Screw It Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Nicki DeStasi

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Photography: Lorie Rebecca, www.lorierebecca.com

  Cover Designer: Robin Harper, Wicked by Design, www.wickedbydesigncovers.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Titles By Nicki DeStasi

  The It Series

  WORTH IT

  SCREW IT

  Anthologies

  CANDY CANE KISSES

  To my husband and children,

  I love you more with every breath I take.

  Thank you for being my bedrock.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Beginning

  “Bye, Becca. Can’t wait to see you next year in sixth grade.”

  I give her a small smile. “Me, too. Bye, Cara.”

  After standing up and gathering my bag, I hurry down the aisle of the school bus. With a slight hop, I narrowly avoid getting tripped by Kim, but she gets her verbal jab in anyway.

  “You’re a whore, just like your mother.”

  Kim has made it her life mission to torture me, and I, for the life of me, have no idea why. I don’t want to get into it with her, so I ignore Kim for two reasons. The first is that I need to get off the bus before the crazy old man drives off, and I have to walk farther to get home. That’s never fun, not when I live in a really crappy part of Worcester, Massachusetts. It’s not as dangerous as some of the places I’ve seen on TV, but my neighborhood isn’t fancy either, not by a long shot. I might only be eleven years old, but I notice stuff—the gang colors, the drugs passed between handshakes, the hookers leaning through open car windows.

  That’s the second reason I ignore Kim. She’s right.

  Elizabeth Bailey, my mama, is a whore.

  After I make it off the bus, I follow the path to our side of the dingy duplex. When I get to the front door, I reach in my pocket to pull out my keys. I unlock the two dead bolts and make my way inside. Once I close and relock the door, I move to the super-old kitchen. I set the backpack I picked up at The Salvation Army on the worn dining room table and go in search of my mom.

  “Hi, Mama,” I say as I walk through the open door to her bedroom.

  She’s getting ready for her date. I use the term date loosely because she’s really getting ready for work. She likes to pretend I’m clueless, and I won’t ever burst her bubble. I love my mom. She might be a prostitute, but she loves me and tells me I’m her little miracle. Our relationship might be a little messed up, but it works for us.

  “Hi, pretty girl.” Her wobbly smile tells me she’s been drinking her Mommy Juice—cheap vodka and Kool-Aid—but that’s not unusual at this time of day.

  A twinge of disappointment echoes in my chest, but I smile through it.

  When she opens her arms and motions with her hands for a hug, I go willingly, but my nose crinkles when the burning acidic smell hits me.

  Shoot, I hate cleaning up half-dried puke.

  As soon as she leaves, I’ll clean the mess before the hot June weather cooks it, and it stinks up the whole house. The stench would be worse than any cleanup. I inwardly shrug. At least I know what I’ll be doing with myself tonight.

  “Hi, Mama,” I say when she wraps her arms around me.

  There are some major drawbacks to having an alcoholic prostitute for a mother, but she provides for me and loves me. In my neighborhood and in my school, to have both of those things is rare.

  She kisses the top of my head and steps back to pull on a tiny black dress. She’s beautiful, and I love that I look just like her—curly red hair, big green eyes, and soft pale skin—even with the glaring exceptions. I’m somewhat awkward now that puberty has started, and I have freckles. There aren’t a lot, but I hate the light-brown flecks scattered across my nose and cheekbones. I never want to be like her, but I sure hope I’m as pretty as she is when I grow up.

  “Mommy has a date tonight, so I won’t be home until late. Make sure you lock up after I leave okay?” She fights to stay standing long enough to put on her heels. Once she has the finishing touches of her outfit on, she staggers over to me and kisses me on the head again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay, Mama.” I follow her down the hall and to the front door.

  “Love you, pretty girl.” She smiles at me with soft eyes from the open door.

  “Love you, too, Mama.” I close and lock the door behind her.

  Leaning my back against the door, I swallow against the heaviness constricting my throat. I wish she didn’t have to be a whore to take care of me. After I swallow again, I slide away the guilt and disappointment.

  I push off the door and head into the kitchen. I make myself a snack and eat it slowly to put off the disgusting task that awaits me in Mama’s room. Once I can’t stall any longer, I sigh and set off to find some rags and soap. If she can take care of us by spreading her legs, the least I can do is clean up around the house.

  I stretch and yawn when I wake up to the sunlight streaming through the windows. I didn’t sleep well last night. I never do when Mama brings her dates home. She doesn’t bring men home often, but when she does, the moaning coming through the thin walls is just a little too icky for me to sleep through.

  After swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stand up and raise my arms. My muscles tighten with another big stretch. My belly makes a gurgling sound after my body relaxes, so I go in search of some breakfast.

  I spend the morning cleaning and watching TV, which is how I’ll spend the majority of my summer vacation. When lunchtime rolls around, I make myself and Mama some ramen noodles. After I finish my bowl, I glance at the clock and frown. Mama doesn’t usually sleep past two in the afternoon. I don’t know how late she sleeps when I’m in school, but when I’m home, she never snoozes past one thirty.

  I decide to take her lunch into her room and wake her up.

  With her bowl in hand, I approach her closed door and knock softly. “Mama?”

  There’s no answer, but I can’t really say I expected one. I turn the knob and push open the door. My nose turns up in disgust when the smell hits me.

  Darn it.

  My face scrunches, and I gag.

  “Mama?” I say a little louder as I approach her. When I slide closer to her sleeping body, my belly tightens, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

  Ew.

  She’s covered in vomit. Her face, her hair, the sheets are all covered in dull orange sludge. I swallow hard, keeping my own puke from climbing up my throat.

  I set the bowl down on her vanity and reach over to shake her one slime-free shoulder. “Mama.” My voice gets louder.

  There’s no response.

  Oh, jeez. Is that poop I smell? />
  My stomach rolls.

  I swallow back disgust and shake her harder. “Mama, you need to get up and take a shower.”

  Her head falls to the side, and more vomit slips from her mouth.

  I shiver. I love her, but the sight before me is nasty. “Mama, come on! You need to get up!”

  A chill slides down my spine when she still doesn’t respond. She must be sick, very sick, and I need to get her some help.

  Rushing to the kitchen, I grab the cordless phone, the only phone in the house, and sprint back to my mama. Once I get there, I dial 911.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “Um…my mom’s sick, I think.”

  “Can you explain a little better than that?” the operator asks, her tone dropping.

  My head is too frayed to respond to her sarcasm. Quickly, I explain my mom’s state the best I can. The operator asks for my address, so I give it to her.

  “All right, I’ll send over an officer.”

  “Thank you.” I disconnect the call.

  As I wait for the cop, I keep trying to wake up my mama. Her eyes never open when I call her name. Her head wobbles when I shake her, but I don’t get a response. No matter how hard I try, I get nothing. My heartbeat thumps in my chest, and tears well up in my eyes.

  “Mama, please wake up.” My voice breaks.

  Slime covers my hands, and I can’t see her face through my tears. The air huffs in and out of my lungs, leaving me light-headed. I shake, taking a step back, and I wipe my hands on my pants before brushing away my tears. The acidic smell burns my nose, and the tears still fall. My fingers ache from prying open and then clenching my fists. My chest rises and falls with long, deep calming breaths, and I will myself to slow my tears.

  Once my vision is clear enough, I look to my mama. My whole body locks up tight as a board and floods with polar ice. Her pale skin is even paler than normal.

  She must be really, really sick.

  A knock at the front door interrupts the knot forming in my chest, and I rush to answer it. When I check the peephole, a young blond guy in a police uniform is on the other side of the door. Instantly, it’s easier to breathe as relief thaws the frigidness of my lungs. As quickly as I can, I unlock and open the door.

  “I’m Officer Matt Bradley. Where’s your mom?” he asks with a deep voice.

  I point to her bedroom and then follow him silently as he strides toward her door.

  When we reach the threshold, he twists his head to me and says softly but sternly, “Why don’t you wait out in the living room while I check on your mom, okay?”

  “But I want to make sure she’s okay.” Tears threaten to spill over again. My bottom lip trembles.

  I don’t know what would happen if she had to be in the hospital for a while.

  Would child services be called?

  Kids at school tell horrible stories about living in foster care.

  My unsteady hands turn clammy.

  I can’t leave my mom. Who would take care of her or the house?

  As his face softens, he turns to me and bends down on one knee. “I’m just going to check on her, and I’ll call for help if she needs it. I want you to stay out here, okay?”

  I’ve never spoken to the police, but I heard they were mean. He’s not though, and since he’s a cop, he’s in charge, so I nod my head.

  “Good.” He pats the top of my head before he juts out his chin, urging me into the living room.

  As I turn, he stands and moves inside Mama’s room.

  Not long after I walk the short distance back into the living room, I hear the muffled crackling of a walkie-talkie coming from down the hall. I strain to listen, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Less than five minutes pass when he walks into the living room with soft eyes and a slightly forced smile.

  Something is very wrong.

  My eyes grow wide, and my belly hurts like an elephant is standing on it.

  He comes to where I’m sitting on the couch, and he squats down on one knee. His tone is gentle when he asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Becca.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Bailey.”

  “Okay, Becca, do you have any family you can call?”

  I shake my head. I’m pretty sure my dad was one of Mama’s dates. If she has any relatives, I don’t know them, and I definitely don’t know how to contact them.

  After taking a deep breath, he blows it out his nose while nodding his head. “All right, Becca. A few people will be here soon, and we’ll take care of your mom. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  After what feels like hours later, I’m sitting on the threadbare couch with a straight back and my hands in my lap. A lady who I think is from child services yaps in my ear, but I’m not listening to her at all. She’s droning on like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoon I saw in school around Christmas. I’m straining to hear the other people around me, so I can find out if my mom is going to be okay. I don’t catch anything but the words vomit, so sad, poor girl, and so on. I want to scream at these people to tell me what the heck is going on and when I can see my mom. Instead, I stand up and pace.

  When something across the room catches my eye, my world slips and crashes down with a devastating force so strong that I stumble back a step. My heart stops. I can’t breathe.

  The paramedics are wheeling a gurney out past the living room, which would bring me relief if the sheet wasn’t covering her entire body and even her face. I’ve watched enough TV shows to know that can only mean she’s dead.

  My mama is dead.

  “Mama!” I screech at the top of my lungs and take off in a sprint, adrenaline pumping through my body. Tears blur my vision.

  Officer Bradley catches me around the waist and stops me from getting to my mother.

  Denial claws up my throat. I scream and kick at air. “No!”

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.

  My red curls fly across my face, and I thrash wildly, frantically, desperately.

  This isn’t happening.

  My breathing comes out as labored pants as tears stream down my cheeks while I try to get to my mama.

  If I can just see her, she’ll open her eyes. She’ll smile at me and say, “Hey, pretty girl.” She will. I know she will because my mama can’t be dead.

  The longer I struggle, the farther away they wheel her. Desperation crawls from the inside out, taking over my body. I knee Officer Bradley in the nuts—hard. He wheezes and loosens his grip on me just enough for me to slip from his arms.

  I sprint out of the house and to the sidewalk where they’re pushing the gurney toward the ambulance. A crowd has gathered, but I barely register the faceless people in my mission to get to my mama.

  Before anyone can stop me, I reach out and pull the sheet from my mama’s body. Reality slaps me so hard that I fall backward and land hard on my butt. I shake my head because I can’t understand how my mother’s beautiful face went from slightly too pale to a white-blue tinge in a few hours.

  She doesn’t look sick anymore.

  She looks dead.

  There’s no air. There’s no feeling. There’s no thought, no people, no past, no future.

  There’s nothing.

  I’m numb.

  “Get a good look, Becca!” Kim’s cackling laughter travels across my yard.

  Woodenly, I turn my head to stare at her.

  “That’s what you’re going to look like when you grow up—a dead whore!”

  Reality

  Fifteen Years Later

  Stars explode behind my clenched eyelids as waves of pleasure rip through me. Below me, he groans and throbs inside me. Sated, I drape myself across his hard body as I catch my breath.

  As I return from bliss, his fingers sift through my long curly hair. His light touch stabs me in the stomach and slithers through my body until even my fingertips tense. I shift my leg to unsaddle him, but he tightens his arms around my wai
st. Lifting my head, I meet his eyes—the same eyes that caught my attention with their startling blue, the color of a Miller Lite can. My mouth pops open to ask what the hell his deal is, but the words die a screaming, tortured death on my tongue. His soft expression and slight smile mean he’s forgotten the rules.

  Fuck me.

  I knew this discussion might be coming when he tried to hold my hand. I should have listened to my instincts.

  “We gotta talk,” he whispers while caressing my cheek, a clear indication of what the talk would entail.

  Shit.

  I push against his chest, so we don’t have this uncomfortable conversation while his dick is buried inside me, but he doesn’t let me go.

  I sigh heavily and say, “Listen, Brad—”

  “Brian.”

  “Whatever. We don’t need to talk. You know the deal.”

  “The situation’s changed.”

  “No, it hasn’t.” I scowl at him. “You don’t even know me.”

  His lips curl up on one side. “I do know you, Becca. I know you crave control. I know you work hard, and your smiles are rare but worth waiting for because they’re beautiful. I also know you have a shield. I’ve witnessed it drop into place, but I want to help you fix what’s broken inside you. Let me in, so I can help.”

  What in the fuck?

  He squishes me to his chest, pressing my face against his skin, so he totally misses my gaping mouth. “I’m falling for you, baby. We’re gonna work through it.”

  What?

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” My incredulous tone is muffled into his chest.

  He loosens his arms enough for me to look at him. I wriggle until his condom-covered dick slides out of me, but he keeps me close. The tension in my limbs simmers. I take half a second to decide how to get out of this shitstorm.

  Easy. Be a bitch.

  I make my tone as harsh as possible when I say, “I told you. I don’t do love, and I don’t do attachment. I don’t even do fuck buddies because I don’t do buddies. I fuck, and that’s it. As long as I’m the only chick riding your dick, I don’t care, and the only reason I care about that is because I don’t want any diseases.”