The Nanny

by Lana Ferguson

To my sweet mother, who once asked me: “Wouldn’t you rather write children’s books instead?”

His eyes are a clash of one brown and one green, the colors not bright but subtle, like warm tea and seawater that are hard to look away from.

“Shh,” he soothes, his hand reaching to cup my jaw as his thumb presses against my lips. “Be good, Cassie. You have to be good so I can fuck you.”