when i was young i believed in gutterballs
Funny, as a daughter of Aphrodite, Drew looked down on love. Love was power but also weakness. Love was unkind and made people stupid.
She could thank that first boy of hers for opening her eyes, all slick smiles and dirt encrusted fingernails. He made her feel special, every slap on the ass made her feel valued.
Too bad the only genuine thing he enjoyed about her was her pretty body and her way with pretty words. They were honey just like his mouth (and we all know how sticky honey is), and a charmspeak riddled suggestion here and there always left his pocket heavy with cash and that poor convenience store clerk down the street terribly confused.
But good looks could only take her so far and when the heat got too hot he got out of the kitchen, while she could only be forced head first into the police car.
(Turns out waterproof mascara was a lie; say cheese! for the damn security camera and then the mugshot.)
Drew cursed his name to heaven and hell that night in holding.
It wasn’t until she was bailed out by the beautiful woman with dark, curled ringlets and understanding brown eyes that she found her bearing again.
“Oh, honey,” Aphrodite cooed. “Don’t worry, your story doesn’t end here.”
Her mother’s thumb brushed against her cheek and Drew’s lips curled into a bitter smile, the tenderly meant words giving her a different kind of inspiration.
“I know,” she breathed. Because this time she’d be the narrator. She’d break them before they could break her.