When the last bell finally rings, I rush from the room and out to the courtyard to call my mom and let her know I’m going to Jackson’s after school.

She sounds worried, but I don’t give her a chance to argue. As soon as I click the phone shut, I rush back inside to find Jackson. I keep my head low as I pass a group of boys crowded in the corner. One of them is Marissa’s nasty boyfriend Brandon.

“Dude, that’s hot,” one boy says low, like it’s a secret. I take a peek at what they’re doing. They’re crowded around Brandon, who’s holding his cell phone. I can hear the muffled sounds of a video playing, too indistinct to make out.

Then I hear the moans.

Are they seriously watching porn in the middle of school?

Perverts.

Please welcome the future johns of America, everyone.

I shake my head and turn to keep walking, but then Brandon calls out, “Eric says you’ve got one of these floating around, don’t you?”

I stop. Two boys walk right up next to me on either side, Brandon and a redheaded jock who must be Eric.

The jock leans in. “I’d love to see it one day.” He puts his arms around me and I don’t move. I know better than to struggle; it only makes it worse. Besides, I’m no stranger to sticky breath in my face.

“Like I’d be that stupid,” I say, keeping my eyes forward, my expression calm.

Brandon laughs. “You know how much power there is in sex, then.”

The redhead drops his arm from my shoulder and adds, “Marissa’s learning that lesson, too.” Then walks away laughing. Brandon joins him without another word.

I still don’t move, my mind totally blown by what they just said. I don’t think he realizes that he just told me Marissa’s secret. He thinks I’ll be scratching my head, wondering what that could have meant. Except that I already know more than he realizes.

That’s what Brandon has over Marissa. Why she “can’t” dump him. She’s had to put up with him because if she doesn’t, he’s going to show everyone a video of them having sex. How much power would that give him? He could show her parents, colleges, jobs. He could put it on the internet and she’d never get it back.

She’d be marked, like me.

I walk toward the bus slowly, still thinking about Marissa and Brandon. He’s more of a dick than I realized. But as much as I know Marissa doesn’t deserve what she’s getting, I know there’s nothing I can do to help her.

It’s none of my business.

Except that now I can’t get it out of my head.

Chapter Twenty-One

I’m quiet on the bus ride home. That’s nothing unusual for me, but by the time we get off the bus at Jackson’s stop, my thoughts are a mess. I know there’s nothing I can do to help Marissa. I have to let it go. I’ve got my own problems to worry about.

Like the fact that Jackson’s the son of a cop.

Yeah, I forgot about that.

A hundred horrible memories of the police flood my mind. I stop.

Shit.

“What’s wrong?”

“Will your dad be home?”

“Yeah. Why, you don’t trust me or something?”

My eyes refocus. His face is a little red. “No,” I say. “I mean, yes. Of course I trust you, I’m just… Parents don’t usually like me.”

His face is still a little red. “My dad’s not like most.”

No kidding, your dad is a cop. Cops hate everyone.

I try really hard not to drag my feet as we walk up the path to his house.

Jackson laughs, still as lighthearted as ever. “It’s going to be fine.”

Yeah, I’ve heard that before.

We walk through the door, and I find myself looking around like I’m in a spaceship or something. It’s warm and smells like vanilla. The floor is mahogany, the walls a pretty burgundy. It feels warm and inviting. I kinda wish my house were more like this.

He closes the door behind us. I rub my hands together and then cross my arms.

“I’m home,” Jackson calls out.

A large man peeks around a corner. “There you are!”

I take a stumbling step back.

I can’t breathe. Everything stops.

Just Anna. I’m just Anna. He won’t hate me. He doesn’t know I’m a hooker.

He’s wearing a black police uniform. Funny how cops all look the same.

Same uniform. Same badge. Same smile.

“Hi there, this must be your friend. Anna, right?” he says, holding out one of his huge hands.

My eyes shoot to the floor, and I can’t, no matter how hard I try, make them look the man in the eyes. He’s a cop, and the only person I know to be with cops isn’t Anna. It’s Exquisite.

I squeeze my eyes closed.

That’s not me. Not anymore. I’m Anna.

Just Anna.

My body doesn’t listen to my head and my heart beats faster, my head pounds.

Cops don’t shake hookers’ hands. They cuff them, they hit them, they scar them.

But he wants to shake my hand.

How can I trust him?

A terrifying thought occurs to me.

How closely do police departments communicate? Is it possible he knows about Exquisite? Is it possible he knows who I really am?

Is it possible he’ll tell Jackson?

I chance a glimpse at his face—to test his reaction to me—but he doesn’t seem to recognize me. He just seems confused that he’s still holding his hand out and I haven’t shaken it.

“Yes,” Jackson says for me. “This is Anna, I guess she’s shy.” Confusion is laced in his voice.

“Well,” the man says awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He drops his hand and slowly walks away from us.

Jackson doesn’t move or say anything. What’s he thinking? Does he regret having me over? Being my friend?

“Come on,” he says, and I follow him up a set of stairs. We walk into a room, and he shuts the door behind us. “What the hell was that?” he asks.

I’ve never heard him talk like this. He’s so innocent that the almost-sort-of cuss sounds strange coming from his mouth.

“I…” But I’m not sure what to say. Should I apologize? “I’m not a fan of cops. They kind of freak me out.”

I’m still feeling flustered, so it takes a little effort for me to meet his gaze, but I want to watch his face. I want to know what he’s thinking, or at least be able to formulate a guess.

He’ll be angry now. That’s okay. I deserve it.

But his face is much softer than I expected.

He sits down on a bed. I’m guessing we’re in his room…and that would make this his bed.

My cheeks grow hot.

What’s wrong with me?

“Police are supposed to be the good guys,” he says, but it’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

Maybe he knows more about how cops can be than I realized.

“A uniform doesn’t make them good.”

He looks me straight in the eye. “But it doesn’t make them bad, either.”

I nod. He’s right. It’s just a job, it’s not who he is. But God, if my own father can be so harsh, I can’t imagine how bad Jackson’s father must be. A cop.

“So what happened?” he says. “What made you hate police…if you don’t mind me asking.”

I take a deep breath and sit down beside him. I breathe in and out slowly. I don’t want to get too worked up about this.

I can’t tell him everything. But words don’t mean much anyway. He’ll want proof.

I push back the hair around my temple, exposing a small scar. Jackson reaches out and touches it with gentle fingers. That’s the only time they left a permanent mark, but I’ve had plenty more injuries that eventually healed, leaving no evidence.

I don’t explain what happened, and he doesn’t ask. I’m not sure I’d have a good explanation for this one.

He stares at the ground, his eyebrows pulled tightly over his eyes. It’s like he’s deep in thought, like I’ve stolen a beloved belief. Kind of like I told him that Santa Claus didn’t exist.

“I’ll be honest. I don’t think I’ve ever met a good cop.”

He looks up and smiles sadly. “You just did.”