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He steps away from the cam and peeks through the closet door.

“Marci. Music? The box is in back’a you.”

I reach back, press Play and music—tribal, house back beats—pours out the speakers. I feel light-headed, filled with helium. I’m about to float off, too.

“Who you got the hots for?” I type his question. “No, I’m asking
you
.”

His shirt plays hide-and-seek, flashing gold skin, muscles and sex. He plants his feet and takes a wide stance, moving his hips side-to-side. Hammer’s a human sextronome.

I can’t look, I look away. The way he’s moving—two feet away from me!—makes me excited. Dot, dot, dot:
again
. I reach under the desk and adjust myself.

Bling! Bling! Bling! Bling! Bling! Bling!

The computer goes ape-shit crazy. The activity saves me from answering and extreme embarrassment.

“They’re say—”

“No talk,” he says, hollow voiced, head elsewhere. “I’m
all
action.”

“You want me to type that?”

“Yeah.”

I do.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, breaking his vow of silence. I forget: I feel like his audience but, really, I’m his
typist
. I guess a little chitchat with me is our give ’n take. I know—it’s not real, and kind of grosses me out—but his attention feels good.

“Question?”

“Who do
you
have the hots for?”

“Where, here, or …?”

“
Here
.”

Quick, he reaches back and pulls the shirt’s fabric in-between his legs. He tugs the fabric, and it rips, splitting down the opening, up, and middle, creating another V.

Oh, oh … I gasp. The show feels dark, exciting, confusing.

Gold. Bare. Skin.

The white shirt jumps. His abs dance. Golden hairs dusted over smooth, tight skin. The fleece doesn’t show on-screen. I pinch my arm. This is real. I’m really
here
. Something switches. What seemed sleazy becomes fun.

“You.”

My answer pops out, against my will, itself on a three-second time delay. I want to reach out, grab it, take it back.

He smiles, huge, hips quickening. Now,
he’s
the excited one. Abrupt, his movement grinds to a slow, hard side-to-side slide. I want to believe, this is for me. But my smarter self knows better. This is just a show. Only a test. If he can work me—audience of one—then he knows he’s doing his job.

“
Me?
” He smiles, pleased. “You got the hots for
me?
”

“No, I meant—” I stammer, more confused. Hammer’s my
fantasy
boy. He’s not supposed to brush reality. Yet, it sounds like he agrees with me. Thinks I’m a hottie. Or, he’s just leading me on? Or—the scariest—he offers to make my fantasy a reality.

My head’s about to explode.

“What if I told you—” His tongue pops out his mouth and runs over his lips, covering the plump, pink flesh with a wet gloss. “I want to kiss you?”

“I—” I’m ready to. Then, I notice he stares at his reflection. Oh. No. I might have mistook his convo with Narcissus, the God of Love Thyself, for one between him and me. Embarrassed, much …

“You could, you know. Fact, I’d like that,” he says, looking at me—and the mirror—while moving the white shirt up—down—OFF!—over his torso. Hammer, heading to naked …

Knock! Knock!

Hammer stops, his body freezes.

Knock Knock.

“Hello?”

A woman. Marci’s already inside.

“H
ello?”

Hammer pulls up his jeans, cracks the closet door and looks out.

“Hey,
you
,” he says. His face relaxes and he smiles. “I’m doing a show.”

He steps out the door, careful to close it. I press my ear against the door.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” a girl says. “The door was open.”

“Later.”

Click.
The front door shuts. Closure does nothing to slow my heart’s fast rat-a-tat-tat.

The closet door opens, Hammer steps inside and looks at me.

“You okay?”

I nod, freaked out. My face feels like it seized up.

“Shelia’s cool. She lives upstairs. One time her client—”

“Is the camera off?”

“Oh, shit!” He grabs the Webcam and turns it away from the room.

“Your commercial break.”

“Yeah, so one time her client comes to our door. ‘Shelia!’ he says. ‘It’s me!’ We tell him, ‘There’s no one here by the name Shelia.’ He keeps knocking. Real loud, he says, ‘Shelia! I know you’re in there!’ I opened the door and told him, ‘Bro, there’s no
Shelia here.’ He stuck his foot inside. I can’t shut it. I know his type. He’ll push to get inside. Needs to see for himself. Right then, Shelia shows up. That’s how we became friends.”

“You do shows with her?”

“Hell, no! She’s got fake tits. ’Sides, she only does
private
shows. You know …” he says. “You’re really cute.”

He steps forward. His voice, his body, his smell—he radiates sex. And pleasure. When I watched him doing push-ups, this is what I imagined. We wouldn’t talk. Our kiss would just … happen. I close my eyes. I’m ready.

His big left hand touches my forehead, fingertips trace my face, temples to cheekbone and jaw, lips. Kinda rough, he thumbs my lips. My body shudders. My head feels light. He sticks his right hand in my hair and roughly pushes it back. The blond color’s fake. Who cares. I don’t. Hammer
wants
me.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice low, sexy and dirty. He steps close. Heat peels off his body. I reach out and hold my left hand over his chest. Hot, he burns. “You like that?”

“I do but …” Yeah, dude, BUT WHAT? That’s not what I’m supposed to say—not to a sixteen-year-old hottie who’s perfect. And wants
me
.

“But what?” A confused look crosses his face. Hammer’s
never
dealt with romantic doubt or sexual hesitation. Hammer knows he’s hot and has known this since kindgergarten. Girls chased him around the playground. Boys wanted to be him. He knows that everyone who sees him wants to fuck him. Like, me. I want him
so
bad. But I pull back. I want to turn and run.

He’s not put off. I hope he’s not the type who believes “No” means “Yes.” His hand pushes through my hair. Meat-hook-sized fingers move down and grab my neck. He pulls me forward. He even smells good. Lemony fresh with a hint of violet.

“Foxy boi,” he says, voice sexy and dirty. His lips graze my ear. I can’t resist: I want him. I reach up, caressing his hair. Oh. My. God. Blond, buzzed and
thick
.

“I don’t know—”

“Shhh.” He places an index finger over my lips. He pushes my lips apart and forces me to suck his thumb. His other hand
travels down my neck and over my back, to my butt. His big hand cups it. Instinct, I arch. I guess this makes me a bottom. His touch feels so good. He’s gentle, so different from—

Stop. Everything stops. My body seizes up. I freeze. I want to shout, “Stop!” but the word’s stuck in my throat. I pull away. He won’t let go. He holds me tight. I choke. I want to throw up. “Let me go!” Where’d my voice go? He pulls me closer. Peach fuzz brushes my skin. I don’t want to kiss him or his pink lips, just—

“W
hat?”

He steps back. That’s it. Now I’ve done it. Really fucked up. Hammer Fail. I’m such a fool. He never really liked me. He’s just good at
this
. Fake desire? Velveeta? I feel so stupid. He’s a tease. That’s his
job
. Worse, I
watched
him. Give a glimpse. Pull back. Stir up desire. I feel so stupid. I’ve been played. Used.
Again.

“I—” I duck down and slip out of his arms. I don’t care about his soft touch or heat. I feel trapped. I want to run away. I panic. I feel disoriented. Where am I? How’d I end up here? Again.

“What’s wrong?”

I want to tell him everything. Explain. But every time I open my mouth, the words won’t come. I can’t even
look
at him. I look down. I’m ashamed. Tears sting my eyes. I’m gonna cry. This is
not
how I pictured us hooking up. Me crying, him puzzled.

“Forget it,” I mumble, turn and reach for the door.

“Hey,” he says, and grabs my arm. “Don’t you like me?”

I hear uncertainty in his voice and my heart melts. Headline,
Seventeen
magazine, “Boys Have Feelings.”

“Well, there was …” I’m frustrated. I can’t find the words I need. They’re buried, leaves tossed in a heap. I thought, if I left
those words alone, those feelings will decay, fade away. But then, something curious and surprising happens.

Hammer doesn’t move. He says nothing. He just is. He’s given me a space. It’s bigger than the distance between the desk and the door.

“Was what?” he says. Two words, kind of amazing. This has nothing to do with sexy, turning me on, or taking advantage. No, he’s handing me an opportunity to speak. If I want, I can seize this moment, take a risk and be
heard
.

I shake my head. No way can I
tell
. Even Hammer the Mahn Whore would hear my story and think I’m filthy. Disgusting. That’s what
he
always said. And it must have been true, too. Because if it wasn’t true, then the people in charge at Serenity Ridge wouldn’t have let it happen. To me. The way it did. Over and over. Everyone knew what he was doing to me, yet they did nothing to stop it. Therefore, I must be a worthless piece of shit.

“I knew I was gonna run,” I say. “The day I got there, I was already planning my escape.”

“Uh-huh.” He shrugs. I can tell it’s not that he doesn’t care. He’s interested. He’s just not staring me down. Or, taking notes. And that makes it okay for me to tell. Easy. Not about
him
. No way. I’m not ready for that. But the other stuff.

“I
—” I don’t know where to start. Deep breath. Hammer doesn’t move. He listens. “I-I knew. I
knew
I was gonna run. The day I got there, I started planning my escape.”

Colors and sound blur. Now,
thinking
about the hospital makes my head light. Like it might spin off.

“Like my mom. She split. I knew, I had to leave. As in, Did. Not. Have. A. Choice. I didn’t. R—that guy, he sealed it. First time he held me down, middle of the night and did that … stuff. I knew, knew I’d do
anything
to get out. Away.”

“You tricked ’em.”

“Yeah, with my tooth. I faked how much it hurt. No, did I? I forget. But I knew I could use the tooth excuse. It was a good one. They didn’t have dentists. My mom taught me it’s about the when. My dad didn’t know it, but he told me how she did it. Said, ‘The bitch
waited
.’

“The day they came to pick me up and drove me away, it was like a movie. Speeded up. At first, I didn’t have a plan. Not really. Just that I had to wait. Let them drive me away. Jump out and run. The day before, this kid told me, ‘Look for this one sign.’ I had help. People picked me up. Rescued me.

“Growing up, I always wondered how did
she
do it? ‘The bitch waited.’ But
how
. I never knew. Did she look at a clock and call a cab? What?

“I found out. You just know. There’s that moment. The door, it opens. Some people stand there and look. My first step, I
knew
. Ohhhhh, this is how she did it.”

“Did what?”

“Left. If someone looks away, even for a second, you can run. Like my mom. I woke up one day and … she was gone. Haifa Number One took her place. My father never explained. There was no reason
why
. I don’t think he knew. There was no, ‘Your mother left because …’ Just, ‘The bitch waited.’

“Right away, I knew she was gone. The screams stopped. She was done. With lying to everyone about the black eyes and bruises. We lived in a ranch house. She was always, ‘falling down the front steps.’ Always ‘hitting her head’ on the car door. Nobody believed her—turned out, we shared that, too. I wish she took me, you know, with her. Once
I
left, I knew why she didn’t.”

“Why didn’t she?” Hammer asks. I don’t need to ask
why
he asks. He asks because someone in
his
life left. Same as me, he wants to know why they didn’t take him. ‘Why’d they leave me?
Here
? Alone with these horrible people?’

“I knew,” I say, “because the second
I
left, I learned. You travel faster if you travel alone.”

“Right,” he says, nodding his head.

“But even though she couldn’t take me, just by leaving, she’d carved out this path. For me. Made a way for me. May I—?”

Hammer steps aside. I need to leave. I’m not trapped. But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m stuck. I look down, focusing my gaze on his big toe. Blond hair sprouts on the knuckle. He’s got hella ugly feet.

“Stuff. Night. He. I—”

My words get mixed up. The words are slimed with silence and shame. “The truth will set you free,” I tell myself. I don’t believe it. Another cliché, my reality being far removed from gospel choirs, church and the Bible.

The monster springs up, out that dark place, a grinning ghoul jack-in-the-box. Mocking me.

“Motherfucker!” I shout.

Hammer backs off.

“Not you.
Him
. He—”

“That guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me?”

I shake my head. I can’t.

“Look at me?” His big paw reaches out and touches my chin. I flinch. Shut my eyes. Tight. I know what comes next. “Gentle,” they’re always, GENTLE. His fingers tilts my head. I force my eyes to look up, meet his. Our eyes meet and, without one word, I know that he
knows
what I’m trying to say.

“Same thing,” he says, “happened to me. Happens to a lot of us. Some people … a room’s filled with kids. They look out and they see
you
. They chose you coz they
know
. They can take advantage.”

He knows
.

My head and heart split in two. Battles—“Shut up!” “Speak!” “Quiet!” “Talk!” I try silencing the voices. I crack. Hot tears bubble up, spill out my eyes. My soul shudders; a silent sob rakes my body.