High Class Harlot (Switching Tracks Series Book 2) Read online

  I don’t turn, and I don’t acknowledge him in anyway. It’s hard for me to stay quiet, but it’s in my best interest at this moment. He thinks I am heeding what he’s saying, but in reality I am rejecting him. I hear the door shut, and I think I’m safe. I stand to drop the plate in the sink and am startled by a dark figure looming in the entryway.

  “Fuck me, Chico, you shriveled dickstick; you scared me to death!” I throw my hand over my heart and attempt to slow my breathing.

  “You know, if you’re not happy here, you can always hang with me down at the shooter. We like pretty girls with fucked up lives. And we ain’t hung out since you got all high class on me.” I roll my eyes at Chico.

  “We haven’t hung out since you started working for Balt. And you know why.” I turn my back to him and make my way to the sink. When I turn to speak, Chico is gone. Vanished. It’s moments like this I want to call Rory, but she has a life, and my shit ain’t on her. I can’t bring her down with me when she finally has it good.

  As I finish getting ready, I think about my past, and what Balt just said. I was an attention whore and will likely be my whole life. I used my looks to pull guys, and they always had nice rides and nice things. I used my attitude to scare girls, and I was always one-step ahead in fashion. My father’s profession made it all possible. I’ve never wanted for shit, but I know the truth now, and more often than not, I hate him for it. I have always been a phony. Even as an innocent child, my life was fake and falsified, proving my value to be less than cubic zirconium compared to a diamond.

  When I get in my car to leave, I turn the music up, trying to escape the bite of the blues. It doesn’t help much, though. The radio’s playing some stupid pop crap that just has me talking aloud at the dash, asking what is wrong with the radio station owner and accusing him of being on drugs for thinking this type of crap is music. Blah. I mean, the guy singing the song isn’t even really singing, just making weird noises with his mouth. Right as I pull into the diner parking lot, the best song comes on. Blaring through my speakers is the rasp of Avril, and I smile. She reminds me of Clay. He is my “sk8ter boi.” He has this rough-and-tough look, even though it’s just an act, like me being the ballet kind of girl. Clay loves me and I him, but sometimes the heavy stuff weighs me down, and I hate that I let it get the best of me. But I do, and I leave Clay hanging all the time. I leave him wondering.

  I squeal in delight over the song and let it carry me away from here—away from the pretending—towards my imaginary happy ending. I think about Clay and what I would do if he were close. Oh, what I would give to have him here with me. He keeps me sane and grounded. He is my strength. But the second I leave him, I leave a part of me behind. I belt out the lyrics, a smile gracing my face for once, because there was once a girl he wanted, and she lost him to me—this empty, ugly, soulless thing I’ve become—yet Clay chooses me now just as he did then. I just need to remember that. I throw my hair from side to side, freeing myself as I do; and when the song ends, I am left somewhat lighter, with hopeful thoughts.

  I get out and head into the tin can wondering how Rory ever saw this place as her salvation. I guess for her it was an outlet. Funny how her outlet became my prison. Different strokes for different folks and all that shit, I guess.

  The door dings as I walk inside wearing the plastered-on high class socialite smile I throw out everywhere I go. Looking down to make sure my skirt hasn’t risen up my thighs, I smile as I realize I managed to walk out straight Mandotude today instead of boring diner girl. No skirt for me; screw Mama’s uniform. I love these Army green bubble capris with chains hanging off everywhere. I’ve paired them with a black halter top that is sliced across my abdomen and my straight-from-slutsville stilettos with tiny silver spikes. Lord, Mama will be grabbing the rosary today. Twenty Hail Mary’s won’t be enough to cleanse me today as far as she’ll be concerned. I push my hot pink streak back out of my face and walk like a boss right up in front of her. “I’ll be in the back today. The books are shit, and I don’t want to be here all night.” I turn to walk away, but she catches my arm, looking at me. She doesn’t see me, though; she sees whom she wants, and that kid isn’t here anymore. I left the last of her out in California at FDMI when they shipped me off for four years to make sure I became somebody worth knowing. Like the defiant little rich girl I was, I snubbed them, unknowingly screwing myself as well. I fluffed off school, partied hard, and ruined every chance I had. Therefore, I changed schools, which is how I ended up at FDMI taking the coolest classes offered in costume design instead of becoming a hot shot accountant bookworm. I like my degree, though. It helps me create saucy little numbers like this, It’s too bad I can’t get rich off making hooker attire. Current situation: all my fault. At least I do see that. Amandolette—no longer the envied bitch. Just a bookie, and not the cool gambling kind either. I’m just a greasy diner employee. I make my way down the hall towards the back office and cringe as I hear the ding of the door. Rory loved that sound, but me… It just means one more thing to log, one more thing to be accountable for. #fuckdinerlife

  Chapter Two

  After the fight I had with Balt, I won’t be going home for a few days. I don’t want to see his face. Suits me just fine; I’d rather chill at my Gran’s anyway. The old coot is a riot. She always makes me see things clearly, helps me remember who I am. It’s hard to move forward when you drag yourself backwards every day. I snarl as I turn onto the dirt road leading to the row of trailers. Some aren’t so bad. The elderly try to spruce it up: fake, flowers planted in pots, old tires turned into flowerbeds, and plastic birds stuck in the ground. Some even have folding chairs sitting around so that they can try to enjoy the outdoors some. Then you have the lots where you can barely see the trailer for the overgrown weeds and broke down cars everywhere. Gran’s is simple. She has one fern on the porch that is real, and a swing. Nothing else. A local boy mows around the trailer for a monthly fee, and Gran keeps to herself. She has been known to pull a gun on a punk in the past, so no one bothers her much. She has been referred to as “the crazy bitch on aisle six.” So yeah, who needs a guard dog? She takes care of herself.

  I pull up in front of her old, faded, petal pink trailer and smile. She is standing in the doorway, smiling that crooked smile of hers at me. She fills the void Clay and Rory left in me. Gran will never leave me, never judge me. She is my constant. I jab the car shifter into Park and turn the key, taking a deep breath before I get out. I don’t even make it to the porch before she has the screen open, arms stretched out for me to fall into.

  “Spaghetti is almost ready, Mija.” She whispers into the hair on top of my head.

  “What?” I say, pushing back, “First, I can’t call you Abeula anymore. And now… now I can’t even get a taco? Fuck my life, woman.” I drop back into her arms, sucking back a sob “What’s a little brown girl got to do around here to get some refried beans?” I’m not upset over the food; Gran knows this. But she still plays along for my sanity. No doubt my mother has called her.

  “Ah, my sweet papoose is feelin’ nostalgic, I see. Would it help if I told you I made churros?” I snivel and give her the smile she deserves.

  “We aren’t Indians, Gran; we are Mexicans. And papoose is Indian.” She pushes me away with faux surprise on her face and then swipes at me playfully.

  “Hush, you. Brown is brown. Indian or Mexican, we are human, and we are brown. I shall call you by any name I choose, and you’d do well, young one, to answer no matter what this old woman calls you. If not, I will mop the floor with your long, nappy hair next time. You got that, jack?” She gives me a serious look with both hands planted firmly on her hips. I stare in disbelief, but within seconds, she is doubled over laughing. “That look…that face! That’s my girl! Come; food’s almost ready.” She wraps her arm around me and pulls me inside.

  “Gran, just for the record, this hair is not nappy.” I sling my hair like an Herbal Essences commercial model. “I pay good money to keep it looking thi
s fabulous.” I stop instantly as realization hits me. I use my dad’s money for everything—including my fab, fucking hair. “Fuck. Fuck. FUCK my life!” I squeeze my hands into tight fists, and my body starts to shake. I want to punch something. But when I open my eyes, Gran is watching me.

  “Mija, is it truly that bad?” I don’t say a word; I just let my head drop into a soft, sad nod. “That son of mine is a fool. He never did shit right his whole life, except you. Even Rosaria deserves the fancy shit stain she calls life. But you, child…you’ve done nothing to deserve this pain. I would walk a million miles on hot coals to remove the pain from your soul, child. You know that, right?” I wipe the single tear that escaped and smile at my Gran. I know without a doubt that she would.

  “I do. I will be OK; I just had a bad day. I’m sure Mom already told you, but I’m staying a few nights. I can’t look at him right now. I won’t. I have to go back to Atlanta this weekend to check in on Rory and the diner, but until then, I want my distance from him.” I start toward the back room, which was dubbed mine long ago, when she calls out to me once more.

  “Whatever aches you have, I am sure Clay and his meat monster can fix them.” I can’t help but laugh. She overheard me and Rory once on the front porch, and God help us, Clay has been Meat Monster, Captain Monster Meat, or something of that nature ever since. I can hear her laughing at herself, and I bet she has tears in the corner of her wrinkled eyes. I step into my room and drop the small bag containing my things on the bed. You won’t find golden trinkets here, or a bay window overlooking a beautiful garden. What you’ll find are photos of me and Gran on a swing at a park back in Ario De Rosales, Christmas ornaments made out of paper plates from preschool, and a little jewelry box with a dancing ballerina in it. The things that matter are here. Gran is here. No dirty laundry to air out and no one to fight. Just Gran and all the things I cherish because of her. If I had a hero, it’d be her…and Rory, of course. Even if the thought of her causes me to roll my eyes.

  On the mirror is a photo from prom night—Rome with his arms wrapped around me and Toby wrapped around Rory. Rome was looking over at Rory with massive amounts of love in his eyes, and Toby was looking to the side, likely at Ashley. It was obvious even then, but now I really take notice. Who was looking at me? No one. Just like my parents, no one ever really saw me. Be hot, they said. Be popular, they said. They will love you, they said. LIES! School’s over, and I have nothing. My boyfriend left me here alone, as did my best friend. I roll my eyes again at the darkness trying to take over. I heard once, if you roll your eyes a lot, they can get stuck that way. Hope that’s a lie, too; otherwise, I may be in trouble.

  I grab my bag and dump everything on the bed, grabbing a loose tee that says ‘No Glove No Love.’ As I pull it over my head, I remember the first time I saw it on a guy at a party back in Cali. I had to jump online and buy the shirt—shit’s too funny. I found out later from a friend that the guy was none other than Jack Carter: baseball player by day/lady player by night. He was hot! The set-your-panties-on-fire kind of hot. I went so far as to watch him play a few games because I wanted to talk to him, but by the time I got up the nerve, it was obvious he was taken. Just my luck! I haphazardly grab a fresh pair of panties and pull them on, distracted by Jack Fucking Carter all up in my cranium. When I walk out to see if supper is on the table yet, Gran jacks me up.

  “What the hell is on your ass, Amandolette Rosalie Riaz!” I’m so engrossed in my phone that I’m stunned motionless at my name coming from her lips. Gran never calls me by my name.

  “What?” I ask her a little too loudly, still in shock. She walks in a circle around me. THWAP! “Ouch, Gran! What the hell?” She seriously just smacked my ass with a metal spatula!

  “Girl, these here panties got nothing to them. I could floss my teeth with this,” she says, pulling at my G-string. I feel my face heat instantly.

  “What the fajita?! Gran, I am so sorry! I thought they were boy cut.” She lets the string go with a snap.

  “I seen strippers on a pole in more than that,” she says as she goes to the oven to take out the bread.

  “What were you doing watching strippers, Gran?”

  She stops, bent at the hip, and drops it to the floor in her version of a twerk. “Not your business, young one. Now put on something to cover that shelf-sized ass before you eat, or I’ll use them wannabe drawers to sew up that hole in my apron.” I do as I’m told and go pull on some old basketball shorts, never setting down my phone.

  “What’s got you glued to that tiny screen?” Gran asks as I reenter the kitchen.

  “Nothing much. Just checking my social sites. Rory posts about the kids, and I wanted to post my MCM,” I say, folding my legs under me in the chair. She walks over, looking over my shoulder.

  “MCM?” I hold the phone up and show her the screen, “Yeah, my man crush for today. It’s called ManCrushMonday. You post a picture of some hot dude you want to…” THWAP! I recover quickly, rubbing the back of my head. “You post hot guys and hashtag them with MCM; that’s all,” I say as I lay the phone down on the table.

  “Oh… Well, I’d like to MCM that young man there with all that sexy, wild hair. He looks like a rock star,” she says as she brings the food over.

  “That’s because he is, Gran.” I turn my attention to my plate, pulling at my noodles, lost in thought.

  “What’s got hold of you, kid?” I look up, having forgotten Gran was even there. I blink in an attempt to gather my thoughts.

  “Just thinking, Gran. I don’t like the way I feel lately. I don’t like what I see when I look in the mirror.” I look back at my plate and push a meatball around, just playing in my food.

  “Well, you’re a pretty girl; you’ll figure it out.” She doesn’t say anything else for a long time, so I assume she didn’t really understand what I meant, but then she continues. “Once, I looked in the mirror, and the image I faced was ugly. It’s only we who can change that. No amount of maquillage will cover the ugly we see inside ourselves. You’ll do good to remember that. We are who we are; no one makes us this way except ourselves.” She gets up and drops her plate in the sink. “Step One to becoming the girl you expect to see in the mirror is washing my dishes.” I scrunch my face up in confusion, thinking she’s playing me. “If someone cooks for you, the least you can do is wash a dish, honey. Be thankful and appreciative of others, and you will find those qualities reflected back upon you.” She finishes with a stretch and yawn. “I’m off to bed. Don’t make too much noise; I’m old and tired and need my rest.”

  I put away the leftovers and wash the dishes, thinking about what Gran said. I need to change who I am. As I finish wiping down the table and counter, Gran shows back up, digging in the fridge. “I know I had a cerveza in here. Only time I really miss my girl a few lots down. You know, Rory used to sneak me a cerveza once in a while.” She turns with an amber colored, gold labeled bottle in her hand, smiling. My temper flares at hearing her praise Rory, like I was bad for not bringing her one.

  “No bebáis cerveza!” I scream at her without thinking. She stops, watching me closely…eyeing me as if she can see right through my eyes and down into my slowly-hardening, black, rotten heart.

  “Oh, Mija, it’s bad. That girl is your friend. She loves you like no other in this world, and once upon a time, you loved her the same. You need to look deep before you lose yourself. It’s a lonely world without a friend; and you, chica, will never find another as true as she is to you.” She turns with anger in her step but stops to look over her shoulder once more. “I am turning in, but you will be wise to remember that in this house, we speak English. I moved here for a better life for myself, and I embrace this wonderful country. I will not press “2” for English in this house. ¿Lo entiende?”

  She makes her point, and I feel like shit on the bottom of a farmer’s boot. I hear her door shut before I head towards my room. “Night, Gran. Love you,” I say as I pass her door. She doesn’t reply, but chances are, s
he never heard me. I respect this woman like no one else in the world. She demands it, and I have no problem giving it to her.

  The bed feels like cold concrete, causing me to toss and turn. Giving up, I grab my old high school jersey jacket off the end of the bed and walk out the door, slipping it over my shoulders. My hair is a sloppy mess: pulled to the side and in knots from flopping around in search of sleep. I don’t care. It’s late. I just need to breathe and clear my mind.

  As I go to step out on the porch, the light over the stove catches my eye.

  Remember these? #loveyou

  I hold the paper in my hand, smiling. She must have gotten back up. Leave it to Gran to hashtag a love letter. I run my thumb across the candy necklace package and smile bigger, recalling the childhood memory…a time when things were simpler.

  This simple candy necklace reminds me of who I am and who I should strive to be. I cram the necklace in my pocket and make my way out to the porch swing. I run my fingers across the glow of my brand-new-to-date smartphone and wonder how I would survive without all the luxuries I have. How much does my dad have to do in order to supply my greedy, snot-nosed needs? Maybe it’s my fault he does the things he does. Who knows? I punch a few keys, and Clay’s handsome face pops up on the screen. I sit, watching his face until the light dims, bumping it a few times to keep the image from disappearing. I love the smile he wears so often. It’s completely natural, and it compliments his strong jaw. Clay has brown hair with natural blonde highlights caused by the sun, and his eyes are like the Emerald Sea. Rory has these freaky, booger green eyes, but Clay’s are such a deep green that they look almost black. Eyes that sparkle with mystery and allure.