Page 1 of Wreckin' Amethyst

Prologue

Fourteen Years Ago...

Beep.Beep.

My brow furrows, the thinly veiled reprieve of sleep evading me once more. Squeezing the cover closer to my chest from my mattress on the floor, I blink through the early morning sun spearing the ragged curtains. Our house is nothing like the inviting space it once was. Not now my mom’s shining light has been dimmed, reduced to a motionless figure spread across the adjacent bed. Pushing myself to my feet, I brush her hair free of her forehead and place a featherlight kiss there.

“Morning Mom,” I force a smile. My gaze snags on the scribbled post-it note I stuck to the headboard before passing out last night, and that smile slips. It’s dialysis day.

Stalling by checking the heart monitor, making notes and adjusting the tube in her nose, I tap her IV bag. It needs changing; I can’t hold off any longer. Even if that means I’ll have to use our last one and brave the outside world to fetch replacements. Something I used to avoid, until the phone company cut our line. Now it’s all on me.

Turning the IV bag upside down, I pinch the tube before carefully twisting the spike free and inserting it into a new one. I learned by watching, my knack for observation coming in handy. Next, I give mom her morning sponge bath, hunting for veins which aren’t too bruised in her forearm to accept a needle.

It didn’t used to be like this. Before dad died and mom fell sick, there wasn’t a pile of overdue bills and last notices on the kitchen counter. There wasn’t a weekly pounding on the door from the truancy officer or social services. I hadn’t maxed out all of her credit cards to pay for nurse visits, and the medical supply company wasn’t threatening to take back their equipment if I couldn’t pay the debt.

My only saving grace is my appearance. As the mirror-image of my aunt, I swiped her ID last time she came to visit. That was over a year ago, and before mom’s condition plummeted. Being the tallest girl in my grade and well developed, I can apply enough make-up to put me well in my twenties and convince mostly anyone to believe I’m who the ID says I am. To keep the welfare officers at bay, I even filed a missing child report on myself just so they’ll leave us alone. As far as the world is concerned, I’m a ghost.

Once I’ve started mom’s dialysis cycle, I head downstairs in hunt for some breakfast. What furniture I haven’t sold on Craigslist is coated in dust, unused and forgotten. Opening the refrigerator, a foul smell bursts free and forces me to gag. My stomach clenches, hunger consuming me from the inside. Slamming the door shut, I opt for a bowl of dry cereal instead, the flakes long since stale as I pick at them, sinking down against the washing machine. I’d forgotten about the load inside, sitting in its own water for longer than I care to remember.

Days bleed into each other. Hours slip by without realizing I’m still here. A yawn pulls at my lips, my head slumping back as the walls close in on me. I read once that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture in rural prisons. Consider me tortured, but I have no choice. The doctors tried to convince me mom wouldn’t improve, but I can’t accept that. Then I would have no one, and on the odd occasion, mom rouses enough to clear the haze from her blue eyes. To mumble sweet sentiments through her cracked lips. Tell me how proud she is before sleep claims her once more. Those are the moments I live for.

Leaving my bowl on the ground, I drag myself upright. I need to get to the hospital early, pick up the IV bags and leave before too many people leak through the doors. The more people I fool into thinking I am my aunt, the more confident I become. But baby steps. After a brisk, cold shower, I dress in my mom’s yellow dress with cork wedges. No one would suspect me of being sixteen by the ample cleavage on show, or the self-assurance to my strut. To be believable, I must embody the character I’m creating. Coating my face in a layer of make-up, I tell mom I’ll be back as soon as I can and find myself in the entrance hallway. Bracing myself behind the front door of our town house, I exhale deeply.

Just get it over with.

A shadow appears on the other side of the glass, making me jump backwards as a thick bundle of mail is pushed through the letterbox. I wait for the mailman to retreat before retrieving the stack, dumping it on the table with the rest. A leaflet slips free, tumbling to the ground. Crest Financial Holdings. The bold print catches my attention, giving me a long enough pause to pick it up and look inside.

Struggling to keep track of your expenses? Yep. Need to settle past loans to ensure a better future? Yep. Consolidate the payments into one, simple monthly sum.

My eyes race over the text before I force myself to go back and absorb every word. Is this the answer I’ve been looking for? There’s nothing stopping me from taking my aunt’s ID straight to the bank, acquiring the loan which could save us from sinking. As soon as the idea takes root, my mind starts spinning. I could offer the house as collateral, pay all the backdated bills, buy the medical equipment for good. With a little more time, mom will start to get better. I’ll find a way to pay off the loan and we’ll be free. Leaflet in hand, I leave the house and lock up, a real smile taking root this time. Visions of moving out of the city, a life by the beach, sunsets framed by laughter, fill my mind as my wedges eat up the pavement all the way to the bank.

This is the answer I need.

Chapter 1

Present Day

“Oh yes, baby, just like that,” the elderly man sitting beneath me croons. Withered hands grip my thighs through the netted material, earning a cautionary slap on the wrist.

“No touching, mon chèri,” I lay on a delicate French accent. “Or I may have to restrain you.” I smile easily. All part of the effortless mask I wear.

“I think I’d like that,” he chokes on a laugh. I’m inclined to agree, but being a dancer for the Thirsty Kirsty isn’t my main vocation. It’s merely a talent which can aid my true intentions. Maintaining the smooth roll of my hips over his non-existent crotch, I reach around the back of his neck, lowering my barely contained breasts towards his face.

“I bet you were quite the stallion back in your day.” I give them a jiggle. His raspy breath fans my skin and if my attention wasn’t diverted, I’d shudder with all the disgust I’m suppressing. Surely there’s an age men get to and decide to hang up their shriveled dick to spare the world moments like these.

“I’m eighty-seven years young, and reckon I could show you a thing or two,” he croaks. I lean back, puckering the purple lipstick that matches my hair and colored contact lenses. Even with the bunny mask and make-up concealing my tattoos, there’s no denying I’m not who he chose for his private entertainment. Only his looming dementia prevents him from realizing we’ve met before. In fact, I’ve been dancing for him three weeks straight, waiting for the fog in his mind to clear enough for a slip of clarity to leak through.

“Can’t wait,” I lie. Aged blue eyes sparkle with excitement as I swing my leg free of his waist. These six-inch, spiked heels allowed me to hover over him just enough to not snap his hips beneath my full weight. I had cheesecake for breakfast…three days running and will continue to do so, because that’s living my best life.

Spinning between his open legs, I bend in half, pushing my ass into his face. Beneath the netted tights, a thin thong - also in black - neatly covers my goodies from his prying eyes. His gasp is followed by another smoker’s cough, a shaky hand gripping his heart when I peer back.

“You seem like a cigar man to me. What’s your poison?” I bat my eyelashes. The coughing seizes into a heavy wheeze as he struggles to reply.

“Never leave home without a Gran Habano number five in my pocket,” he lifts the cigar from inside his jacket. A paper seal around the middle holds the Costa Rican flag. Returning to my full height, I stretch my arms above my head. A soothing beat trickles from hidden speakers which I slowly wind my hips to. I know what’s coming before he smacks my ass, having mastered his inner workings. Taking two measured steps away, I slowly turn on my heels, fold my arms and pout.

“Strike two. You know the deal, mi amore. Physical contact costs extra.” He doesn’t hesitate, scrambling in his pocket to produce a wallet. Plucking out a gold credit card and shaking it at me, I lean all the way forward, holding my tits high. “Swipe right here and enter the pin.” His smile is nothing less than sinister, a flashback to our first meeting threatening to rise. He was feeling extra promiscuous that day, not half as forthcoming as he is currently proving to be.

“Six-four-two-zero,” he willingly plays along. Squeezing my breasts together mid-swipe, I extract the card from his fragile grip.

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