Born Wrong by C. M. Stunich Page B

I get it. They don't like Dax, but not because he's ever really done anything to them. They've just decided not to.
    “How was the interview?” Lola Saints asks me, appearing out of her room like a shadow. She looks high as fuck and twice as sad. I wish I could help her, but we've only just met. Still, you never know when a kind word or two could change someone else's life. I decide she's worth the time and move a bit closer, reaching out and brushing some dark hair from her forehead.
    “Fine. Overly dramatic, but fine. Honey, you don't look so good.”
    “I feel like a sack of shite that's been dipped in hot piss and barbequed.”
    I smile.
    “Vodka then?”
    “Liters of it. I'm still half-cut and I stopped actually drinking it hours ago.”
    “Anything else?” Lola shrugs, her small body swimming in a loose shirt that I'm pretty fucking sure belongs to Ronnie. It says I love you, Daddy across the garish orange cotton fabric. Ronnie's the only dad in the bunch that I'm aware of. Lola either senses I'm here to help or just desperately wants some company, scooting back so I can step into her room. It's exactly the same as the one I stayed in last night: double bed with white linens, a single nightstand, a dresser, and a small table with one chair. I take the chair and watch as Lola sits on the edge of the bed.
    “Nothing else yet. Glass doesn't mix too well with the booze, you know?” she says, laying on her side and propping herself up against the headboard. The position is awkward, but I don't think she cares. I watch sympathetically as Lola pushes a needle and some cotton balls around on the nightstand.
    “I used to be a serious crack addict,” I tell her honestly. “Like father like daughter, I guess. Though you'd have thought I'd have learned my lesson from him, right?” Lola rolls her blue eyes over to me. They're absolutely gorgeous, big and round and bright, even in her hungover state.
    “Are you trying to teach me a valuable life lesson here?” Lola asks, adjusting the shirt as it rides up her thighs, getting dangerously close to a certain off limits sort of area. “Because I don't like being preached at.” I lean back and cross my legs, examining the paleness of my calves and the bright splosh of color at my ankles. There's a black and yellow fish on each side, a French Angelfish. They mate for life, you know? Pretty impressive considering most humans are incapable of that sort of commitment.
    “I'm just shooting the breeze. I'm the stripper with a heart of gold, remember?” Lola gives me a look, but I wave her away. Fucking reporter slut. I didn't mean to jump Dax's bones, just spice things up a little, teach that loud-mouthed hussy skank a lesson. But then his lips touched mine and I couldn't think clearly. Fuck, I couldn't think at all. When I close my eyes, I can feel each and every spot on my body where his bare skin touched mine. I could draw you a map. I swallow hard and make sure to keep my eyes wide open. “I'm just saying, it's not that difficult to cut the hard stuff, that's all.”
    “So you don't get fried anymore? Congratulations. You must live a charmed life.” Lola opens the drawer on the nightstand and pulls out another bottle of vodka, sliding down the bed until she's lying on her back. But at least she doesn't put the alcohol to her lips. I'm no saint, and I'm not afraid to party, I just don't like to see people using substances to get by. They're not there to get by; they're supposed to be fun. Some people might even argue with that, but hey, that's how I feel and I live in the United fucking States of goddamn America, so I can think and do and say whatever the hell I want. Supposedly anyway. Nothing's stopped me before.
    “Hardly,” I say, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward, examining Lola's tattoos with a critical eye. They're beautiful – lots of brightly colored birds, a cat, some cheetah print. They're like mine, alive and teeming with energy, crawling across her