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The Chaos You Crave

Love, Lust, And Liars Book #1

Danielle Renee
Copyright © 2022 by Danielle Renee.

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events or locales are completely coincidental.

Cover by Dez at Pretty In Ink Creations

Contents

Foreword

Playlist
1. West
2. Ashtyn
3. Ashtyn
4. West
5. Ashtyn
6. West
7. Ashtyn

8. West
9. Ashtyn
10. West
11. Ashtyn
12. West
13. Ashtyn
14. West
15. Ashtyn
16. West
17. Ashtyn

18. Ashtyn

19. West
20. Ashtyn

21. Anonymous
22. Ashtyn
23. West
24. Ashtyn

25. West
26. Ashtyn
27. West
28. Ashtyn
29. West
30. Anonymous
31. West
32. Ashtyn
33. West

34. Ashtyn
35. Anonymous
36. Ashtyn
37. West
38. Ashtyn
39. Anonymous
40. Ashtyn
41. West
42. Ashtyn
43. West

44. Ashtyn

45. West
46. Ashtyn

47. West
48. Ashtyn
49. West
50. Ashtyn

51. Epilogue
From the Author
About the Author
The Destruction You Deserve
 Foreword

Please skip this page if you don't like spoilers.

There are dark elements to this story that include: explicit language, drug and alcohol use, sexual
situations, self-harm, mention of rape, murder, violence, and stalking. While most of the characters
are in high school, they are involved with adult situations. This is a standalone book that does not end
on a cliffhanger.

It will be part of an interconnected set of standalones. This is Book #1.

 Playlist

Hate Me - Ellie Goulding & Juice WRLD

Gasoline - I Prevail
Middle Finger - Bohnes
Heartache - From Ashes to New
It’s Complicated - A Day to Remember
ay! - Machine Gun Kelly
Bow Down - I Prevail
Guns and Roses - Bohnes
 1
West

“BRO, THIS PLACE IS going to be fucking epic!” My brother Bronx said as he fixed his gaze on the
mirror in front of him, his light brown hair styled so it looked like he just rolled out of bed.
“Eh, we’ll see,” I said, passing the bathroom where he was primping. I went to my room to find a
clean set of clothes.
We heard the hype about a dive bar called Aces for a few weeks. Supposedly, the place was lax
about people using fake IDs, so Bronx convinced me to try it out. It was nearing the start of the new
school year and he thought we needed to fit in as much “fun” as possible before classes started.
Bronx had been ready to go for an hour already, looking like he was going to some high-class
establishment. He wore a black button-up and dark jeans that were probably new, along with stark
white sneakers he’d polished earlier that morning.
Bronx sighed loudly enough so I could hear him from my room. “Can’t you ever be excited about
anything?”
“What’s there to be excited about?” I asked as I put on a plain black t-shirt. I stripped out of my
sweats and threw on a pair of faded jeans. Aces wasn’t a fancy kind of bar, there sure as fuck wasn’t
a dress code, so I was going to wear my usual attire.
Bronx moved to the doorway to my room and stared at me like I had three heads. “Booze? Hot
chicks? There’s no place like that around here. Anything good is over in Castle Grove. I heard the
waitresses wear skimpy outfits and they’re hot as fuck! If we’re lucky, we could get a few to come
home with us,” he smiled and winked like a fucking creeper.
I glared at him in return. “We have an endless supply of booze and chicks right here. We don’t need
to go overpay for watered-down drinks and loose pussy. I’m opening tomorrow at the gym, so I need
to get up early.”
 “You don’t have to work tomorrow, West. You practically own the fucking place. You seriously
need to relax, and Aces is the perfect place to do that.”
Going to a place like Aces was a way to relax for him, but I would much rather unwind by
punching the shit out of someone in the ring. Or smoking a fat blunt and playing my guitar. Either one.
Before Bronx could give me a lengthy response as to why we do in fact need to overpay for
bottom-shelf booze and some questionable snatch, someone began pounding at the front door.
“You bitches ready?” One of my best friends, Cade Vincent, yelled from the living room. He had
my other best friend, Axel McKinley, in tow.
Cade and Axel had been my best friends since freshman year–the year the school district combined
the rich kids from the north and the poor kids from the south into one high school. Although we all had
different personalities and backgrounds, we were more like brothers than friends.
Cade played football and was popular. He loved the attention and made friends easily. He was
light in every way–from his looks to his personality. Light blue eyes, sun-bleached blonde hair, and an
air about him. He never took life too seriously. He was a good balance for our group.
Axel and I were the moody fucks of our pack. Axel was darker–complexion, eyes, hair, personality.
He was a bit of an oddball. The guy kept people at arm’s length, yet he was always down to party and
loved to host at his family’s mansion. His family was ridiculously loaded, and they lived in a mansion
on the north side of town. Cade’s family was more middle-class, towing that line between north and
south, while Bronx and I lived in a modest home on the south side of Gilchrist Point with our dad. We
undoubtedly lived in the nicest home on the south side–which didn’t say much.
Axel was the brains of our operation. He was into technology, computers, hacking, whatever.
Anything that challenged his brain. He also liked to punch things and people–like I did–down at the
gym our dads co-owned together.
I followed Bronx down the hallway to where my friends were not-so-patiently waiting for us.
“Hell yeah, we’re ready!” Bronx said as he fist-bumped Cade and Axel. “I’m stoked to check this
place out. See what all the hype is about.”
“If it’s lame then we’re leaving early. I’m not going to sit there and wait while you three fucks try
to get your dicks wet,” I said as I grabbed my keys. They all laughed knowing damn well I was
serious with my threat.
I was a serious type of person. Some called it brooding, but whatever. That came with being the
big brother of the family and having a dad who loved his work more than anything else. Our mom had
fucked off when we were young, so we were raised by babysitters until I turned ten, and then the
household and childcare responsibilities fell on my shoulders. It wasn’t that I minded it much, I liked
being in control, but there were times when I had to be the adult while I was still a kid. I was no
angel, but I sure as hell had to think about a lot more things than normal teenagers did.
Normal teenagers didn’t have to keep their kid brother on a leash. Normal teenagers didn’t have to
contact electricians and plumbers when something went wrong on the house. Normal teenagers
probably had parental supervision once in a while.
“Dude, chill. You’re going to love this place. The waitresses are hot,” said Axel. He went to Aces
for the first time last week with his older brother and was a driving force in Bronx wanting to go.
I shook my head as I led us all out the door. We all had our fair share of hot women at our disposal,
so this bar wasn’t anything to be excited about.
Cade was a football player, attractive, outgoing, funny. He was muscular yet lean, which was why
he was so good on the field. Women were putty in his hands with just a look.
Axel had the dark and dangerous thing going for him. He looked more like me with the muscles,
tattoos, and a few scars from fighting. He didn’t have a hard time getting girls to chase him–not that he
paid them much attention.
It was kind of pathetic watching girls drool over us. At one point I liked it, but after a while it
became monotonous. Boring. The fakeness and eagerness to please. I wanted a challenge. I wanted
someone who wasn’t a doormat or using me to try and get a leg up at school, or for some other
superficial reason.
We were all seniors in high school, other than Bronx who was a junior. For the most part, we stuck
to ourselves. Cade was in with the popular crowd due to his football god status, while Axel and I
didn’t give a fuck enough to make other friends. Bronx was always my shadow, which I didn’t mind
one bit. Especially after the little stunt he pulled last year.
We stepped outside and were hit with a wave of moisture that would suffocate you if you didn’t
grow up in it. Got to love summers in the south. Although it was mid-evening at the end of August,
we lived in Satan’s Asshole, which meant it was always hot. Even the winters were hot. We had one
month of pleasant weather a year and that was about it.
I headed for the driver’s side of my matte black Challenger, Cade and Bronx squeezed their asses
in the back, and Axel went shotgun. Since I was the designated driver for the evening, we were taking
my car, my friends’ comfort be damned.
Once we were all in, Axel glanced over at my neighbor’s house. “Does Remington still live over
there? I haven’t seen him in a while. What about his hot sister?”
 The house was run down and falling apart. It looked as if it could be abandoned–with faded yellow
peeling paint, wild and overgrown grass, and the shutters hanging by a nail. There was an older
model tan Toyota Camry in the driveway that had seen better days, covered in rust and dents.
I scoffed. “Hmm, my guess is Remington’s tripped out in a crack house somewhere, and Ashtyn’s
either turning tricks or locked up in a padded room at a mental hospital.”
“Bro, what the fuck?” Asked Bronx, visibly offended by my prediction. “There was a time when
you liked them both. Ashtyn and Remington were over a lot when we were kids. You don’t need to be
an ass just because of what happened.”
What happened–that was a good way to describe Bronx almost dying from snorting sketchy coke
laced with god-knows-what that he bought from Remington Hawthorne last summer.
"You know that's because their dad is a gangbanger and needed to get rid of them during his deals,
right? He used to ditch them at our house because his wife was too drunk to be trusted with them."
I threw the Challenger in reverse and tore out of the driveway, throwing rocks and debris in our
wake. Thinking about Remington always made my blood boil.
Remington Hawthorne used to be a friend–right up until he started selling drugs all over the south
side. Some of that product happened to go up Bronx’s nose last year. That was my breaking point with
that punk. I beat the shit out of him and told him to stay away from my family. He was lucky I didn’t
kill him for what he did.
His little sister Ashtyn was another story. She hated me and avoided me like the plague. I may have
done some things to her that I wasn’t entirely proud of that ruined the flirtationship we used to have.
That girl could hold a grudge like no other.
“I sort of remember them coming over when we were there. So…Ashtyn’s crazy, huh? You know
what they say about hot and crazy chicks. I think I’m gonna hit her up this year,” said Cade. I stared at
him in the rearview mirror and clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles.
“Don’t touch Ashtyn,” I warned. His eyes snapped to mine, and I had to force my vision to go back
to the road in front of us. “And she’s not that hot.”
“Yeah, she is. I saw her at the beginning of summer wearing a bikini in her backyard,” Cade said as
he flopped back in the seat, reliving the memory. “Yeesh, the set of tits on her.”
“Why can’t he touch her?” Axel asked, failing at hiding his amusement.
“Because he doesn’t like anyone touching his toys,” laughed Bronx.
I snapped my head towards him. “Fuck that. I just don’t need my friends hitting my sloppy
seconds.” I turned back to the road and tried to keep my speed at a reasonable level.
 “Wait,” Cade paused. “You already fucked her? When? I’m jealous.”
“You never had a problem sharing your leftovers before,” Axel added.
“We fucked once. It was a while ago. Never thought to mention it,” I lied.
I thought of mentioning it many times because I thought about that night frequently. That was prime
spank bank material for me. The responsiveness of her body was unlike any other woman I’d been
with. I didn’t want my friends riding my case about it and asking questions, so I never talked about it.
The only other person who knew was Bronx.
“It was a pump and dump or what? Was it bad? I want to hear details,” Cade said eagerly. I knew
that would happen if they ever found out.
“It was fine, she’s just clingy as fuck. I wanted an easy lay and she was around. That’s pretty much
the extent of it,” I said. Another lie. She wasn’t clingy at all. I was just an asshole and treated her as
such.
“Pump and dump chump,” said Axel, lifting his fist waiting for me to bump him back. I flipped him
off instead.
“West, stop. You don’t really feel that way about her. Just cut the shit,” Bronx said with a somber
tone as he looked out the window. He always had a hero complex when it came to Ashtyn.
Apparently, it was still going strong.
I wasn’t sure if Bronx talked to Ashtyn anymore. Even though we were neighbors, I didn’t see her
or her brother around often. Occasionally I would see her get home late and go inside her house,
probably off to read smutty romance novels and chain-smoke cigarettes. Remington was most likely
off selling drugs to kids. I didn’t even see them at school. Remington had graduated two years ago, but
Ashtyn was a senior like us. I would catch a glance at her occasionally before she turned in another
direction to avoid me. There was a time when I wanted to explain myself to her, explain why I did
what I did to her, but I shut that shit down the minute I found Bronx tripping out on her brother’s
product.
The GPS chirped as we got close to Aces, and I was ready to put a pin in the conversation. I didn’t
want to explain how I fucked up royally with Ashtyn because I couldn’t handle her feelings. She was
vulnerable and I took advantage of her in a way, and I didn’t feel great about it once it was over, so I
ended us before we even began. I also did it in the worst and most embarrassing way. I wanted
Ashtyn to hate me, and I accomplished that with my bullshit.
“I don’t give a shit who you all fuck, but don’t stick your dick in crazy. Trust me, it’s not worth it,”
I said as I parked in front of Aces. It was busy but it was a Saturday night at the end of summer, and
the place had a reputation of serving underaged kids.
“I think I’ll take my chances,” said Cade as he got out of the Challenger. He slammed the door shut
and slapped my shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Unless there’s another reason I shouldn’t?”
He loved goading me into getting pissed. One of these days, he was going to find himself on the
other end of my fist. Brother or not, he was pissing me off. “Can we just go in?” I wanted to get this
done as soon as possible, and I was over talking about Ashtyn Hawthorne.
Aces looked exactly as I expected. It was a run-down dive bar kind of place, a place where you
would expect them to not give a shit about IDs. The kind of place that made Bronx’s eyes light up. It
was a dark brown building, not too big but large enough to house several pool tables and dart boards.
The outer edge was lined with big half-circle booths covered in ripped forest green vinyl. Across
from the booths was a long bar, surrounded by old worn wooden barstools that may give your ass a
splinter or two. There were tables in between the booths and the bar, each with four chairs. The place
was packed with bodies, most of which looked way too young to be slamming back alcohol.
Once we flashed our fake IDs–which the bouncer barely glanced at before letting us in–I strained
to find an empty table for us to occupy. The lights were dim and the air was hazy, smelling of sweat
and stale smoke. There was a small stage at the end of the room with a DJ. People thrashed and
danced against each other in front of the stage.
When Bronx said the waitresses were hot, he wasn’t kidding. They were dressed in black booty
shorts that barely covered their ass cheeks, and they each had different shirts on–some had tight black
t-shirts while some wore what could barely pass as a bra. Most were wearing fuck me heels.
“Whoa,” breathed Bronx. “There’s a booth,” he said as he led the way for the rest of us.
The air hummed with anticipation as we made our way through the crowd. An older, short man
with a beer gut strode up to our table as soon as we planted our asses in the booth.
“One of our girls will be right with you to get your drink order,” he said with a smile. “And if
you’re looking for a little something extra, just let me know. I’m the manager here and I do the
schedule for the back rooms.”
“Alright...” I said apprehensively.
The guy chuckled and scratched his greasy head, messing up his blonde comb over. “I assume
you’re all here to check out our entertainment.” He coughed and ripped a handkerchief out of his
jacket pocket, spitting a wad of phlegm in it and tucking it away.
“Entertainment?” Asked Cade.
 “Oh, you don’t know?” He bent down to our level and cleared his throat. “Our girls can get a little
wild. We have certain clientele we invite to our back rooms for some extra fun. You boys look like
just the type to enjoy everything we have to offer here.”
“Fuck yeah,” Cade exclaimed.
My eyes scoped the room, and I noticed a red velvet curtain next to the bar just before the stage.
Above the curtain hung a neon cherry sign that danced in the darkness.
“Heh, that’s the spirit. You boys would have a lot of fun, trust me. Our girls will do just about
anything for a price.” He pointed at the curtain. “Rooms are back that way. Let me know when you’re
interested and I’ll get you scheduled. I’ll be around here somewhere. Name’s Charlie.” He pulled a
toothpick from the front pocket of his cheap suit jacket and put it between his teeth before he shuffled
off to corner another patron.
“Well, that was fucking weird,” said Axel. “That didn’t happen when I came here with Austin last
week.”
“I’m down for it, whatever that may be,” Bronx said, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas. His
stare bounced around to all the different people, landing on the ass of the waitress who was bent over
talking to the table across from us.
She was explaining the drink menu to a guy who was obviously bullshitting her to get her to stand
closer to him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying due to the thumping of the dance music blaring
overhead. He placed his hand on the back of the waitress’s thigh and she gently but firmly removed it
and stiffened her spine.
Her deep brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and it swished as she spoke to the customers
with enthusiasm. I saw the glint of light reflect off the numerous piercings that went up both ears. She
wore a cropped, lacy black tank top that stopped just below her bra, which was completely visible
through the lace. I followed down to the silky, fair skin of her back, soaking in its smoothness. She
had a tattoo of a swallow on her side–the tail swirled into a circle and the feathers were tinged with
dark blues and purples. Her plump ass filled in–and almost fell out of–the black uniform shorts she
was squeezed into. I could pick that ass out of a lineup.
She looked different than the other waitresses.
My eyes continued trailing down and I stopped once I got to her long legs.
Fucking. Fishnets.
Followed by worn-out combat boots.
 She smiled at her customers as they finished placing their order. She flipped her notepad to a fresh
sheet as she turned to greet us. My suspicions were confirmed when she started to welcome us, and
then the smile fell from her face and her eyes locked on mine.
Ashtyn fucking Hawthorne.
 2
Ashtyn

TYPICAL.
I was used to everything in my life going to shit, so when I turned away from the handsy college bro
to greet my new table, I couldn’t say I was surprised to see West Moretti, his brother Bronx, and their
friends Cade and Axel sitting in my section.
Of course, this would happen. This is my life. Typical.
“Welcome to…” I cleared my throat to hide my surprise. “Aces.”
My eyes locked on West’s and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull them away.
His messy brown hair that was longer on top flopped over his forehead, threatening to impede his
smoldering stare. Deep, dark brown eyes burned right through me, like he could see inside my head.
His stupidly sexy smirk crept up his full lips as he registered that I would be serving him for the
evening.
The asshole was one of the hottest guys I’d ever seen in person. The jerk who took my virginity
two years ago. He was reminiscent of the men in the books I read–hot as sin and dangerous as fuck.
My skin flushed hot and sweat beads formed on my hairline. I hadn’t seen him this close in over a
year. He looked different. More mature, filled out. Stubble peppered his chiseled jaw. The thick,
defined muscles that once held me against him, providing a false sense of comfort before being ripped
away, were bigger than the last time I saw him. I wanted to forget about him, but my body certainly
remembered every inch of that taut, olive skin.
“What can I get you guys to drink?” I wiped my hands on my shorts, trying to make them somewhat
functional when I wrote down their order.
“Ashtyn? It’s so good to see you again!” I reluctantly shifted my gaze to Bronx as he jumped out of
the booth at lightning speed to enclose me in a hug. My body tensed at the contact before I slowly
reciprocated the embrace.
 “Hey B, how have you been?”
He pulled away slightly. “Fucking fantastic now! I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I’ve been here for the summer. It pays the bills, I guess.” I half-smiled as the thought of high tailing
it out the door raced through my mind.
“I bet it does,” West said under his breath.
I whipped my head in his direction. Instead of a sly smirk, he sported what resembled a scowl. If
anyone has a right to scowl, it’s me, buddy.
“If you’re implying that I do a good job and look hot while doing it, then yes, you’re right,” I
smiled. So much for not giving a reaction.
“Working back there probably helps quite a bit, huh?” He pointed to the curtain that led to the back
rooms.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t work back there. I work here. Did you want
something to drink or not?” I tapped my foot, partly to be a brat but also because I needed to move. I
felt uncomfortable and exposed in my Aces-mandated attire. My shorts were so short that my ass
cheeks peeked out the bottom, so I opted to wear a pair of fishnets with them. The low-cut cropped
tank top was transparent and put my bra on public display. I pulled it up slightly to cover my cleavage
which, of course, drew eyes to my cleavage. Stupid.
West sat still as a statue, and I shifted in my beat-up combat boots. Bronx smiled and Cade and
Axel looked from West and back to me, trying to figure out if he was going to keep this going.
“We knew the waitresses here had a reputation, but you take that to a whole new level,” West said
as his eyes trailed down my face and landed on my boobs. I had filled out a bit since the last time he
saw me naked almost two years ago.
I crossed my arms over my chest and his eyes snapped back to mine. My body flushed at the thought
of him seeing me naked. Focus, Ashtyn.
Cade chimed in before I could respond. “We like the outfits. West is just going through a dry spell
so he’s a little prickly. Who knows, maybe that’ll change tonight. I’m Cade, by the way. I don’t think
we’ve officially met.” He grinned like the sight would make my panties burst into flames. Newsflash,
asshole, panties are still properly intact.
I rolled my eyes at his blatant flirtation. “We’ve gone to school together since 9th grade. We’ve had
classes together, and did a project together in biology during sophomore year. But you’d have to pull
your head out of your ass to be able to notice anyone else, let alone retain a name or face.”
 His eyes lifted in surprise that I didn’t fall onto the floor and worship him at his overpriced shoes.
“I don’t know about a face, but I would’ve remembered those tits.” His eyes raked my body once
more. “And that mouth.”
If the situation were different, I would’ve smiled back at Cade and told him to meet me on my
break. I would’ve let him push me into the back of his expensive sports car–he most certainly had
one–and let him have his way with me. I would’ve fucked him into oblivion, let him rail me into an
earth-shattering orgasm, shook his hand, and gone back to work. But that was not happening for a few
reasons. He was West’s best friend, and I believed in guilt by association. I wasn’t opposed to
fucking a hot guy who also happened to be a douchebag (see Exhibit A, West Moretti), but I wasn’t
going to let them trade notes about me after the fact.
The other reason I wouldn’t be going near Cade was the fact that my best friend, Gabby Keyes, had
been madly in love with him since freshman year. The infatuation was always done from afar because
Gabby was a recluse like me, but still, I would never betray her like that.
West broke into our conversation. “Her tits weren’t this big the last time I saw them, and her mouth
is much more appealing when it’s filled with my cock.”
I couldn’t hide the gasp that escaped me. What nerve he had talking to me like that. After I went out
of my way to avoid him for almost two years, the dickweed thought he could speak to me that way.
It wasn’t friendly banter anymore. It wasn’t flirtatious or teasing. He was pissed. He looked at me
like I was the cause of the downward shift of his evening. Like I was the one making sexual come-ons
to the freaking waitress. As if I were placed here for no reason other than to be stared at and
harassed.
I slammed my notepad shut and narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m glad you have the memory from that
night because that’s all you’ll ever get from me. And good luck with your dry spell. My condolences
to the braindead bimbo you convince to fuck you. I hope she has a vibrator because she’s going to
need it.”
I turned to Bronx, whose eyes were wide, and his mouth open slightly. “It was good to see you
again, B.” I ignored the other assholes and spun around, heading for the bar.
West smirked, knowing damn well he was the cause of me running away. Hiding, as Gabby would
say. I told her I was done hiding, yet here I am, running in the opposite direction of my neighbor. What
the fuck was wrong with me? It was like I was sixteen again, letting West turn my brain into a slushy
mess. I couldn’t focus on anything but his beautiful features. His silky dark brown hair that was long
on top and shorter on the sides. Chocolatey eyes that were enchanting while simultaneously filled
with danger and darkness. And then his eyebrow piercing. I swear that thing could make me wet in a
goddamn desert.
Fucking asshole.
I was the one who should be pissed off at him, not the other way around. He was the one who took
my virginity and left. Made me trust him and bounced. He was the bad guy in our story.
He could see right through me. Still. He had power over me and I hated it. I wasn’t the weak girl he
once knew a little too intimately, so why couldn't I keep myself together around him? I wasn’t a
person who reacted to every little thing. I spent my life calming myself internally because no one on
the outside ever gave a shit. It was easier for me to let things roll off my shoulders, but that mask went
out the window when West was around.
It must have been from the surprise of the situation. Yeah, that was it. I wasn’t expecting to see
anyone from school at Aces. Not only was it in the middle of nowhere, but it was also a shithole.
That’s why I applied to be a server here. I didn’t want to run into people I knew. I didn’t want to
explain why I was working in a bar that also acted as a not-so-secret sex club behind the curtains.
I did my best to avoid the Moretti family. Well…as best as I could considering they’re my next-
door neighbors.
“Hey, Ashtyn! Wait!” Bronx yelled from behind me. I didn’t stop until I made it to the bar.
I spun around and was hit with his familiar smell of woodsy cologne. Bronx was like a lighter,
calmer version of West. His features were softer, his hair a lesser shade of brown, and his eyes were
blue like a sparkling ocean–rather than deep, dark, depraved pools of jerk face. He made me feel
relaxed and comfortable while West made me feel like a ball of electricity or a match ready to burst
into flames at the lightest touch.
“I’m sorry about those guys. They were being idiots. I’ll give you our order and we can pretend
like I’m not here with those douche canoes.”
I sighed but relented because it was my job, after all. “Sure, what do you and the devil spawns
want to drink?”
“Just some beers and a round of shots. Whatever you want to give us–except Jäger,” he trembled at
the word. “I don’t want to spend Sunday puking my guts out. The last time I had it was that night we
all…yuck, remember?”
How could I forget? West, Bronx, and I snuck a bottle of their dad’s Jägermeister out to their old
tree house and thought it would be a good idea to do shots. And more shots. And more shots. It was
not a good idea. I cringed at the memory. “I haven’t had a sip of that shit since. I can still taste it
coming back up if I think about it hard enough.”
Bronx laughed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Good times. We should do it again, but
y’know, without the Jäger and maybe do it in a house or something. Axel’s having a party next
weekend to kick off the start of school. You should come by.”
Excitement radiated off him at the thought of us being friends again. After that night, I did my best
to avoid all of them, both at home and at school. Bronx was a good kid and I missed talking to him. It
wasn’t his fault his brother was an ass that I avoided because my sanity depended on it. It was easier
for me to shut everyone out and do my own thing. Less chance of getting my heart stomped on again.
Gabby was my one exception–that girl was my ride-or-die.
“Uh, maybe if I don’t have to work. I’ll think about it,” I said as I walked behind the bar and started
pouring beers. “I’ll get this right out.”
He gave a nod and went back to his table.
I released a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Max–who was a waiter and the only male
employee other than the bouncers–gave me a questioning look. “What was that all about?”
“Are they looking at me?” I shifted my eyes to the side to indicate the table I was asking about.
“Oh yeah, your friends?” Max smiled as he poured a beer from the tap and shook the shaggy blonde
hair from his eyes. He was a few years older than me and one of the few people at Aces I ever really
talked to. The girls were catty as fuck.
“Not even close. Two of them are my neighbors, which is why I would love it if you could take
them for me?” I forced a fake smile. “I’ll take one of your tables in exchange.”
He eyed them carefully, observing way too much hotness and masculinity for one table. “They are
absolutely delicious. Why don’t you want them?”
I stalled momentarily. I didn’t have hours to explain why I was acting like a pussy. “I have a…
history with one of them. It’s a long story, but I will owe you big.”
He chuckled. “I got you, babe.” He kissed my cheek before taking the tray of beer and tequila shots.
I stood behind the bar and pretended to wash a glass as Max delivered their drinks. The looks on
their faces…priceless. Slack-jawed and dumbfounded that their new server was the only gay man in
the place.
It was my turn to smirk.
West looked past Max and glared at me.
How do you like that?
THE NIGHT DRAGGED ON as I knew it would. I kept my customers happy, and West’s eyes kept
finding me. Seeking me out. I felt his stare as I bounced through the crazy Saturday crowd. I stared at
him when girls would go up to their table. Eventually Cade and Bronx left the booth to go to the
dancefloor and grind up on scantily clad women. West switched to drinking water after their first
round of drinks. Naturally, he would be the responsible one to volunteer as designated driver. Axel
was on his phone most of the night, only coming up for air to show something to West and laugh.
As time moved painfully slow, I caught West staring at me and returned his glare with a scowl or
an eye roll of my own. There was fire in his eyes and the target was always me. Even as women
approached him, either asking to buy him a drink or asking to dance, he barely paid them any
attention. His laser focus was throwing me off my game.
Although I had only been working at Aces for a few months, I was a decent waitress. Considering
the only experience I had was catering to Mom when she was so drunk she couldn’t walk straight, I
did pretty well. It was the people pleaser in me, I guess.
By the time the guys left, it was almost midnight and the end of my shift. My feet screamed to be let
out of the combat boots I strapped on hours prior. Aces was still bustling so I was relieved to be just
about done.
I cleaned up some miscellaneous items behind the bar, trying to make it as tidy as possible for Max
who would be mixing drinks for a few more hours. As I scrubbed down the sink, the hair on the back
of my neck prickled with awareness.
“Hey sweetness, what do you say you come with me behind the curtains?” Asked an older man I
had never seen before. He was tall and pudgy, his long black hair in dire need of a wash. Something
dark and evil flickered in his eyes.
“Sorry, I’m just a server, but if you want to go back, I can find Charlie and he will get you set up
with someone.” I made eye contact with him for a moment but quickly went back to finishing the task
at hand.
“But I want you,” he said with a smug grin.
It was no secret that some of the girls participated in extracurricular activities behind the curtain.
They would go back with men who were willing to pay for extra attention which included–but was
not limited to–lap dances, hand jobs, and god only knew what else.
 When I was hired and heard some of the girls talking about what went on in the back rooms, I was
adamant when I told Charlie my ass would be firmly kept on the public side of the divider. He didn’t
care either way–he was happy to have a “sexy young thing” working the tables. His words.
That didn’t stop guys from asking me to go back there. I would divert their attention to Charlie and
he would find some other willing victim to stroke their egos–and possibly their dicks.
The hulking, slimy man in front of me didn’t want to take no for an answer. “I hate to break it to you
darlin’, but I own this place and Charlie works for me. I want you, sweetness.” He licked his lips,
attempting to be seductive. “Plus, I have a lot of money, and you look like a girl who knows how to
hustle.”
My stomach rolled at the thought of him touching me. I glanced around for Charlie, hoping for an
interference. Not that he was easy to spot in the packed room–he was short and had a way of blending
in with the crowd. He only popped up whenever he wasn’t needed.
A waitress named Delaney, who was also the shift manager, overheard our conversation and
stepped up next to me. She leaned over the counter to speak to the creep. “Baby, I would be happy to
take care of you tonight.” She dragged her blood-red fingernail along his arm and winked.
“But I like them when they fight back.” His creepy grin would haunt my nightmares.
“You know I can be whatever you want,” she purred.
I stood frozen at his words. He wasn’t looking at Delaney, he was looking at me. I couldn’t hold my
customer service mask on any longer. “My shift’s over and I’m going home. I don’t work the back
rooms, so don’t ask me again.”
Delaney gasped, flipping her blonde ponytail as I maneuvered behind her to punch out using the
tablet system. My body filled with rage at this stranger (my boss?) who thought he could pay me to
spread my legs for him. He was old enough to be my father. Disgusting.
“I’m sorry about that, Hannigan. She’s new. She doesn’t understand how things work around here,”
Delaney scowled. She was still stroking his arm and presenting her best bedroom eyes.
“It’s fine baby, you know it only makes it that much sweeter when they cave. I’ll be in the back
waiting for you.” He shook off her arm and stood abruptly before heading to the back.
“What the fuck is your problem? You can’t talk to him that way. Don’t you know who that is?” She
snapped.
“I’m all for customer service, but you’re crazy if you think I’m going to entertain some old fuck for
a few dollars.”
 I turned to walk back to the employee locker room, but Delaney grabbed my arm before I could
leave, her nails leaving crescent-shaped dents in my skin. “Don’t do that again! Hannigan’s one of the
best-paying people we have here, and he’s technically your boss and you need to show him some
respect. You’re not better than us just because you don’t work back there. Trust me, someday you
will. Get off your high horse and learn the play nice or get the fuck out of here.” Delaney stomped off
in her high heels without another glance.
I didn’t have the best relationships with the girls at Aces because I was one of the few who refused
to be “entertainment”. From what I could tell, each girl could set her limit and it was respected.
Mostly. There were rumors about things going too far and scaring girls off. The thought made me want
to lose my lunch all over the bar.
I knew I was playing with fire working at a place like this, but the tips were insane. I only worked
three nights a week because–with school starting soon–I would need the time to keep my grades up
for a scholarship to Gilchrist Point University. It was the only shot I had at going to college and
making something of myself. Of getting the hell out of the south side and away from Mom. Of not
having to live paycheck to paycheck for the rest of my life. It was difficult balancing school, work,
bills, friendships–what few I had–let alone make time to date. That was out of the question. I couldn’t
even entertain the idea of carving more time out of my life for another person.
Most months I was left to foot the bills like the mortgage, water, trash, electricity, insurance, et
fucking cetera. Mom couldn’t hold down a job to save her life, especially once she realized my
brother Remington and I were making money. Me, the mostly legal way. Remington, the not-so-legal
way.
Back when Remington lived with us, he didn’t help with anything. All his money went to his
hobbies–drugs, alcohol, and sex–so when he told me he was moving out, I barely noticed. He was
never around anyway. He still stopped by occasionally to ask for money and to do his laundry. When
Mom worked, her money was gone the second it went into her checking account. If she wasn’t
spending it on wine and takeout, she was buying ridiculously expensive designer handbags and shoes.
What kind of person gets their water shut off but has a Louis Vuitton purse? That would be Eve
Hawthorne.
I traipsed through the mess of a crowd still lingering around the bar and made my way to the locker
room. The ladies of Aces were prepping for a long night of stripping, jerking, and blowing. I
shuddered at the thought as I grabbed my hoodie and purse and slammed the locker shut. I waved
goodbye awkwardly to the girls and made my exit.
 As I walked to my car, I couldn’t help but think of talking to West. Of seeing West. Of being stared
at by West.
West and his ridiculous smirks and scowls.
Did he hate me? Did he like me? Did he feel bad for what he did to me?
Most likely not.
Did I care?
Yes, but I shouldn’t. Not when he disposed of me so easily. I know I’m worth more than the way he
treated me, yet I felt drawn to him like a magnet.
Self-depreciation at its finest. I blamed my parents for that.
 3
Ashtyn

FUCK MY LIFE was my thought as I checked my schedule for the millionth time. My eyesight blurred
as I read over the lines again. Calculus. World literature. Chemistry…
I had an appointment with my guidance counselor to change my schedule this morning. If I got stuck
with these classes, the year would be rife with nights where I pulled my hair out trying to read prose
written by an old fart who died in the 1800s. I had more important things to do, like read spicy
reverse harem novels on my Kindle with a joint and not a fuck to give.
It was me time. Self-care.
The noise of first-day anticipation surrounded me as I waited for Gabby on a bench outside of
Gilchrist Point High School. I tugged my white t-shirt down to cover my midriff and pulled at the
loose strings from the rip in my tight black jeans. My black Converse that were a few years past their
prime pulled the ensemble together.
I had hit the snooze button one too many times this morning and had to rush to get ready. It was
nothing much, but for me that was normal. I didn’t have to spend hours on my hair and makeup. A
comb-through and some mascara was good enough for me.
As I waited for Gabby–who was a habitual tardy queen–a familiar matte black Challenger whipped
in the drive and parked half on the grass, half in the parking space. I’d spent the last two years
avoiding my neighbors and they happened to appear right in front of me on the first day of school.
West jumped out of the car like his ass was on fire, and Bronx looked around nervously. West was
dressed in the same clothes he always wore: jeans, a black t-shirt, and black boots. Tattoos wrapped
around one of his forearms and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. I hadn’t noticed the ink at
Aces because the lighting there was fucking horrible.
In the dawn sunlight, West looked mysterious and dangerous. He knew it too. He smiled as Bronx
talked animatedly about something. They began walking in my direction because–of course–I had to
pick the bench near where they parked. I thought I’d be safe further away from the school.
West noticed me first, his smile getting swiftly replaced by a scowl. Bronx spotted me next, and his
eyes lit up in recognition–and probably because I didn’t get up and run in the opposite direction like I
would’ve last year. West walked over to a group hanging by the steps leading to the school which
included Cade, Axel, and a few other people I didn’t recognize. I didn’t pay much attention to people
at school. As far as I was concerned, those who don’t matter won’t mind, or whatever Dr. Seuss said.
Bronx jogged over and plopped on the bench beside me. “Long time, no see,” he said as he looked
around. “Waiting for reinforcements?”
“Gabby.” I shifted uncomfortably on the bench and crossed one leg over the other. “We didn’t talk
again Saturday. What’s the verdict on Aces?”
Bronx laughed. “I approve. Max was an awesome waiter, by the way. Not sure how he would look
in your uniform.”
“Isn’t he the best?”
My phone buzzed with a text message as I scoped the parking lot for Gabby’s car. She drove a
bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle, so she was hard to miss.
Gabby: I’m going to Starbucks, want anything?
Class was starting soon so there was no way Gabby would make it on time.
Me: Café mocha, please and thank you :)
Gabby: Aye aye captain!
Me: I’m waiting on the benches out front
Gabby: Whatttt?!?! No, not my little mouse!
Very funny. I rolled my eyes at the nickname bestowed by my best friend. She thought I was way
too timid for my own good and didn’t hold any qualms about reminding me of it.
Me: I am, and now you’re going to be late. Which leaves me here with Bronx. Alone.
Gabby: What about West? ;)
Me: What about him…
Gabby: I bet he would keep you company ;)
Me: Is there something in your eye?
Gabby: *Winking GIF*
I turned the screen off and chucked my phone into my bag. When I told Gabby about the incident at
Aces, she thought it was hilarious. What are the chances they would sit in your section? Very
unlikely, but alas, this is my life.
 Bronx had been telling me about Axel’s party on Saturday, insisting yet again that I attend.
“I checked my schedule and I’m definitely working Saturday, otherwise I would check it out.”
He shot me a knowing glance. I tried to school my smirk, but he saw right through it. “Bullshit. You
won’t ever come to one of our parties. I wish you would. I think you’d have a lot of fun. I hate that my
brother ruined our time together.”
I anticipated that Bronx would bring him up at some point. West was the huge elephant in the room,
and we were all dancing around it.
“I would, it's just–I have to work. Like, I don’t have a choice, Bronx. If I don’t work, then our
electricity will be shut off again. Or the water. And working at Aces means I only work three nights a
week. Nowhere else pays as good as they do.” It wasn’t a total lie–I did have to work. I barely
squeaked by most months. Since I started working at Aces in June, a lot of that changed. I was able to
keep up on our bills and still have some money left over for groceries and some new-to-me clothes
from the thrift shop.
The thought of going to a party at Axel’s house wasn’t the most appealing thing in the world, but I
would go if I were able to. Just to see Bronx for a minute, of course…and to swipe some of their
expensive, rich people weed.
“Do you work every weekend?”
“Most of them, yeah. Sometimes I’ll pick up a shift during the week if someone needs to trade.”
“If we have a party on a Wednesday or Thursday?”
“Then I would try to make an appearance.”
Bronx smiled and his straight white teeth glistened. He had been more like a brother to me than my
own brother at times. Remington loved to make my life miserable in a way that only a big brother
could. When I went to the Moretti’s house, life was good. I didn’t feel the dread and hopelessness I
felt at home. I felt safe.
I slowly stood up from the bench and grabbed my messenger bag. “Gabby’s going to be later than
she thought so I’m going to head inside. I have to talk to Mrs. Teague about changing my schedule.
Yay.”
“A little last minute, isn’t it?”
“I got my schedule in the mail a few weeks ago and just opened it last night, sooo, my bad. I’m
hoping she can get me out of calculus,” I shuddered as we walked near the steps.
Bronx wished me luck and excused himself to join his friends. West and his crew laughed about
something and a blonde girl wearing what would barely qualify as nightclub attire clung to him like a
bad case of crabs. She laughed loudly and West’s smile fell at the sound. I’m sure her voice wouldn’t
stop him from getting in her panties.
So much for that dry spell.
I steeled myself at the thought. I needed to get a grip because I didn’t care what West did or where
he put his big dick.
With my shoulders back and my head held high, I passed them all without another glance and made
my way to the first day of the last year in hell.
 4
West

THE LAST THING I wanted to do was go back to school.

I spent most of the summer training at our gym–Brass Knuckles–and fighting on Thursday nights.
The fights, while somewhat secretive, were huge money-makers for Axel and me. Right up until Dad
found out about them and shut that shit down. He threatened to sell the gym if I didn’t stop the fights,
ready to move that goalpost even further away from me.
Dad and I had a deal that if I went to college and got a degree, he would give me his 50%
ownership of Brass Knuckles. Whenever I fucked up, he liked to threaten to take it away because he
knew how much the idea meant to me. The gym was the only thing that mattered to me, other than
Bronx and my friends.
Reluctantly, Axel and I ended the weekly fights, disappointing a helluva lot of people–including
myself. I didn’t just do it for the money.
I wanted to kill.
Well…not actually kill anyone, but damn, that rush of punching and kicking a guy trying to get me
was like no other. The lion among sheep. The hunter versus his prey. Not even sex could touch that
mix of anticipation, adrenaline, and excitement. The lights shining down, the sweat dripping, the smell
of blood in the air. The crowds went wild for it. And then there was the monetary reward for the win.
Axel didn't need the money from our arrangement, but I certainly did. I wasn't good at much else other
than fighting, so being able to use that skill to not only get my anger out, but make a few bucks was
great for me.
Dad made decent money working for McKinley Industries–Axel's dad's business–but he sure as
hell wasn't about to give me money for weed and car parts. He was frugal. So frugal that even though
we could move from the south side, he refused. Whenever Bronx asked him about moving, Dad would
say that our house was good enough for us. It was bigger than any other house in the south side and we
should be appreciative to have a house at all. I always felt like he didn't want to leave because of
Mom.
They bought the house together right after they got married, and Dad couldn't stand the thought of
leaving the place that held every memory with her. Even though she left us because she "couldn't
handle the stress of being a single mom of two rowdy boys", Dad still made excuses for her. He
defended her no matter what.
I love her and she loves all of us. She's just going through some things. She'll come back for us.
She left ten years ago. She wasn't coming back.
If that was love, I didn't want any part of it.
The memories of Mom were a gut punch some days. Other days I didn't feel anything. I tried not to
let my mind wander to her because she left us all without a second thought. She told me she was going
to the store and I needed to watch Bronx. I sat there with him for hours, wondering when she would
be home. I didn't even realize she left with a suitcase. Dad got home from work and found a note on
his pillow.
I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry.
-Rosalie
That was all she wrote. Literally. No contact phone number. No forwarding address.
I understood what happened and why Dad was so depressed, but Bronx didn't for a while. When he
was born, Mom was so out of it and disconnected she barely even held him. There was always a
babysitter around to take care of us while she hid away in her bedroom.
Shaking off the thought of Mom and throwing the Challenger in park, I grimaced at my terrible aim–
the car only had two tires on the pavement, the other two sinking into the dying lawn. Oops.
"Uh, you okay brother?" Bronx laughed nervously as he jumped out, adjusted his backpack, and
slammed the door.
"It's the last first day I'll ever have in this shithole, I'm fan-fucking-tastic." My smile dropped when
I noticed Ashtyn sitting on a bench directly in our path to the steps–where Cade, Axel, and a few of
Cade's friends stood chatting.
She pulled at the frayed threads on her skintight jeans and bit down nervously on her bottom lip.
She looked around the parking lot, trying to watch us as we walked toward her without making it too
obvious.
My cock stirred at the thought of wrapping her dark brown hair around my fist and giving it a hard
pull as I pounded her from behind.
 Where the fuck did that thought come from?
Probably from the lucid dreams I’d been having about her since we went to Aces on Saturday. I
kept thinking about her pouty, full lips. Her round, perfect tits. Her plump ass. My subconscious
wanted all of her.
Great, it wasn’t even 8:00 and my little head was doing all my thinking. Cade wasn't joking when
he said I was in a dry spell, and it needed to be remedied quickly if I couldn't keep my dick under
control around Ashtyn.
I was hard as a fucking rock at Aces when I saw her. She’d always been attractive to me, but with
her tits on display and her ass hanging out of those shorts–there was no stopping the raging boner
trying to jut out of my pants. There was something about that innocent persona that I wanted to smash.
Not like I hadn’t before, but things were different now. We were both different now.
Bronx took off toward Ashtyn, and I strolled up to the guys. A few girls joined them and were
hanging on their arms like they were life preservers. The guys were talking about Axel’s party on
Saturday. It wasn't uncommon for Axel to host parties since his house was huge and his parents were
rarely around. His dad was always working, and his mom vacationed somewhere tropical for most of
the year. Axel's older sister Avery and his brother Austin were away at college, so that left a big
mansion at his disposal, along with a plethora of employees to do all the decorating, cooking,
cleaning, shopping, and whatever else needed to be done. Sometimes that meant rolling joints–the
party favors–and sometimes that meant making hundreds of Jell-o shots for teenagers with nothing
better to do than get shit-faced on a Saturday evening.
"I'm not inviting a lot of people to this one. Keeping it low-key at least until my dad goes back to
New York or LA or wherever he's going next. If I fuck up too badly, I'll end up screwing myself for
the rest of the year. He's already threatened to hire a babysitter for me while he's away," Axel
cringed.
We went a little wild over the summer, so I wasn't surprised when Winston McKinley put the
hammer down and warned Axel against having any more ragers. Every weekend was an open
invitation to the McKinley mansion and Winston was pissed when he found out Axel was using his
staff as a clean-up crew. I came in with the save when I took the blame for it–so yeah, Axel owed me
one–but he was still on thin ice because everything went down on his watch.
In the meantime, a girl named Kendra slithered up to me and wrapped her arm around my waist.
She may as well have cocked her leg up and pissed on me with the way she was clinging. All summer
Kendra was hanging on Cade when we would go to Axel's parties or fight at Brass Knuckles. He
fucked her a few times but claimed her screeching voice was a huge turnoff. Suddenly she wanted my
attention even though I had barely paid her a second glance.
"Hey West," she purred. "Do you want to have a little fun before class starts? The locker rooms are
empty until second period."
"Hmm…"
And then she let out the most obnoxious nails-on-a-chalkboard sound, which I realized was her
laugh. She licked her bright red lips seductively. Her blonde hair fell in waves down her back and
almost reached her ass. She was gorgeous in a completely overdone kind of way. If I didn't know she
was a student, I would think she was on her way to a strip club. She wore a tight black skirt and an
even tighter spaghetti-strap tank top that barely covered her nipples. Her red heels matched her overly
plump lips and she fluttered her dramatic eyelashes as she waited for my response.
I could do it. I could take her to the locker room and fuck her on a bench or against the wall. I could
let her suck me off and be on my way to class, feeling relieved and unwound a bit. As the thought
crossed my mind, a flash of dark brown silk grabbed my attention.
Fuck.
As Ashtyn marched by our group, I felt Kendra's talons dig into my side. I stared as she walked by–
what's fucking new? I was always staring at her. My eyes had a mind of their own, always seeking her
out, embracing the feeling of…whatever the fuck she was doing to me.
I hated it, but I liked it. It was confusing...
Her strides were long and confident. Her ass filled out her jeans just perfectly, and damn if I didn't
want to get a handful or two. Her hips swayed as she climbed the steps and disappeared into the
school.
"West? C'mon, let me take care of you," Kendra whined.
I pulled away from her. "I'm not missing class on the first day. Thanks for the offer. I'm sure Cade
would take you up on that."
Cade gave me a death glare. I knew damn well what I was doing. Cade already had his fill of
Kendra–literally–and he was done with her. Except I gave her a glimmer of hope that maybe, just
maybe, Cade wanted to give her another go.
Kendra's eyes lit up at the idea and she sauntered over to Cade, putting her arm around him as she
had done to me.
"You motherf–" started Cade.
 "I'll see you fuckers later," I nodded and took off quickly. I would have to deal with Cade's wrath
later.
 5
Ashtyn

I THOUGHT SENIOR YEAR was supposed to be easy, filled with electives and fun courses. A
buffer before college and the real world knocked us all on our asses. It seemed my guidance
counselor and Gilchrist Point High School’s resident “fixer” had other plans for me.
“This course load will make your college applications stand out, Ashtyn. I know you can handle it.
You need this to make up for your lack of extracurriculars and sports,” Mrs. Teague explained with a
smile that reached her eyes. She was young, probably close to thirty, and liked helping students. Even
when they didn’t ask for it.
“I’m going to GPU, not Harvard. They will literally accept anybody. Is there a reason I need to
take…” I skimmed my schedule again. “World literature? Chemistry? Calculus? Don’t even get me
started on P.E. I mean other than Art with Mr. Reynolds, I’m going to be drowning in homework.”
The thought of spending hours every night on homework filled me with dread. I needed to work,
and it would most certainly cut into my painting and reading time.
"But you love to read, I thought world literature would be right up your alley."
"I read romance novels, Mrs. T. Reverse harem, step-sibling, enemies to lovers, age gap. Shit like
that. How does any of that apply to world literature?"
She sighed and adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes scanning the screen in front of her. “Let
me see. I can give you Shakespeare in place of chemistry, creative writing for world literature, and
I’m sorry but you’re stuck with calculus. There are no other open classes for that hour. What do you
say?”
“Do either of those come with any homework?”
“Little to none,” Mrs. Teague smiled again. “I’ll make the swaps and print out your new schedule.
If you have any other questions, I’m always here to help.”
 “Thank you, Mrs. Teague. I appreciate you doing this. It takes some anxiety off me,” I said as I
grabbed my new schedule from the printer tray.
I left her office and power-walked to my locker. I refused to be late to class, especially on the first
freaking day of school.

THE FIRST PART OF the day had gone somewhat quickly, much to my surprise. First days were
usually dull, but so far I enjoyed my new classes. I learned that the Shakespeare class had no
homework–score–and that Bronx was in my P.E. class. Physical education. Barf. I wasn't looking
forward to months of changing into gym clothes, sweating for an hour, having to change back into my
street clothes, all while still sweating...but the silver lining: no homework and I got to spend a little
time with Bronx.
Our friendship had been nonexistent since the whole thing went down with West, and I realized that
it was unfair of me to shut Bronx out of my life because of it. Saturday at Aces had broken the frosty
barrier that I had erected, and I was thankful for that.
Bronx still walked on eggshells around me. I sensed that he worried one sly comment would send
me back into hiding, but I wasn't going to hide anymore. I didn't do anything wrong. Had I been
embarrassed? Yes. But only because I let my guard down with West. I let him inside my heart and he
burned me. West had warned me that he would hurt me, but being that I'm apparently a sadist, I threw
all caution to the wind, ignored the many red flags, and let him have his way with me.
Big fucking mistake.
Was it though? It taught me a lesson, one that I burned in my brain and my heart.
Sex doesn’t equal love. Or even feelings. It was a hell of a lesson to learn at sixteen.
While I'd been with a few other guys since West, they didn’t mean anything to me. They were nice
enough, but that was where it stopped. I wasn't about to fuck a friend and I sure as hell wasn't going to
date a guy I fucked. It was just easier that way. Thanks for the lesson, West.
"Hello? Earth to Ashtyn!" Gabby snapped her finger in front of my face.
"What?"
"Haven't you heard a word I've said? They closed the library for lunch this year."
"What? Why?" My heart dropped to my stomach as I shoved my calculus book in my locker and
slammed it shut.
 "The librarian has to teach English during third and fourth period. Staff shortages or some shit, so
they don't have anyone to man the place, which means we have nowhere to go for lunch.” Gabby
twirled a piece of pink hair around her finger as she explained, nervous about my reaction to the
news.
Gabby and I spent every lunch break and study hall hour in the library since sophomore year. We
liked to tuck ourselves away in the back and read or chat. With the news of it being closed, dread
filled my guts because I knew where we would end up.
The cafeteria.
"Look, it won't be that bad," said Gabby. "You told me you were done hiding, remember?"
"I wasn't hiding, I just liked not having to walk through the crowds to find an empty table. And then
eat and feel like I'm getting stared at? It's so awkward."
I realized how ridiculous that sounded and decided I needed to put on my big girl panties and join
the circus that was GPHS at lunchtime. We begrudgingly made our way down the hall to the loud
raucous noise of the cafeteria where doom and gloom awaited.
Gabby put her arm through mine. "We got this, Ash. We're being thrust out of our comfort zones!
This is a good thing."
The confidence in her voice was reassuring, but I knew she was a little nervous about the change
too. Even though her outlandish choice of hair color and outfits would beg to differ, Gabby didn’t
enjoy a lot of attention on her. We liked our little bubble, it was comfortable and safe–yeah, maybe
we did need a reason to be thrust out of it, but that didn't mean I was ready for it.
Gabby Keyes was small, much smaller than me in every possible way–she was 5'4" if she wore
her platform combat boots–and thin. She had shoulder-length light brown hair that she hated, so it was
always dyed some shade of unnatural color. Today it was rose gold, which was a personal favorite of
mine. It complemented her flawless light skin. Her eyes were almond-shaped and deep brown,
inherited from her Japanese mother. She had that kind of beauty that couldn’t be applied with a
makeup brush.
We walked through the heavy doors and charged to the back where the food was served. I didn't
ever buy the school lunch. Number one: it looked grotesque. Number two: I never had the money for
it.
I gazed over the options in the line when Gabby noticed I didn't choose anything to eat. "You're not
getting anything?"
 "Nah, not hungry." I was quite hungry. Since I slept in late, I didn't have time to find anything
resembling breakfast at home. The only thing I consumed was a lukewarm café mocha from Gabby,
and that was quickly souring in my stomach.
"You can have some of mine," she smiled as she picked up a sandwich, an apple, a granola bar,
two cartons of chocolate milk, and tossed them on her tray. Gabby knew everything about me,
including the fact that money was tight for my family. Well, it was tight for me. Mom spent like she
was a resident of the north side.
Gabby’s rose gold hair swayed as she led the way from the checkout line to the crowded tables.
The room was filled with big round tables, each seating at least ten people–more if you included the
girls who sat on laps rather than chairs. We scouted the tables, looking for one that was even half
empty. Most people were already sitting down and eating.
"I think there's an open table up there by the door," said Gabby. My gaze followed hers and landed
right where I didn't want it to. Right on what I didn't want to see.
West, Bronx, Cade, and Axel.
And they were looking at us. And as one would expect by now, we had to pass by their table to get
to the empty one by the doors.
"Ash!" Bronx yelled as he furiously waved us over.
Gabby’s eyes widened at the thought. I smiled at her and locked my arm in hers and dragged her to
Bronx. "What was that about a comfort zone?”
Cade grinned as we walked up, Axel had his nose buried in his phone, and West was stabbing what
appeared to be meatloaf with his fork.
"We couldn't help but notice you two were looking for a table. Well look no further," said Bronx
and he waved his hand out, rolling out an imaginary red carpet for our arrival. He moved his chair in
front of me and motioned for a stack to the side of the room. "I'll go get more chairs."
"You can sit your pretty little ass right here," Cade said as he patted his lap, his eyes locked on
Gabby.
"I'd rather sit on a cactus," she said as she looked at the ceiling.
That's my girl. I bet she was screaming on the inside at the thought of sitting on Cade's lap. She had
been freaking obsessed with him for the last three years.
"Ouch, how about a chair instead?" Bronx asked as he shoved a chair in front of Gabby and one
where he was sitting.
 We both sat down carefully. Gabby fiddled with a lock of her hair–her nervous tell and the only
way I knew she was anxious. I dropped my messenger bag on the table in front of me and started
rummaging through it, pretending like I was looking for something very important. I couldn’t stand just
sitting, especially with an audience. West continued acting like the mystery meat had personally
offended him, not giving me a second of eye contact, which I was fine with. He spent all of Saturday
night looking like he wanted to murder me so I would take being ignored over that bullshit.
"So, Ashtyn, who's your friend? She's fucking hot," said Cade and he brushed his blonde hair back
out of his face.
"You don't know her name? You really are delusional," I tsked.
"I should know it. I feel like there's this alternate goth reality at this school that I haven't been privy
to, filled with hot emo chicks and I really want to find out more. Please forgive my ignorance and
introduce me." His eyes never left Gabby as he spoke.
"Cade, this is Gabby. You've gone to school with her for the last six years. Gabby, this is Cade, a
self-centered, egotistical, mega-douche with even douchier friends. He likes long walks on the beach
and talking about himself. There, you've been introduced." I dropped my bag on the floor, forgetting
about looking for something to keep my hands occupied, and Bronx laughed so hard tears welled up in
his eyes. Cade took my shit-talking in stride because he smiled at my rant–neither confirming nor
denying what I said. Axel smirked, which I assumed was the extent of emotion that would ever come
out of him, and West schooled the grin on his face.
But I saw it. He clamped it down before it could make a full appearance.
"Jesus, who invited the corpse bride and her friend to sit with us?" Asked a nasally voice.
Three blondes approached the table, all with identical sneers on their plastic, makeup-coated
faces. The one in the middle–the leader of the pack–was the girl who was hanging on West in front of
the school earlier in the morning. The other two looked like clones of her, right down to their red nail
polish and bottle-blonde hair.
"I love Tim Burton," I smiled.
All three girls rolled their eyes at my comment as they looked around for a place to sit.
"Bronx, can you go get us some chairs?" Asked the Barbie in the middle.
"No, get them yourself," he said flatly. Bronx was never rude to anyone, so I figured there was
some bad blood between him and the Barbie squad. He never even looked up from his tray.
"Ugh, fine. Courtney, go get us some chairs. Now!" She snapped at one of her friends.
 Courtney scurried away to fetch the chairs like a good little pet. I picked at my chipped purple nail
polish and Gabby stared daggers at her when she returned. Courtney placed a chair as close to Cade
as she possibly could and perched her ass on the edge of it. The other two Barbies took their chairs
and squeezed in between West and Axel. Barbie number one started petting West like he was a dog,
and his jaw clenched so tight I was surprised I didn't hear teeth crack.
He hated it. His jaw ticked when she ran her fingers along his thick, tattoo-covered forearm. His
nostrils flared when she whispered something in his ear. My gaze burned into him, and I relished in
the fact that he was miserable with the blonde bitch all over him.
"Do you want some?" Gabby asked, breaking my stare with West. She nudged her tray toward me
in offering.
"No, I'm not hungry. Really. Thank you though," I gave her a half-smile, even though she knew I was
full of shit. I didn't need everyone at the table to see me mooch food off my friend's plate. They had
enough ammunition to take me down. They didn't need more.
"It's probably best that you don't eat anything. You've put on a few pounds since last year haven't
you, Ashley?" Sneered the girl who was practically on West's lap. He stilled at her comment but
didn't say anything.
"What the fuck Kendra?" Bronx shouted from beside me.
I didn’t even know the girl–Kendra–didn’t recall ever seeing her fake ass at school. Yet she knew
my name–sorta–and that I’d put on a few pounds since school ended last spring. What the fuck ever.
"It's fine, B. She can't help it," I said slowly. "Insecure people like to tear others down. They try to
poke at their weaknesses. A person's body image is usually an easy point of access, right? And I
mean, I might be offended by your little jab, but I have nothing to worry about. The guy you're fawning
over right now…can't stop staring at my tits." I narrowed my eyes at West before continuing. "My D-
cups are natural, how much did yours cost?"
"You fucking bitch."
I hit a nerve with that one, as evidenced by the evil glint in her eyes. Even without a close
inspection, it was obvious that her boobs were fake. The huge gap and perfectly round shape were
dead giveaways. To each their own when it came to plastic surgery and body mods, but don't come at
me about my body if you don't want to get it served right back.
"Oh shit, she's right. They're fake as fuck," Cade laughed before clearing his throat. "Kendra, I
thought I made myself clear this morning. What are you even doing here, besides being incredibly
rude to our welcomed guests?"
 Kendra jumped back as if the mere idea of being rejected shocked her. She was the kind of girl
who never got rejected–always chased, never scoffed at. The kind of person who got exactly what she
wanted at the snap of her perfectly manicured fingers. The worst kind of person, amiright?
"You let me blow you this morning and now you’re acting like I shouldn't be sitting here? But you
let those two weirdos sit with you? Fuck you, Cade. You're not the only guy who wants me here."
Kendra looked at West for reassurance, which he did not provide. Instead, he shook her hand off his
arm and sat back in his chair, enjoying the meltdown.
His eyes were on me and me only. He smirked as Kendra rambled on about how "this was a bunch
of bullshit" and "you're all going to regret this". Blah blah fucking blah. Kendra and her clones
stormed off and suddenly the words registered in West's brain. “Bro, you let her blow you this
morning? You told me you were done with her. No wonder she just pulled that shit."
Gabby shifted in her seat beside me. I glanced her way, but she kept her eyes down. The thought of
Cade and Kendra stung, but she knew what Cade was–a fuckboy. Didn’t stop her from drooling over
him though.
“What was I supposed to do? She wanted you but you wouldn’t touch her. You could've just taken
one for the team but no, you had to reject her and send her my way. Fuck, that bitch is crazy."
“Didn’t stop you from fucking her,” Bronx muttered under his breath.
The bell went off, a five minute warning to get to our next class, and Gabby jumped from her chair.
“We should be going.”
"Well, this has been fun, thanks for the hospitality." I smiled as Gabby grabbed my arm and hauled
me away. She was about ready to explode with everything that happened in the last five minutes. I felt
like a queen as we left the cafeteria.
"That was. So. Awesome! Who are you and what happened to Ashtyn?"
"I told you I wasn't playing this year."
"Damn, I'm staying out of your way."
Working at Aces gave me the confidence to be myself, love myself, and stand up for myself more
than I ever had before. I was becoming independent with my own money, even if most of it went to
bills, and I had a newfound sense of freedom and accomplishment.
Seeing West at Aces on Saturday had unleashed something inside of me. Something that wasn't
going back in its cage anytime soon. I was flooded with emotion from old wounds that had never
healed properly. I was finished letting other people's behavior dictate my mood. I didn’t have time to
put up with bullies and mean girls. Whether that meant calling out a girl in the cafeteria or confronting
West on his bullshit treatment of me, I was out for blood.
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job. Perhaps I would return to the railroad. James Weldon Johnson
advised me to make a tour of the South and read my verses. But I
never anticipated with gusto the prospect of appearing as a poet
before admiring audiences.
I was often in the company of a dancer who was making a study of
African masks for choreographic purposes. One evening while he,
my friend, Gladys Wilson, and I were together in my diggings in
Fourteenth Street, a woman walked in to whom I had been married
seven years before. A little publicity, even for a poor poet, might be
an embarrassing thing. The dancer exclaimed in a shocked tone,
"Why, I never knew that you were married!" As if that should have
made any difference to him. I said that nobody knew, excepting the
witnesses, and that there were many more things about me that he
and others didn't know.
All my planning was upset. I had married when I thought that a
domestic partnership was possible to my existence. But I had
wandered far and away until I had grown into a truant by nature and
undomesticated in the blood. There were consequences of the
moment that I could not face. I desired to be footloose, and felt
impelled to start going again.
Where? Russia signaled. A vast upheaval and a grand experiment.
What could I understand there? What could I learn for my life, for my
work? Go and see, was the command. Escape from the pit of sex
and poverty, from domestic death, from the cul-de-sac of self-pity,
from the hot syncopated fascination of Harlem, from the suffocating
ghetto of color consciousness. Go, better than stand still, keep
going.

PART FOUR
THE MAGIC PILGRIMAGE
 XIV
The Dominant Urge
I WENT to Russia. Some thought I was invited by the Soviet
government; others, that I was sent by the Communist Party. But it
was not so easy to have the honor of an invitation or the privilege of
being sent. For I was not one of the radicals abroad, important to the
Soviet government; and I was not a member of the Communist
Party. All I had was the dominant urge to go, and that discovered the
way. Millions of ordinary human beings and thousands of writers
were stirred by the Russian thunder rolling round the world. And as a
social-minded being and a poet, I too was moved.
But money was necessary so that I could go to Russia. I had none. I
mentioned my object to James Weldon Johnson, then secretary of
the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. He
suggested I might raise some money by selling special copies of my
book of poems with signed photographs. And very kindly he placed
at my disposal a select list of persons connected with the N.A.A.C.P.
In that way a small number of copies of Harlem Shadows was sold.
The price asked was five dollars. I remember that about six persons
sent checks for ten dollars. One check was signed by Mrs. Henry
Villard. Eugen Boissevain sent me one hundred dollars. Crystal
Eastman gave me a letter as one of the editors of The Liberator,
asking any radical who could to facilitate my getting to Russia. Just
before I sailed James Weldon Johnson gave me a little farewell party
at his residence in Harlem. A few of Harlem's élite came: Dr. DuBois,
Walter White, Jessie Fauset, Rosamond Johnson, and from among
downtown liberal intellectuals, Heywood Broun and F.P.A. of the New
York World, John Farrar, who was then editor of The Bookman, and
Ruth Hale. It was a pleasant evening and the first of the bohemian-
élite interracial parties in Harlem which became so popular during
the highly propagandized Negro renaissance period.
I signed on as a stoker on a slow freighter going to Liverpool. Just as
that time, Crystal Eastman also had booked passage on another
boat to go with her children to London to join her husband. We had
arranged to have a last meal together on the eve of my sailing. But I
waited until near midnight and she didn't appear. So I went out alone
in Harlem, visiting the speakeasies and cabarets and drinking a
farewell to the illegal bars.
In one joint I met Hubert Harrison and we had together a casual
drink. But I did not inform him or any of my few familiars that I was
sailing for Europe the next day. Sentimental adieux embarrass me. I
took a look in at Sanina's for a brief moment. Late that night, when I
got home with just enough liquor to fill me with a mellow mood for my
next adventure, I found a tiny scrap of paper thrust into my keyhole:

Claude dear:
I just dashed in to give you a hug and say goodbye—Bon
Voyage, dear child!
Crystal

I tucked the little note in a corner of my pocket book and have

carried it with me all these years, through many countries,
transferring it, when one pocket book was worn out, to another.
Six years later, when I was in Spain, I received a copy of The Nation
containing the announcement of beautiful Crystal Eastman's death. It
was sudden and shocking to me. I took her farewell note out of my
pocket book and read it and cried. Crystal Eastman was a great-
hearted woman whose life was big with primitive and exceptional
gestures. She never wrote that Book of Woman which was imprinted
on her mind. She was poor, and fettered with a family. She had a
grand idea for a group of us to go off to write in some quiet corner of
the world, where living was cheap and easy. But it couldn't be
realized. And so life was cheated of one contribution about women
that no other woman could write.

At Liverpool I left the freighter and went straight to London. There

was a reunion with a few intimates of the International Socialist Club.
Many of the members had left for Russia the year before to live there
permanently. Also a number of British Communists were preparing to
travel to Russia for the Fourth Congress of the Communist
International.
Arthur McManus, one of the Left labor men from the Clyde, was one
of them. I asked if he could assist me to go to Russia. He was not
enthusiastic, especially since I was once connected with the
Pankhurst group, which was now out of favor at Moscow. McManus
said that I should have been recommended by the American
Communist Party. The more difficult it seemed, the more determined
I was to make my way to Russia. One evening in a barroom, I heard
a group of English comrades facetiously discussing Edgar
Whitehead, the former secretary to the Pankhurst Group, saying that
he was always landing something good in the movement. I heard
them mention that Whitehead was in Berlin. He was liaison agent
and interpreter for the English-speaking radicals who were traveling
to Russia. Whitehead had studied German in Berlin when he was a
schoolmaster. He had been a leader of conscientious objectors
during the last war. He was also my friend, and I thought I'd take a
chance on his helping.
The next day I took the channel boat to Ostend. Arriving in Berlin, I
made inquiries and found Whitehead. He promised to get me
through to Russia. That I was not indorsed by any Communist party
did not matter to him. He was not a fanatic or dogmatist. In the days
of our association together in London we often waxed satirical about
Communist orthodoxy and we had often discussed the idea of a neo-
radical magazine in which nothing in the universe would be held
sacred.
Whitehead started working for me. The intervening time I spent
visiting the theaters. Expressionism was setting the pace. I saw the
revolving stage for the first time and admired it. Also I visited many of
the cabarets, which had sprung up like mushrooms under the
Socialist-Republican régime, some of which seemed to express the
ultimate in erotomania. The youngsters of both sexes, the hectic
pleasure-chasers of the Berlin of that epoch (before Poincaré
grabbed the Ruhr), were methodically exploiting the nudist colony
indoors, which was perhaps more exciting than the outdoor
experiments.
One evening Whitehead announced that all was ready. The next day
we drove in a taxicab to a rendezvous. We entered a house and
passed into a large room in which there was a group of men. Four of
them I identified as Russians. Whitehead introduced me as a
kamarad und neger dichter. One sitting at a table spoke with a kindly
smile. He asked a few questions in effortful English which I promptly
answered. I said that I was not a member of the American
Communist Party, but that I was in sympathy with the purpose of the
great Russian revolution. I said that it was primarily as a writer that I
was interested in Soviet Russia and that I intended to write about it
for the Negro press.
I received back my passport and Crystal Eastman's
recommendation, which I had consigned to Whitehead. A visa for
Russia was attached to the passport. I was told to prepare to travel
at once. The next day I traveled with an English-speaking German to
Stettin. There I slept that night at a hotel. The following morning I
was taken to a pier, whence I embarked for Leningrad.

Petrograd! Leningrad! When I think of that great city like a mighty

tree shaken to its roots by a hurricane, yet still standing erect, and
when I think of the proud equestrian statue of Peter the Great,
proclaiming that dictator's mighty achievement, I feel that the world
has lost the poetry and the color rising like a rainbow out of a
beautiful name since Petrograd was changed to Leningrad.
Lenin is mightier than Peter the Great. But there is no magic in the
name of Leningrad. There is magic in the name of Lenin, as there is
splendor in the word Moscow. And perhaps Lenin himself, whose life
was devoted to the idea of creating a glorious new world, might
have, in appreciation of the will of Peter the Great to remake a
nation, preferred Petrograd to remain Petrograd. Perhaps the spirit
of Lenin might have been more adequately expressed in the erection
of a brand-new city, rising out of that system to which he dedicated
his life. Lenin without any suffix—like a perfect ball of pure gold—a
city called Lenin.

I saw Petrograd! Like a great tree, shaken to its roots by a hurricane

and struck by lightning and somehow still standing. Petrograd, half
empty of its population and somewhat sad in the autumn. I saw the
monuments of czars and nobles tumbled in the dirt by the proletarian
masses. But intact and untouched they had left the beautifully proud
monument of Peter the Great, a mighty symbol of individual will and
majesty.
MOSCOW
Moscow for many loving her was dead ...
And yet I saw a bright Byzantine fair,
Of jewelled buildings, pillars, domes and spires
Of hues prismatic dazzling to the sight;
A glory painted on the Eastern air,
Of amorous sounding tones like passionate lyres;
All colors laughing richly their delight
And reigning over all the color red.

My memory bears engraved the strange Kremlin,

Of halls symbolic of the tiger will,
Of Czarist instruments of mindless law ...
And often now my nerves throb with the thrill
When, in that gilded place, I felt and saw
The simple voice and presence of Lenin.
I felt almost ashamed in those lean hungry years of 1922, when
Russia was just emerging from a great famine, that Moscow should
have stirred me in the way I have expressed it in this sonnet. Yes, I
will admit that my senses were stirred by the semi-oriental splendor
and movement of Moscow even before my intellect was touched by
the forces of the revolution.
After the war, the revolution and the famine, one's mind had created
a picture of a grim, harsh melancholy atmosphere. But it was all like
a miracle, all that Byzantine conglomeration of form and color,
shedding down its radiance upon the proletarian masses. It was like
an Arabian Nights dream transforming the bleak white face of an
Arctic waste.
And the crowds tramping and sleighing through the deep snow
spreading over all the land were really happier and friendlier than the
crowds of New York and London and Berlin. Yet the people in
Moscow were generally so poorly clad. There was so much of that
Oriental raggedness that one does not see in New York and London
and Berlin—at least not on the surface. The scenes were so
unexpected and strange that I even doubted at first whether they
were not created by Communist discipline and Bolshevik
propaganda. But when I mingled with the people I soon perceived
that many did not even comprehend the true nature of Communism.
Some of them could understand only that Lenin was in the place of
the Czar and that he was a greater Little Father.
I was soon brought down out of the romantic feeling of the
atmosphere to face the hard reality of the American Communist
delegation. Brazenly and bravely I had journeyed to Russia with
some members of the British group. But now the American
delegation had arrived with a Negroid delegate, a light mulatto. My
presence was resented. The American delegation did not want me
there. The delegation represented America, and as I had been
passed with other Communists as a visitor to the Fourth Communist
Congress, it was necessary that I should be indorsed by the
delegation as an unofficial visitor. This the chairman refused to do.
Instead, he desired that I should be sent out of Russia, back home.
A fight was raging inside of the American delegation. A minority led
by James Cannon wanted a legal American Communist party, to
carry on open propaganda among all the American workers. The
majority, led by the chairman, was fighting to keep the American
party illegal and underground.
Rose Pastor Stokes was the main prop of the chairman. When she
arrived in Moscow, still pretty and purring and sly as a puss, she
immediately engaged me in conversation and casually asked if I did
not think that an illegal Communist party was the best suited for
America. I answered no, emphatically. At the time I did not know that
the difference in the ranks of the American group was serious. Not
being a party member, I was unaware of what was going on inside of
the organization.
Rose Pastor Stokes was one of the delegates who had just escaped
from Bridgman, Michigan, during the police raid of August, 1922,
when the illegal Communist Party held its convention in the open
there in a beautiful romantic valley. Some of us of The Liberator
thought that the Communists, being tired of staying underground,
were feeling so pastoral and poetic that they couldn't do better than
hold their secret convention in the open air of the lovely Michigan
country.
Rose Pastor Stokes had said to me that it was necessary for
Communists to take to the woods in summer to escape the iron heel
of the capitalists. She was the wife of a millionaire, and perhaps
knew more about the iron heel than poor proletarians. She admired
that romantic novel of Jack London's, The Iron Heel, and once told
me that radicals could use it as a textbook of revolutionary
organization in America. She was shocked and hurt that a few of us
regarded the convention and the raid in Michigan as something like a
comic opera.
I remembered Mrs. Stokes's spy mania, when I was on The
Liberator. She was doing secret radical work. She used to tell me
stories of being followed by detectives, and of how she fooled them
by taking refuge in the Hotel Plaza and the Hotel Astor; because the
dicks wouldn't imagine that a guest of such places was red. She was
also working with a radical Negro group, and thought she was
followed by Negro detectives in Harlem. One night I was at the
apartment of my friend, Grace Campbell, when Mrs. Stokes came in
to attend a meeting. She was breathless, and sank into a chair,
exhausted. She asked for water, and Comrade Campbell hurried to
get a glassful. Then Mrs. Stokes explained that a colored man had
been watching her suspiciously while she was riding up on the
subway, and when she got off the train he had attempted to follow
her. She had hurried and dodged through the insouciant Harlem
crowd and gone round many blocks to evade the spy.
Said Comrade Campbell, "But Comrade Stokes, there aren't any
Negroes spying on radicals in Harlem. That colored man, maybe he
was attempting—kind of—to get friendly with you."
Mrs. Stokes jumped right up out of her exhaustion: "What,
Comrade? You shock me!" In her voice, and her manner, was the
most perfect bourgeois expression of the superior person. Comrade
Campbell said: "Why Comrade Stokes, I didn't mean to insinuate
anything, but any person is likely to be mistaken for something else."
So now in Moscow, before I was fixed in place as an unofficial
observer, Rose Pastor Stokes had got it from me that I was opposed
to the majority of the American delegation, and that was bad. Mrs.
Stokes really believed that we were living through the period of the
new Inquisition against radicals in America, and that those who did
not believe that were traitors to the cause. She hinted even that
there was something suspicious about my use of my real name in
Moscow. For all the American delegates had secret names. Mrs.
Stokes's own was Sasha. But some of us unorthodox comrade
sympathizers preferred to identify her as The Red Red Rose.
Meanwhile, the committee appointed to seat all delegates to the
Fourth Congress was sifting credentials. It was headed by a
repulsive type of strutting Prussian whose name is now forgotten,
lost in the radical scramble for place and the shuffling and cutting of
Communist cards—and Leninist purges. Greater Red names than
his have gone like the melted snows of yesterday.
I was soon aware that the Prussian person had his severe blue eye
fixed on me, as if I had been specially pointed out to him. I pretended
that I had not seen that evil eye, but soon I was being bedeviled. I
was thrown out of the Lux Hotel and found myself in a dilapidated
house in a sinister pereulok. My room was bare excepting for an
army cot, and cold like the steppes because of a broken window
pane through which poured a Siberian draught. My first thought was
to protect myself against pneumonia, and so I hurried to a store and
purchased two blankets and a pair of the cheap warm and
comfortable felt boots that reach to the thighs—the kind the Russian
peasants wear.
In the room next to mine there was a Russian couple. The man
spoke a little English. I complained about the state of my room and
he agreed that the window should be fixed; but, said he, "Thousands
of Russians are living in worse places." It was a quiet, gentle,
perhaps unintentional, rebuke, but immediately I felt confused and
altogether ashamed. I became aware of the implications of my
grievance, so petty in the eyes of the "thousands in worse places"
who had just come through an eight-year siege of war, revolution,
counter-revolution and famine, with fields and farms devastated,
factories wrecked, houses in ruins, no time and few funds for repairs.
I remembered breakfasting on the train in Germany a few weeks
previously. The countryside, misty brown in the early morning, was
peaceful and beautiful; the train ran precisely on time; the coaches
and dining car were in elegant shape, the passengers well dressed,
the waiters in neat uniform. The breakfast was fine, but the cream
that came with the coffee was barely whitened water. I had just come
from America, where cream with coffee is a commonplace. And so,
without thinking, I asked the waiter for cream. I said I would pay
extra for it.
The waiter said: "But Mister, we have no cream at all. They have
taken away all our cows from us, and what little milk we have we
must give to our babies." Then I remembered that I had read
somewhere that under the Treaty of Versailles the Germans had had
to give up thousands of heads of cattle to the Allies. But I had never
fully grasped the significance of that until I asked for cream with my
coffee in Germany. (We are, the majority of us, merely sentimental
about the suffering of others. Only when direct experience twists our
own guts out of place are we really able to understand. I remember
once hearing a nice comfortable bohemian noblewoman ecstatically
exclaim: "J'aime la souffrance! J'aime la souffrance!" Yes! She loved
vicariously the suffering of others.)
" ... Thousands in worse places." A good room was as much of a
luxury in Moscow in 1922 as a car is in America. A good room was
the chief non-political topic of conversation. People greeted one
another and said: "Do you have a good room?" in the same way we
say, "How is your health?" One of the tidbits of those times was the
joke that Mrs. Trotsky and Mrs. Zinoviev were at odds because one
had a better apartment in the Kremlin than the other.

Now my position was precarious. I wanted by all means to stay in

Moscow and to attend the meetings of the Fourth Congress of the
Communist International. But would-be delegates and visitors who
were unwanted and undesirable were being ruthlessly dealt with.
Some were accused as spies and counter-revolutionists. To the
Russians, spying was a real menace. It meant sabotage of
revolutionary property, attempted assassination of officials, and
working to overthrow the Soviets. They could not understand that
when an English or an American Communist accused certain
persons of being spies, his idea of spying was romantic and akin to
eavesdropping.
Aware of the way in which things were going against radical
dissidents, I acted quickly. I had a friend high up in Bolshevik circles
in the person of Sen Katayama. Sen Katayama was the Japanese
revolutionist. He had been a member of the Second International
and knew all the big men of the conservative British and continental
labor movement. He was an old friend of Lenin, Zinoviev, Bukharin
and Radek, and had gone over to the Third International at its
inception.
Sen Katayama had been a student at Fisk University, the southern
Negro school. He was small, dark-brown, with intensely purposeful
features which were nevertheless kindly. I met him when I was
working on The Liberator. He dropped in one day and introduced
himself. He took me to lunch at a Japanese restaurant, and at
another time to a Chinese, and introduced me to the Indian
rendezvous restaurant in the theatrical district. His personality was
friendly but abounding in curiosity—a sort of minute methodical
curiosity. He made me think of a fearless and faithful little hunting
dog. When he came up to my office, his little eyes, like brilliant
beads, darted rapidly over everything. And like a permanent surprise
he invaded my rooms at all hours and talked in his squeaky
grandmotherly voice about Negro problems. He demonstrated a vast
interest and sympathy for the Negro racialists and their
organizations. I liked Sen Katayama immensely. I was fascinated by
his friendly ferreting curiosity. I had associated with many Chinese at
home in the West Indies and in London, but Sen Katayama was my
first Japanese friend. It was exciting to contrast Chinese and
Japanese by the types I had known. Sen Katayama was eager and
extrovert, almost too much so, while the Chinese, however friendly,
seemed aloof and secret.
Sen Katayama was in his glory in Red Russia. He was an honorary
colonel of the Red army and always appeared at mass meetings in
his uniform. The crowds adored him and applauded frantically. He
appeared to me somewhat like a harbinger, a symbol of the far
eastern element in the new heart of Russia.
Sen Katayama warmly welcomed me in Moscow and invited me to
tea in his nice room in the Lux Hotel. He held an important post in
the Eastern Department of the Communist International and because
of his extensive traveling and his education and contact with
American Negroes he was regarded as an authority on all colored
peoples' affairs. He had more real inside and sympathetic knowledge
and understanding of American Negroes than many of the white
American Communists who were camping in Moscow.
When I explained to Sen Katayama how and why I had come to
Russia and of the difficulties I was encountering because of the
opposition of the American delegation, he said: "You leave
everything to me and we'll see if they can get you out of here and
prevent your attending the Congress. I'll talk to the Big Four[2] about
you."

FOOTNOTES:
 [2] Lenin, Trotsky, Zinoviev, and Radek.

XV
An Individual Triumph
MEANWHILE, all the Russian folk unwittingly were doing their part
for me. Whenever I appeared in the street I was greeted by all of the
people with enthusiasm. At first I thought that this was merely
because of the curiosity which any strange and distinctive type
creates in any foreign environment, such as I had experienced in
Holland and Belgium and Germany. But no! I soon apprehended that
this Russian demonstration was a different thing. Just a spontaneous
upsurging of folk feeling.
The Bolsheviks had nothing at all to do with it. The public
manifestation for me took them unawares. But the Bolsheviks have
nerves subtly attuned to the currents of opinion and a sense of
propaganda values in which they are matched only by French
officialdom. So, as soon as they perceived the trend of the general
enthusiasm for me, they decided to use it. And I was not averse to
that. Never before had I experienced such an instinctive sentiment of
affectionate feeling compelling me to the bosom of any people, white
or colored. And I am certain I never will again. My response was as
sincere as the mass feeling was spontaneous. That miraculous
experience was so extraordinary that I have never been able to
understand it.
Even the Russian comrades, who have a perfect pat social-
economic explanation for all phenomena, were amazed. The
comrade who conducted me around (when I hadn't wandered off by
myself, which was often) was as intelligent as a fox and as keen and
cold as an icicle. Although a mere youth, he held important positions,
open and secret, and today, still young, he holds a most important
position in the Soviet government and in the Russian Communist
Party. This comrade said: "I don't quite understand. Some of the
Indian delegates are darker than you—quite black—yet the people
don't carry on about them that way. But there is something very
different in your features and that is what the people see."
Never in my life did I feel prouder of being an African, a black, and
no mistake about it. Unforgettable that first occasion upon which I
was physically uplifted. I had not yet seen it done to anybody, nor did
I know that it was a Russian custom. The Moscow streets were filled
with eager crowds before the Congress started. As I tried to get
through along the Tverskaya I was suddenly surrounded by a crowd,
tossed into the air, and caught a number of times and carried a block
on their friendly shoulders. The civilians started it The soldiers
imitated them. And the sailors followed the soldiers, tossing me
higher than ever.
From Moscow to Petrograd and from Petrograd to Moscow I went
triumphantly from surprise to surprise, extravagantly fêted on every
side. I was carried along on a crest of sweet excitement. I was like a
black ikon in the flesh. The famine had ended, the Nep was
flourishing, the people were simply happy. I was the first Negro to
arrive in Russia since the revolution, and perhaps I was generally
regarded as an omen of good luck! Yes, that was exactly what it was.
I was like a black ikon.
The attitude of the non-Bolshevist population was even more
interesting. I had been told to be careful about going places alone.
But bourgeois persons on the street implored me just to enter their
homes for a glass of tea. I went. I had no fear of even the "whitest"
Russians in Russia, although in Paris and Berlin I would not have
trusted them. The only persons that made me afraid in Russia were
the American Communists. Curiously, even Russian bourgeois
persons trusted me. They knew that I was in sympathy with the
Communists—was their guest. Yet some of them told me frankly and
naïvely that they did not like the Bolsheviks and didn't think their
régime would last. The women chattered like parrots, happy that the
shops were opened. They wanted to hear about the shops in New
York and London and Berlin. When I visited a college with an
interpreter, who was certainly a member of the O.G.P.U., one of the
language teachers explained the difficulties of working under the
new régime. She said she ought to travel abroad to keep up with the
languages she taught, and that was impossible now. She said the
proletarian students were dull and kept the brighter bourgeois
students back. She said that one of her brightest students was the
son of a former governor, and that she would not reveal his identity,
for if it were known, he could not stay in the college. She said, "I
can't let even you know who he is, for you might tell about him." But
before I left she introduced me to the lad, explaining that he had
specially asked for an introduction. In Petrograd, Chorny Chukovsky,
the popular author, introduced me to a princess and a countess who
were his friends, and to the intellectual élite, who were mainly anti-
Bolsheviks. But they crowded a hall to hear me read my poems. One
of the professors, who had studied in England and France, was so
excited that he invited me to the national library the next day. And
what did he do? There was a rare Pushkin book with a photograph of
him as a boy which clearly showed his Negroid strain. (The Negroid
strain is not so evident in the adult pictures of Pushkin.) I coveted the
book, and told the Professor so. He said he was sorry that he could
not make me a present of the volume. But he actually extracted that
photograph of Pushkin and gave it to me. Mark you, that professor
was no Bolshevik, contemptuous of bourgeois literature. He was an
old classic scholar who worshipped his books and was worried about
the future of literature and art under the Bolshevik régime. Yet he
committed that sacrilege for me: "To show my appreciation of you as
a poet," he said. "Our Pushkin was also a revolutionist." Like Crystal
Eastman's farewell note, that photograph of Pushkin is one of the
few treasures I have.

Oh, I remember that magnificent cartoon in colors, picturing me

sailing on a magic carpet over the African jungles to Moscow. The
artist made me a gift of the original. An imp swiped it. It was the
perfect interpretation of my adventure in Russia. An Arabian Nights
fantasy transformed into reality. I had been the despised brother,
unwelcome at the gorgeous fête in the palace of the great. In the
lonely night I went to bed in a cold bare room. But I awoke in the
morning to find myself the center of pageantry in the grand
Byzantine city. The photograph of my black face was everywhere
among the most highest Soviet rulers, in the principal streets,
adorning the walls of the city. I was whisked out of my unpleasant
abode and installed in one of the most comfortable and best-heated
hotels in Moscow. I was informed: "You may have wine and anything
extra you require, and at no cost to you." But what could I want for,
when I needed a thousand extra mouths and bellies for the
importunate invitations to feast? Wherever I wanted to go, there was
a car at my disposal. Whatever I wanted to do I did. And anything I
felt like saying I said. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to
be a highly privileged personage. And in the Fatherland of
Communism!
Didn't I enjoy it! The American comrades were just too funny with
envy and chagrin. The mulatto delegate who had previously high-
hatted me now began to cultivate my company. It was only by
sticking close to me that he could be identified as a Negroid.
I was photographed with the popular leaders of international
Communism: Zinoviev, Bukharin, Radek, Clara Zetkin, Sen
Katayama, Roy; with officers of the Soviet fleet, the army and the air
forces; with the Red cadets and the rank and file; with professors of
the academies; with the children of Moscow and of Petrograd; with
delegates from Egypt, India, Japan, China, Algeria.

XVI
The Pride and Pomp of Proletarian Power
THE Bolshoi Theater in Moscow presented a pageantry of simple
proletarian pride and power on the night of the opening of the
Congress of the Communist International. The absence of the
primitive appeal of gilded pomp made the manifestation even more
sublime and awe-inspiring.
I had received a pass to attend the great opening of the Congress.
When I succeeded in getting into the vast Bolshoi auditorium, Martin
Anderson Nexö, the author of Pelle, the Conqueror, waved to me to
come and sit beside him. He was seated in the center front of the
hall. But an usher grabbed me, and before I could realize where I
was going, I was being handed from usher to usher like an object
that was consigned to a special place. At first I thought I was going
to be conducted to the balcony, but instead I was ushered onto the
platform to a seat beside Max Eastman and just behind Zinoviev. It
seems as if the curious interest of the crowd focused upon me had
prompted Zinoviev to hoist me up there on the platform.
Zinoviev asked me to speak and I refused. Max Eastman pleaded:
"Do speak! See how the people are looking at you; they want to hear
you." I said that if they had given me notice beforehand I might have
prepared a few phrases, although speaking was not my specialty.
But I wouldn't stand up before the Bolshevik élite and that vast eager
crowd, without having something prepared to say. Eastman said:
"Just tell them you bring greetings from the Negro workers of
America."
"But," said I, "I have no mandate from any American Negro workers
to say that. There is an official mulatto delegate; perhaps he has a
message from the Negro workers."
I said to Eastman, "Why don't you speak?" He said he would like to if
they would ask him. Certainly the American Communists had in Max
Eastman the finest platform personality to present. Unlike me, he
was as pure a Marxist as any of them there and had given the best
of his intellect to serve the cause of Communism and extoll the
Soviets in America. But because of petty jealousy they cold-
shouldered Eastman in Moscow. Perhaps if they had been a little
diplomatic about him, he probably would be one of them instead of a
Trotskyist today.
I told Zinoviev that I came to Russia as a writer and not as an
agitator. When his messenger interpreted what I said, Zinoviev's
preacher face turned mean. He was most angry. But I did not mind.
My personal triumph had made me aware that the Russians wanted
a typical Negro at the Congress as much as I wanted to attend the
Congress. The mulatto delegate was a washout. He was too yellow. I
had mobilized my African features and won the masses of the
people. The Bolshevik leaders, to satisfy the desires of the people,
were using me for entertainment. So why should I worry about
Zinoviev's frown? Even though he was president of the great Third
International, I knew that there was no special gift I could get from
Zinoviev after the entertainment was over and ended. I could never
be a radical agitator. For that I was temperamentally unfit. And I
could never be a disciplined member of any Communist party, for I
was born to be a poet.
And now I was demanded everywhere. Sometimes I had to
participate in three different meetings in one day: factory meetings,
meetings of soviets, youth meetings, educational conferences in
colleges and schools, the meetings of poets and writers, and
theatrical performances. I was introduced to interesting sections of
the new social and cultural life of Moscow and Petrograd.
I was always asked to speak, and so I prepared a few phrases. The
Russians adore long speeches, which it did not interest me to make.
And so they lengthened mine by asking a lot of questions. I had
listened to the American delegates deliberately telling lies about
conditions in America, and I was disgusted. Not only the Communist
delegates, but radical American intellectuals really thought it was
right to buoy up the Russians with false pictures of the American
situation. All the speeches of the American delegates, the tall
rhetoric, the purple phrases, conveyed fundamentally a common
message, thus: "Greetings from America. The workers of America
are groaning under the capitalist terror. The revolutionary
organizations have been driven underground. But the American
Communist Party is secretly organizing the masses. In a few years
we will overthrow American capitalism and join our forces with the
Russian Communists. Long live the Revolution...." I heard the
chairman of the American delegation say: "In five years we will have
the American revolution."
The Russians from these speeches pictured the workers of America
as denied the right to organize and the rights of free assembly and
free speech, as denied representation in Congress, as ridden down
by American cossacks, banished in droves from their homes to the
Siberias of the Far West, with their imprisoned and exiled leaders
escaping to Canada and Mexico and working underground to
overthrow the capitalist system. Briefly, the American situation, as
they understood it, was similar to that of Russia under the Czarist
régime just before the revolution.
The police raid on the illegal Communist party meeting in the
beautiful woods of Michigan had been spread all over the Russian
newspapers. Everything about that funny raid was so Czarist-
Russian-like that the Russians really believed that it was typical of
American conditions.
Truly, I could not speak such lies. I knew that the American workers
in 1922 were generally better off than at the beginning of the World
War in 1914. I was aware, of course, that labor organization in this
country was far below the standard of labor organization in England,
Germany and France, that American labor was not organized as a
political weapon, that in some sections of the country and in certain
industries labor was even denied the right to organize, and that
radicals were always baited. But Leavenworth was not Siberia. And
by no stretch of the imagination could the United States be
compared to Czarist Russia.
How, then, could I stand before the gigantic achievement of the
Russian revolution and lie? What right had I to tell these people, who
had gone through a long death struggle to conquer their country for
themselves, that the American revolution was also in travail? What
could I presume to tell them? I told them that it was a great honor for
me to be there to behold the triumph of their great revolution. I told
them that I felt very insignificant and dumb before that wonderful
thing. I said that I had come to Russia to learn something, to see
with my own eyes and try to write a little of what I had seen.
Invariably I was questioned: "And what about the American
revolution?" When I replied I think it was a long way off, the
audiences did not like me to say that. I must admit that the Russians
in those days were eager to be deceived. I remember that I was
asked to attend a large and important meeting of Young
Communists. When I had finished talking the president got up and
said: "Comrade, we appreciate what you feel about our revolution,
but we want you to tell us about the American revolution. When will
there be the American revolution?"
It was a direct question and I answered directly. I said that I could not
prophesy about an American revolution; but that perhaps if the
American ruling class started a wholesale suppression of labor
organizations, if the people had to read radical literature in secret, if
the radicals had to hold all their meetings in secret, if the liberals and
radicals who agitated for more civil liberties and the rights of the
working class were deported to the Philippines, then possibly in ten
or fifteen years America might develop a situation similar to that in
Russia in 1905.
The interpreter, a comrade commander in the navy, asked if he
should translate me literally. I said "Word for word." And when he
had finished there was no sound of applause. That was the first time
that I was not applauded when I spoke, but I preferred that.
The young president of the Young Communists took the platform:
"Comrade," he said, "you are a defeatist. The American revolution
cannot be so far away. But if that is your opinion, we command you
at once to do your part and help make the revolution." I said to the
interpreter: "Tell the young comrade that I am a poet."
After the meeting my friend Comrade Venko said to me: "You should
have told them the American revolution is right around the corner.
That's what they want to hear." (He had lived many years in England
and had acquired some Anglicisms.) I said, "You know I read
somewhere that Lenin said that it is necessary to face facts and tell
the truth always."
"Yes, Comrade," said Venko, "but Lenin is Lenin and we are just
ordinary mortals."