3. Chapter One
Chapter One
Xena
I hate going into town. People stare, their whispers cutting through the cold air like knives. But we need to eat, and no amount of shame would fill our empty fridge. I step out of Senior’s old truck, the door groaning as it swings open. My breath fogs in front of me, mingling with the sight of another busted window in the house. Our home—once so full of life—now a crumbling shell of its former glory. The hate from the town hasn’t stopped since that Christmas. They blame me. I blame myself.
I rub my hands together, grimacing as I notice the chips in my black nail polish. With a frustrated groan, I walk around the truck, inspecting the tires for any surprises. My combat boots crunch against the snow, and I can feel the chill seeping through my thin black tights. I tuck a strand of my black hair behind my ear as I lean down to examine the tires closely.
"Fuck. Again," I mutter under my breath, spotting the slash in the rubber—a deep gash that marks the third time this month. I kick at the snow in frustration, but the action does little to ease my anger. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.
We need food. We need money. The only person willing to help is Tony—the owner of Tits ‘n’ Grits. The fucker makes me suck him off for a few bucks here and there. My mom doesn’t know it, but it helps keep food on the table and the lights on. She hasn’t taken care of herself like she used to, and I can’t shake the fear that one day she’ll be the next one to go.
The cold bites through my jacket as I head back inside, snatching the mail on my way in. I shake off the snow from my boots at the door, the stale stench of cigarette smoke and cheap beer assaulting my nose. I glance down at the white envelope in my hand, Roman’s handwriting scrawled across it. My chest tightens. Another letter. Another gut punch. My vision blurs, but I blink back the tears. I can’t cry for him. Not anymore. He wrecked everything.
The moans from the other room cut through the silence—loud, desperate, and disgustingly familiar. Skin slapping against skin, muffled grunts, and my mom’s voice echoing through the thin walls. I grit my teeth, heading straight for the kitchen. The fridge creaks open, and I grab a bottle of cheap beer, popping it open and taking a long swig. The bitter taste is hollow, but it numbs the ache.
I make my way to the living room, praying no one will bother me, and collapse onto the worn-out couch. I can still hear them. My mom, selling herself to keep this rundown cabin standing. I swallow the bitterness in my throat as I take another sip.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from the bleak reality. I glance at the screen. Dylan. A quick text from my boyfriend. He's a good guy—too good for me. Military, built like a brick house, and always saying the right thing. I use him as a distraction, but it never sticks. Nothing does.
The heavy thud of footsteps fills the room, and my stomach knots tighter with every step. Andy—my mom’s useless boyfriend and the man who’s destroyed whatever was left of me—draws closer. His greasy hair hangs limp, and his bloodshot eyes gleam with that twisted hunger I’ve come to dread. He shakes a pill bottle in his hand, the rattle a sick reminder of the control he holds. A smug grin spreads across his face, making my skin crawl.
"You gonna be a good girl for me?" he taunts, his voice thick with filth.
He plops down in Senior’s old chair, and my chest tightens. He doesn’t belong there. Seeing him in that spot feels like a violation. Andy pats his knee, that sick smile of his widening to expose his rotted teeth. "Come sit on Santa’s lap, Xena. Earn your spot on the nice list."
I want to puke. My lip curls in disgust, but I force myself to move. I know better. My mom’s probably off with one of Andy’s friends right now, doing whatever she needs to keep this leech from turning his attention on me. But she doesn’t know—he’s already claimed me. He’s already shattered what’s left of me.
I move like a puppet, my mind already pulling me away from here, from him. Drifting to a place where he can’t reach me.
The Christmas lights twinkle around the fireplace, mocking me, reminding me how much I fucking hate this time of year. Andy’s hand snakes up my skirt, tearing through my thin stockings. His fingers fumble between my legs, trying to work some magic, but my body refuses to respond. There’s nothing there for him. I’m as dry as the Sahara, repulsed by every second of this. My legs and mouth fall open anyway, defeated. One hand clumsily toys with my pussy while the other forces a pill past my lips. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but it’s too late. There’s no escaping this. I’m at Andy’s mercy.
We all are.
I hate Roman for it. But deep down, maybe I hate myself more. If I hadn’t pushed him so hard, if I hadn’t begged him to show me I was his, none of this would’ve happened. Roman wouldn’t be in prison. Senior would still be alive. My mom wouldn’t be a hollow shell, and I wouldn’t be trapped in this nightmare, letting this filthy piece of shit ruin me over and over again.
Andy’s hands roam, but my mind drifts far away. I focus on the Christmas lights, the soft glow blurring as my thoughts turn to Roman. I wonder how he’s holding up in that cell. I hope his Christmas is just as shitty as mine.
Merry fucking Christmas.