Chapter 4

James was never a saint. He, a middle school dropout, has come this far by being ruthless to others and even more so to himself. When he was six, our deadbeat dad used the excuse of taking me out to secretly meet his mistress. They rolled around in the suite while James watched Tom and Jerry with me in the living room. I didn't understand why there were those sounds coming from the suite.

Curiously, I asked, "Brother, what are Dad and Auntie doing?" He turned up the TV volume and covered my ears. "It's dirty, don't listen." He was only a year older than me but took care of me well. Not because he liked me. His mom told him if he kept me in line, she'd give him a hundred bucks. That was his weekly living allowance.

At fourteen, my dad eloped with his mom. My mom set the house on fire. It was James who carried me out of the flames. Half his arm still bears burn scars. He had no money for school, so he dropped out and worked odd jobs. I smashed his place with a baseball bat and paid him two grand. He still didn't go back to school, instead went far to collect goods. He used his first earnings to buy me a princess dress. That year, I was fifteen, he was sixteen. My mom went hysterical. "Your dad ran off with a whore, and you still want to be with the bastard she bore?" "You're truly your dad's spawn; I should've strangled you at birth."

I guess I should've sided with my mom. But, unfortunately, I was raised by James. In the years my dad was busy cheating, and my mom busy catching him, I lived like an outcast. James didn't charge me. He might be filthy, but I had to be clean. He could be bruised and battered, but no one could touch a hair on my head. He wouldn't let me tell anyone about us; he feared he couldn't protect me. He feared my tears the most, awkwardly wiping them away. Fiercely telling me to hold them back. But later, when I truly stopped crying, he didn't seem that delighted.

"If you cried and made a scene, I'd give in to you." "Why do you have to be so stubborn with me?"