Page 35 of Trailer Trash

But I fight it.

And fight it.

Because Harlow isn’t making beds or taking vitals. Her book isn’t in her hands. And the television is burning her half-closed eyes. She’s tired, too.

Eventually, my persistence pays off, and she’s the one asleep.

I wait another minute to make sure.

Then, I grab her phone.

No passcode. Brave girl. Why?

Doesn’t matter. I go through it.

Hm. She texts Keysha a lot. I wonder if it’s the one Brax is dating.

I check the photos. Not many of Harlow. The few she has, I send to my phone. Then I delete the thread, but now I have her number. Progress.

No dating apps. Her social media is bare. She has less than a hundred followers. Most are in scrubs. Looks like coworkers or nursing school people. I scroll. Yep, there is Keysha’s photo. Brax’s girl.

Nothing salacious. No boyfriends or men blowing up her DMs. So why resist a rich guy who could change her pathetic life? Not that I would save her. I just want to play with her a little. Ruin that uptight mouth. See how long it takes before she stops looking at me like a patient.

I peer over at my lowly CNA nestled against throw pillows.

“I want to sink into you so bad,” I mouth.

Carefully, I reach out and sweep a lock of hair behind her ear.

Nothing.

My palm floats down, almost close enough to touch. My hand hovers over her hip. She would probably slap me if she were awake.

I touch her anyway, carefully resting my palm on her hip. Her soft body is warm and so squeezable under my hand.

I close my eyes and bite down, but it’s no use. My fingers dig into her hip, aching for more.

She moves, just barely.

I snap my hand back, feeling frustrated. I’m not used to the chase.

When morning comes, I wake up on the couch.

Harlow is gone. Her shift is over.

And I hate it.

Everything feels a little bigger without her. Like the walls are whiter, the air is colder, and the feeling of being sober is so much bigger. I need my distraction. My toy. My reward for not crawling out of my skin.

“I just need to fuck her,” I remind myself.

I close my eyes, letting the words settle in.

Harlow’s Friday shift ended at seven this morning, and she refuses to come back until Monday.

By Saturday night, I’m desperate for another distraction.

I step onto the patio, and instantly, I’m home. People are everywhere, music blasts, and the pool sparkles under the Florida moonlight. Damn good party. And since Harlow doesn’t want to work on weekends — even though I practically begged her to — I need a second distraction.