Helpless
Authors: H. Ward
| Helpless |
| Ward, H. |
| (2013) |
Helpless
By
H. Ward
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY AUTHOR
Published by
H. Ward
Copyright © 2013 by
H. Ward
This is a work of fiction.
All characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead, other than those in the public domain, is not intended and purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.
Chapter 1:
Token Red-head
“So where are you headed, Natalie?”
I grace him with the smile that is raking in millions of dollars a year. I know seeing me in full beauty (make up, fashion clothes and high heels) intimidates most men. When it serves me, I never hesitate to use it to my advantage. “Back home, finally.”
“Ah, you long for the rain and bone chilling cold of London over Cabo San Lucas? Totally understandable.”
Fine, he is not going to back off and he thinks some trite half joke is going to keep us talking. What a loser.
“My lover is warmer than any sun-kissed ocean beach. Much better than an over-crowed resort. My sincere apologies that you don’t have the same waiting for you.”
That did it, he moves away from my section of the boarding area. I watch him walking away and frown at the baggy butt area of his pants. Don’t men care at all what they look like? I am relieved the creepy and badly dressed guy has slunk away. I can wait for my boarding call in peace. Yet something nags at the back of my mind about the insult I picked, it could be said about me, but fortunately, no one knows me well enough to sling an insult like that at me.
I can’t wait to sink into my first class seat and kick these heels off. Who the fuck thought heels were sexy? I spend most of my time desperate to make sure I don’t fall flat on my face. God, I can’t even imagine the shit-storm if I broke my nose. I’m booked solid for 2 years of photo shoots and runway shows. As the token red-head, I can’t miss them or my career could end as fast as it started. An unlucky turn of a high heel could cause me to miss out on a sweet chunk of my salary. I smile to myself as some memories come to me of my grabbing out to hold onto various camera guys and wardrobe people.
It is not long before I am settled on the plane, my feet
are
bare and I am in the air heading home. However I want to be flying high in a different way. I was going to give it all up, but now I feel that pull. Now that I am sitting here alone. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to feel. I just want that warm feeling inside. What a stupid idea to go to a shoot without my boosters. What’s the big deal anyway?
I figure all the crying and complaining about drugs in the world is because of the skanky fools who let it ruin their pathetic little lives. They don’t have money and that’s when they start to steal from family and then neighbors. I’ll never have those problems. Right now I’m so fucking rich I can’t even spend all my money. And I’m far too much in control for my boosters to take over. Just the thought of the first hit has calmed me.
Nope, I’m not going to give in to peer pressure again. I’ll keep my boosters right at my side from now on.
* * *
I nod at George as he pulls the gold and glass door open for me. I glide up the entry stairs to a gold and glass elevator in the lobby. My brain runs off on a tangent like a desperate Real Estate agent … “Situated on the ninth floor of a prestigious building close to Hyde Park and Marble Arch, this fantastic three bedroom flat combines crisp, bright white interiors with generous rooms and a sizeable wraparound terrace.”
A beauty of a flat, as these English call it. Being born in Texas, I call them apartments. But whatever. Even though I’ve lived in London since I was fourteen, I still think of it as my apartment. Flat sounds too crass and harsh. This place that Dad set up for me to prove his undying love for me is nothing close to crass or harsh. Sleek white walls and deep mahogany floors. Dark tile that matches the mahogany is in the three bathrooms and the kitchen. Every piece of furniture is either snow white or dark mahogany brown and every stich of fabric and carpet is so plush they are like a cloud. It is like a dream house, and always neat as a pin.
I have a brilliant cleaning woman, she
never
comes in when I am home, and always cleans every nook and possible place for dust to hide when I am away on jobs. I don’t even have a clue what she looks like. I think I met her the first time she came over, I made it clear I didn’t want to ever hear her cleaning or trip over her stuff. She must be brilliant because she realized the best thing was to never cross my path. It has been years since I have seen her. I briefly wonder how she does keep it clean when I am here for weeks on end. Must be that George lets her know when I go out. But I am headed in now, I’ve been away for over a week.
I can’t wait to toss my bag on the marble entrance table and head to the bathroom. No time to admire my gorgeous living space. My boosters await.
The ridiculous heels I am wearing are clacking on the kitchen floor as I reach for the shiny white cabinet door. My Waterford Chrystal drinking glasses are heavy and carved. Only the best for this girl.
I head to the bathroom where I fill the glass from the tap. Even the feel of the pill going down my throat is soothing. I sigh as I set the glass down on the marble counter with a solid and regal thud.
Now I finally look up. I am facing a frameless mirror that stretches the entire side of this big bathroom. Deep red hair. Actually natural from a mix of my father’s English heritage and my mother’s mixed but mostly Anglican heritage. Thank God I don’t have freckles all over. I actually think they are cute on girls – but you can’t snag a magazine cover job and have the makeup girl laying it on like pancake batter to cover them all up.
My green eyes sparkle back at me. They are feeling a little boost now. Life is getting better and it shows in the eyes. Now I am feeling some pride in this apartment, feeling happy and more like the fashion model that I am, have been, for the past few years. I’ve done modeling and commercials and small stuff all my life with a gap from age fourteen to eighteen due to my father’s rules, but now I am a professional. I have an agent and I am making real money.
I freshen up and leave the bathroom looking and feeling stunning. I can feel my hair softly brushing along my neck. I can feel the strength in my legs which I work so hard to keep perfect – not too skinny, not too muscular.
I walk back out to my living room. The view is breathtaking. I feel so lonely. People would literally kill for a view like this to show off to others. So I walk to the balcony and throw open the doors. The sound of a busy city rises up to my ears. So many people. So much activity. Seeing it all sooths me for a moment. Takes away some of the lonely and lost feelings.
Why not share my stunningness and the bustling city? I go back in and flip open my laptop. Whenever I feel like this, I know just what to do. First of all, I know beauty fades. Mother made that perfectly clear. So although I just finished a photo shoot that will dump more than $150,000 in my bank account by tomorrow, I may as well make a little more money tonight.
There is this site I can hit up any time: night or day. I have a profile on there with my name faked and a slightly different shade to my signature flaming hair that might give my real identity away. A group of lonely men troll the website. They are desperate to spend time with a pretty girl. So desperate they pay plenty with no guarantee of getting any sex. It’s not prostitution. They don’t actually pay me directly anyway, they buy gifts, take me out and often leave money tucked in a card with a big bouquet of flowers. I only sleep with a guy if I know he is going to be the kind that likes to give out nice presents, the kind that spends big when we are out and then makes a point to have tons of gifts delivered to the side building where I have all my mail and such directed to. I make sure no one knows where I really live, but I have to get my gifts on time.
I look down at my watch, smiling as I see the sparkle of diamonds circling the mother of pearl face. Hell, this one must have cost forty or fifty thou, easy. I can’t even remember the guy that gave it to me. But the diamonds last forever.
Anyway, I don’t feel like being groped tonight, I just want a sugar daddy to take me out to dinner and keep me entertained. He can prattle on all night and keep my mind occupied. I’ll make that clear when I post my status.
“In need of a Champagne night. Wine me. Dine me. Then drop me off with a kiss on the cheek.” That’s all I had to post. It is clear I won’t give out any more than that kiss, so I won’t be bothered by some fumbling fool in hopes of more. There are all types on this site, so that will cut off the ones that think they can wiggle in for more. If I am in the mood to give it up, I make it clear I am ‘up for a good time’ and that phrase gets a hit almost immediately. My stellar reviews on the site along with my profile picture will do all I need to get the right fellow with the right expectations for what I want tonight.
In a few minutes I’ve got a hit. Time to take my alter ego out for the night. Leah, my middle name, is going to be wearing a sexy mini-dress and tease this man all night long. The Champagne better be good.
Heath Tries to Lock Me Away
What is that noise?
Beep Beep
… That smell?
As I wake up, I realize I can barely move. A fake plastic smell is overwhelming. My eyes are gummy and I can’t really see yet. There is this annoying beep in the background that just will not stop. Oh, great; my mouth is so dry I feel like I am about to cough.
“Just relax. I’ll get you some ice water.”
Ice water. That would be nice. But who the hell just said that? I try to force my eyes open with pure will power, but still; they are so dry and gummed up I am only getting a slit of light in through my eyelashes.
I try to croak out something, but make some horrible farm animal noise. Then a straw is stuck into my mouth. I sip down some cool water. I can feel it slide down my throat, can feel every ounce of it as it goes down. I don’t actually feel refreshed, I don’t feel any different. The second sip does the trick. I feel a little better. Now I croak out, “Eyes.”
I hear some shuffling noises. Then a wet napkin is rubbed over my eyes. As I peel my peepers wider open, I realize what I should have known: I’m in a hospital room. Still, I’m only twenty and young and healthy, I don’t feel like I am going to die. So did I have an accident? Maybe that is why I can’t really move around.