Before

Molly

Songs for this chapter are:

Hurricane- Halsey

Angel on Fire- Halsey

17- Kings of Leon

River- Bishop Riggs

Molly.

His mum told him stories about dangerous girls when he was a boy. The meaner a girl is to you, the farther she runs from you, the more she likes you. You should pursue her, young boys are taught.

Those pushy boys grow up to find is that most of the time, when a girl doesn't like you, she simply just doesn't like you. The girl grew up without a woman to show her how to be. Her mum dreamed of a fast life, bigger than she herself could offer, and the girl learned how men were supposed to behave by observing the actions of those around her.

As the girl grew up, she quickly caught on to the game and became a master player.

I pull my dress down as I turn the dark corner to enter the alleyway. I hear the mesh fabric rip as I tug it, and I curse at myself for doing this again.

I'd taken the bus to downtown hoping to accomplish . . . something.

What, I'm not entirely sure, but I'm so, so tired of feeling this way. Emptiness can make you behave in ways you could never imagine, and this is the only way to satisfy the giant fucking hole inside of me. The satisfaction comes and goes as the men ogle the way I'm dressed. They feel entitled to my body since I dress in a way that purposely entices them. They are disgusting and entirely wrong, but I play into their lust, encouraging their behavior with a wink of my eye. A shy smile at a lonely man goes a long way.

Needing this attention, it makes me sick to my stomach. It's more than an ache; it's a scalding white-hot burn inside of me.

As I turn another corner, a black car approaches and I look away as the man behind the wheel slows down to look at me. The streets are dark, and this zigzag alley is located behind one of the richest parts of Philadelphia. Shops line the streets, each of them having their own back dock here.

There's too much money and not enough pleasantness in Main Line.

"You want to go for a ride?" the man asks as his automatic window rolls down with a smooth whir. His face is slightly wrinkled, and his sandy-brown-and-gray hair is neatly parted and combed down on the sides. His smile is charming, and he looks good for his age, but there's a warning that sounds in my mind that I take this walk, follow this zombie routine for some unknowable reason. The faux kindness in his smile is just that, as fake as my "Chanel" bag. His smile comes from money, I know this by now. Men with black cars that are so clean they shine under the moonlight have money but no conscience. Their wives haven't fucked them in weeks—months, even—and they search the streets of Main Line for the attention they have been deprived of.

But I don't want his money. My parents have that, too much of it.

"I'm not a prostitute, you sick fuck!" I kick my platform boot at his stupid shiny car and notice the gleam of a band on one finger .

His eyes follow mine, and he tucks his hand under the steering wheel. Douchebag.

"Nice try. Go home to your wife—I'm sure whatever excuse you've given her is set to expire."

I begin to walk away, and he says something else to me. The distance catches the sound, carrying it away into the night, no doubt to some dark corner. I don't bother looking back at him.