Page 16 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

God, she’s trying so hard. I love her for it.

But Guess isn’t cheap, we can’t afford it, and where would I even wear it anyway?

“Thanks, Mom.” I get up, can feel it bubbling in me. “I’m a bit tired though, so I think I’ll go take a nap.”

“You sure?” Mom eyes me suspiciously. “We could maybe watch a mov …” She trails off, glancing at the TV, having clearly forgotten about Damon.

Yeah, there won’t be any movies, let alone TV, tonight. That’s DD’s domain for the rest of the evening and beyond.

“Yep, I’m pooped.”

Mom hugs me again. “All right, I’ll be in my room reading, but if you even think of having more cake, you come and get me. You know I’d pass up Kate Morton for some chocolate any day.”

“Of course. Love you, Mom.” I kiss her on the cheek.

I keep my breathing steady until I get to my room.

There, once the door closes behind me, my vision blurs. I pull off my socks, then find the rest of the way to my bed. I half-fall, half-throw myself on it, my side smarting with the impact. I forgot for a blissful second that my mattress is basically cleverly disguised bricks.

The tears are cold on my cheeks. My tongue finds a missed chocolate crumb in my mouth.

I wince. The screaming baby is even louder in here.

I lean over so that my hand brushes the floor, then underneath, clamps down on the familiar jar. I take the money out, dump it on my bed, and count it.

This will be all I get. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Johnny will pay me for the past week of work.

As I count the bills and organize the loose change into piles, I can feel something growing in me, like it has ever since I got this job and started putting away every extra cent I could. The grand total is … $567.35.

I hadn’t even realized that the feeling was my heart rising… until it falls.

It’s not enough. Far from it.

My escape plan—save enough to get us out of this shithole apartment, away from Damon—is kaput.

I’ve already been contributing half of what I make to help Mom afford the bills for her, me, and Damon. Now, my contribution will have to come from my meager savings.

I fall back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling and my paintings.

Ever since I was little and Mom picked me up a paint-by-the-numbers kit from the dollar store, I fell in love with art. Not just with painting pretty purple princesses and unicorns, but with sticking us in the scene too. Making the whole dang painting about us.

“Hey, Mom, here’s us in our fairy castle.”

“Hey, Mom, here’s us with a feast that will last us a year.”

“Hey, Mom, here’s the prince that will come sweep us away on his flying horse.”

And even after that prince and castle never showed, I couldn’t stop painting out all the ways I wished our life could be.

On the ceiling in bright, broad brushstrokes is everything I can never have, will never have. The beautiful, white-gabled house painted with watercolors on the chunk of Bristol board the art teacher let me have last May. It’s the one I can’t stop imagining me and Mom in. The two hands clasped with the light shining and everything glowing are ours, the two of us finally free.

When I paint, everything else blurs away. Time flows on its own rhythm.

I turn my face away. Best thing for me to do is get used to this life. Shuffle around like all the other given-up people I hate who expect no better than the shitty hand they’ve been dealt by the world.

Hoping for anything more just hurts too much.

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