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better
mornings,” I said, picking up my coffee.
    “That's
it?” he asked, looking almost angry. “Four hours ago, you
were minutes away from being raped out front of your house and
you've... had better mornings?” At my blank look, he hopped
down off the counter, walking over to me and grabbing the coffee cup
out of my hands and put it on the counter behind me. He reached out,
his hand lining up over the bruises on my throat, hovering away from
my skin for a moment. I guessed to see if he would find a reaction.
When he didn't, he pressed against the sore marks. “Seriously?
This means nothing to you?”
    Please.
It would be nice if the worst thing that ever happened to me was a
hand pressing into my throat. But I assumed for most women... that
was horrifying enough. “You wont hurt me,” I said
instead, looking up into his light eyes.
    “Why
would you say that? I busted a guy's face in last night. Right in
front of you. You have no idea what I am capable of.”
    I
reached up, watching my own hand like it wasn't attached to me
because I couldn't possibly be doing what I was doing. I rested my
hand over his on my neck. Just a whisper of a touch. But a touch
nonetheless. “You might be capable of a lot of things,” I
said, looking back up into his eyes. “but not this.”
    I
saw him take a breath. Slow, steadying. His hand softened on my skin,
brushing over the bruises before falling. My own hand fell down at my
side. “No. Never that,” he agreed, taking a step back. He
shook his head, as if clearing it of some nagging thought. “So
you're fine?”
    “I'm
fine,” I agreed.
    He
exhaled a breath through his nose, short, almost like a snort but
without the noise. “You're all kinds of fucked up, Sixteen,”
he said, grabbing his paper and heading out of the room. I heard the
door close before I exhaled.
    All
kinds of fucked up. He had no idea.
    But
that didn't mean I couldn't at least... try to be a somewhat decent
human being toward him. Especially since he had been nothing but nice
to me so far. Not everyone needed to be kept at a distance.
    I
showered, took my calls, packed up some panties, and ran out the door
around five. I would miss out on a few calls, but I needed to get
back home and then back out before it got dark. Tonight especially.
    I
walked into the store feeling oddly self-conscious. Which was stupid.
Among the shitstorm of awfulness of my childhood, I did get an
education on manners. Whether anyone who met me would believe it or
not. My grandmother had sat me down and pounded the rules of decent
society into me. As ironic as that was at the time.
    I
remembered the lesson on new neighbors. You should always go over and
introduce yourself. Bring a baked good. But only if you made
something really well, really memorable. My grandmother said this,
knowing I knew damn well that she had never baked a thing in her
whole life. There were servants for that. But her housekeeper made
the best peach cobbler this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
    But
if you were not culinary inclined, she would say with a very pointed
look at me and my mother, then you should bring a plant. Then, any
time they had to water it, they thought of you. Which was so
ridiculous even to my nine year old ears that I had to bite my tongue
to keep from smart mouthing her.
    In
the end, I picked out the manliest pot I could find: a white skull
and picked out a three-pronged cactus plant to be put in it. The girl
at the counter was actually willing to transplant it for me and I
took it feeling foolish.
    Would
it really be that hard to do a nice thing? Was I so messed up that I
had to feel like an insecure child when I stepped just slightly out
of my comfort zone?
    In
the end, it didn't matter how I felt. Plant in hand, I walked past
the dried bloodstains still on the road and sidewalk, into my
building, then up to my floor. I stopped out front of fourteen,
taking a deep breath, before reaching up and knocking on the door.

Eight

    The
damn