Page 7 of Babydoll

Because even though I swore I would never again be at the mercy of another, Satan’s Ransom owns me. Just like the countless foster families that treated me as property growing up.

I grab my mop handle, shivering as if just thinking their names will summon them, and get back to work. Therearen’t many people hanging around the lunchroom during the afternoon shift at the factory, which is why a month ago while I was cleaning out the fridge and a pudding cup fell out of a paper bag labeledJeffin permanent marker, I finally listened to my growling stomach and swiped it. And when no one seemed to notice, I kept doing it.

Some days that pudding cup is my only food.

I didn’t even feel bad about taking it. Whoever Jeff was, his lunch bag was so full of food, he wouldn’t go hungry even if a snowstorm kept him here an extra twenty-four hours. I even considered that his wife or mother packed his lunch so he wasn’t aware he was missing the pudding anyway, but the note squashed that idea.

He does know and he isn’t happy about it.

“Well tough tit, Jeff,” I grumble, although the thought weighs heavy as I set the mop back in the bucket and stare at the gleaming linoleum. But guilt is something I can’t afford any more than food, so I let my bitter side forth, tugging the note out again to read it as inspiration for my griping before setting it on the table.

I start scrubbing the counters mumbling my bitter monologue. “Really, Jeff, and fuck you. I hate pudding. I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands. How about some fucking Oreos, dude? Would it kill you to bring a snack cake?”I am on death row here! I think the last sentence because admitting to anyone, even in a semi-vocal bitch-fest with no one around, is too hard on my ego.

I crave real food, like meat, vegetables, and fruit. Oh god, and pasta with meat sauce, but in the grand snack of things, there is a heck of a lot more out there besides freakin’ pudding.

What man eats pudding with his lunch every day anyway, and—I glance at the note again—usesdiscommodiousin the diatribe note? Yeah, fuck Jeff.

I huff, fighting the urge to doodle a hand flipping the bird on the note, and tuck it back into the brown bag. Apparently, Lu’s a bitter sort, which goes well with jackass. Tallulah Jane’s not though, and inside—deep inside—she’s frowning disapprovingly.

“Relax, Tallulah,” I grumble aloud as if I really am two separate people. “One day I’ll get enough money to buy this guy a whole case of pudding to make up for my miscreant ways, but that day won’t be anytime soon. Because every penny we have goes to Satan’s Ransom to repay your debt.”

Yes, I blame my sweet alter-ego for this problem. After all, Lu wouldn’t have gone to see Gage. Lu puts herself first.

“Besides, Tallulah, if we don’t hurry up and pay off our debt, we’ll become the Ransom’s employee in a whole new entrepreneurial endeavor.”

Prostitution.

I swallow hard, pausing my scrubbing and forgetting my game of alter-egos.

Or possibly, their first human-trafficking victim. They’ve threatened both. Python also offered me a position as a club whore, but that was back when I had the curves of a woman instead of a two-by-four. Now he stares at my face when he talks, not my chest, and I have to admit, it’s a little insulting.

I look down at my shrunken breasts. I’ll need a hell of a lot more pudding to bring these babies back to their former glory. Lots of men love thin women, but these days, I’m thirty pounds beyond thin, bordering on Halloween skeleton. I thought that would be enough to take the sex options off the table, but I was assured that was not the case. The answer to my question comes in the form of Preachers voice in my head.

A man can close his eyes while you suck his dick and come just as hard.

I shrug off my thoughts and wash the mugs and plates that some inconsiderate jerkface left in the sink. I press my lips and decide it was Jeff. Only a man that loves pudding as much as Jeff would leave his dishes in the sink, amirite?

I swallow thickly just thinking it. I really have turned into a bitter jackass, as if Jeff’s sharpie brought it to fruition.

I finish putting the dishes away, scrub the sink, and head to the nasty-ass garbage can. I’m lugging the horrific-smelling trash bag out of the can when the door opens so I quickly swipe the note from the table to shove it in my pocket.

I blow out a sigh of relief in my head at my quick note swiping when a security guard walks in. A quick glance tells me it’s the one I’ve been secretly ogling since he started working here a few weeks after me.

Sexy Security Dude. SSD. That’s what I call him, because hot damn, that’s what he is. He’s tall… really tall and friggin’ hot—hot enough to set any girl on fire, even a malnourished two-by-four like me.

I mean, he’s not movie-star handsome… I pause, considering. Okay, maybe he is, with his sun-streaked brown hair and those downward-tilted, warm, chocolate-brown eyes and full, sculpted lips. Oh, and the tidy beard that doesn’t disguise his angular jawline. And have I mentioned his sculpted body…

“Hey,” he says, acknowledging me in his deep, equally sex-a-licious voice.

Since I prefer to gawk at SSD from a distance, I nod, keep my head down, and leave. Being in the same room with any member of the law, no matter how distantly associated with the kind that could arrest me, makes me nervous. Not that I’ve done anything illegal. Flushing drugs isn’t a crime… is it? And er, is theft under ninety-nine cents a thing? Even if we add up the cost of all the puddings I’ve stolen, it still isn’t worth charging me.

Anyway, if I’m guilty of anything, it’s by association, and necessity, and it’s still not my fault. Duress is powerfully motivating, especially when being provided by a one-percenter motorcycle club.

I only make it halfway down the hall when I spot some brownish gunk on the floor. I give it a sneer and glance at the male washroom sign narrowing my eyes. “This had better not be…” I clamp my mouth shut as one of the plant managers, a suit named Brad, walks out of his office toward the lunchroom I just vacated.

This job is shit.

No, worse than shit.

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