Violet Grenade(8)

The woman smiles, and the folds around her eyes deepen. I try to decide how old she is. Between mother and grandmother, she's leaning toward the latter.

"It's not just walls you decorate." Her eyes rake over my pink wig and the piercings in my face. "I'm offering you a place in my house. You will work with the other girls. And you'll get a percentage of anything you earn."

"I don't need a job."

Lie.

"What are you even doing out here?" I add. "Shouldn't you be at home drinking herbal tea or something?" 

The woman bends down, and I lean away from her. She smells nice, powder instead of perfume. "What's your name?"

I search her face and wonder why she cares. There isn't anything to be afraid of that I can see. But who knows what lurks beneath. I've been surprised before. I don't want to tell her my name, but then I decide it doesn't matter. She won't see me after tonight anyway.

"Domino," I say.

She reaches out to lay a hand on me. I jerk back.

"Domino," she says, her words gentle as a cloud. "I don't make this offer often. I'm asking if you'd like to get off the streets."

"I don't need you," I snarl. I don't know why I'm reacting this way. She's trying to be nice. But I don't trust it. Moments ago, I was running from police, watching my person get hauled away. And before that, running from Manhandler. And Wilson.

Now this.

"I think you do." She tries again to place her hand on me, and this time I let her. Why do I let her?

She turns my hand over and offers my forearm as evidence. There are slashes across my flesh as if someone forgot the hugs in their Xs and Os. I stare down at them and then up at her. She thinks I'm a cutter, I can see it in her face, but she's wrong. Those marks are a souvenir from my past, and I'd be wise to remember that. I yank my arm away and rise to my feet. She clutches my wrist as I'm about to go. It feels like an embrace and I hate myself-I hate myself-for relishing her touch.

"Take this." She hands me a neat ten-dollar bill and a cream-colored card. "I could help you. I could give you what you want." Her eyes flick toward my wall, the one with fresh paint cast across its gut.

I shove the money and card into my pocket and walk fast.

"You have to call by tomorrow evening, Domino," she says from behind me. "Or my offer will be retracted."

That's all she says. She doesn't try to follow me. I hate her for approaching me at all, and I hate her for not following. As I near the end of the alley, I see a tired gold sedan with tinted windows. It's hard to see inside, but not so hard that I don't recognize the guy I saw on the street earlier today sitting inside, the one with the big nose and white shirt.

He waves, and I freeze.

Is he with the woman?

Standing outside the car is another guy, one I've never seen before. He's closer to my age and is built like a stone giant. Bronze skin, hair shaved close to the scalp, lips pressed tight like he hasn't spoken in months and doesn't plan to ever again. His eyes are brown with two layers, one he shows the world and a second he hides at great expense. I see both.

He straightens, and when he realizes I'm staring, his gaze drops. He's built like a soldier, a king without a throne, but he doesn't want to be seen.

I'm intrigued. Maybe more than I should be.

I force myself to move and wait until I'm sure I'm out of sight before I withdraw the card. It has a phone number and a name, Ms. Karina, written in cursive. I want to throw it away. I have to worry about bailing Dizzy out of jail, not the woman in the alley. But I can't stop thinking about what she said. That she could give me what I want.

Anger boils in my stomach. I'm furious that I wrote that word on the wall. Furious that she knows what I dream of every night.

HOME.

A home of my very own. Four strong walls that will never fall.

It isn't until I'm lying in bed, painfully aware that I'm alone in the house, that I allow myself to search my mind. To look for any trace of Wilson. I breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn't surface.

Clutching my pillow to my chest, I cinch my eyes shut and silence my spinning mind. I'm in that twisty place between awareness and sleep, when my body grows heavy, and Wilson's voice returns, a lullaby on his tongue.



       
         
       
        

Hush little baby, don't say a word.

Wilson's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don't sing,

Wilson's gonna burn the world to the ground.





Chapter Six

Mad Money

I wake the next morning with Ms. Karina's card wrinkled in my hand. I worked it between my fingers until the lettering smeared, but I can still read the ten-digit number. It doesn't matter whether or not I want to call, I have to bail Dizzy out of jail and that's that. Even if I spent half the night looking out the window expecting to see the social worker. Even though I'm so exhausted it's hard to think straight.