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Back in the kitchen, he gave Wilford the rest of his treat and then gently dropped him into the carrier. The cat meowed pitifully but stayed calm.

“My boys will pick you up out back,” Nicky offered. “Where did you leave your vehicle?”

“The park a few blocks over.” He shifted the cat carrier so he could grab the handles of the two suitcases and the canvas tote bag filled with cat gear. “I left some kids watching it.”

“Carter?”

Ten nodded. “Should I be worried you knew exactly what kids I meant?”

“Nah, he’s a good one. A little wild, but we all were at that age.”

Ten grunted. The less said about his teenage years the better.

“If you need any help—.”

“I won’t hesitate to ask.” Ten hefted his cargo toward the back door. “When it comes to keeping Nisha safe, I’ll call in every marker and cross any line.”

Even if that meant going back to prison.

Chapter Seven

IwasfourteenwhenI met Kiki. I was a stupid kid hanging out with older girls in places where I never should have been. At the time, I had been so desperate to belong I let myself be pressured to do things that made me uncomfortable.

Clothes that were too revealing. Smoking. Drugs. Drinking. Dancing. Staying out all night and acting foolish.

Even now, I cringed thinking of how much trouble I caused my poor grandmother. All she had ever wanted was to protect me and keep me safe, but I was convinced she wanted to control me. I didn’t see her high standards for me as love. I saw them as proof that I wasn’t even good enough for my own grandma. Just like I wasn’t good enough to make my mother stay or to keep my father home at night instead of running the streets where he got himself killed.

And that made me vulnerable. It made me a perfect target for a predator.

Which was how Kiki found me.

Men like that, they can smell weakness. They can spot the girl from a broken home a mile away. They know how to find the girl who desperately wants to be loved. The awkward girl who feels out of place and doesn’t belong. The girls who craves acceptance, who wants to be special.

I thought I was hot shit when Kiki asked if I wanted to go for a drive. The party we were at was winding down, and I didn’t want to go home yet. Besides, I wanted to spite Marissa Lopez. She had been flirting with Kiki all night, but he wasn’t interested. She was constantly calling me a fat ass and making nasty remarks about me. Stealing the boy she wanted right in front of her gave me a heady sense of power.

Except he wasn’t a boy. He was twenty-five. A grown-ass man. And I was a child who should have been home watchingGilmore GirlsandGossip Girland writing that terribleHarry PotterDramione fanfic I kept secret.

Instead, I found myself alone with a man who didn’t take no for an answer. Later, after I got home and scrubbed my face, and used half a bottle of mouthwash trying to get the bitter, salty taste of him off my tongue, I would convince myself he didn’t mean to hurt me.

I would replay the way he coerced me into putting my mouth on him. I was a tease. He thought I was more mature. I owed him for the weed I had smoked and the alcohol I drank.

To this day, I could still feel his hand on the back of my head. I could feel the panic and fear of having his dick shoved down my throat. I could hear his angry warning not to puke or else he would make me clean it up with my tongue.

After it was done, he flipped a switch. Suddenly, he was all sweetness and love. I was a good girl. I was his baby. I had a mouth like an angel. He buttered me up good, and I soaked it in like the dry, empty, desperate husk I was.

Once he had his hooks into me, there was no escape. I fell for his bullshit. I believed he loved me, that he wanted the best for me, and that only he understood me. I let him separate me from my grandmother and my uncle. I relented when he wanted me to stop playing basketball and stop playing clarinet for my school’s symphony. I gave up the books I loved because they were stupid. I wore what he picked out for me because it made him happy.

I learned to apologize even when I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I convinced myself that love was supposed to hurt. He was just so passionate about me that it made him do crazy things. His love for me was so big that it made his disappointment even bigger. My mother was a tramp, and if he didn’t teach me how to behave, I would be just like her. He was doing this for me, for us. Didn’t I see that?

Friendless, isolated, I relied on him for everything. I made excuses for all the horrible things he did to me. I deserved that slap because I asked a question I shouldn’t have. I needed to be punched because I broke a rule about wearing shorts out of the house. He had to brutally sodomize me to teach me a lesson about talking to other people about what happened inside our house.

They wouldn’t understand our relationship. They didn’t understand that I was wild and dirty and needed discipline. Did I want them to take him away? Did I want to be alone? Did I want him in jail? Who would take care of me? Who would love me if I got my man locked up over a little tussle?

Sometimes, my courage would flare, and I would have an almost violent urge to scream, “YES! Please, take him. Lock him away. Let me be free!”

But I didn’t. Whether it was fear or brainwashing or the toxic co-dependence of domestic violence—I couldn’t bring myself to ask for help or leave.

Not until it was too late.

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