Whisper (New Adult Romance) (2 page)

He didn't make it easy on me. He batted his eyes, with a smirk yanking at one side of his mouth. “Yes?”

I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. “Do you have anything?”

The smile was full on now. Teeth sharp and glittering white. “Never leave home without my drugstore. But I thought—”

“Just give me something,” I snapped. What I didn't say was he could drop the whole concerned act. If he was really concerned, he'd say no even if he was carrying. My conscience dug its talon-like fingertips in my chest.
He's no good. You don't belong here. You should have just called Leila after—

He shook two pills into my hand. Tiny white squares.

“One if you want a buzz. Two if you want to get fucked up.”

The music heightened and I threw the pills back with my sixth shot of the night.

Bottoms up.

M
ia!

My eyelids won't flutter. I winced as I tried to open them, swallowing. My mouth is bone dry and filled with cotton. I wanted to stay asleep, to stay in the bliss of the darkness. Away from what I was sure would be one hell of a lecture. I entertained the idea of just lying here on the—

My back cried out in agony, the haze of sleep losing its grip on me. I was thrust headfirst into consciousness, whether I refused to open my eyes or not...and my back felt like someone had come after me with a cheese grater.

The voice wasn't coming from the end of a tunnel. It was coming from above me. And it was
pissed
.

“I know you're not asleep, Mia. And I'm not going anywhere until you explain what happened last night.”

Last night.

I nearly groaned when the fragments of the night flitted across my consciousness. Scott's text. Me downing several gulps of wine before I answered and told him I'd go out with him. Finishing said bottle of wine and nearly opening a second when he showed up with a bottle of vodka. Shots in the car, me drinking 75% of it all by myself. Awkwardness. And then gulping back two tiny pills that were supposed to take my pain away.

The morning after, everything in me ached from my scalp down to my ankles. Those damn shoes.

When I finally opened my eyes to see who my in-person wake up call was, I wished I could shut them again. I’d hoped it was my mom, finding me passed out on the floor. Clothes all rumpled, smoke scented mess, hair a bird’s nest of knots and tangles, and face smeared with drool, makeup, and regret.

But it was Leila Montgomery. My publicist – and the number I should have called when I was tempted by Scott last night.

Leila was about my height, 5’7, but she loomed over me with a shadow that made me gulp. Her curly dark brown hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head, and I had a perfect view of just how disappointed she was in me. Her dark brown eyes were narrowed in displeasure, her nostrils flared, and her lips were pulled back into a snarl. “What were you thinking, Mia?”

I covered my face, shame setting me on fire. “I know. I
know
.”

She didn’t back down. “If you know, why were you sleeping on the floor of your bedroom? Why did I wake up to pictures of you staggering on the sidewalk? Smiling so drunkenly at the camera that it made me cringe? Why did I see that douchebag Scott winking at the camera beside you?”

“Scott,” I hissed. Another memory hit me, a stinging blow that made me bite my lip to keep from crying out. In the memory, I was giggling hysterically, slobbering like a dog. Scott didn’t even help me out of the cab even though cameras were right outside, bulbs flashing in the dark as I nearly crashed to the cement. The doorman hustled to help me and I remembered looking over his shoulder, the brake lights of the cab shining as brightly as the stars in the sky.

A knot swelled in my throat and I turned my head to the side. I couldn’t stand the pity in Leila’s eyes. “He left me. Fucking asshole.”

She could have said, ‘Well, duh’ or any variation of, but she didn’t say anything. I tilted my head back in her direction, studying her. Her hair wasn’t pulled into a bun as much as a messy ponytail with wiry curls escaping from her clip. Her shirt and jeans were wrinkled, like she’d pulled them on in a hurry. Matched with her gaze and the flush in her cheeks, I confirmed the fact that I’d hung out with the wrong person last night.

I pulled myself up with a wince, my body berating me for last night. Mercilessly. “You look like crap.”

The tiniest smile drifted across her lips. “You’re one to talk.” She gave me a final once over and darted from the room. She came back with a glass of water. I expected her to chuck it at me. Drench me back to common sense. I jumped when she offered it to me instead.

She quirked an eyebrow. “It’s just a glass of water, Mia.”

My eyes welled with tears as I shook my head. It was so much more than a glass of water. It was the true friendship I’d always wanted. I didn’t believe no strings attached existed for people like me. “You can’t just –” I dropped my head back in my hands, sobs ripping through me, shredding my attempts at pretending I had it together.

Her arms wrapped tight around me, creating a shield of warmth. She would have snatched the wine bottle away from me last night and ordered a pizza instead. She wouldn’t have let me get trashed then dump me on my doorstep where cameras were waiting to take advantage of my incapacitation. I clasped Leila like my life depended on it. Like she was the only thing keeping me from truly crumbling.

“It’s okay,” she said, stroking my back. “We’ll figure it out together.”

I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “Do I even want to see the pictures?”

She twisted her mouth to one side and shook her head once. “Let’s not worry about that right now.” She rose to her feet and held out a hand. “Why don’t you drink some water, have a little something to eat, get cleaned up, and we’ll go from there?”

Cleaned up? My senses were growing stronger and when I sniffed again, I nearly gagged.  Beneath the heady smell of cigarettes and liquor, something smelled rotten. I looked down and saw my rug was discolored. With vomit.

I took her hand, the room spinning before it righted. “At least I didn’t get any on my dress.” I quipped.

Leila didn’t crack a grin. “I’ll wait on the couch.”

I shuffled into the bathroom, twisting the faucet until the water pounded my flesh. I wiped away the grime and scrubbed until my skin smelled like my cinnamon soap and my hair was sweet like vanilla. After I pulled on a fresh shirt and jeans, I brushed my teeth until I couldn’t taste the lingering booze and bile.

When I came out, she’d poured me a bowl of cereal and paired it with a banana that was dancing precariously close to rotten. My stomach stuck its tongue out at my eyes. It wasn’t gourmet, but I was so hungry I didn’t care. Leila let me take a few bites before she asked me the question that filled the room.

“What happened?”

“Well,” I swallowed and drummed my spoon against the rim of my bowl. “Scott texted me–”

“I don’t mean literally.” She moved to the bar, leaning against the granite. “I mean, why would you do it? Things were going so well. You were keeping a low profile, other than being Rachel Laraby’s shadow.”

We shared a conspiratorial smile. Everyone seemed to think Rachel Laraby, an A-list actress, farted and sunshine came out of her butt. Hell, I might have even idolized her – and then I met her at an Awards after party. She had been treating her assistant like a slave, not even acknowledging the poor guy by his name. After awkward introductions were made, I made a last ditch effort to play nice by complimenting her movie. She’d given me the most condescending smirk and said, “
You’ve
seen my movie?”

Sure, I was sixteen at the time. And her movie was a highly existential Oscar bait romp, but it was the fact that she thought she was so amazing, so perfect, that only the precious few had a right to witness her performance. It made me hate her.

After I connected with Leila and learned that Rachel was also with my PR firm, Whitmore and Creighton (and had her sights on Leila’s boyfriend Jacob Whitmore), I had the best idea to put her in her place. Rachel had feigned interest in me for the cameras, probably hoping her philanthropist turn would woo the billionaire, so I forced her to make good on it. For two glorious weeks, I had been attached to her like glue. After finally snapping, she fled to Europe, claiming she needed a break from public life.

I picked at my cereal, my smile faltering. “Things were good.”

“And?”

I didn’t talk about Jenna to anyone. It was my weird way of protecting her from this life. A lot of good that did. My stomach flipped as I remembered Mom’s elated text.
‘Your sister’s on her way!’

My heart had stopped, like she’d just told me it was raining fire and locusts were eating her flesh. I preferred the apocalypse over my sister getting wrapped up in my mother’s schemes.

And then I tapped on the link.

If you think Mia Kent is hot, check out her sister, Jenna.

And there was my seventeen-year-old sister, blonde hair pulled back in pigtails, wearing a cotton candy pink bra and matching panties. Her fingers pulled at the g-string and her lips were parted slightly like she was a breath away from asking you to...to...

My chin trembled. “It’s my sister.” I put down my spoon, my appetite a distant memory. “Jenna.”

Leila popped up, her eyes wide. “Is she okay?”

“Yes. No. I mean, it’s not like that. It’s my mom.”

Leila’s eyes darkened. “Charlotte.”

Such an innocent name. Couldn’t be further from what my mother was.

I hadn’t told anyone, even my therapists, half of what my mother had done to me and my sister over the years. The tanning, the daily workouts, the diets, the weigh-ins, all of it paled next to her words. There’s nothing quite like the person that’s supposed to take care of you telling you that
you
must work to provide for your family. That cereal ad? That’s the rent. The insurance one? Groceries. The TV show that meant I’d never step foot into a real school again? That was keeping the family in the lifestyle we’d become accustomed to.

At the back of my mind, I always hoped I’d make enough so Jenna could lead a normal life. But when I saw that text with all the exclamation points and my sister with her dead eyes, I knew I’d been stupid.

Leila was waiting, and getting this out, saying it aloud, would set me free.

And then I heard a knock on the door.

I slumped against the counter, peeling my banana. I knew exactly who it was.

Leila peered at the door. “Do you need to get that?”

“Nope, she has a key that she’ll use in 3, 2...”

“Are you -?” The ‘decent’ was left unsaid.

Mom had walked in on me doing things a mother should never see her daughter doing, but unsurprisingly, it hadn’t changed her habit of busting into my apartment whenever she felt like it.

“Miss Montgomery.” Mom gave Leila a cold once over. “It’s a little early for Whitmore & Creighton, isn’t it?” She made it no secret that she thought she should be my Jill of all Trades –assistant, publicist, and slave driver.

Leila took it in stride. “Good morning, Mrs. Kent. How are you?”

“I’ll be better once I can spend some quality time with my daughter.” Mom didn’t bother with niceties.

Leila looked at me for confirmation. Even though the last thing I wanted was for her to leave, I gave her a nod and promised to call her later.

Once Leila was gone, my mother snatched up my bowl and sent it flying. The metallic crash should have made me jump, but I was used to her throwing things for effect.

“Are you trying to ruin everything, Mia?”

M
om braced her arms on the counter, eyes savage and domineering. You'd think we were at some board meeting and she was glaring her employees into submission. I crossed my arms, a sick thought coming to mind. She
was
the CEO of me in a weird way. In charge of the business of turning me into a commodity. And right now, our stock was in free fall.

“Is this some delayed adolescent temper tantrum?” Her fingers curled, like she was contemplating choking something. Or imagining wrapping her fingers around another dish and sending it flying. “You're better than this.”

I gave her a halfhearted shrug. “Maybe I'm exactly this. I'm just following the standard trajectory. Wealth and fame at a young age, crash and burn once I get some wiggle room.” The tabloids called it freedom, but there was no such thing. For the briefest moment when I turned eighteen, I let myself believe that I could walk away from her. Write her a check and cut all ties. I even wrote said check. Left it blank – she could have had everything in my account if it meant I'd never have to see her face again. But my father chose my eighteenth birthday to make
his
escape. He finally grew a backbone and left my mother for some girl a year older than me.

It was the first time I'd ever seen my mother cry. That I ever felt like she was human and cared enough about any of us to miss us if we went away.

Four years later, I wished I’d had my dad's guts. He moved to Emerald Isle and was living a quiet life far away from the flashing lights.

I looked down at the banana I’d peeled. It looked decent on the outside, but it was bruised and rotten within. I hurled it in the trash and turned back to my mother. A quick once over and I knew this was no intervention. She was in a tailored blouse and blazer, trousers snaking down to pumps. It was a uniform I knew well, the crisp separates she gravitated to when she was getting down to business.

“So, who am I meeting with today?” I grumbled.

She pressed her hand to her chest and pretended to be utterly shocked. “I came here because I'm worried about you, Mia. I saw those pictures splashed all over the Internet.” She dropped the parent act and became the monster that was scarier than anything under my bed. “Despite popular opinion, I didn't raise a coked-up whore.”

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling before I maneuvered around her and picked out a container of yogurt. She snatched it away, turning it around so she could see the label, probably looking for the words low fat, then skimmed the nutrition info. Satisfied, she handed it back to me.