No matter what I do, I can’t catch a break. I take two steps forward, and I get knocked back a step.

Before I enter Gunner’s office, I school my features and put on my best poker face. I set the thick paperwork on his desk and turn on my heels. I stomp to my desk and lay my head down while tears rush down my cheeks.

I don’t have family I can move in with. My mom was a prostitute and got T-boned by an eighteen-wheeler when I was a baby. She died on impact. According to my mom’s old friend, Petra, who died from AIDS a few years ago, my dad was one of her johns.

My childhood was as lovely as eating flour. I bounced around from foster home to foster home and then three group homes. When I turned eighteen the state kicked me out into the real world with no survival skills. I had to learn how to raise myself.

Just when I can see the light at the end of a tunnel, something is always coming along blocking it.

Gunner barges in, and I crane my neck to the computer so he won’t see me cry.

“Bring your tablet, we need to rearrange my calendar.”

I try my best to hold my sobs in but I cry even harder. Snot slithers from my nose, and I pluck a Kleenex from the box, wipe it, and toss it in the wastebasket. Shuffling papers on my desk, I pretend I’m busy.

“Gia?” He spins my computer chair around to get a better view of me sobbing.

Straightening up my spine, I say, “I-I need a minute.”

As tears leak down my cheeks, he leans closer and uses his calloused thumb to wipe each one. His eyes are glued to mine as a shiver tickles my spine.

Then he does the unthinkable—he pulls me up to my yellow oxford shoes and yanks me into a hug. His gigantic frame engulfs my small one. My body is wound up like a toy, and finally, I accept his warm embrace.

I hate myself that I like his warm body.

I hate myself for loving the way he smells—cinnamon and expensive cologne.

I hate my stupid dumb heart for going haywire in my chest; it has a burning need to break free from my ribcage.

“What’s wrong, Rainbow?” I feel the vibration of his voice through my bones. I want to bleed my heart out onto his expensive loafers, vent to him about what’s wrong and how ever since I was born life has been screwing me in the butthole, and it continues to screw me.