Brutally Beautiful (33 page)

ever hurt me again.”

-Jessica

CHAPTER ONE

“The small words hurt the most.”

-Kris Harte

Present

Jessica

Gripping my journal, I flip through the pages of my written pain. Putting pen to paper is comforting to me…my journal is the only place I can really be myself, releasing my demons and voicing my fears. Today’s the first morning of my last year in high school. Senior year. Finally. The fear I feel is almost tangible. Writing will help ease it, but I know it won’t be enough. I place my hand over my lower stomach and run my fingers across the scars. I focus on the blank page before me and start to write.

Faces

Familiar places

Trapped within these walls

Taunting me

Trapping me

Laughter filling the halls

Not much longer

It will soon end

Can’t let them know

They’ll win

Broken

Beat down

Their derisions

Circling all around

Block it out

Push it down

Keep building these defenses

Brick by brick

My emotions bound

Seeing a stranger

When I look in the mirror

Lost and alone

My soul pleading

Desperate to find a home

***

I sit in my car, staring at the front steps of Winslow High School as dread washes over me. The drive here was nothing but minutes full of anxiety and fear.

Only one more year, I tell myself. I can do this. Just one more year and I’ll be free of this hell on earth forever.

The past three years were nearly unbearable, and I can’t imagine that this year will be any different. I grab my backpack and push my car door open. The parking lot’s filled with people milling around—chattering about senior year, eyeballing each other’s outfits, sizing each other up. One clique bleeds into another clique and so on. Keeping a low profile is important to me, so I’ve chosen to wear a plain pair of skinny jeans and a simple white T-shirt; I don’t belong to any of the cliques.

Because I’m invisible.

I barely exist.

A loud engine rumbles as a huge truck pulls up in the parking spot beside mine, startling me. I look over to see that it’s none other than Jace Collins, superstar athlete and megapopular boyfriend to my worst enemy. His door opens and he jumps out, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. He might be with the biggest bitch in school, but God, the guy is like a huge magnetic force made up of sexual tension and dimples. By the time I realize I’m staring, it’s too late because he’s noticed me ogling him. A small grin stretches across his face and I blush, snapping my eyes away. I turn and start walking toward the school when I hear her.

“Oh look, it’s Winslow High’s school slut. How lovely!”  Elizabeth shouts loud enough to draw attention my way.

I clench my backpack strap, keeping my gaze forward. I can feel her eyes gunning a hole through the back of my head. This is the only time of day when I’m visible. When I’m in the cross-hairs of Elizabeth Brant’s clique of mean girls I’m a huge blaring bull’s-eye. Engaging with her is pointless. She never gives in or lets up. Now, everyone within earshot stares and laughs at me. I take a deep breath blocking it all out. I can hear her spitting more venom my way as she gets closer, and her sidekick Hailey joins in the taunts.

“How was your summer Jessssssica? How many guys did you add to your list, huh? Do you like it that everyone knows what a skank ho you are?”

Elizabeth laughs loudly, and then I hear him. Jace. He’s been stepping in for the past couple of years to shut them up when they talk shit to me. The first time he did it, I was stunned. Why would he care what they said to me?

I’m no one.

I barely exist.

“Okay, wenches, that’s enough. Leave her alone. Can’t you give the girl a damn break? It’s the first day of school. Do you both have to be such assholes? It’s ridiculous.”

I don’t turn around or acknowledge his act of kindness. I’m thankful, but I can never tell him that. If she saw me talking to him, it would be a disaster. I don’t know why, but every time I make eye contact with him something happens that I can’t yet explain. Right at the moment when our eyes lock the air crackles around me and I instantly feel more alive. Of course, he’s never flirted with me like so many of the other guys do. I know why they do it, and so does everyone else, but he’s never treated me like a slut or piece of trash. Jace is different.

Last year, when we were paired together in chemistry class, Elizabeth was beyond pissed off. She pinned me down with her stare for the entire hour, but Jace ignored her and rolled his eyes. When class was over, he got up and gave me a slight smile before walking away. It was the one time that I hadn’t felt like a nobody. For that one hour I’d felt present and not so closed down. It was easier to breathe—it felt like what I assumed school should feel like.

Jace remains a mystery to me. I have no idea why he treats me like a normal girl, but every time he does, my heart beats a little stronger and a little faster. I hope one day I have the

opportunity to say thank you. Until then, I’ll keep my gratitude safely tucked away.

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Continue on to read an excerpt of Can’t Go Home by Angelisa Stone

Available NOW!

Can’t Go Home

Oasis Waterfall Series #1

By:  Angelisa Stone

PART ONE

Blissful Ignorance

Dre

Her name is Kathryn Denise Howell.  She used to go by “Katie” when she was in high school, even into college, but when she moved here, she became “Kathryn” to her new friends and co-workers. It’s amazing what you can learn from social networking and even just from random people on the streets.  When I scrutinize her, she looks like a “Katie.”  She has one of those angelic, “girl-next-door” faces, the kind that when you look at her, you just know that you’d never be able to lie to such an innocent and naïve face. 

I understand why she’d choose to go by “Kathryn” now; it’s more mature, more professional, and demands respect.  As for me, I already respect her; I respect the fuck out of her. She solidified my opinion of her the moment I heard her speak.

 The problem is when I actually meet Kathryn and talk to her all I’m going to do is lie like crazy to her.  Basically, I doubt anything I ever say to her will be the truth. The feel-good, glowy, little angel on my shoulder keeps whispering that I should most definitely stay away, should move on, should forget I ever heard her on the phone.  I should walk away and do her a favor.  A big fucking favor.

But, I can’t.  The evil devil in my pants won’t let me.  Kathryn got to me—and to him.  She got to us bad. Despite my better judgment, Kathryn Howell will be mine, come Hell or high water.  I know I sound like a creepy-ass stalker.  I’m not a stalker in the “cut ‘em up and eat ‘em sense.”  I’m a stalker in the “I know what want, and I’m going to get it” sense.   Normally when I see a woman I want, she’s mine within in the night, sometimes within the hour.  My life has been a series of wanting and then quite easily getting.  But lately, what I want and what I have are two very dissimilar things, even very different from what I used to have.  It’s all changing, and quite fucking frankly, that’s just fine by me. 

Now the hard part:  I have to meet her first.  I also have to let go of my guilty conscience, because I’m going to hate lying to her.  Well, I guess I must also renege on that promise to myself that I’m going to swear off women.  I did swear off women—all women.  How was I to know that I was going to overhear Kathryn Howell’s phone call, a phone call that put me over the edge and certainly made me want to know her? I decided that I’d scrap the “no women for Dre rule.”  Let’s be honest.  That rule sucks anyway.  

My infatuation for her started nearly a month ago.  Yes, it’s an infatuation, possible borderline obsession.  Cue the flashback music; let the picture fade and get all blurry until we zoom in on an angry Kathryn Howell on her cell phone, putting someone, presumably her boss, right in his place.  

The day in question was crazy hot, unbearably sweltering, which is usually the case in Charleston, South Carolina in mid-September.  I was standing under the awning of a local tourist seafood joint when Kathryn parked her bright yellow Volkswagen Bug at the meter in front of me.  Normally, a girl like her wouldn’t have caught my eye, but I was dying in the heat and too bored and tired to look away.  Nice huh? 

When Kathryn got out of her car, let’s be clear, I wasn’t knock-my-socks-off floored by her beauty or presence.  I actually looked at her and thought, “It’s too hot to have that much hair.”  Kathryn has long, dark, wavy hair that is thick as it is long.  Nobody should have hair like that in the south.  It probably adds about 10 degrees to the body temperature. And nobody wants that.

I don’t want it to seem like Kathryn isn’t beautiful, because she is.  Kathryn just didn’t “look the part,” the part that I am normally drawn to and tend to sway toward.  Most of the women I’ve dated could grace the cover of a
Victoria’s Secret
advertisement, a
Maxim
centerfold, or
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition.  Typically, I like my women tall, lean, blonde, and a little on the “easy” side.  Who doesn’t really? I sound like an ass, don’t I?  I never claimed not to be, which is why I feel slightly guilty for honing in on Kathryn Howell, chartering places I have no business exploring in the first place. 

When Kathryn circled around to the parking meter, she rummaged through her large, knockoff designer purse for change, pulling out a handful of coins.  Immediately, I loved that she was walking around with a fake handbag.  From where I come from, that was unheard of, grounds for societal ridicule and possible emotional torture. 

Quickly, she put two quarters into the meter.  But then, she did something that made me perk up and pay attention.  She put three more coins into the meter next to it, buying time for the car parked next to hers. A random, selfless act of kindness is pretty unheard of these days.

At that point, I became intrigued.  People didn’t normally surprise me, especially in this day and age. Sure, the South is supposed to be filled with southern hospitality and kindness.  But the truth is, when nobody is looking, southerners are just as selfish and rude as any Yankee on the other side of the Confederate lines. 

Kathryn continued down the street, adding quarters to the parking meters until all of the change in her hand ran out.  Stunned, I watched her walk every step of the way until she walked into a quaint little Italian restaurant on the corner.  It was at that point that I decided I needed to at least talk to her.  I wanted to meet a woman who put that much energy, selfless energy, into a random act of kindness.  Who did that?  My curiosity was piqued, but that was all that was interested—at the moment. 

I casually walked over to her meter to see how much time she “bought” herself, wondering how long it would be until she would return.   Seeing that I only had less than 30 minutes before she returned, I stopped in to a restaurant to gain sanctuary from the heat with an ice-cold drink.  Plus, I promised the owner I’d fix the floorboards on their deck in the back—a task for me that would take less than 15 minutes.

In Charleston, 30 minutes wasn’t enough time for lunch downtown; Southerners like a long, leisurely lunch.  Kathryn must have been just picking up food, so I knew I didn’t have too much time to screw around if I wanted to approach her. 

I finished my drink, replaced a few rotted out two-by-fours, and was patiently waiting for Kathryn’s return.  Finally, she emerged from the restaurant, carrying bags of takeaway food.  I saw my chance and knew that it was now or never.  As I began to approach her with my “I’ve got this smile,” an older, smarmy man pounced, offering to help her. 

Shockingly, she shot him a look that clearly said, “Back off Buddy, I don’t need your help.”  Wow, I’d dodged a bullet. My approach would’ve been regarded as offensive and chauvinistic.  Kathryn Howell wasn’t a damsel in distress who needed a man to swoop in and save the day. 

I trailed behind her, determining my next move, when her cell phone rang.  I laughed when she said,  “Dang it,” and put the bags of food down on the ground, next to her car.  What adult woman says “dang it?”  She took her phone out of her bra—her bra? And answered it. 

“Kathryn Howell Seaside Literary Agency--”