Homeless Heart

Prologue

Phineas Dunbar, better known as "Phin," stood on the doorstep soaking wet to his very core. He'd never been this cold in his entire life. Despite Phin having been homeless on and off for the last three years, he'd never felt this level of despair and loneliness before. He was standing in front of her door because he didn't know where else to go. Life on the streets taught him to be resourceful, but tonight there was no place for him anywhere except here with her, his future. All the shelters were booked; all of his usual doorways seemed to be taken; she was his refuge. The storm had caused all "the invisible" to move inside like rats. He probably could have found somewhere, but he missed her, he needed her to let him in. He was just too tired to fight it anymore; the pull was too intense, and he knew she was his only sanctuary. Phin kept a torn phone book sheet with her number on it in his wallet as an emergency contact sheet in case something happened to him. If they called her to ID his body, he knew she'd go; she was a decent person. He wasn't sure if the same could be said if they called his parents. The thought of burdening her with such responsibility saddened him, but Elizabeth was the only person he'd trusted in a long time, even if she didn't believe it. Sadly, trusting his family wasn't even up for consideration. He took a deep breath; soaked and shaking, he knocked hard on the door. Her lights were on low, and he knew she was home, he'd been watching her house from across the street. Standing shivering, he was numb, and his only worry was she might turn him away; he didn't know what he'd do tonight if she didn't allow him in. He'd done the one thing she'd asked him not to do, he left. He hated that he'd been a coward, but he was desperate. The thought of not spending tonight or the rest of his life with Elizabeth caused an ache deep into his bones. He prayed she'd forgive him. Phin was beaten. He couldn't live on the streets anymore, and he was hoping this woman could be his shelter. The deadline for his inheritance money, which had been his goal for so long, was only nine months away. At this moment, the money didn't matter anymore. His safe harbor was inside this warm house, and that was all that mattered to him. The thought of staying on the streets for even that short time wasn't an option for him now or worth the millions of dollars. The despair that he'd been holding off hit him like a speeding train. Unable to hold back, Phin began to cry. He hadn't realized the depth of the emotion that he had been stifling for so long. Phin rarely cried after all the beatings from his father. Except for the last flaying that caused him to leave home. The anger he'd carried hit him like a tsunami, and there was nothing strong enough to hold the flood back. He was drowning in his emotions, and she was his life raft. The door flew open after his last aggressive round of knocking. The amazing woman who opened the door was one of the only people who'd ever cared about him in his almost twenty-one years on this planet. There she stood in the doorway in her dry, comfortable clothes, and a confused look on her face. All she could do was say his name. That sound alone buckled his legs. "Phin?" He collapsed into her arms as she hugged him tightly, trying to bear his weight. This woman was his home. All Phin could do was mutter her name like a prayer. "Elizabeth."

Chapter 1

Phin

Three years earlier

The night I left my parents' mansion I boarded a bus heading to Los Angeles, to get as far away from them as I could afford. I had no real plan other than to get out of town and stay away from them. I knew no one in LA; I didn't want to know anyone because I needed to hide until my inheritance came through when I turned twenty-one. If they found me, they'd drag me back home, and my father would make my life a living hell. I'd considered telling friends or teachers about what was going on at my house over the years, but I couldn't. My family was wealthy and well connected, but what my father could do to me was worse than living on the streets. He wasn't stupid; he'd told me often that if I ever told anyone about the beatings, he'd make sure they never believed me. He had beaten the fear into me during my childhood. I realized it was an irrational fear now, but I also knew my father's reach in the world. I wouldn't want to test his ability to ruin my life, even outside of his house. After the last beating I'd had enough, and that's how I found myself on a smelly, hot and crowded bus heading for LA. One more day was too long in that cold and soulless house; I would hide out until I could claim my money and forget those two people ever existed. Three years wasn't that long, not after the hell I'd lived in for all those years. Right now, I couldn't risk it, so being homeless was the only option.

The bus ride to Los Angeles was an eight-hour arduous journey. I'd never taken the bus before, and it was an eye-opening experience. Coming from a life of privilege and money, I'd never flown anything lower than business class, and I'd never even ridden on the public bus system in San Francisco. My parents gave me a BMW when I turned sixteen years old, like all my other spoiled friends. Of course, my father, being a hard-ass, gave me his used Beemer. I wasn't complaining; it was a nice car, and I'd give anything to have it now. My phone, car, credit cards, etc. were all too easy to trace, so I left them behind. Instead, I took a small backpack with a few pieces of clothing, a wallet, my favorite book, TheHitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and a heavy coat. My parents had the resources to find me, so I had to be smarter than my father by staying off the grid.

The bus had smelled of old people and mildewed upholstery, which I found comforting in a small way. The lack of air-conditioning was a hardship when we drove through the dairy farms of the Central Valley. I'd never seen this part of California up close; we usually flew over it. Who knew the middle of California was filled with prisons and farmland?

As I sat on that bus for the long journey, the anger that I had held onto for so long about the beatings and my father's wrath was brewing just under the surface of my skin. Most of the time, I locked it down because anger ironically wasn't an acceptable emotion according to my father. My body vibrated with it some days, so I often ran miles to try to subdue that anger, but right now, I was humming with rage with no outlet for it.

Trying to distract myself on the long journey, I considered my plan once I arrived in LA. I knew my father wouldn't easily just let me go. His ego wouldn't handle me disappearing. What would he tell his country club friends? I was a smart and resourceful kid, having had an excellent education. I left my ID at home, or my father would find me, so finding a decent job would be hard. I needed to work, possibly doing construction work or maybe be a busboy so I could get paid under the table. Those types of jobs usually paid cash. Finding a place to live would be difficult. I had about three thousand dollars in savings, but that wouldn't go far even if I stayed in a cheap hotel. I tried to be confident and believe I would figure it out once I arrived in the City of Angels.

When the bus pulled up to the vast, busy, smog-filled terminal in downtown Los Angeles, I stepped off and immediately missed San Francisco. Taking a deep breath, I missed the lack of moisture in the air from the breeze off the Bay that I had taken for granted. All I could feel was a dry heat, and the air tasted of dust and car emissions. The air felt so thick that you needed a knife to breathe. I coughed as I walked further into the heat, heading down the long sidewalks where no one walked. The song was right; nobody walks in LA except the homeless or those I called "the Invisibles."

It didn't take me long to realize that Los Angeles was the second most soulless place, after my own home. As I walked around, I knew that I could be homeless in Los Angeles. The weather was fair, and I could hide from my family with the countless other millions of homeless, runaways, and junkies.

Walking through the downtown area of LA reminded me of the Tenderloin area of San Francisco. The city was packed with homeless, hookers, and junkies as well as the up-and-coming hipsters that were moving in and gentrifying the area. I noticed the few upmarket bars and coffee houses that were sprinkled throughout the derelict neighborhood. I walked around for a while, trying to familiarize myself with my new home when my stomach rumbled, and I realized I hadn't eaten since Fresno. I saw an old-fashioned diner and headed in for a hamburger before I found a place to sleep for the night.

The diner was clean despite it being a bit old and worse for wear. The booth seats were red vinyl, well worn, but the Formica tables were clean. The burger was cheap and tasty. I would miss being able to eat like this in the future. There would be no more fine dining for me. I chatted with Phyllis, the overly friendly middle-aged waitress. She had been more than accommodating as she gave me free Coke refills and talked with me about where I could stay. She looked kind enough, her bleached blond hair piled on her head, overly tanned, with red lipstick that needed a touch-up. I think she was younger than she looked, but her choice of makeup and skin color significantly aged her.

When Phyllis winked at me and offered me a place to sleep on her sofa, I politely declined sensing it wouldn't be a good idea. She looked like she had more on her mind than giving a young guy a warm place to stay. I had to focus on staying alive; women would have to wait until after I got my inheritance.

Her attention wasn't surprising because when I worked at my parents' country club; I discovered that the older women, especially, found me attractive. The first time one of them slipped me their phone number, I was shocked and flattered. There were several women at the club that would hit on me from time to time, despite me being underage. I believe they secretly all had Mrs. Robinson fantasies, but I wasn't even interested in girls at that point.

Girls paid me more attention during the summer of my sophomore year when I had a growth spurt. Two years later, I was a little over six feet tall, with dark green eyes and chestnut colored hair that women noticed. I'd bulked up trying to get stronger in hopes it would intimidate my father, but it hadn't worked. The abuse didn't stop.