Page 34 of Torrid Love
I let that one slide. It’s a thorny subject.
You’d never know their mother was a fucked up mess and their father was a coward.
“Going back to Rod—”
“Of course,” she grins.
“He’s still the epitome of the bad-guy-slash-good-guy persona. He’s the bad-boy-rocker-god who still gets panties thrown at him when he walks into a room. He’s cocky, infuriating and a consummate player. But, behind it all, he’s also a good man and a fiercely loyal and protective friend.”
“You mean overprotective,” Zoe says.
I frown my surprise.
“Rod isn’t overprotective,” I defend.
“Everything about the vibe he gives off suggests otherwise when it comes to you, Dom.”
I frown harder. “No.”
“I guess you don’t see it. I have an older brother and I’m sure he loves me in his own way––when he isn’t telling me I annoy the shit out of him––but I doubt he’d take a bullet for me. I can see Rod doing that for you.”
Much to my dismay, my cheeks flush.
“Am I right?” Zoe asks.
“Yeah. He can be fearless for the people who matter most.” I pause. “That’s how we met,” I say shyly.
“Is that what you meant yesterday when you said he rescued you twice?”
I nod. “I can still remember with absolute clarity” —the kind that still makes me shiver— “the day Rod came into my life. I was thirteen years old. A new immigrant who spoke limited English, and I had a huge Eastern European accent. I was awkward, short—well, I still am—and skinny. I had just started at Carter DyerHigh and I hated it. It was worse than purgatory. To this day, my old high school is still part of the bottom five percent in the state of California, even if parts of the Fashion District have changed—”
“Wait! What?” Zoe’s eyes grow round. “No fucking way!”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You grew up in the Fashion District?”
“So did Rod.”
“Whoa! I thought he grew up in Van Nuys. That’s what I read online. It’s far from being Bel Air, but it’s not the pit of the barrel.”
“It was a complicated story around custody—not mine to tell.”
“Oof,” Zoe exhales. “Roark was always fairly tightlipped about his childhood. Since we were casual, I didn’t push.”
“They had a horrible childhood. I fared slightly better, but not by much.”
“I had no clue.” Zoe does little to hide her shock. “I mean the Fashion District… it’s one the worst neighborhoods in LA. It’s just a hair above the Wholesale District.”Aka, skid row.
“If the violence in the old neighborhood didn’t kill you, the agonizing decaying of your soul did.”
Don’t be fooled by the seemingly sophisticated name. LA’s Fashion District isn’t the stylish, posh or edgy imagery you might have of cities like New York, Paris, Tokyo or London. It’s a shithole. High-crime. High unemployment. Low income. Low hope. In other words, hell on earth.
“I’m sorry, I interrupted your story,” Zoe apologizes.
“It’s okay.” Her reaction doesn’t surprise me a bit. Rod and I have done a half decent job at putting the past behind us. Going back is never fun. “I met Rod on a Friday, just after the morning classes. I was heading to the cafeteria when a bunch of mean girls—led by Connie Washington—circled me. They took turns bumping into me, shoving me around and pulling my hair. They even dumped the contents of my backpack on the ground just to humiliate me further. Other kids were gathered around us, cackling, snickering and laughing. No one stepped up to help.
“That’s horrible.”
