Bone Deep (Damaged Hearts #2)

Prologue

When I Grow Up

Spencer

This is all my fault. I'm the reason we're stuck here.

I glare at the stained ceiling tiles, their corners yellowed and curling, faint watermarks blooming with ghosts of whatever this building used to be. A one-story medical center, I think. Or a small clinic. Now it's Second Sunrise—a shelter for women and children fleeing abusive situations.

The fluorescent lights above hum, taunting me endlessly.

Our “room” isn't a room at all. It's a ten-foot square carved out of a larger space by heavy beige curtains hanging from tracks in the ceiling.

It looks like a triage center in a disaster movie—temporary walls, no doors, no locks.

Just fabric that sways whenever someone walks too fast past it.

Two cots with thin mattresses take up most of the space.

Scratchy gray blankets lay folded at the foot of each one.

There's no dresser. No closet. Everything we own—everything we could carry in the middle of the night—is stuffed into two duffle bags and my backpack.

Clothes wrinkled and jammed together. My mom's purse.

A toothbrush in a plastic bag. That's it.

On the other side of the curtain, a baby starts crying. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a woman sobs quietly before trying to swallow it down. The sounds drift through the fabric like thick smoke. This is what I fall asleep to now. Crying women. Crying children. Whispers in the dark.

No names allowed. That was the first rule. You don't ask anyone their real name. You don't tell them yours. You're just… here.

And we're here because of me.

The events leading up to our current situation replay in my head on a loop.

I'm too young to legally work, but I know exactly what I'm going to be when I grow up.

A lawyer. I've known it for years. When I turned fifteen, I walked into Schmidt hands folded in her lap, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

I shrug. “I think we have bigger things to worry about, Mom.” I stare at the floor. “Besides, it's my own fault.”

She shakes her head firmly. “Spencer, no—”

The curtain slides open with a metallic whisper before mom can finish her thought.

A woman named Tammy steps inside. She's one of the primary organizers here.

I think she's around my mom's age. Big blonde hair.

Great style. Always that large pin over her heart—an interesting swirl of salmon pink and turquoise.

I like her. She's kind without pity. Never talks down to us.

“Merry Christmas,” she says gently. “I have some packages for you.”

We were asked to fill out a form last week listing essentials we need.

It was humiliating, but I didn't tell my mom that.

I could see she already hated it—for me, for herself.

The donors don't get to meet us. I'm thankful for that, at least. I couldn't bear their pity.

Instead, donors are handed a slip with “Family” and a number at the top.

They shop, drop things off, then leave. “Family 22”. That's what our slip said.

That's all we are now.

I’ve always had an obsession with men’s fashion and accessories. Not the design part of fashion. No, I’m obsessed with owning and looking good in quality clothes. Coming from nothing, I’ve decided it will be how I show the world my worth.

And now I’m going to have to accept cheap clothes provided by the kindness of strangers. I’m grateful, but I hate it.

Tammy clears her throat. “I don't usually do this, but my nephew is volunteering with me today. Well, voluntold, actually.”

Mom lets out a soft laugh.

Tammy smiles. “He's pretty close to your age, Dean.”

Dean. The name I chose. Anonymity.

“Would it be okay if he helped me bring your Christmas packages in?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

She slips out and returns a couple minutes later with a gangly teen about my age, holding a box almost bigger than his head. “This is my nephew, Dawson,” Tammy beams.

He lowers the box between our cots and looks at me. Kind eyes. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just… kind. And pretty.

He steps forward and extends his hand. “Hey. I'm Dawson.”

I freeze. Noticing boys with pretty eyes is what got us here. I stare at his outstretched hand, then deliberately drop my gaze to the floor, refusing to touch him.

“Honey,” my mom says softly, embarrassed, “don't be rude.”

I don't move. I don't look at him. Because I might feel something—and I can't afford that. Not here. Not anywhere.

Not ever.

Dawson drops his hand. “That's cool,” he mutters.

Tammy gently ushers her nephew back out. The curtain swishes closed. We're alone again. Just mom, me, and the box that sits between us, labeled Family 22. I lay back and stare at the ceiling.

I will never be in this position again. Not dependent. Not exposed. Not reduced to a number. Not vulnerable in front of a boy with kind eyes.

It's right here, on this thin cot in a curtained-off square of a shelter, that I make the promise.

When I grow up, I will never relinquish control to anyone. Absolutely no one.