Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Zane
The kitchen door slams shut behind me, the crack of it loud enough to rattle the glass in the window.
I don’t turn around. Don’t slow my pace. I don’t give a single fuck if that cold, bitter bitch who runs this place caught me walking out again. Let her scream herself hoarse because I’m not fucking listening.
Her voice cuts through the walls anyway, high and jagged, barking orders at kids too small and too beaten down to push back. They nod quick, scatter faster, keeping their eyes down as if ignoring her could make her less of a monster stuffed into a cheap cardigan.
She isn’t a foster mother.
She’s a fucking prison warden.
A woman who cashes the state’s money and calls it care. Nothing more.
None of us matter to her. We never have.
We are nothing more than numbers on her roster, broken bodies she trades in for government funding and the half-hearted praise she collects at church.
It is all a game to her, and she plays it well.
She keeps the place clean enough to pass inspections, keeps her threats quiet enough to avoid a report.
But I see it.
I see everything.
I don’t owe her a damn thing. She will keep doing what she does best, collecting damaged kids and cashing in on our pain.
And we will all continue to do what we do best.
Surviving.
That’s all I’ve been doing.
Two more months and I’m out of this shithole.
Eighteen. Free. No more foster bullshit.
No more rules. No more government assholes acting like they own me.
They can’t tell me what to fucking do—not anymore.
They’ve already threatened to ship me off to some boys’ home, and said I was on my last warning.
One more fuckup and I’m gone. But once I’m legal, they can’t touch me.
So I keep my head down, grit my teeth, and wait it out.
Skylar’s doing the same in her own way.
We’re both seniors, in our last year of high school. No doubt she’s counting down the days too.
I’ve seen the way guys at school watch her, how they try to talk to her, try to charm her so she’ll let them fuck her. She shuts it down without blinking. Doesn’t give them shit. A single glance, a scoff, sometimes nothing at all. She doesn’t hand out pieces of herself for free.
I’ve got a part-time job after school. Shit hours, shittier pay. But it’s something.
I’ve been saving every cent I can, scraping together whatever it takes so when I hit eighteen, I can walk out and never look back.
I’m not expecting it to be much better than this shithole I’m stuck in now.
Probably some crumbling apartment, a mattress on the floor, a busted lock on the door. But at least it’ll be mine.
Not this old bitch’s house with the stale cigarette stink and the way she watches me as if I’m a loaded gun ready to go off.
I just need to hold out. Two more months. That’s it.
And if I can survive that… I can survive anything.
I cut across the courtyard, boots grinding against dirt and gravel, hands buried deep in the pockets of my jacket.
Every inch of this place is shit.
The swing set is nothing but rusted chains and metal that groans when the wind cuts through. Silence hangs heavy once the doors shut and the screaming dies out, wrapping the house in something colder than night.
It’s “home”. Sweet fucking home.
I dig a hand into the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out the joint I’ve been saving all day. The shake in my fingers has nothing to do with the cold. It’s this place. It’s what it does to me. The longer I stay, the harder it is to breathe.
I fucking hate it here.
Lighting up is the only thing that keeps me from tearing this whole place apart. A hit or two, and the static in my head quiets down enough to think straight.
At least Skylar keeps me distracted.
A fucked-up distraction, but one I can’t shake.
Even when she isn’t around, she crawls into my head, her voice chewing through my thoughts with the edge of a switchblade. She’s a storm I never saw coming, and now she’s everywhere.
In every silence.
Every corner of this shitty house.
In every breath I drag into my lungs.
Her sarcasm burns hotter than wildfire, and her stare only pours gasoline over it.
And I’m the fucking idiot holding the match, knowing I should put it out but wanting to see how far the flames can spread.
I’ve seen plenty of girls try to act tough.
They raise their voices, roll their eyes, push back hard enough to seem untouchable.
Skylar is different. She doesn’t pretend. She doesn’t need to. The armor she wears isn’t for show; it clings to her as if she was born in it, forged out of the same sharp edges she throws at the world.
And still, she pulls at me in ways I can’t shake.
A smirk that cuts too deep. An insult that lands harder than a fist. Even the way she spits the word "prick" at me, her voice dripping heat and venom, leaves a mark I can’t ignore.
She’s under my skin, buried in my blood, and it pisses me off more than anything.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her, not when I know better.
Every time I close my eyes, I picture her mouth falling open, her body trembling while I fuck her, her eyes still throwing sparks even when she’s breathless as she comes undone. She isn’t the kind of girl you hold onto. She doesn’t follow rules–not mine, not anyone’s, not even her own.
But fuck, here I am, hard up over a girl who could burn me alive and make me thank her for it.
I sink to the ground behind the shed, dropping my ass onto the cracked concrete still holding the last of the sun’s heat. Nobody comes here. This space is mine. My hideout. My escape.
I lean back, shoulders pressed hard against the warped boards, knees bent, boots scuffing loose gravel beneath me. Out here, the silence is mine. So is the distance from the eyes that never stop judging.
I slide the joint between my lips and flick the lighter, shielding the flame with my hand until it catches. The tip glows hot, a deep red pulse in the fading light, and the first drag hits hard.
Smoke sears down my throat, sharp and familiar, burying itself in my lungs until the pressure turns to pain. I hold it there, let it sting, let it burn through the hollow space inside me.
I exhale slowly, watching the smoke rise in twisting ribbons before the wind steals it.
I close my eyes and sink into the quiet.
For one stolen moment, everything fades.
The weight pressing on my ribs eases.
The voices lose their edge. The ache in my head slips to the background.
But peace never stays long.
When I open my eyes, she’s there.
Skylar.
She moves across the street with her phone clutched to her ear, jaw tight and shoulders squared like she’s ready to go to war.
There’s something in the way she walks that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. Every step is a warning. Every glance, a fucking challenge. She doesn’t try to be seen. She doesn’t care who’s looking.
But I see her.
And fuck, do I want her.
Those jeans cling to her hips, shredded at the knees, teasing enough skin to short-circuit the part of my brain that usually keeps me in check.
My cock stirs, hard and aching, as if it already knows the shape of her mouth and how she’d taste moaning under me. One glance, and I’m gone. Again. I don’t just think about her… I fucking obsess.
She’s not the first girl I’ve wanted.
But she’s the only one I’ve ever had to talk myself out of chasing.
And I’m losing that fight.
Every fucking time she storms past, all bite and fire, it guts me a little more. I want to ruin her composure. I want to hear her say my name when she’s too far gone to pretend she doesn’t want me back.
My eyes shift down over that tank top as it clings to her chest. The way the loose strap keeps slipping off one shoulder, teasing the sharp line of her collarbone and daring my gaze lower.
I shift against the cracked concrete, jeans tugging tight in all the places where I don’t need them to. My cock is hard and unashamed, reacting before I can even get a handle on the thoughts detonating in my head.
I grip the joint tighter, trying to drag the heat back down. But it’s no use. She’s already in too deep.
Skylar fucking owns me.
Even when she’s not around, she’s under my skin. She lives in the shadows of my thoughts, in every breath I take.
Every time I close my eyes, there she is on her knees, mouth parted, eyes locked on mine, full of that same defiance she wears like armor. That look she gives me, the one that dares me to break her, to see if I’ll actually do it this time.
She thinks she’s strong. Untouchable. But I see the cracks.
I don’t just want to fuck her.
I want to ruin her before anyone else does.
I want to see how far she’ll let me go. How close I can get before she cracks.
Because no one makes Skylar bend, no one breaks through those walls she hides behind. But I want every goddamn inch of that.
And that’s what makes this so fucked up.
She’s still on the phone, pacing the sidewalk like the world owes her something. And maybe it does.
Whoever’s on the other end has her pacing like a caged animal, trapped in a fight she can’t punch her way out of. Her hand flexes at her side, fingers twitching like she’s holding back something sharp.
A scream.
A sob.
A curse that could cut glass.
I watch the way she shifts her weight, heel grinding into the pavement, foot tapping in quick, angry bursts before she snaps, kicking hard at a loose rock like it insulted her.
It shoots across the road and smashes against the gutter with a sharp crack.
That’s the Skylar I know.
Not some polished, perfect girl with a fake smile and a soft voice. No. She’s rough around the edges, stitched together with spit and survival. The kind of girl who doesn’t care if the world thinks she’s too much.
She doesn’t hide the rage boiling just beneath the surface. She lets it bleed through in the way she moves, the way she glares, the way her whole body vibrates as if it’s seconds from going nuclear.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me want her more.