“I have lots of good to offer.” Her eyes darkened just as the screen door slammed.

“Zane!” Phillip lunged for my lap then with a huge jump landed in my arms and swiped my cookie, it was in his mouth before I could even utter a hello. “I missed you.”

Mrs. Angel, as she had us call her, reared back and pretended to be arranging the cookies on the plate, but we both knew what she had been doing, again, since the first day of my arrival.

She, like every other female in my life, wanted something from me. Something of the sexual nature.

Sometimes I wondered if it was my fault.

Was I too nice?

Too polite?

Grandma had taught me to be all of those things.

“Phillip.” Mrs. Angel clapped her hands. “Why don’t you wash your hands while Zane helps me upstairs really quick. I’m tired.”

Phillip jumped off my lap and made a beeline for the bathroom while Mrs. Angel narrowed her gaze on me.

Sighing, I grabbed her outstretched hand and walked her up the creaky stairs and into her dark bedroom.

The blinds were drawn.

It smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat.

I stuffed one hand in my pocket, grasping the marshmallow I’d stuffed in there after lunchtime. It was the one thing that Mrs. Angel did right. She bought marshmallows, but sometimes I had to save them for days, making them hard, impossible to eat, but at least I could grasp it, know that as long as I had the marshmallows, Grandma was there with me.

“Tuck me in, Zane?” Mrs. Angel winked, pulling her ratty blonde hair back into a ponytail. On the outside, she was the perfect foster parent. A nurse by day and a fantastic mother to six foster boys at night, her husband was a cop.

They were perfect.

The perfect family.

In an old ranch house in Texas.

The agency called us the lucky ones.

And maybe, the other boys were, we had acres and acres of land to roam on, but I wasn’t lucky.

I had never been lucky.

Because she was a bored housewife with a job that left her too much access to pills.

And her husband had been cheating on her for ten years.

Which left me.

The eye candy.

Her ticket to pleasure.

Or so she thought.

“Zane,” She pouted, her red lips pressed together in a smirk. “I won’t bite.”

I quickly pushed her toward the bed and very crassly shoved her in then pulled covers over her.

“Stay.” She grabbed my hand.

“No.” I jerked back.

“You need an older woman…”

“No.” I licked my lips. “I need a mom.”

Her face paled.

“So if you can’t at least be that to me, then we have nothing more to say.”

“Don’t be a little bitch.” She scowled. “It’s just sex.”

“Then why are you so upset about it?” I said as gently as possible. “If it was just sex, you should laugh it off, move on. Don’t use me to make you feel better.”

With a furious yell, she reached up and slammed her hand against my face. “You piece of shit! How DARE you talk to me that way!”

I stumbled back, just as the door slammed downstairs.

“Tawny?” Bill was home, her husband, my foster dad. “Tawny you okay?”

Her eyes narrowed in on me, and then with venom in her expression she tore at her own shirt revealing cleavage and pulled down her bra then burst into tears.

Dumbstruck I stayed on the ground.

It happened in slow motion.

Bill walking in the room.

Seeing the state of his sobbing wife.

Me on the floor, looking guilty as hell.

Luck shifted.

Lucky to be alive after such a beating.

Lucky my face didn’t break in half.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Lucky to spend the last three months of my seventeen years, at an orphanage.

Lucky.

That on my eighteenth birthday.

I no longer belonged to the state.

Lucky.

That I spent the very first night of my freedom, sleeping under a bridge with the rats.

Lucky.

I was so damn lucky.

I kicked the wall with my shoe and fumbled for more marshmallows, cursing my entire existence as my hands shook, fingers trembling as memories continued to replay over and over in my head.

I had no idea what brought them on.

Just that I hated them. I hated me. I didn’t find out until two years later, at one of my first concerts—Phillip had grown into a good-looking fifteen-year-old.

And she’d hurt him too.

Only this time, justice was served.

Because Phillip turned her in.

Stomach recoiling, I ran into the bathroom and puked up marshmallow like I was hung over, then wiped my mouth.

My phone buzzed.

My agent’s number flashed across the screen.

I hit ignore.

He called two more times before finally texting. Persistent.

Brees: Where are the songs? You’ve sent me two. We need twelve more for a full album. Call me.

With a sigh, I texted back.

Saint: I’m doing some mind cleansing today and will get the next four songs to you by tonight, I’ll stop at the studio.

Brees: Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but you need to get your shit together. I’ve given you time. The record company has given you time. The whole damn world has given you time. Now get it done.

Saint: Heard you loud and clear.

Brees: Good.

I was tempted to throw my phone against the wall. Instead, I quickly put on clothes and grabbed a bag of marshmallows before running out the door.




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