The paper is from him.

  He watches me as I gently pick up the paper and glance down at it. The words etched into the page are barely legible, almost what I’d imagine a doctor’s handwriting to look like. From the way they’re laid out I guess it’s some kind of poem, but I can’t be sure and I don’t have the time to decipher it. Not when there’s a chance I can speak with him again. I look back to him, half expecting him to offer up an explanation of sorts, but he doesn’t, choosing instead to lift his mouth in a halfhearted smile before shooting a salute and walking out the door.

  My eyes fall back to the paper, my palms sweating and my heart fluttering deep in my chest. A part of me is intrigued; the other half scared. I shouldn’t feel like this, especially about a boy that I don’t even know. I have big enough problems in my life without a stupid, spoiled rich boy with the world at his fingertips mucking it up.

  Scrolled along the top of the paper is a title, To J.W. I’ve read this before; it is poetry. Classic poetry by Ralph Waldo Emerson himself.

  I keep reading…

  Life is too short to waste

  The critic bite or cynic bark

  Quarrel or reprimand;

  Twill soon be dark;

  Up mind thine own aim, and

  God speed the mark.

  If I wasn’t depressed before I certainly am now, but breaking down in the middle of the lecture hall isn’t an option. The last thing I want to be known as is the crying late girl. Besides, I’m an Adams; and Adams’ never show they’re upset. I crumple the paper and stand. Packing my things with absolute resolve, I clench the paper even tighter in my hand, the weight of the possibilities from this one little note pressing down on me harder than I expect as I walk towards the door. A boy has never given me a nice note before. Anything they’ve ever written me before has always been riddled with derogatory slurs, or requests for sexual favors. Never poetry. Torn between what I feel, and what I know is right, I stop next to the wastebasket and contemplate my next move. My choice, right here, in this moment can absolutely shape my life.

  Every moment has the possibility to change your future—for most people anyway. I’m smart enough to know that I’m drowning in my present, so this moment doesn’t really matter. Because there is no moving forward for someone like me. Something will always draw me back into the quicksand. Slowly, I will drown and choke, taking down anything that surrounds me.

  Guilt and doubt wash over me as I come to the realization that I’ve been a fool to think I could ever recover from this life. With Momma being sick, I know it’s only a matter of time before I fall into the abyss. There is no hope, and Ralph Waldo Emerson was right, ’Twill soon be dark. But what Emerson can’t have known is that it is always dark for me. There has never been any light. Never any hope.

  Sighing, I toss the paper in the trash and walk out of the building, knowing that things are going to be different after all.

  Just not in the way I’d hoped.

  “WHAT THE HELL, MOMMA?” I yell just before grabbing her hand, hoping to stop her from her madness. “Stop getting ready!”

  “Well, I’ve got to go to work,” she bites back.

  Rolling my eyes, I take a deep cleansing breath. “You can’t work anymore, Momma.”

  “Yes, I can.” She snatches her hand from mine. “Big Earl doesn’t know yet.”

  My mouth drops open. It seems unfathomable to me that my very own mother could be so careless. “You can’t be serious right now? This isn’t a cold we’re talking about. You’ve got HIV. You can’t keep turning tricks. You need to be resting, taking meds, seeing a goddamn doctor!”

  She scoffs and places her makeup down on her vanity, closing her robe as though she actually has a speck of modesty, and turns so that she’s looking at me. With a flick of her wrist, she calls for me to come closer. Like a good daughter, I kneel down in front of her, the sadness of the situation stuck in my throat. “Now, how do you suggest I pay for that fancy doctor? Or that expensive medication? Are you gonna pay my bills, Presley?”

  “I get it, Momma, you need money, but you can’t turn tricks anymore. You’re putting other people at risk. Not only the men, but the other girls.”

  “And do you think any of them give a damn about me?” Her voice oozes hatred and we stare at each other for a few moments before her eyes soften, and her tone changes. “How do you think I got this in the first place?”

  I hate it, but she’s right. Someone, somewhere along the line, hadn’t given her any regard. In the last six months, another human being hadn’t given her a second thought. They hadn’t realized that they’d ruin her life, killing my dreams along with her. “I hate this, Momma.”

  She leans forward and presses her lips to my forehead. “Me too, baby. But I’ve got to take advantage for as long as I can. Because as soon as Big Earl finds out, you and I are out on our asses.”

  I swallow hard, knowing full well what will happen as soon as he gets the results from her screen. We’ve seen it happen before. The girls all know they’re disposable; no longer useful to Big Earl once they’re tainted. They are cast out, left to their own devices, and street prostitution is far worse than the brothel.

  She pats my head, like I’m a dog, and smiles. “So let me finish getting ready, and we can go over together.”

  There’s no point arguing with her, so I nod and sit on the bed, watching her ready herself like I have so many times before. I remember watching her ready herself for her ‘dates’ as I grew up. It was always a long drawn out process, but she followed the same routines and rituals every time: shaving her legs, perched so perfectly on the sink counter. Painting on her makeup. Coifing her hair just so, and always finishing with her sliding into a too tight dress, matched with a pair of sexy pumps.

  For many years I had no idea what it all meant. Clueless, I’d followed her around while she went through her routine, usually tripping along in a pair of mismatched heels. She’s my mother and I’ve adored her for most my life, but slowly the job has killed her, taking my innocence along with it.

  Looking back, I’m not entirely sure how I managed—growing up here, I mean—but I did. It wasn’t ideal: spending hours in the back room, always in the company of one of the girls, my nose constantly stuck in a book. Most days reading was what kept me going, and it still helps now. Escaping to another world with each title affirms that I want more than this life I’ve been given. Even if it doesn’t mean I’ll get it.

  Once Momma is ready, we walk to the brothel, hand in hand. It seems like a normal mother daughter interaction, but I know it’s hardly that. She kisses me on the forehead before I hole up in the office, praying that I don’t have to do too many transactions with her tonight, because I know that they’ll make me sick.

  Shaking my head, I fall into the chair and take a deep breath, pressing my eyes shut in attempt to escape.

  My relief is short-lived.

  The door flies open and I jump forward, my eyes popping open as they take in the sight of Big Earl propped against the doorframe. The lump in my throat doesn’t go down with ease when I swallow, and I know he can sense how uneasy he makes me.

  “Earl . . .” I lead. He steps into the light and I shiver. He looks like an average man, slightly handsome even, like someone who might have a mini van, a house, and 2.5 kids. But Big Earl is anything but average. He’s every evil that exists, rolled into one.

  “Presley, you little minx you.” My skin crawls as his dark eyes take me in. He’s always been a pervert, but lately his advances have grown exponentially. Chrissy thinks it’s because I’ve finally grown into my body. “I need you out front for a bit.” He smiles, pulling a toothpick out from behind his ear.

  “Earl, we’ve covered this a million times.” Struggling to keep my nervousness at bay, I stand up and cross my arms across my chest confidently. “I’m not going to fuck losers for you.”

  He laughs and pops the toothpick into his mouth. “Someday you will.”

  Using his tongue to move his toothpick, he walks towards me, closing the distance between us. My heart sounds in my ears and my pulse quickens. It takes everything I have not to pass out because Earl isn’t just an asshole, he’s an unpredictable asshole, and I never know what he’ll do next. “Mark my words, Presley. One day I will own that hot little pussy.”

  In an ideal world I would slap him, tell him to go fuck himself. But I don’t. I know better. Defiance is not tolerated, and he’d blacken me up so fast it’d make my head spin. Instead, I just stand there acting like I’m not scared of him, picking my chin up and clenching my jaw as he stalks around me. Feeling his eyes on my body makes me cringe, but I know that he’ll be leaving soon. He wants a reaction and when he doesn’t get it, he’ll give up and move on.

  “But, while I desperately enjoy the idea of your tits bouncing up and down while you fuck some Joe to make me a dollar, that isn’t why I want you out front.”

  Curious, I look at him.

  “I want you to go work with the new girls. You’ve been around longer than most . . .” He pauses and laughs again, and I want to carve him up like a pumpkin. “Anyway, show them the ropes. Teach them the intro walks, and make it sexy.” He grunts. “Lord knows, you can. Then take them through the process, you know, all the legal bullshit that you deal with.”

  Desperate to argue with him, I bite my tongue to stop it from lashing out, and nod once. I’ll do what he asks because, for now, Momma and I are relying on this place to earn a dollar. But mark my words, the minute I figure out what the hell we’re going to do . . . I’m gonna feed Big Earl his own dick.

  SPENDING MY DAYS STUDYING in the library makes me feel semi-normal. Even if for a minute, it allows me to pretend that I’m a carefree twenty-one year old, and to be honest, I like it. I felt the same way in high school. Even though I hated every minute of the drama, I enjoyed the sense of normalcy. The feeling of doing something that every other kid my age was doing, if only for a few hours every day. Like my rite of passage.

  I’ve missed it: the structure, the deadlines, the feeling of fitting in. I’ve been out of school for the past three years, but it’s taken me that long to save up the money I need to even be here. Refusing to start without knowing I’d be able to finish, the work this summer had finally padded my bank account out enough for me to take the leap.

  I’m doodling in my notebook, not really studying like I should be, when a thud on the table grabs my attention. I look up, and those familiar brown eyes stare at me from the other end of the table.

  Emerson.

  The way he’s looking at me makes me uncomfortable. He’s just staring, no visible emotion, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. After a few uneasy moments, I finally pipe up. “Yeah?”

  “Hey,” is all he says back.

  I’ve always known I was a bit socially awkward, but this . . . this takes it to a whole new level. The tension thickens as he stares, and more uncomfortable silence follows. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I told you we’d study together sometime.”

  My eyebrows jump up with curiosity.

  He shrugs and starts pulling out his books from his messenger bag. “I just thought you could use some company.”

  My heart thunders in my chest. He can’t be serious. “Maybe I like to be alone.”

  “No one likes to be alone.”

  What is it about this guy? Why is he here, and why is he smirking at me?

  After a few moments of silent pondering pass, I decide to break the silence. ”I don’t get it,” I finally manage to say.

  “Get what?”

  “Why you won’t just leave me alone?”

  He shrugs again, and for some reason I can’t help but notice how damn adorable it is. “You just seem like the type of person that I’d like to be around,” he says. “That’s all.”

  I cock an eyebrow at him. Whatever he’s selling, I’m not buying it. I haven’t spoken to anyone—except for him of course. I’m not naturally friendly and I damn well know I’m not approachable. We haven’t had any tests yet, so he can’t be hoping to copy off me. Not that I’m a good student, but he has no way of knowing that and I’ve learned over the years that guys always have an ulterior motive. It’s starting to feel like I’m being set up. Like in the movies, where the high school jock picks a poor soul to turn into prom queen. It sounds like a crock of shit, and at this point I am seriously questioning his motives. Crossing my arms over my chest I give him a pointed look. “I call bullshit.”

  “Fine you got me.” He throws his hands up in surrender. “I think you’re hot, all right. Man, you are ruthless,” he finishes with a cock-eyed grin.

  Even though I’m caught off guard, I manage to let out a little giggle. His honesty is refreshing, and I’m starting to think I could really like this guy.

  But then I’m reminded that men are pigs, and there is always something they want. Whatever his reasoning, he’s driving me insane. Growing up in an environment that doesn’t exactly foster long-term relationships hasn’t given me the best handle on how to interact and read other human beings.

  “Jeesh, you’d think you would’ve gotten the hint with the poetry.” He winks, and I can feel the smile spread across my lips. It feels nice to smile.

  “It was a nice touch by the way,” I say, breaking my eyes away from his because I don’t like what he does to my heart. He makes me feel fickle and out of control, beyond my comfort zone. Without him near me, I have resolve; my arrow pointing in the direction I know I must go. But something about Emerson makes me want to draw back and re-aim.

  And I can’t do that.

  “Well, growing up with a poetry obsessed mother did have its perks.”

  I chew nervously on my pen, my uneasiness ruling me, and I’m fighting the urge to run. This is how the story always starts. A boy declares his interest . . . and the rest is history. It’s thoroughly predictable, and it’s why I love to read romance after romance. I know what’s coming. There are no surprises like there are in the real world. Yet, somehow, even though I can always predict what’s going to happen, I like being taken on the journey. With that said, I don’t necessarily believe in love and fairy tales. I just read about them in books.

  “In all seriousness though, I dunno, Presley.” He pauses, raking his hands through his hair. “You just seem like you can use a friend. I see you around, and you’re always alone, and I can’t stand it. It’s in my nature to be a friend when a friend is needed. So let’s take a stab at this again.”

  Directing my attention back to him, I see that his hand stuck out across the table. “I’m Emerson. My mother is obsessed with poets, and my dad is a hoity-toity lawyer. I grew up in the Vegas ’burbs, and spent my weekends by the country club pool.” He laughs in spite of himself before giving me a look, and I can feel the heat rush to my cheeks. “I think that about covers it.”

  He nods in my direction, coaxing me, and I stare at his open hand, refusing to play his little game. Despite his relentless attempts to engage me, I refuse to bite. His hand hangs in midair, waiting for me to make a decision to let him in. But I can’t. I can’t and I won’t. A few awkward moments pass before he lets his hand fall, slightly defeated.

  Our interaction ends there and he focuses on the books in front of him. He doesn’t press any further, and for that I’m thankful, but he just sits there, at the same table with me while I study, driving me insane with his closeness. As much as I try to focus on my studies, I can’t help myself from stealing glances at him. He’s seriously gorgeous, and his confidence is overwhelmingly annoying. I find myself wanting to know more about him, to be able to learn about his life. Why had his voice oozed with distain when he mentioned his father? What is his life really like? I want more than his brief bio. I want to dig deeper into what makes him tick. But I know that’s not possible. Not only that, but I refuse to let myself be taken advantage of, and I know that that’s all that will come from allowing Emerson in.

  So I don’t.

  “UGH, THAT WAS THE MOST disgusting sex I’ve ever had.” Chrissy plops into the empty chair directly to my left and opens my stash drawer. “Thank God you’ve restocked,” she chirps as she snatches a nip.

  Before she slams it shut, I grab the handle reaching in for my own self-medication. Chrissy raises an eyebrow.

  “What?” I ask. “I can live a little every now and then too!” Knowing that Chrissy is judging me, I open the bottle and suck back the not-so-smooth liquor. Holding back the coughs, I slam the empty container down on the desktop and look to Chrissy. As the warm liquid slips down my neck and into my stomach, I can feel my cheeks flushing. I was never much of a drinker.

  “Bad lay, huh? You know that wouldn’t be an issue if you actually chose who you slept with.”

  She rolls her eyes and takes a sip from her bottle. “It’s just sex. You make it out to be a bigger deal than it actually is.”

  I chew on my bottom lip. She’s right. Unlike her and the rest of the girls who work for Big Earl, I think sex should hold some meaning. How have I come to that conclusion? I don’t really know. Maybe it’s because of all the books I’ve read. Or perhaps the fact that I hate the life that I’ve been given. It might even have something to do with my knowledge, and knowing that sex isn’t always about the good. Sex can be evil. It can bring down a world of hurt on people, leaving a path of destruction in its wake.

  And it scares the shit out of me.

  Any idea I have about sex lives in that shaded grey area. It’s unpredictable and dangerous. The point is it’s neither here nor there. It doesn’t really matter why I feel how I feel about sex, I just know that for me it means more than anyone I know will ever be able to understand.

  “Jesus, Presley, you just need to let it go.” Tilting back her nip, she finishes off the rest of the liquor and winces.