Ten years ago…

There was a fine line between being really, really hungry and flat out starving yourself. On one side of the line your stomach hurt, a part of your brain was continually devoted to fantasizing about food, and god forbid you get a whiff of a cheeseburger because you were like to drown in your own drool. On the other side of the line was a terrible, empty, achingness that consumed you, a constant tremor and brain splitting headaches brought on by low blood sugar, and eventually unconsciousness. I tapped my fingers against the metal of my locker door and tried to decide which side of the line I was teetering on.

Ticks in the Just Hungry column: I'd eaten dinner last night, I'd still been able to focus on my calculus homework through the rumblings of my stomach, my head barely ached, my hands weren't shaking, and I'd probably just puke it up later. Though, arguably, that last one had absolutely nothing to do with being hungry and everything to do with the fact that Tom was waiting for me to get home.

Ticks in the Starving column: I'd thrown up my breakfast, dinner last night had consisted of a slice of frozen pizza, my head was starting to hurt, and I would no doubt be… busy… later.

In the end, with the line running so thin, it came down to what it always did: money.

I got a ten dollar lunch allowance per week, which was absolute shit and based entirely on the fact that I could get a frozen burrito or hot pocket out of the cafeteria's vending machine for two bucks. Not that I ever spent two dollars for a fucking burrito. I could get an entire case of Ramen for two bucks, which was a prudent gesture on my part considering that my lunch allowance only made it into my hands about fifty percent of the time. The rest of the time it got spent on booze, cigerettes, or porn. Still, I'd averaged a modest hundred and fifty bucks a year since the eighth grade. Fifty percent of that went to food, less when I could help it, but hey – a girl's got to eat. Clothes and shoes came out of the remainder because fuck no to letting Tom buy me stuff to wear. Same with the monthly box of tampons. The birth control was nearly free, though I would have paid whatever they asked.

Tom had fucked my crappy life up enough without having to worry about that particular problem, thank you very much.

Everything that was left went into a manila envelope buried in the depths of my locker. In two months I'd be eighteen. In four and a half months I'd have graduated. In that envelope was just over a hundred and fifty dollars. It wasn't much, but it would get me away from here and away from here was the best thing I could imagine.

I'd long since given up on the pipe dream of a good university, a healthy mother, a half-normal home, a decent life.

I'd trade this for a cardboard box under a bridge and count myself lucky.

Briefly I considered not spending any money at all. I still had a small bag of Fritos tucked in the back of my locker next to the tampons and behind where I'd normally keep my Ramen stash. Fuck Tom. I'd needed to go shopping today. So I left the Fritos. I might need them tomorrow.

Ignoring the titters of high pitched laughter and the busy buzz of voices deep in conversation I waited patiently at the line strung out beside the vending machine. I'd spent too long thinking at my locker so it meant all the good stuff would be gone. And by good stuff I meant: things that had any nutritional value whatsoever. Even I found it pathetic that the healthy in my life came out of a fucking vending machine. But hey, they had apples. Usually.

The apples were gone. Typcial. So was the string cheese. There was a breakfast buritto left but no way in hell was I forking over the money for that. Or the candy. Seriously. A buck seventy-five for a Snickers? Not happening.

I spent fifty cents on a package of chocolate chocolate chip cookies and retreated from the cafeteria. My head hurt and I was out of ibuprofen. Spending the next twenty minutes sitting in a room full of noisy teenagers sounded like something that should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. So I swung my tattered bag over my shoulder and went to find a quiet place to eat a cookie and finish my math homework.

After ascertaining that Miss Hanson had returned to the library, and thus destroyed it as a possible place of quiet refuge, I took up residence on the floor opposite the main office. Putting myself on display in front of the principal and all his cronies wasn't my idea of a good time but a Fichus tree offered some sort of shelter to hide behind and the proximity to authority kept any would be bullies from picking on the lanky, poor-dressed girl with her nose buried in a math book.

It was the deep, rasping chuckle that drew me out of my calculations, freezing mid chew as it washed over me. It wasn't human. It couldn't be. I mean, it obviously was, but still. It shouldn't be possible to sound like that: smooth and ruined, smoke and gravel, light and dark all at the same time. It was like… I didn't even know how to describe it. The best my calculus and hunger addled brain could come up with was it sounded like Mexican Hot Chocolate had been poured through a shredder.

Clearly I needed more food and more sleep because that didn't make any sense. Or it made perfect sense.

Rich and dark; a little bitter, a little sweet, and a little spicy as it flowed across your tongue and down your throat to where it coiled warm and heavy in your gut. That feeling. And then you roughed it up by sending it through a shredder.

Call me crazy, but I was sticking with perfect sense.

I looked up from my notebook, pencil dangling from my mouth as I shoved the madly curling wisps of hair out of my face and peered around the fichus. Mrs. Smith, school counselor, was standing outside the glass door entrance to the administration offices and teachers' lounge blushing furiously and smiling up at the man beside her. I stared. He definitely wasn't the type of guy you saw around here. Everyone around here was… well, they weren't the hard working, backbone of America type. At best they were tired, trudging day to day with their eyes on the ground and just waiting for it to all be over. At worst they were drug dealing, gun-toting Neanderthals that made everyone lock their cars as they drove through the neighborhood. In between were a host of broken, worn down people.

But there was no one here like him.

At first glance he was nondescript. Well, not in this neighborhood because even I could tell that his suit was tailored perfectly to his body and probably cost more than we spent on rent in an entire year. It was black. All of it. Black on black on black. He even held a black coat folded over his arm, which was smart considering that January had kicked into full force and it was raining again: a constant gray drizzle that fell from a dark gray sky to a fog covered earth. It was the type of rain that you didn't notice until you were soaking and freezing to death. I was jealous. The coat I'd used last year had finally gone the way of the Dodo and no way in hell was I going to try and find a coat at the thrift stores during this weather – there wouldn't be any or if there were they'd cost a fucking fortune.

But ignoring the suit he was fairly nondescript. Until you looked at him a second time.

The first time all my eyes saw was a middle aged man of slightly under average height, a businessman of some sort.

The second time I looked I saw a clean shaven, sharp dressed man in his early, possibly mid-forties with dark brown hair that had begun to gray at the temples. Instead of making him look old it made him look roguish. He wasn't tall but he didn't need to be. There was power in that body. He was someone important and he knew it. He moved with both a fluidity and precision that reminded me very much of snake stalking its prey. Graceful, even. Deadly, most certainly.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you darling," his voice whispered down the hallway and down my spine. I shivered. Now that wasn't fair. He had a voice just like his laugh and an accent. Not a clipped upper crust, I've been educated at Oxford accent either. The rougher kind: charming and gruff and just a little wicked.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise as he leaned in and kissed Mrs. Smith on the cheek, making her go from blushing to fire engine red. She grinned, bright and cheerful and happier than I'd seen in her in the entire time I'd known her. Boyfriend, maybe? Except then why would he be talking about business? Maybe he was a hooker?

I snorted. Right. Mrs. Smith had hired a hooker. That'd be the day.

The bell ringing over my head made me jump, jarring me from my thoughts as math book and paper went everywhere. "Shit," I swore with feeling as I scrambled to gather my belongings.

"Language Miss Morrison!"

"Sorry," I mumbled in apology as I got to my feet, stuff book and papers willy-nilly into my bag as I went. Mrs. Smith smiled at me and the tension had gathered between my shoulders loosened a little. If she was smiling at me then I was off the hook.

"Just don't let it happen again. At least not where I can hear you," she grinned again. "So how are you doing these days? Heard back from any of those college applications?"

Oh, right. College applications. That I supposedly sent out. Like I'd do something that stupid while living with Tom. "Waiting," I lied with a shrug and a smile. "Isn't everyone?"

Mrs. Smith laughed. "And your mom?" she asked hesitantly, clearly unsure if she was overstepping boundaries. I'd mentioned once, during my freshman year, that my mother was unwell. That'd been a mistake. Now she wouldn't stop asking after her. I mean, I knew she was just trying to do her job but honestly she couldn't do shit.

"Doing great. She's on this new medication that is working wonders for her," I lied with an easy grin, no longer even slightly alarmed at how easily the fake expression brightened my face and curled my lips. "I've… uh… got to go to class."

"Alright dear, have a good day!" Mrs. Smith patted my arm in a motherly fashion and headed back to her office.

Above my head the warning bell rang and just shit because I was about as far away from my English class as I could get. I swore under my breath and turned to go but froze at the sight of Mrs. Smith's … man standing at the end of the hall, framed by the glass and metal of the entrance doors as he watched me, eyes unreadable. Catching my gaze he grinned, predatory and mocking, as he slipped the coat over his shoulders and swaggered out the door.

"Shit," I muttered again as the bell rang, making me officially late for class. Not that I paid attention once I got there anyway.

I was hallucinating. I know I was. Because there was no fucking way the British dude's eyes had blinked crimson.

None whatsoever.

Author's Note: Chapter title from I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift.