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I check the price on the roll. Ninety dollars a yard. There’s forty-two dollars in my bank account. Even if I’d wanted to buy Plan B the other night, I realized when I checked my balance earlier that I wouldn’t have been able to afford it.
It’s really hard to get pregnant, right? Women agonize for months, even years, about conceiving. I don’t know whether that thought lightens my heart or makes it heavier. If I were pregnant, I’d have no choice but to turn up on Tyrant’s doorstep and make myself and my baby his responsibility.
Oh yes?says a nasty voice in my mind.And give him the opportunity to laugh in your face and reject you, wrapped up in a satin bow? He doesn’t want to take care of you. He’s just horny, and his fetish is unprotected sex.
Sadly, I put the fabric back and head out of the shop. I guess I’m going back to my usual trick of turning old curtains into clothes.
There’s a thrift store down the street, and in this wealthy district, it often has good quality donations that I can upcycle. Inside, my fingers dance across pantsuits and blouses, T-shirts, and jeans. There are probably pieces here and there that would fit me, but I head straight for the back of the store where the home furnishings are. There’s a heap of curtains and duvet covers in a large bin, and I dive in with both hands. Polyester chintz curtains. Some blue netting. My fingers brush against something soft and lustrous, and though I can’t see it I instinctively grasp hold of it and pull it out.
I can’t believe what I’m feeling. What I’mseeing. White silk satin, finely woven and glimmering with subtle silver strands. Lots of it as well. Not as much as a set of curtains, but two very long, narrow pieces.
The shop volunteer, an older lady with her glasses around her neck on a gold chain, glances over my shoulder. “Isn’t that lovely? A retired wedding planner brought all her props and accessories to donate last week. I think that piece was to hang over an arch where the bride and groom say their vows.”
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, stroking the fabric. It looks angelic. It even feels angelic.
I check the price tag and see that it’s ten dollars. My heart soars. All this beautiful fabric for ten dollars? It’s a steal. I bite my lip. This is a charity store, and I’ll feel guilty later if I don’t say something.
I show the volunteer the price tag. “Are you sure this is priced correctly? It’s silk.”
“Yes, but it’s such an awkward shape, and how many people need to decorate an archway? I’ve been wondering how we’ll get rid of it.”
It is awkward, but I could make it work. Perhaps something strappy and backless so it doesn’t use too much fabric. There aren’t any scars on my back or on my arms. I scored all my cuts into my ribs, where I could wrap my arms around them and hold them tight.
I purchase the fabric and leave the shop, unable to believe my good luck.
As I’m walking down the street, my phone rings, and when I take it out, I see that it’s Dad. Happiness flickers through me. Dad hasn’t called me since I moved into the Henson dorms. Maybe this is a sign he’s ready to mend our relationship.
I press the accept call button and attempt to sound carefree and casual, unlike the desperate and needy that I suddenly feel. “Hi, Dad, how are—”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Vivienne?” His voice is shaking with fury.
I stop dead in the street, my mind racing. There’s plenty wrong with me, but his tone makes it sound like there’s one specific thing to which he’s referring. “Sorry, what do you mean?”
“Come to the house. Now.” Dad hangs up.
There’s a cold, leaden feeling in my belly as I turn and walk the other way, toward home. My footsteps drag, desperate to avoid the confrontation awaiting me there. I even hesitate and nearly run the other way several times. If I don’t have my family as my anchor, then what? I’ll be driftless and alone. My father isn’t much of a father and Samantha has been a mediocre stepmother, but I’m Barlow’s sister. I love being Barlow’s sister. I never had anyone to look up to or rely on or love unconditionally, and I desperately want to be that person for him.
The moment I turn onto my street, I stop dead with a gasp of horror and start to shake.
How could they know? No one’s supposed to know about us.
Sprayed across the front of the house, in three-foot-high neon orange letters, are two words.
Tyrant’s slut.
Blood rushes in my ears. My body feels clammy.
He’s said that word to me over and over again as he fucks me.
That’s my good little slut.
Who’s Tyrant’s little slut?
My helpless slut.
From his lips, the words felt forbidden and decadent. His slut.His. He loved me wet and panting for more.
This time, the words feel vicious. A brutal slap across the face. Someone knows I’m sleeping with Tyrant when it should be a secret.
