Crossed: Chapter 1

“F UCK.”

I suck in a breath, pulling my hand away from the gas stove, and rush to the sink, flipping the taps so water cascades over my singed skin. Tears prick behind my eyes from the sharp pain, but I clench my teeth, letting the lukewarm liquid soothe the burn.

I’d like to blame the shoddy appliances for my mishap, but it was just me getting lost in my thoughts. Even now, as I watch the water pour from the rusted nozzle of my kitchen sink, the small waterfall breaking apart as it meets my finger, I start to drift away, lost somewhere in the back of my mind. Somewhere I don’t feel the sting. Somewhere I don’t feel anything at all.

Shaking my head, I turn off the faucet, sighing as I glance around the three-bedroom apartment, looking for my little brother.

“Quin,” I call out when I don’t see him.

Noise from out front seeps through the paper- thin walls of the small living room, and my brows furrow. I make my way to the door, the cold air from the bitter Vermont fall bleeding through the cracks, making a shiver race down my spine. I glance up, noticing the lock I keep high on the door is unlatched, and a heavy feeling drops in my gut. I always keep it locked.

Quinten elopes, and it’s my job to make sure he stays safe when he’s self- regulating.

I can’t believe I didn’t lock it.

There’s a shawl I keep hanging on the coatrack, and I reach out quickly, ripping it down and wrapping it around my shoulders as I wrench open the door and step outside onto our front stoop. The icy breeze punches me in the face, but I ignore it, my eyes darting around the crumbling sidewalk and down the street.

As soon as I see the huddle of kids on the corner, my throat tightens and I race toward them, my long legs eating up the distance.

One of the boys laughs, his foot coming back like he’s about to kick something in front of him. “Cat got your tongue, you fucking idiot?” My chest spasms.

“Hey,” I yell.

The little asshole’s leg freezes, and he turns around, along with the other four kids: two boys and two girls who are flanking his sides. My stomach drops when I see who the main one is.

Bradley Gammond. That little fucker.

His mother is a defense attorney for the state, and she absolutely hates me, the same way she hated my mom. And the same way that, apparently, Bradley hates Quinten.

When did kids get so mean?

Their eyes widen when they see me, and Bradley’s cheeks tinge pink beneath his fair skin. His hand jerks out, grabbing the arm of the boy next to him. They all rush away, their quick footsteps smacking against the pavement.

My brows crease as I move forward, seeing a hunched-over form with short, fluffy black hair rocking back and forth in the middle of the sidewalk.

Quinten.

A lump of guilt swells in the middle of my throat. I can’t believe I didn’t realize he was out here.

“Fucking bullies!” I scream after the kids, picking up a medium- sized pebble and throwing it at them before crouching down next to my little brother. The chill of the concrete creeps up the insides of my long, flowy purple skirt and latches onto my skin, but I don’t mind. I’m no stranger to cold weather in Vermont, and I became a pro years ago at pretending that my thin clothing provides enough warmth.

Quinten is shaking, his hands curled into fists so tightly, his smooth, tawny brown skin is blanching white, and I know without seeing that his nails are cutting into his palms. I send up a quick prayer that he isn’t bleeding enough from the self- infliction to need antiseptic.

He hates having things touch his hands. Honestly, he hates being touched in general.

“Quin,” I murmur, making sure I don’t grip his arm until he acknowledges me.

His head turns toward me, his green eyes identical to mine big and round, but he doesn’t make a single sound.

Shit.

He doesn’t speak often, and when he does, it’s normally phrasing he’s picked up from others. It’s only in the past year that he’s started to manipulate the words into his own sentences, and when emotions run high, he tends to shut down, so his silence right now doesn’t surprise me.

It wasn’t until his third birthday that he started to form words at all, echoing people around him and scripting things he’d already heard.

Echolalia and gestalt language processing, his therapists call it.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not smart, despite what those kids were saying. Quinten is the smartest six-year- old kid I’ve ever known. And the best. Period.

“They’re jerks, okay?” I say, not sure who I’m trying to soothe:

myself or him.

He drops my gaze.

A sense of failure drips from the knot lodged in my throat and cascades down my insides, making my heart pinch. I tighten my jaw, not wanting to show my struggle in front of Quinten.

It’s my job to be strong for him.

And I try, God do I try. But sometimes it’s so damn hard.

It’s a cruel place here on earth, filled with people who don’t get it. Who choose not to understand that just because someone is different, it doesn’t mean they’re less than. Quinten deserves the whole world, and I’d do anything to shield him from the harsh reality of one that refuses to offer him even a small piece.

The people in Festivalé make it even worse. Quinten being my little brother makes him guilty by association. I’m the town outcast, and he’s different. Although they blame that on me of course, along with everything else that goes wrong in this town.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve dreamed of packing us up and disappearing to somewhere else. Somewhere we can start again.

Just like my mom always used to do.

But that’s unrealistic. I have bills and Quinten’s therapy and a thousand different types of responsibilities here. Besides, I can’t just rip him away from the only home he’s ever known.

When I was little, long before Quinten was born, my mom used to pack us up right after I’d get comfortable in whatever place we were in and then plop us down somewhere new. I learned quickly that making friends was a useless skill and that having a sense of belonging was a pipe dream I read about in books, not one I got to experience in real life.

The last thing I want is for Quinten to have that same experience with me.

He’s my world. The only thing that matters.

I reach out my hand, holding it in front of his curled-up form, waiting until he places his palm in mine. I squeeze, giving a broad smile as I pull him to a stand and lead him back into our home.

Once we’re inside, he immediately walks to the small rectangular kitchen table and slips into the worn wooden seat, grabbing his tablet and getting lost in his safety net. Can’t say that I blame him; if I could, I’d be running to curl up in my bed or headed to the nearest pole studio, just to blow off steam and get lost in my body instead of my mind. Pole dancing is the only thing that’s ever made me feel like me.

The unpaid internet bill winks at me from the kitchen counter where I’ve stowed it away and tried to forget that it exists. But this morning and the way Quinten just ran to his tablet are stark reminders that his apps aren’t just a luxury, they’re a necessity, and if I can’t pay the bill, then he can’t feel safe in his own home.

Tonight’s Monday, which is usually my night off, and it’s one I had planned on spending with Quinten vegging out and relaxing, but before I can second- guess myself, I grab my cell phone to send a message to my only friend—and roommate— Dalia as I drop down in one of the chairs.

There’s a missed call and I cringe, my stomach twisting when

I read the name Parker on the screen, and I swipe away the notification to type out my text.

A reply comes through quickly, and I sigh in relief.

I run a hand over my forehead and glance across the table at my younger brother. His face is emotionless, like whatever happened didn’t even affect him. Like he’s forgotten about it already.

But looks are deceiving.

Quinten never forgets a thing.

Besides, even if he appears to bounce back quickly, I don’t. The feeling that comes along with knowing some asshole kids were trying to physically harm him will stick with me forever, another notch sliced into the already marked- up surface of my heart.

In the really hard moments, I wonder if those notches will turn to scar tissue, making an impenetrable wall too thick to breach.

Some days, I wish for it.

My phone rings again, and I look down, Parker flashing across the screen.

My heart falters, but I silence the call. It’s way too early to deal with him.

Parker Errien is the bane of my existence and the reason Quinten and I live in perpetual debt. He first showed up when he was dating my mother, after we moved here a little over five years ago.

I’m not sure how she got involved with him, but it didn’t come as a surprise. My mother was a beautiful woman. Similar to me in almost every way with her long black hair and striking green eyes. Her legs for days that accented her thick thighs and hips. When necessary, she looked the part of money easily even when she had none, and she was a siren to men, calling them over and casting them under her spell with a single look.

She and Parker started dating almost immediately after we arrived, and it was only after she disappeared that I learned he was secretly “renting” her out to his friends in high places. The type of friends who need discretion and are willing to pay a pretty penny to ensure they get it. But in public, Parker Errien and Chantelle Paquette quickly became the talk of the town, and for the first time, I felt a sense of belonging. Even when his stares lingered just a little too long and his hands wandered a little too far.

Only when she disappeared, he didn’t. He simply switched his focus from her to me.

He didn’t like that she left him high and dry, leaving his “clients” out of a woman to warm their bed and money they’d already paid for the privilege. So now, I’m stuck paying off her debts. Most of the money I make ends up in Parker’s dirty hands, and he thrives on making me need him in any way he can.

A shiver sprints up my spine, and I shake my head, turning my attention to Quinten.

“You hungry, Quin?” I ask, my nails tapping on the worn wood of the table. It’s a piece of shit, just like everything else in this place. I grabbed it from the dumpster down the street five years ago right after my nineteenth birthday, which was also right after our mom made me the town enemy and then disappeared, leaving a note that said six words.

I’m done. He’s your responsibility now.

Funny how having a daughter when she was fifteen was manageable, but an oopsy baby with one of the many “loves of her life” at thirty-three who showed signs of being on the spectrum was too much to bear.

Fuck her.

I dragged the table inside and then spent a few days sanitizing it until my fingers bled, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to give Quinten and I somewhere to eat that wasn’t the floor, determined to prove that I was better than our trash egg donor who didn’t love us enough to even try.

“Quin.”

Quinten doesn’t look up, and dread starts to grip my insides, knowing I don’t have his normal scrambled eggs to offer because I just fucking burnt them all on the stove. It’s been his comfort food for the past six months, the only thing he’ll eat for breakfast, and if there’s anything I want to do, it’s comfort him.

“How about some chocolate chip waffles?” I smile wide, trying to entice him. I think there are some left. They might be a little freezer burned, but they’d do in a pinch.

He shakes his head, making a clicking sound in the back of his throat before saying, “You want eggs?”

It’s not a question. The phrasing is just part of his gestalt language processing.

“I want eggs,” I reply.

“I want eggs,” he echoes, then adds his own thought. “That sounds good.”

“You got it, dude.” My throat tightens as I bob my head, knowing I’ll have to run next door and ask Mr. Brochet for some, and he’s a skeevy, grumpy old man who doesn’t like to be bothered.

But I do it anyway, because if Quinten wants eggs, that’s what I’ll make sure he gets.