Scarcity: A Dark Story of Forbidden Love Read online

  Scarcity

  By A.L. St. Clare

  Content Warning:

  This novel contains explicit sexual situations and abuse/neglect and may trigger some readers.

  There is also light spanking and elements of dominance.

  This is a dark love story.

  18+

  Chapter One

  Lily

  I tame my hair as quickly as I can, jerking the wooden comb roughly through my thick, mahogany-colored waves. I can’t brush it, or I will turn into a giant frizz ball…and believe me, nobody wants to see that.

  I glance back at the old clock on the wooden crate that serves as my nightstand. It’s getting late. I pull a pair of socks from the other box that serves as my dresser.

  Yeah, I’m shooting for minimalism. I think I nailed it.

  I finish dressing, pulling on my favorite…okay, only pair of Chucks. It’s either that or my third-hand Doc Martens, and I’m saving those. They were in dire need of retirement two years ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I love those boots.

  They used to be my mom’s, and before her, my aunt’s. Auntie is dead now and Mom is on course to die sometime within the next few years.

  It sounds bad, I know…but it’s true.

  My mom is a drug addict and an alcoholic. You don’t want to know how she supports her habit. The only good thing about the whole situation is that she isn’t violent, only spacey and flighty.

  I can’t say the same for her boyfriends though, I try to make myself scarce when they come around. It has led me to some interesting places, like the library in town at night or the second-floor waiting room at the hospital. I’ve slept there many times, and they’ve never questioned me on it.

  Sometimes, I even study there with the help of their coffee.

  I think the nurses know that I don’t belong, but once they gave me a gift basket full of snacks and things and said to come back any time. I felt guilty about taking a basket away from the real visitors, but I was starving.

  I turned seventeen three days ago and started my second job. I work at a café that pays me cash. My second, new job is as a CNA. I just started the hospital’s training program, so now I really do belong there. They are going to train me, and I will make money doing it.

  It will come in handy when the rent comes due. Mom isn’t the best at working. Or cleaning. Or cooking. She’s a damned good artist though when she’s sober enough. Too bad it doesn’t pay the bills.

  I go to work at the café at three o’clock every weekday morning, and at six on Saturdays. I put in four hours before class starts. Then, I race back here so the bus can take me to hell…I mean school. After school, I start my CNA training. Four hours every evening, Monday through Thursday.

  Yeah, it’s a lot…but I like to eat, and have hot water, and electricity.

  Sometimes I’m even lucky enough to save a few bucks to buy some new clothes at the thrift store in town. I try to go easy on the clothes that I do have, but the constant wearing and washing make it difficult.

  I need to get some new jeans soon. My oldest pair are getting embarrassingly thin in the butt area. A rip would be horrifying for me, especially if it happens in public. So, I’m down to two pairs now.

  I lunge through the ratty old trailer, almost tripping over a loose section of brown shag carpeting in the hallway. I grab the last banana on the way out, my serving of fruit for the day. The air outside is frosty, but I know it will warm up by the time my shift is over. It’s a good thing too because I don’t own a coat anymore. Mom took it to the bar one night and left it there. When I went to get it, it was gone.

  I’ll have to figure out something soon though, because September is almost over, and that’s when it starts to freeze.

  I peel the banana carefully. I don’t want to drop it while I’m walking to work. The pavement in this section of the trailer park is the oldest, and the jagged peaks and valleys have tripped up many unsuspecting walkers with its nefarious fissures.

  Okay…it was me.

  It caught me two weeks ago. I have a two-inch gash on my knee that probably should have been stitched up, but I had to make do with some band-aids. No way could I afford a doctor bill, and even though I knew we could get help from the state, my mother hasn’t applied. I’m fairly sure it’s because she is scared they’ll find out about her habit and take me away.

  She loves me, but she loves her drugs more.

  By the time I walk through the small dark town, I have eaten my banana and gone over the study guide for my Science exam this Friday. I toss the banana peel in a chicken pen behind an old lady’s house. Her hens always look forward to my visits, and sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to have a little flock and a ready supply of fresh eggs.

  The thought of eggs makes my mouth water.

  As I walk into the back door of the outdated old diner, I can hear the radio playing its usual classic rock station. Craig is behind the grill, as always. He’s the cook here and helped sway the manager to hire me on. Sometimes Craig ‘accidentally’ screws up an order so I can have a good meal. He’s a good man, and I consider him to be my grandfather figure.

  I don’t tell him that though.

  “How’s it going this morning, Lil?” Craigs shouts over the blaring electric guitar of the radio.

  Lily is my name. Lily St. James. I’m fairly sure my mother made up the last name on my birth certificate.

  “Same old, same old. How’re things with you?” I ask him.

  “Son finally got to call us. He didn’t have long, but he let us know he was okay. He sounded pretty good…. excited. ‘Course, you know Barb was thrilled.”

  Craig’s son was overseas serving. Afghanistan or Iraq, I forget. From what his Dad says, I can tell he’s a good guy. Craig and Barb—his wife— have been waiting two weeks to hear from him. I could tell he was getting more and more anxious as time passed. I’m glad he got some good news.

  Someone in this world should.

  ∞∞∞

  I worked the tables efficiently, though it didn’t really pick up until about five. That was when people started coming in for their usual breakfasts and coffees before work.

  Our town doesn’t have a coffee shop of any kind—unless you count McDonald's—so this is the place to be. I did well this morning, garnering about thirty bucks in tips. I changed out the change for dollars and tucked them into my pocket.

  Now came the most boring part of my day…school.

  I see school as something that interrupts my work schedule. I’m a good student. I’m smart. However, I’m not fooling myself that I will ever go to college. There is no way I can ever afford it.

  My best bet is to get CNA training, for now, then figure out something else later.

  I run home as quickly as I can, grimacing as I start sweating in the only clean shirt I have left. As soon as I get in, I strip off my clothes and scrub under hot water for five minutes. There’s no time to wash my hair, so I leave it up so it won’t get wet.

  My tailbone-length hair is way too long to deal with in the mornings, so I never have time to get that polished, put-together look. What I do get is a kind of free-spirit, boho style.

  In other words, it's wavy and I don’t do anything with it.

  I’ve thought about getting a haircut but…One: I can’t afford it and Two: I’m attached to my hair.

  I dry quickly, swiping on some deodorant then dressing in the same clothes as before. I hope they don’t smell too much like hash brown grease. I spray on my favorite perfume and hope it covers any lingering scent of Eau de Café. A fast swipe of black eyeliner around my green eyes, some mascara, and I’m done.

&n
bsp; As I stare in the mirror to get my war paint on, I think about my mom.

  I look a little like her, but most of my coloring comes from my dad’s side. I don’t know who he is. Sometimes, I wonder if my mom even knows.

  My green eyes are his, as is my reddish-brown hair. I get my pale skin from my mom, though without her freckles. I am taller than her, about five foot eight, and I know that probably comes from my dad’s side too.

  Occasionally, I wonder if he knows about me…if he cares.

  I’ve been told many times that I could be Lana Del Rey’s twin…though considering the sources of that information were always lecherous, drunken men, it could be totally false. Even so, I wish I could sing like her.

  Too late, I glance at the clock and realize my ten-minute time limit was up five minutes ago. The bus will be here any second, and I still have to get on my shoes. I grab them, my bag, and my keys, and go out to the porch to put them on.

  At least if the bus driver sees me out here putting my shoes on, he won’t leave me…if he’s in a good mood anyway. Sometimes, he gets a little crotchety—or is perhaps getting dementia, I haven’t figured it out yet—and leaves me behind.

  The neighbors are starting to stir as I’m lacing my shoes, and I hear the diesel rumble of the bus coming to the stop in front of my house. All the kids in the trailer park meet here to get on the bus.

  I wish they wouldn’t.

  I don’t fit in with them and their party culture. I like to stay sober. I like to read instead of dance. I prefer to take walks outside than to go hang out in the only pool hall in town that will let kids in. Needless to say, they don’t like me either.

  That is probably an understatement actually.

  There is a huge amount of animosity directed my way. They think that I think that I’m better than them. I don’t. I’m just trying to survive until I turn eighteen and graduate.

  I’m attempting to not become a drug-addicted prostitute like my mother…is that so wrong?

  ∞∞∞

  The ride to school is the same as always and should be illegal.

  I wedge myself into the open area where the emergency exit door is. There is no seat here, but I have to sit here anyway. This is the last stop and the bus is full.

  Oh sure, several seats only have one kid in them, but there is no way in hell they will share with me. The few times I tried to sit in an actual seat I was blocked.

  Once, I even tried sitting anyway and was helpfully shown back into the floor for my trouble…by the occupant’s foot.

  The driver didn’t care then, and still doesn’t now. I’ve been riding on the floor for three years and I’m used to it. At least they’ve stopped spitting over here.

  Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m such an insignificant part of the scenery that I’ve become invisible to them.

  I prefer it.

  ∞∞∞

  School is normal.

  I get through the first three periods with no issues—except for the fake coughs that cover terrible slurs, and the hate notes. I’m used to those though.

  I’m a pariah and also apparently: a slut, a prostitute, a druggie whore, a bitch, and a worthless piece of shit.

  So says the football team, cheerleading squad, and their sycophantic supporters anyway.

  The academic team is nicer…they just ignore me, as do the nerds. I have a feeling they would offer me a seat at their lunch table, except they’re scared they will become the targets. So, you see, I serve a valuable purpose here.

  I absorb all the insults, the threats, the occasional shoves, and the mean jokes so that the smartest segment of the school population is free to pursue academic excellence and college-level courses. I’m needed and perfectly content to continue on with the status quo.

  At least I was until I showed up to my last-period class.

  Chapter Two

  Lily

  “Mr. Creighton has died,” the man at the front of the room says.

  I sit there in my seat at the front of the class and gasp along with the rest of them. Honestly, I was expecting it to come sometime. Old Creight was at least seventy-five and had been having issues the last few years. We’ll just say that economics stopped making so much sense ever since he turned seventy-three.

  In economic terms, his ceteris wasn’t paribus any longer.

  So, even though we were all saddened by his passing, it wasn’t completely unexpected.

  What was unexpected, was his replacement.

  “He’s fucking gorgeous,” Jenna Richardson whispered to Kayla Daniels behind me.

  “I know, right! He’s completely hot!” she whispered back.

  I had to agree with them, but the jocks didn’t have such a favorable impression.

  “That’s fucking gross! He’s like, thirty-five years old!” Jackson Cooper said, making fake gagging noises and high-fiving his buddies.

  Jackson, a prominent player from a prominent family, was jealous of the new teacher. I didn’t even have to look back to know. I could hear it in his voice. The girls were right though. He was overwhelmingly gorgeous.

  Hottie McGorgeouspants. Mr. McDroolworthy. Sir Handsome McFuckable. I don’t know why I chose all Mc names…I must have a kilted Scotsman fetish. Too many romance novels probably.

  I know the head cheerleader and her posse will be taking bets on who could snag the new teacher first. Probably twenty bucks on the first one to get him alone, forty bucks to the lucky girl that gets the first kiss, and maybe a hundred to the girl that gets the D. I think it is sickening, but they have been doing it for a few years now.

  I heard that one time a girl even made forty dollars kissing the gym teacher.

  It wasn’t too much of a coup though. The gym teacher was an old lesbian who got arrested for dating an underage girl two months later. Her replacement wasn’t nearly as daring.

  Jenna Richardson is Jackson’s long-time girlfriend, and apparently, he isn’t taking her lusty thoughts for the new teach very well. I tune them out, like always. I’m far more interested in the enigma at the front of the room.

  In economic terms, my equilibrium just had its socks knocked off…and it was adjusting. My demand curve had just shifted to the right, and—Okay. Enough economic innuendo…McGorgeouspants is starting to speak.

  Everyone sits up straighter and waits with bated breath to hear his next words.

  “My name is Mr. Stone. I’ll be your Economics teacher for the rest of the year. I want to say how sorry I am for Mr. Creighton’s passing. I’ve heard he was an excellent teacher,” Mr. Stone says.

  His hair is lightest brown and shines gold in the light, smooth like metal and slicked back. The sides are shaved and I detect the tiniest hint of white at his temples. His eyes are the green of Chinese jade. His nose is a sharp slope, perfectly proportional. His mouth…is a marvel of masculine beauty. Firm and strong and stubborn, but with a hint of a pout at the bottom that I want to tug on with my teeth. Worry lines mark his forehead in the most delicious way and smile lines frame a jaw that can chew concrete and spit out dust.

  Economics has never been so sexy. I’m swept away.

  “Yeah, like thirty years ago,” Kyle, another football player, says from the back and draws my attention away from my teacher.

  Snorts of laughter accompany that statement, and anger burns through me. Mr. Creighton had been a good teacher. He may have been forgetful at the end, but he actually cared about his students. That is rare.

  I spin around in my chair, temporarily dismissing the consequences I know my actions are going to have later.

  “Mr. Creighton was a good teacher! You are just too stupid to understand anything he ever said!”

  The room falls silent, and even the kid that usually sleeps during this class sits up and takes notice. Kyle’s eyes narrow as his gaze sweeps down my body and then back up. “Says the trailer trash whore. Tell me, who pimps you out while your momma is passed out in the bar bathroom?”

  Jenna and her doppelganger-wan
nabe, Jessa, cracked up at that. A few of the other kids chuckle and whisper behind their hands and I start to tremble a little. Jackson elbows his buddy in the side. “Good one, Mathers!”

  I can feel my face turning red. My ears are hot. Moisture gathers in my eyes, more from anger than anything else, but I refuse to let the tears fall. I’m used to this. This is nothing new. The fact that it happened in front of Mr. Stone made it more awful.

  I look hesitantly up at him to see his reaction—whether he is disgusted by me, or whether he even cares what Kyle had said. Most teachers here don’t, and the few that did care stopped helping me long ago. They are worn down and burned out. What I find in Mr. Stone’s face is disconcerting, and unprecedented in a teacher.

  Mr. Stone’s beautiful sculpted jaw, bearing a mouth-watering five o’clock shadow, is clenched. With anger. And it is directed at Kyle.

  “To the office now!” he barks. His voice is cold and stern. He points to the door and waits.

  There is a gasp among the students. Nobody ever sends Kyle to the office, no matter what he does. His parents donate so much money to the school. Rumor has it that they are also best friends with the principal and his wife. They are all members of the same country club or something.

  It sickens me that he gets away with so much, but there is nothing anyone can do. Well, until now.

  “Yeah, right,” Kyle shoots back, smirking.

  Jackson laughs at that and I look up to see Stone stalk to the back of the room. He places his hands on the top of Kyle’s desk, and Kyle’s smile fades. He glares at Stone, and Stone stares back.

  “Go,” Mr. Stone says once more. I hear a note of finality in that one word—a warning—and it is chilling.

  Kyle gets up and grabs his stuff. On his way down the aisle, he rams his football gear bag into the side of my face. The sudden, unexpected pain flares sharply in my cheekbone, and I raise my hand to cover it.

  The tears do flood my eyes then, though I quickly duck my head so nobody can see. I can’t help it. It hurt like a bitch. Does the asshole carry around bricks? I don’t cry though, and I don’t let anyone see my tears.