Chapter 2
TWO
Alivia
How could Mom sit there on the couch and let her husband scream at me? How could she let him ask me for more money after I just gave him my share of the rent, utilities, and expenses? How could she constantly let him treat me this way?
I knew how.
Because my alcoholic mother had no backbone whatsoever.
What I didn’t know was why I let these questions run through my head every time it happened. And it’d happened almost every day in the three years they’d been married.
“Are you fucking listening to me, Alivia?”
Dean stood halfway between the kitchen and living room with a beer in his hand. If that can wasn’t his prized possession, he probably would have thrown it at me.
“I’m listening.”
I had no choice.
His apartment. His rules. His control.
If I didn’t like it, I could leave.
And I wanted to. Oh God, I wanted nothing more.
“I need money. Your fucking mother needs money. You worked all goddamn day, don’t tell me you don’t have any. Hand it over.” He put the cigarette in his mouth, the end turning red as he sucked. His fingernails were dirty, and so was his palm as he extended it toward me.
Mom nodded at me, then tilted her head toward Dean. She was telling me to give him what he wanted so he would buy her another bottle. That was the reason she had a thin gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. He provided the only thing she needed in life.
Out of everything in this room, the rum in her glass was what she loved the most.
“I don’t get paid for another two weeks,” I told him.
A lie? Yes.
But a lie that protected me, and in my mind, that made a huge difference.
“You’re telling me you don’t have a fucking dollar to your name?”
There were rare days when he asked for nothing. Then there were days when he asked for money more than once. I was allowed to live here as long as I kept giving—and what I gave was money, well beyond my portion of the rent.
I shook my head, keeping my hands on the strap of my bag. I didn’t dare shove one in the pocket of my apron, in fear that he’d hear the crinkle of the twenty. “That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t have any money.”
Another lie.
His lip curled. “I don’t fucking believe you.”
“You don’t have to, but I’m telling you the truth.”
“What if I took the debit card out of your wallet? Would I see a balance if I went to an ATM?”
This was what happened in the eight-to-ten-beer range. Threats that led to nothing. His drunk ass wasn’t going to an ATM—there wasn’t one within walking distance, and he already had two DUIs on his record. Below eight beers, he was quiet but lethal. Above ten, and things became unhinged.
I squeezed the strap, my hands not far from the zipper, where my wallet sat below. “Nope.”
“You’re fucking lying.”
“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you.”
I went to move past him to go into the kitchen, and he stepped in front of me to block me.
The grooves were so thick in his forehead, I could stick pennies between them and they’d stay. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“To the kitchen.”
When he laughed, I got a whiff of his breath. A combo of smoke and stale beer and despair. It all made me want to gag.
“I don’t think so.”
“What? Why?” I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at the assisted living facility I’d been employed at for the last two years.
Since I worked in the kitchen, oftentimes, when there was leftover food, we could have it.
We could also buy meals at a discount. Neither of those scenarios had happened today.
I needed something in my stomach. It was so empty; it ached. “Please move out of my way.”
“Until you cough up some dough, you’re not eating my fucking food.”
“I pay to live here.” The anger was building, but I wouldn’t let it show. I refused to let this asshole win. “What’s in that fridge is mine too—”
“Melanie, do you hear the way your fucking daughter is back-talking? I should smack her across the goddamn face and teach her some respect.” He took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke at me. “Food ain’t free, sweetheart. You want to eat, you pay. It’s as simple as that.”
I hated him.
And I hated it here.
“Mom?” I turned to face her. “Mom, please tell him I can eat food that I helped pay for!”
She wouldn’t look at me. Her head was back, and she was singing, like her audience was the ceiling and she was trying out for a competition.
What is even happening right now?
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Mommy dearest isn’t coming to your rescue? She’s too drunk to give a fuck about you.”
I filled my lungs, pushing the bile down my throat, dreaming about the day when I could punch this man in the face, chipping his front right tooth the same way the left one had been halved.
“Maybe when your stomach hurts bad enough, you’ll fork over some cash and finally show some appreciation that I let you live under my fucking roof.”
I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Screw you.”
I rushed into my tiny room, and as I was shutting the door, I heard him follow me, his hand hitting the wood at the same time it closed.
I put my back up against it as he shouted, “Give me some fucking money, you selfish little slut!”
He pounded on the door. Each time his fist connected, it made me bounce off the door, and I had to add more weight.
“I told you, I don’t have any.”
One more month until I’m out of here.
That was the timeline I was giving myself. I didn’t care what I had to do, even if that meant couch surfing, but I was out.
“And I know you’re fucking lying to me!”
My back lowered down the door until I was seated, and I set my bag next to me, my hand slipping into my apron. The feel of the twenty almost singed my fingertips. A tip a resident had given me since it was his last day at the facility.
If I gave it to Dean, he’d stop harassing me, but then he’d reprimand me for lying.
There was no winning.
I pulled my hand out of my pocket and rocked my head against the door. “Leave me alone! I don’t have anything to give you.”
“You’re a real piece of shit—you know that?! No wonder your mother doesn’t love you.” He gave the door one more punch, and the hallway turned silent.
I wouldn’t let my eyes tear.
I wouldn’t let my chin quiver.
I wouldn’t let my chest get heavy.
Nothing he said mattered.
All tonight did was push me further away from here.
Away from them.
And in one month, I’d never see him again. As long as my mother stayed married to him and buried in an alcohol haze, I wouldn’t see her either.
I took the twenty out of my pocket and stared at the edges of the bill.
If I drove to visit my best friend, I wouldn’t have to spend any of this.
She was a bartender. She wouldn’t let me pay for whatever I ordered off the menu, and she’d refill my Coke glass until my stomach couldn’t take any more carbonation.
I could then crash at her place for the next two nights, until I had to go back to work.
But she lived an hour away. For some reason—one I didn’t understand—that just felt too far.
If I left to get food, Dean would ask where I was going, when I was coming home. When I returned, he’d ask where I’d been and, if he smelled food on me, where I’d gotten the money.
Under this roof, I wasn’t treated like a twenty-three-year-old.
But I needed to eat. I shouldn’t have gone this long without putting something in my body. I definitely couldn’t go all night without at least a snack.
What the hell am I going to do?
My cell vibrated from inside my apron, and I pulled it out. There was a notification on the screen from Hooked—an app I hadn’t used in at least a year. I didn’t even know it was still installed on my phone.
The night I’d downloaded it was an evening similar to tonight, but Dean had thrown the cigarette at me instead of taking drags from it, and there was even more shouting and accusations and mayhem.
What resulted from that spontaneous meetup was just the kind of mental escape I’d needed.
But that evening, when I’d signed up for Hooked, I’d chosen their free service rather than their paid subscription, so I didn’t get daily notifications. That was why I was surprised that this one had come through.
You’ve been Hooked.
As I reread the app’s message, I clicked on it, and the next screen told me I had been one hundred percent matched with someone—a percent that sounded almost impossible.
I followed the prompts and was taken to a photo of a man.
An epically sexy man with black hair and green eyes and not a bushy beard, but the kind of facial hair that told me there were more important things in his life than shaving.
Underneath his picture was an alert that there was a message in my inbox. One I assumed was from him.
Do I care enough to read it?
Whiskey35
I don’t know how any of this shit works, if I’m being honest. Dating apps aren’t my thing.
So, why am I on one now? Long fucking story that you wouldn’t want to hear, nor would I want to bore you with my bullshit.
Anyway, according to Hooked, we’re one hell of a match, and I thought, if this woman is so perfect for me, I need to meet her.
I smiled at his message. Almost every word was relatable.
Me
I’m sorta just as lost as you. Dating apps aren’t my thing either. I haven’t even been on this one in at least a year. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, I get notified about you. 100%? Whoa, THAT’s wild. Lol. So, hi, stranger. Where did you come from? Who are you?
Whiskey35
I’m a person who needs to mentally escape.
I glanced around my room—a space that fit a twin mattress on the floor and three plastic tubs I’d put on their side and stacked on top of each other to serve as a dresser. The light above was just dull enough to hide the color of the pale, sick-colored walls.
Me
Yep. I feel that in a hard way.
Whiskey35
Do you want to meet up?
A one-night stand. That was what he was asking. That was what Hooked was—at least the service I’d signed up for.
I closed my eyes, imagining how incredible it would feel to shut off my brain for a few hours.
To quiet the noise of Mom and Dean. To silence the stress of having to save enough money to get out of here.
To somehow come up with a solid lie of why, starting next week, I was going to be away during the day and at night without telling Dean I was making more money.
Life was life-ing.
That was why, more than ever, I wanted to disconnect.
I wanted to get lost.
I wanted to feel free.
Me
When?
Whiskey35
I’ve got a hotel room. I’m headed there in about 30 minutes. You can come anytime you want.
Me
Where’s the hotel?
Whiskey35
It’s the Cole and Spade Hotel in Beverly Hills.
Beverly Hills?
That was at least a half hour each way, probably more with LA traffic. If I didn’t have it in me to drive to my best friend’s apartment, what would make the drive to Whiskey35 any different? And how was I going to come back home without waking Dean when the man had the best hearing in the world?
Whiskey35
Not sure where you’re coming from, but I’ll get you your own room if you want to crash for the night and a rideshare if that makes things easier on you.
Was this guy inside my head?
Was he really willing to get me my own room so I didn’t have to drive back?
A room in Beverly Hills wasn’t cheap, and he was going to be renting two. He clearly had a lot more money than me.
Once we were done hooking up, I could slip away and spread out in a real bed that wasn’t a bunch of springs on the floor. I could take an extra-long, extra-hot shower in the morning and not get screamed at for being in the bathroom for too long.
Maybe I could tan by the pool and relax for a while before I went back to Dean’s.
Damn, this was a tempting offer.
But was it too good to be true?
Was I completely bananas to even consider it?
“Go get me a fucking drink, you drunk!” Dean shouted. “And while you’re up, go tell your loser daughter to go to the store and get me more beer. I know that filthy slut has plenty of goddamn money.”
Decision made.
Me
As long as you’re cool with that, yes, I’m in.
As for the rideshare, I’ve got a car, but thank you.
Whiskey35
Done.
I’ll text you the room numbers once I check in.
Me
Perfect.