Slaves of the Billionaire Read Online Free Page A

said I got into a fight, they believed me.
    In high school, I started smoking marijuana, drinking and having sex. The first time I had sex I was drunk. I can’t remember who I lost my virginity to. I have a vague memory of the smell of Twinkies from the boy’s breath and the feel of fine stubble on his chin. I got a reputation in high school. If a boy wanted his dick sucked or wanted to have sex, they went to me. They lured me with marijuana, money and sometimes food. There was rarely food in my home, so promises of Big Macs and fried chicken swayed me and got me to open my legs.
    When I was fifteen, I was charged with delinquency. Six months later, I was charged with possession of marijuana. When I was sixteen, I spent time in a detention facility for violating probation. This pattern continued for several more years until I turned eighteen. I got married to a neighborhood boy because I got pregnant. We went to a justice of the peace and we both got tattoos instead of getting rings. I got Chinese script inked onto my back. It was a quote by Confucius: Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall .              
    Two months after I was married, I miscarried. Rocco, my husband, was angry.
    “What the fuck did you do, Carice?”
    “Sometimes these things happen,” I explained.
    “Only if you’re a cunt.” He left our tiny apartment and didn’t come back until the next evening reeking of booze and pussy. I could smell it on his face.
    “Whose pussy did you bury your face in?”
    Rocco collapsed on the couch. “Carla.”
    “That Italian bitch!”
    He fell asleep and started snoring.
    I got a job as a cocktail waitress at a small hotel off the Long Island Expressway. It used to be a Howard Johnson’s, but the corporate family theme had devolved into a trucker’s paradise. The bar had orange, ratty booths and each night the lounge filled with long distance drivers, local riff raff looking for cheap drinks, loud music and drug dealers pushing their stash.  One night, in the middle of August, I met Drake. I had stepped outside to smoke. The night was steamy and I could hear the sound of crickets causing a ruckus in the wooded lot next to the hotel bar.
    “Can I have a smoke?”
    I turned. “I don’t have anymore.” I went back to blowing circles.
    “You got a full pack stuck in your pants.”
    “What makes you think I want to share them with you?”
    “I’m Drake.” He extended his hand.
    “Nice to know,” I said.
    “What a tough girl.”
    “Got to be in this world.” I eyed him. He was around 5’7” and had a tattoo of a serpent crawling around his neck. He had curly brown hair and blue eyes. He was average looking, but better looking than Rocco. I winced. Rocco had left me five months prior. He stole most of the furniture while I was at friend’s home and left me with two months unpaid rent. I moved into a residence hotel in Hicksville and then found the job at the hotel bar. I was saving for a little place of my own in Queens.
    “So true,” he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and started whistling.
    “I have to get back.” I ground out my cigarette on the ground.
    “Can I take you out?”
    “What?”
    “Can I take you to dinner?”
    “Listen…”
    “Drake.”
    “Drake. I’ve got baggage.”
    “We’ve all got baggage. Maybe I could carry some of your baggage for you.”
    I sighed. “Why not.”
    “Dinner?”
    “Sure.”
    Drake took me to an Italian restaurant near Cantiague Park.  We shared a Caesar, ate lasagna crammed with ricotta and spinach and drank two bottles of red wine. Drake was a talker. He liked telling stories and he had plenty to share. He had just been discharged from the Marines after spending a year in Afghanistan. His war stories were rich with detail and I got drawn into them the way I never could with a book. Drake had a daughter, who lived with his father in Plainview.
    “I love her. She’s the reason I wake