9: [KAYLIE'S POV]

The cheap motel room smelled like rot. Not the sharp, clean rot of fresh garbage, but something older, something that clung to the walls no matter how hard the maids scrubbed.

 Cigarette smoke, mildew, and the faint sweetness of spilled liquor—every breath reminded me I had hit rock bottom a long time ago.

I sat cross-legged on the stiff mattress, legs jittering, the glow of the crack pipe still burning in my hand. My throat was raw. My lips cracked. 

The hit still buzzed behind my eyes, numbing me, stretching reality thin enough that for a moment—just a moment—I could pretend none of this was happening.

But the high never lasted.

That was the most addictive part. I get the best dopamine rush that I had ever experienced and just as soon as it came, it left. And then I do everything in my power chasing the same high.

The silence in the room wasn’t silence at all. Pipes groaned inside the walls. A couple argued in the room next door then had sex. A baby wailed somewhere far down the hallway. 

The sound crawled under my skin, digging like claws. Every noise reminded me that Wakeem could find me.

Wakeem the King.

That was what they called him in the streets—like he was some kind of twisted royalty. And I suppose that he was. 

He ruled with fear, with money, with drugs. People said his men never missed, that once you were marked by him, your days were already counted. 

And me? I was foolish enough to steal from him. Not money, not even cash I could’ve stashed and disappeared with. No, I stole his product. His lifeline. His empire’s blood.

Fuck.

It was supposed to be quick—one grab, one flip, he was never even supposed to find out what I had done. I just wanted some coke that was all.

I could outsmart him. I thought I was clever. Turns out I was desperate. Desperate women don’t make smart choices.

Now here I was, hiding in a hole that barely passed as shelter, smoking the very poison that ruined me, praying his shadow wouldn’t cross my door.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Faces formed in the stains if I stared too long—men with knives, Wakeem himself, Eloise’s big brown eyes. That one hurt most.

Eloise.

My baby. My girl. I sent her away because I loved her. 

Because I knew the King would use her against me, because he’d break her just to watch me break. She didn’t deserve this life. She didn’t deserve me.

She was better than me. She was pretty and smart just like her daddy.If I could do something good for her, then this was it. Even if Wakeem the King found me, at least he wouldn't get his nasty hands on my little girl.

I’d told myself over and over again: sending her away was the only good thing I’d ever done.

 I pictured her safe, clean, maybe even happy, but guilt kept chewing through the edges of that picture. 

What if she thought I abandoned her? What if she hated me? What if I had just handed her to another kind of monster?

My throat tightened. I rubbed my face hard, trying to push the thought away.

“Tristan,” I whispered. 

The name slipped out like a prayer. He was the only one I trusted with her. The only man that I prayed had not been poisoned by this world. I had heard that he had turned his life around and was doing good.

I hoped he didn't turn our daughter away. I hope he was actually taking care of our child.

If anyone could give her a chance at life, it was him. I pictured him—his steady eyes, the way he always stood tall even when life tried to crush him. 

He was the Tristan Walker. He was the only one that could shield her from the danger that I had put her in.

He’d protect her. He had to.

I pressed my palms together, fingertips trembling. “Please,” I whispered to a God that I hoped was listening, “Keep her safe. Keep her far from this.”

The walls groaned again. A shadow passed under the crack of the door. 

My breath caught.

They’d found me.

I sat up quick, heart pounding like a drum in my ears. My hand flew to the little knife under the pillow—not much, just a dull kitchen blade I’d stolen from the motel diner, but it made me feel less naked.

Knock.

Three sharp raps at the door.

The kind that made your spine go cold.

“Kaylie,” a man’s voice said. Low. Steady.

My whole body froze. It wasn’t Wakeem, but it could’ve been one of his men. They always sent someone first.

I didn’t answer.

Another knock, harder this time.

I grabbed the crack pipe, hid it under the bed, my hands shaking so bad it clinked against the frame. My high was gone. My mouth was dry sand.

The voice came again. “Kaylie. Open up.”

No. No, I wasn’t stupid. Opening that door was a death wish.

I sat there, knife clenched tight, every nerve in my body screaming. My mind spiraled—images of Wakeem’s gold rings flashing when he hit people, the sound of bones cracking, the way he smiled like he enjoyed it. 

If he had found me then I knew that he would make me pay. He would make me scream before he killed me.

The footsteps faded.

Silence again.

I stayed frozen, counting my breaths, until I was sure whoever it was had gone.

And then I broke.

The knife dropped from my hand. My chest heaved like I’d run ten miles. Tears burned down my cheeks before I even realized I was crying.

I rocked back and forth on the bed, muttering, 

“Not yet, not yet, Don't let him find me''

I needed another hit. That was the only thing that could quiet the panic. I reached under the bed, grabbed the pipe again, lit it with trembling fingers. 

The smoke burned down my throat, hot and bitter. My body relaxed, even as my mind screamed that this was killing me faster than Wakeem ever could.

But at least it was quiet for a while.

I thought about Eloise again, the way she used to curl up beside me when she was little, the way she’d look at me with hope in her eyes. She still believed in me then. 

Before the drugs. Before the King. Before I ruined everything.

The high blurred the edges of the world. The ceiling melted into swirls. The baby down the hall had gone quiet, or maybe I just couldn’t hear anymore.

I closed my eyes and whispered again, 

“Please, Eloise, please be okay''