground. Not good. I can scratch jumping out a window from my list.

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