Page 24 of Trailer Trash

I hold myself and mutter, “I swear, you don’t repulse me.”

Which is true. His addiction repulses me.

He leans back into the cushion, musing.

“There was a time when women like you begged to be close to me. There was a time I cared whether they did.”

Our eyes lock. I know why those days are over. I doubt he does.

And the worst part is, I can see it — the version of him that would’ve been just messed up enough to keep me hooked. That version wouldn’t have wanted me, though. Not really. He already thinks I’m trailer trash when he’s the one clawing his way up from rock bottom.

God only knows what he would’ve called me from the top.

6

Killian

I don’t want to go home. The trailer is better, but life always has a way of pulling me back to that gilded cage. At least my new little toy is with me. Harlow’s fun to play with.

I open the Lexus door for her. She drops into the passenger seat without making eye contact.

Without a smile.

Without an inkling she’s impressed by this car despite hers being a bucket of bolts.

She’s playing hard to get. She has to be.

I take corners tighter than necessary. Speed up just enough to throw her into the seat. Anything to make her react.

No laugh. No squeal. Nothing.

She pretends none of it’s happening.

I could be trying too hard. This shit usually works.

Okay...

Well, the house should do it.

We turn into the gated community and pass huge homes. The Easton mansion rises behind iron gates, white from the foundation to the roofline. Black-framed windows stare across a circular drive, while trimmed hedges stand in perfect rows. Nothing is chipped, crooked, or alive enough to be accidental. Even the landscaping looks threatened into obedience.

I park and get out, but then catch my reflection in the car window. I grimace, having forgotten this is the new me. Unable to look a moment longer, I veer from the scars staring back at me.

When I jog around the car to open her door, she’s already stepping out. I grind my molars. I can’t impress her if she won’t let me.

The house grabs her attention, though. Palm fronds flutter in the breeze, adding ambiance to the beach front estate.

She tips her head back, her plump lips parted as she takes in the opulence.

“This is yours?”

“Parents,” I clarify.

“Twenty-four and you live with your parents,” she mumbles.

I guess she doesn’t see all of me if she thinks I have to live under their roof. That’s good. Underestimate me.

Inside, I show her around, mirroring her calm demeanor. I bite my tongue whenever a joke claws up my throat. She wants serious, I’ll be serious.