Page 91 of Scattered Glitter

The rough linen of my sundress whispers against my legs, and the faint dust of the countryside clings to my calves. I walk down a narrow path lined with lavender bushes, letting the purple flowers brush against my fingertips, leaving their scent behind, a balm to my soul. There’s a whisper of wind, and in that breeze,I let go of some of the weight, some of the pain.

The lavender fades, and the warmth of the Tuscan sun dissipates, reality creeping back in.

I’m still here.

Stillthis.

A stripper, a thief, a girl who’s clinging to fragments of herself, trying not to shatter completely.

And yet, there’s a flicker of something stubborn and relentless. A stupid, fragile spark of hope that refuses to die. Maybe it’s naïve. Maybe it’s reckless. But it’s there, awhisper in the back of my mind telling me I can be more than this. That I canhavemore than this.

A life where I don’t have to wrap myself in glitter and lies to feel worthy.

A life where I’m not simply getting by but actuallyliving.

I let my mind drift again, this time not to Tuscany but to something even more elusive.Belonging.Not just being a part of a scene, a routine, a hustle, but a real place where I fit. Where people know me,the real me, and still want me around.

For more than a few minutes, I was part of something. Even though the tasks, excluding the final one, ranged from silly to risky, and I still don’t know who was ordering them, I was included. I was part of something bigger. Something that could change things.

Then,I blew the chance to make it out of here.

However, nothing,not even a new life, will make me steal a fucking car ever again.

I can find my way out of this shit show calledmy lifeon my fucking own.

My hand grasps the neck of the bottle tightly as the battle rages in my chest, and then slowly, painfully, I let go.

Stepping back, my heart pounding, I force myself to leave it behind.

The couch greets me like an old enemy as I collapse onto it, trying to pick up where I left off before the whiskey lured me into the kitchen.MasterCheffills the room with voices and the clatter of pans, but it doesn’t drown out the noise in my head.

My hands shake as I pick up the tiny diamond pen to press another bead into its spot on the canvas. It slips free, bouncing onto the table. My trembling fingers won’t cooperate, no matter how hard I try.

“Fuck,”I mutter, tossing the pen down. It bounces to the floor, joining the pile of beads scattered beneath the coffee table.

I lean back, my head thudding against the cushion, eyes slipping shut. The whiskey is still there. Still watching. Still calling.

Drinking may never be an option again if that was the last time I saw Koen, as he’s the only one who can take the compulsion back. Not that I’m in the mood to challenge him right now. I don’t even know where the hell any of them are.

Then there’s Hottie. It’s been two days since we had our testing date.

Probably fucked that up too.

It’s been even longer since I’ve heard from Annabelle, and it’s lonelier than I care to admit. Maybe that’s what’s clawing at me now. This stupid, pathetic loneliness.

I stripped the evening I left Koen standing in that alleyway and yesterday evening, too, while I kept my eyes open for something, someone to fill the void.

I even went so far as to turn up at Vortex, but there was nothing for me there. Hottie wasn’t working, of course, and every other face was lacking—no spark, no thrill. And I hate that realization more than anything. I hate that I want him, that I’m already attached in some pathetic way. It gives him power over me, the same way Koen has with the no-drinking rule.

Ugh!

My tits are way too nice for my life to be like this.

A tapping at the balcony door pulls me out of my swirling thoughts, and I push myself up, walking over to find Good Lookin’ perched outside, her little paws pressing against the glass, demanding entrance.

I slide the door open and crouch, patting my thigh. “Where have you been, huh? And why are you here in the middle of the day?” I ask her. I was already worried after not seeing her for a few days.

She lets out a little chirping sound, a quiet reminder that someone, at least, still cares. Padding past me, she hops onto the pink couch like she owns the place. I sigh, leaving the door open for some fresh air, then drop onto the couch beside her. Good Lookin’ turns and crawls into my lap, curling up and letting out a loud, rumbling purr.

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