Chapter 1
Grace
The worst thing about being homeless isn't the hunger.
Or the freezing nights.
Or the rats. (And there's plenty of those.)
It's the looks I get from random passersby, judging me for my failures. The failure to provide for myself, the failure to put a proper roof over my head, the failure to spare their discomfort at having to see me suffering while they travel from their million dollar townhouses to their Silicon Valley jobs.
The failure to live the American Dream.
It wasn't always this way. I was raised in a middle-class household, went to the right schools, and had loving parents. I suppose I have nobody to blame but myself. I got mixed up with the wrong crowd who introduced me to drugs. It started with weed, which graduated to cocaine, then LSD and ecstasy.
But I never really got hooked until I tried meth. Beyond the instant rush, ice has a nasty habit of releasing dopamine into your reward circuit, training the brain to repeat the activity. But the worst thing about the drug is what is does to your appearance. The associated loss of appetite creates sallow, pallid skin and severe acne. And its destructive effects on oral hygiene causes progressive gum disease and yellow teeth.
The resulting effect makes the habitual user look more like a half-dead zombie than a coked-out crackhead. Which has its pluses and minuses. On the plus side, looking like someone from a leper colony discourages other lowlifes from stealing my meager possessions. But it also makes pedestrians take a wide berth around my encampment, reducing the daily donations placed in the tin cup at the side of my cardboard shelter.
If it wasn't for the appearance of my adorable puppy Gypsy at my side, I'd probably receive nothing. With her perfectly pleading expression and her long floppy ears, most people think their contributions help to keep her alive. But the truth is, I'm not quite as destitute as it would appear.
Although most members of my family had long-since given up on me as being remotely redeemable, my closest sister continued to deposit enough money into my bank account every month to keep me fed. Not enough for anything else, mind you, ever mindful that any surplus funds would just feed my deplorable habit. The good news (or bad, depending on whose perspective you take) is that meth produces a longer-lasting high and is fairly cheap, making it the poor man's coke. My pity fund of street donations was more than enough to feed both my dog and my drug habit.
But today, I was feeling a different kind of emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I'd been living on the streets for almost a year now, and as Christmas approached in the Bay Area, I felt the yearning for companionship and human contact. It had been ages since I felt the comforting arms of another person around me, let alone the intimacy of a lover consuming me with passion.
As desperate as I was for physical intimacy, I never succumbed to the temptation to sell my body like other junkies. Respecting my temple was the last vestige of dignity that I was able to salvage in the dehumanizing world of a street person. I suspected my parents would take me back if I gave up my drug habit, but I was too proud to ask for help and forgiveness. Besides, how could I ever rejoin normal society looking like a strung-out drug addict?
I was beyond redemption, and this was going to be my life for as far into the future as I dared dream.
While I huddled under my foul-smelling blanket, holding Gypsy close to me for comfort, I noticed three young men wearing hoodies approaching my secluded spot in the doorway of an abandoned warehouse. They appeared to be drinking, swinging an open bottle of whiskey at their side while laughing loudly as they pointed in my direction. But the closer they got, the more sinister their expressions became while they murmured softly under their breath.
Chiding myself for wanting company in a moment of weakness, I pushed my growling puppy behind my back and reached under my blanket for my bottle of pepper spray.
"Well, look what we have here, boys," the tallest of the thugs said, stopping a few feet away from my doorstep. "A lonely girl with a hungry puppy. It looks like you could use a little company. Or at least some male companionship. How long has it been since you've gotten a proper fucking?"
"Please," I said, forcing a strained smile to display my rotting teeth, hoping that might be enough to discourage any lascivious intentions. "I'm not that kind of homeless person."
"You mean a hooker?" another one of the boys said, taking a step forward as Gypsy bared her teeth and yapped angrily. "Who said anything about paying you?"
"Yeah," the third hoodlum said, chuckling while he nodded at his friends. "The way you look, you should be paying us for the privilege of getting laid. But don't worry, we won't be looking at your face while we pound your ass. As long as you're warm and wet on the inside, we don't care what you look like on the outside."
"Especially if we screw her from behind," the ringleader nodded, twisting his head to make sure nobody else was nearby. "You guys grab her wrists while I take the first turn–"
"Get away from me, asshole!" I screamed, raising my can of mace and pointing it toward the tall one.
But the only thing that came out of the canister was a puff of air and a few dribbles of pungent fluid. Little did I know that cold temperatures and lack of use required frequent shaking to keep the can properly pressurized. Upon witnessing my pitiful attempt to defend myself, the ringleader lunged forward, swiping the can out of my hands and dragging me up to twist me around and pin me against the brick sidewall.
Gypsy suddenly leaped forward, nipping at his ankles, but he kicked her in her ribcage, sending her yelping to the side. While his companions held each of my arms, the tall one yanked down my jeans, spreading my legs apart. I screamed and twisted my body in protest, but the combined strength of the three attackers made it impossible for me to move. I was just about to close my eyes and resign myself to my fate when I heard the screech of tires in the distance and the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching our position in the alley.
"Hey!" another man's voice called out from behind us, causing the others to stop their assault. "What the hell is going on here?"
I turned my head around and noticed a handsome man in his late twenties wearing an expensive suit, gripping a baseball bat tightly in his right fist. At the end of the alley, a gleaming sports car idled with the driver's door left ajar.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, pretty boy," the ringleader said, turning around to confront the intruder.
The man peered into my desperate eyes and nodded softly, as if to reassure me that everything would be okay.
"Judging by the look on the lady's face and her screams of protest, I'd have to disagree," he said, twisting his Italian loafers firmly on the gritty pavement, preparing for a scrap.
"There's three of us and only one of you," the ringleader scowled, motioning for his friends to release me to deal with the stranger. "How far do you think you're going to get with that bat?"
"I'm not sure," the man said as I scampered over toward Gypsy, scooping her up in my arms and feeling her belly for any sign of broken bones. "But I'm pretty sure I can do a fair amount of damage to at least one of you before you lay a finger on me."
"We'll be laying more than a finger on you," the ringleader sneered, directing his friends to circle around the man to attack him from opposing sides. "You're hardly a knight in shining armor. Though we'll be happy to steal your ride when we're done with you."
"I have a feeling you won't get that far," the man said, flexing his legs and raising the bat over his shoulder like a major league slugger.
The ringleader paused for a moment then he nodded toward his confederates while he lunged toward the stranger's side. The man dipped to avoid his punch, then he swung his bat onto the side of the taller man's knee, causing him to collapse onto the pavement. Then he twisted his body around, rising up quickly to smash the tip of his bat against another one of the thug's jaw, causing him to squeal in pain while he cradled his face in agony. The third thug paused when he saw how deftly the intruder had dispatched his mates, then the man cocked his bat threateningly while he raised an eyebrow, daring the other man to take his best shot. Instead, he retreated away from the hunk, helping his friends to their feet while they limped away in the opposite direction, scowling at the man in anger.
When they'd safely disappeared out of sight, the man approached me and Gypsy, running his hands softly through my hair to see if I was hurt.
"Did they harm you?" he said, squinting at my pockmarked face and open sores. Far from recoiling at my foul stench and sickly appearance, he seemed genuinely concerned for my health and safety.
"Only my pride," I said while turning away from him, embarrassed to be seen in such a sorry state by such a well-heeled savior.
"What about your dog?" he said, stroking Gypsy behind her ears.
"I think she's okay," I nodded, squeezing her ribcage to see if she flinched in pain.
"Can I take you somewhere?" the man said, gazing at my scraggy encampment.
"I don't really have anywhere to go..." I said, lowering my eyes in embarrassment.
"Can I give you some money then?" he said, pulling out his wallet and removing a thick wad of bills.
"No, I'm fine," I said, not wanting to appear any more needy than I already was. "We've got everything we need right here.”
"Maybe a little for your puppy then," he said, trying to push a wad of cash into my trembling hands. "At least to get him seen by a vet. It looks like he was kicked pretty hard–"
"She," I said, turning my body away while I cradled Gypsy in my arms. "Really, we'll be fine."
The man paused for a long moment, appraising my dilapidated sleeping arrangements and half-empty donation jar.
"At least let me take you to a proper shelter. The city has cleaner and safer places for people like you–"
"People like me?" I said, turning around and flaring my eyes angrily at him.
"I just meant..." he stammered. "For people without a roof over their head. There's no need for you to live out in the open in the street–"
"I've been to those city shelters," I said. “They're just full of sick people looking for handouts. I'd rather take my chances out here with my trusty dog."
"Suit yourself," the man said, shaking his head and throwing his bat disdainfully beside my cardboard bed. "At least carry something more reliable than an empty can of pepper spray for defense. Not everyone will be so benevolent when they see a single woman living in the streets."
As he turned to walk back toward his car, I watched the muscles in his well-proportioned body flexing in his tight-fitting suit. For a moment, I considered running after him to ask him to take me anywhere he wanted, anywhere but here in this dark alley, left to my thoughts and fears with my only companion in the entire world. But as he stepped into his expensive sports car and squealed his tires out of sight, all I could do was shake my head.
My foolish pride had once again stopped me from accepting the well-meaning assistance of others, leaving me empty and alone.
