10. Chapter 10

10

Wren

T he shrill screech of my phone's alarm tears through the silence, jerking me awake.

Fuck.

I groan, my head pounding like a jackhammer's going off inside my skull. Squinting at the cracked screen, I see it's only 6 AM. Christ, I just got in two hours ago.

I roll onto my back, wincing as my muscles protest. The ceiling fan wobbles lazily above, doing jack shit to cool the stuffy room. My tank top's stuck to my skin with dried sweat, and I can smell the stale booze and cigarettes clinging to me from last night's shift at The Gentleman's Club.

As I lie there, the memory of D leaving me high and dry in the alley behind the club floods back. That pussy-ass punk . My body still thrums with leftover lust and frustration.

"Goddamn tease," I hiss, clenching my thighs together. What kind of asshole gets a girl all worked up and then just fucks off like nothing happened?

"Urgh…" I growl, forcing myself to sit up. The room spins for a second, and I have to grip the edge of the mattress to steady myself.

My gaze lands on the ratty duffel bag in the corner, stuffed with my work clothes from the club. I should wash that shit, but the thought of trudging to the laundromat makes me want to crawl back under the covers and never come out.

Instead, I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over the pile of nursing textbooks stacked haphazardly by my bed. My eyes linger on the worn spines, the reminder of a dream I can't afford to chase. Pediatric nursing . What a fucking joke. As if I'd ever have the time or money to go back to school.

I run my fingers over the top book, a thick tome on child development. Swiped it from my friend Tanya when she dropped out last semester. Said I could keep it, like it was some kind of consolation prize.

"One day," I mutter, but the words taste bitter in my mouth.

Who am I kidding?

Deep down, I know it's never going to happen. With my old man's drunk ass and bills piling up faster than corpses in a slasher flick, when the hell would I ever find time to study? Between juggling three jobs, playing mommy to my siblings, and trying to keep our shit-heap of an apartment from falling apart, I'm lucky if I can remember my own name most days. Forget about cracking open a textbook. The American Dream? More like the American Nightmare, population: me and every other poor sucker born on the wrong side of the tracks.

Shaking off the useless daydream, I kick the books aside and shuffle to the tiny bathroom. The flickering fluorescent light sputters to life, revealing a face in the mirror that looks like warmed-over death.

"You look like shit, Wren," I mutter to my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes, smudged makeup, and hair that looks like I stuck my finger in a socket. Add in the sexual frustration written all over my face.

Fuck him and his stupid face. And his stupid… monstrous cock that I crave to dominate and ride.

I splash some cold water on my face, trying to shock some life back into my system.

Seriously, who the fuck am I fooling?

The girl staring back at me looks nothing like a future nurse. She looks beaten down, worn out. But underneath the exhaustion, there's a spark of something. Determination, maybe. Or just pure fucking naivety.

Grabbing my toothbrush, I scrub the taste of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey from my mouth. I spit out the toothpaste, the minty taste doing little to mask the bitterness.

With a final glance at my reflection, I flick off the flickering light and step out of the cramped bathroom. The short hallway to my room feels a mile long, my legs heavy as I trudge the few steps to my door.

My room isn't much, just a closet-sized space with a mattress on the floor and a rickety dresser, but it's mine. I grab my waitress uniform from the back of the door. It's wrinkled as hell, but it'll have to do. I shimmy into the polyester nightmare, grimacing at how it clings to all the wrong places.

My purse sits on the floor, bulging with last night's take. I dig through it, pulling out a wad of crumpled bills. Seven hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty-three cents. Not bad for a night's work, even if it did cost me my dignity and leave me wound up tighter than a spring.

"Thank fuck," I mutter, flattening out the bills. It's a lot of cash, more than I usually make in a night. But I can't keep it here. My old man's got a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to money, and it wouldn't be the first time he's helped himself to our cash.

I fold the bills carefully and tuck them into the inner pocket of my jeans. It's not the most secure spot, but it's better than leaving it here. I'll have to find a safe place to stash it at work.

As I'm zipping up my pants, I hear the creak of a door opening outside.

My heart lightens a bit. The kids are up.

I push open the bathroom door, wincing as it scrapes against the frame. The living room's dark, save for the flickering bulb in the kitchen that's on its last legs. And there's John, my dad, passed out on the sagging couch like always, an empty bottle clutched in his hand like it's his goddamn teddy bear.

The sight of him there, dead to the world while his kids get ready for school, sends a familiar surge of rage through me. I clench my fists, willing myself not to scream or throw something.

"Morning, Wren." Lenny's voice breaks through my anger. He's standing in the doorway of the room he shares with Em, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Hey, squirt," I force a smile, ruffling his hair as he passes. "Sleep okay?"

He shrugs, heading for the kitchen. "Same as always."

I follow him, watching as he pours some stale cereal into a chipped bowl. The box is almost empty. Gotta remember to pick up more after work.

"Where's Em?" I ask, glancing back at their room. It's crammed with mismatched furniture we've scavenged over the years, barely enough space for the two of them. But Em's outgrowing it fast, and I know we'll need to figure something out soon. The thought of it makes my chest tight. Another problem I don't know how to solve.

"Still getting ready," Lenny mumbles through a mouthful of cereal.

As if on cue, Em emerges, looking about as thrilled to be awake as I feel. "Morning," she grunts, stumbling toward the fridge. She yanks it open, squinting at the meager contents before pulling out a carton of orange juice.

"Hey," I say, then remember. "Oh, Lenny. I got some good news for you."

His head snaps up, milk dribbling down his chin. "What is it?" he asks, curiosity piqued.

I smile at his eagerness.

"I made some extra cash last night. How about we hit up Westfield Mall this weekend and get you that laptop you've been needing?"

His eyes go wide. "Are you serious? Like, for real?"

I nod, feeling a warmth in my chest at the way his face lights up. "Yeah, for real. I'll take Saturday off, and we'll make a day of it. Sound good?"

"Holy shit, Wren!" he exclaims, then quickly glances at our dad. But the old man doesn't even stir.

He nods enthusiastically, shoveling cereal into his mouth like he can't wait to get started.

Em leans against the counter, sipping her juice. "That's awesome, Wren. Thanks."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "It's nothing. You guys need it for school, so…"

"Still," Em insists. "It means a lot."

The sincerity in her voice makes my throat tight. I clear it roughly. "Yeah, well. You two better get moving, or you'll be late."

They nod, finishing up their breakfast. As they grab their bags, I hand them each a few bucks for lunch. "Try to eat something decent, okay? Not just crap from the vending machine."

"Yes, Mom ." Em rolls her eyes, but there's a smile playing on her lips. "I'm 17, big sis. Pretty sure I know how to feed myself."

The word ‘mom' makes my jaw clench. I force out a breath, my fingers tightening around the rag I'm using to wipe down the counter. "Yeah, well, last I checked, 17 is still underage. And you're still eating junk."

Em's eyes light up. "Speaking of which, can we get Twinkies? And maybe some Cheetos? Ooh, and those little powdered donuts!"

I snort, tossing the rag aside. It lands with a wet smack on the sink. "Christ, kid. Your arteries'll be clogged before you hit 20."

"Says the woman who inhales bacon cheeseburgers like they're going extinct," Em fires back, grinning.

"Hey, at least that's real food," I argue, pointing the ketchup bottle at her accusingly. "Not radioactive orange dust and cream-filled diabetes sticks."

Em clutches her chest in mock offense. "How dare you insult the holy trinity of processed goodness?"

She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Half-siblings, all of us, and none of us know jack shit about our mothers. My eyes dart to the lump on the couch—our dad, snoring like a fucking freight train. Anger flares in my veins, hot and familiar. That bastard's the only common thread in this fucked-up tapestry he calls a family.

Lenny follows my gaze and snorts. "Think we should draw on his face?"

Em elbows him, but she's fighting a grin. "Don't tempt me."

I shake my head but can't help the smirk tugging at my lips. "Get outta here, you little shits."

As they head for the door, I catch a whiff of something rank. The trash needs taking out, and the sink's full of dishes that are starting to smell. Christ, this place is a rat's nest.

"I'll clean up when I get home," I promise, more to myself than to them.

Lenny pauses at the door. "You don't have to do everything, you know."

I force a smile. "I know, squirt. Now, get going. Learn something, okay?"

The door clicks shut behind the kids, and I'm left alone with the stench of stale beer and our passed-out excuse for a father. I'm about to start tackling the mess when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Fishing it out, I see a message that makes my stomach drop.

Where the fuck are you?

Shit. It's Rosie, the other waitress at Joe's Diner. I glance at the time and feel my heart rate spike. 6:55 AM. Cunt's sake. I'm late.

"Goddammit!" I hiss, scrambling to grab my purse. I stub my toe on the edge of the couch, biting back a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. Dad doesn't even stir, the useless lump.

I hop toward the door, shoving my feet into my worn-out sneakers. No time to retie them. As I yank the door open, my phone buzzes again.

Joe's on the warpath. Get your ass here NOW.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter, slamming the door behind me and taking the stairs two at a time.