His Kitten

ROSIE

I walked out of the school building, another boring day behind me. I couldn’t stand this place, but my dad was adamant about me attending. No matter what I said, he wouldn’t budge.

Even the old “you didn’t graduate, so why should I?” argument didn’t work. He’d just laugh it off. He never let me in on his business dealings, but I knew they weren’t exactly on the up and up.

I think he knew that I knew. We just never talked about it.

But he always took care of me. I never lacked for anything. We weren’t rolling in money, but we had enough. It was just him and me, and that was all I needed.

My mom was never in the picture. She died giving birth to me. My dad always said that’s what made me special. I was his little princess.

Now, with my eighteenth birthday just a few months away, I’m still his princess, just not so little anymore.

Growing up with just my dad made me tough. Especially considering the kind of people he hung around with. He taught me to stand up for myself, but he always warned, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Which brings me to the jerk on the motorcycle.

“Hey, Rosie, let me give you a ride home,” the boy shouted.

His voice was like nails on a chalkboard. I never liked the Irish accent. His green eyes sparkled, and he brushed his red hair out of his face.

“Fuck off, Patrick!” I shouted back.

His groupies, all girls, sat on the steps, shooting me dirty looks. They were mostly cheerleaders. I figured Patrick was some kind of athlete. Probably basketball—he was too skinny to play football.

“Come on, Rosie, don’t be like that,” he shot back.

The idiot never could take no for an answer. He was a player. He’d been with every girl in school. Every girl but me. But that didn’t stop him from trying.

I rolled my eyes.

“Go bother one of your groupies,” I snapped. “Or better yet, go back to Ireland.”

I shoved my hands in my jean shorts pockets and started the fifteen-minute walk home.

I could have accepted Patrick’s offer, but it would have come with strings attached. I could have taken the bus, but I didn’t want to be stuck with the losers who rode it.

As soon as I graduated, I was getting out of this place. I needed to talk to Dad about working with him.

He wouldn’t be thrilled. I knew he wanted me to do something legal, but he made more in a day than most people made in a week.

Lost in thought, I looked up and realized I was almost home. Then I froze, staring at my house.

My house—surrounded by cops. Not just any cops, but feds. FBI agents in their labeled bulletproof vests. What the hell was happening?

I quickly ducked behind a neighbor’s car, trying to figure out my next move.

Then two FBI agents walked out of my house with my dad, his hands cuffed behind his back.

He saw me. How he saw me when the feds didn’t, I’ll never know. But he gave me a look. He’d always said if I ever came home and there were cops outside, I should run.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t know if I’d ever see my dad again. Unless this was all a big mistake. But something told me it wasn’t.

The feds must have noticed something because suddenly, they were all looking at me.

“Hey, you!” one of them shouted, starting to run toward me.

I took off. I hated sports at school, but I was good at them. I could run fast and I was a good hurdler. I never thought I’d be using my school training like this, but here I was.

I sprinted down the street, then down a side alley. I climbed over a fence and down another alley until I was a block away. But I didn’t stop. I kept running like the devil himself was after me.

If my dad was going down, I’d be on my own. I’d end up in foster care, or worse.

When I finally stopped, I was about five or six blocks from my house. It had started to rain.

All I had were the clothes on my back, five dollars in my pocket, and my phone. I didn’t even have a jacket. What was I supposed to do now?

I didn’t have any close friends I could call for help.

I couldn’t go back home.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stay warm as the rain came down harder.

Think, Rosie, I told myself.

Then I remembered what my dad had said. Uncle Daniel.

Uncle Daniel wasn’t my real uncle. He was a friend of my dad’s. My dad trusted him—or at least he used to. I’d seen him a few times growing up.

The first time he came over for dinner, I was only five. My dad called me his little princess, but Uncle Daniel called me his kitten, and the nickname stuck.

I hadn’t seen him for about five years. I wasn’t sure why he stopped coming over, and I didn’t ask. My dad started doing business with other people, and when they came over, he always told me to stay out of the way.

He never did that when Uncle Daniel was around.

Then, a couple of weeks ago…

***

Something seemed off about my dad. I couldn’t put my finger on it. When I asked if he was okay, he’d nod and smile. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Then he looked at me seriously. “If anything happens to me, princess, I want you to contact Uncle Daniel.”

He took my phone and put a number into it.

“Is everything okay, Daddy?” I asked.

He smiled again. “Of course. Now, let’s go get some ice cream.”

I gave a nod and a grin. Ice cream was always a good distraction.

***

Everything went back to normal after that. Until today.

I yanked my phone from my back pocket and scrolled through my contacts. My eyes landed on the number my dad had saved in there.

It had been five years since I last saw him. Would he even remember me? I was a sweet little kid back then, but now I’m just a moody teenager. I sighed and slipped my phone back into my pocket.

Now wasn’t the time to call someone who was practically a stranger. I’d figure something out—I always did.

I shoved my hands back into my pockets, feeling the crumpled five-dollar bill. I could at least grab some grub, find a place to crash for the night, and reassess my situation in the morning.

I spotted a mini-mart nearby and made my way there.

Ten minutes later, I emerged with a bottle of water, a sandwich, and a chocolate bar. I still had a few dollars left. I figured I’d save that for emergencies.

Maybe the feds would be gone by morning. For now, I headed towards the residential area. There were always houses up for sale, many of them vacant. I’d just find one to squat in for the night.

It didn’t take long to find a small property with a For Lease sign out front. It was in pretty rough shape, which made me think it’d be a safe bet for a break-in.

Some of the windows were boarded up, so I hopped the fence and made my way to the backyard. The back door was typical, with glass panes on the top and bottom.

I found a rock in the yard and used it to shatter the glass in the door. I reached in, flipped the lock, and pushed the door open. No alarm went off, which didn’t surprise me. The place was too rundown for that.

I quickly surveyed the place. It looked like I might have hit the jackpot. The place was a dump. No one had bothered to clean up the previous tenants’ junk.

I turned the faucet in the kitchen. There was a clunk, but no water. They must’ve disconnected the utilities. At least it was dry.

Next, I checked the bedrooms; all were empty. I’d hoped for an old mattress or a blanket, but no such luck. I guessed I’d be sleeping on the floor.

I sat down and ate the food I’d bought, keeping an ear out for any signs of trouble. When all remained quiet, I laid down on the floor. Using my arm as a pillow, I tried to catch some sleep.