Reckless Hate: A Bully High School Romance (enemies-friends-enemies-lovers-enemies) (Westbrook Blues Book 1) Page 2

  Once upon a time, I wasn’t like this.

  Once upon a blue moon, I was happy.

  That was until, the blue hue disappeared one night.

  There is something about this place that has always irked me the wrong way. Something about the air, something about the way the people would stare, gossip and giggle like the gossip is the juiciest they have ever heard. But I guess that was their way of coping with the stifling air of dominance that stretched from beyond the valley—all the way up to the estates dotted around the hills like freaking fixtures of supremacy. I never missed them, not once in the four years that I was sent away from this place.

  Four fucking years.

  It’s been four, long, excruciating years of my life since I’ve been back to this hellhole.

  Four years of my life that I spent drowning in a kind of vicious darkness that sucked me in at night, shredded every last drop of hope that I had, then spit me back out during the day only for me, it was never day time. The sun never shone and nothing ever seemed to change. There was never a chance that I would recover. How could I after everything that has happened to me?

  After everything that happened in this very town—in his town. Their town.

  Four years of my life spent trying to move on. Trying to forget everything that happened here. How can one heal when thrust back into the same environment that corrupted you and caused you all this hurt, anger and pain? But then again, is there such a thing as healing? Is that possible for someone like me—craving the painful yet icy searing of the blue eyes that belonged to a boy that I once thought had the entire world at his feet. The same boy that I also thought would protect me. I guess it goes to show that my judgement is just crap. Really crap.

  But how could I ignore the need to have his eyes on me yet each time I opened my eyes, I was greeted with darkness. Now I’m back, to where it all began.

  Hell, if I could have had my way, I would have forgotten who I was entirely, and just let the earth open up and swallow me whole. But no, that’s not possible for the daughter of Richard and Amanda Fields, the elite of the elite. Housed up in the estates of Westbrook Blues, where only the finest, most refined and wealthy were established.

  I need that damn joint. My fingers are twitching but I ignore it as the memories assault me. I roll my tongue ring in my mouth over and over again, my entire body filling with dread with each mile closer to our destination.

  And to think I had spent four years of my life hoping that with each rise of the sun, I would be dead. I know, it’s not exactly a savory thought for a young girl my age—as they like to remind me—to be having ‘these kind of thoughts’ but that’s just bullshit. Who the hell are ‘they’ to tell me that I can’t be feeling a certain type of way or can’t harbor certain thoughts in my own fucking mind? Who the fuck are ‘they’ to try and tell me how to cope with my demons and nightmares? Have ‘they’ ever been in my shoes? I think not.

  “Fuck.” I whisper the word to myself, feeling my heart pump painfully in my chest. I can’t help my issues. I can’t kick them even if I tried.

  It’s safe to say that my will to live, my eagerness for life was long gone and I spent four years doing anything possible to end the misery in my head, in my heart, body but mostly, in my damn bleak soul that gapes at me each time I look in the mirror—taunting me, reminding me that there is no way out. Depression is really the devil and each time I look at myself—I see that. I’m reminded of that.

  I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the sharp ache in my chest as I think back to everything I missed out on. Time snatched away my right to grow into the stereotypical reckless teenager with my brother by my side. Time took away my freedom as well as my right to choose. Time took away four boys from me—the same boys that had made my life better and miserable at the same time.

  Westbrook took away so much from me, and that just made my ire greater with each year that passed.

  But today, today I’m back to where it all started, as if the last four years never happened. As if nothing happened here at all. But grief, is another thing all together. Today, I’m faced with a kind of grief that I have never known in my life. I can’t say I’ve actually come to terms with it, but the gaping void space in my soul tells me that it’s real.

  Just thinking of the word alone—grief—the heavy lilt it has on your tongue as if to pull you down along with it, deep into the abyss of nothingness, makes me groan in pain. I’m all too familiar with the darkness—just not this kind of grief that steals my breath with each mile that passes as we get closer to the one place I would rather not have seen for the rest of my life.

  I’m rolling the tongue bar in my mouth nervously, anything to keep my mind somewhat focused and away from the pain that waits for me, away from the panic that is constantly stirring and rising in me, barely waiting to be unleashed. But I can’t afford that—not here. Not in Westbrook. Never in their town.

  The Lincoln rolls down the street, I look out the window noticing that while things changed, they remained the same. Especially here. Nothing ever changed in the valley, and I’m sure it’s the same way for the estates up in the mountains. Deteriorating from within their finely, extravagant established structures. It almost makes me want to set this town on fire, enjoy a piece of fried chicken from the best restaurant in town, the Haven, as I watch it all burn.

  It almost always looks like its summer time in Westbrook Blues. Everything is easy and cool. The skies are blue, the housewives are good looking trophy wives and the daddies are rich, easy going fools. Yeah, as if we don’t know that each household has its own darkness that lurks and creeps in at night. As if Westbrook Blues is not filled to the brim with secrets.

  A nice, suburban house catches my attention from the corner of my eye and I notice a little girl playing with the water sprinklers around her. Her mother—no—her nanny, is busy berating her for her reckless behavior presumably, you can see the evident stress marring her older features but the little girl keeps on playing as if nothing in the world will ever take away her joy. As if she is blissfully unaware of just how evil this world is, or the lengths other people would go just to dim that light—snuffing it out until you don’t know what light and joy is anymore.

  I was like that once.

  So unbothered by life. So happy and at peace. I was just a girl filled with dreams, hopes and aspirations. I saw the world in a wonderful kaleidoscope of bright, brilliant colors while growing up in Westbrook. I loved the view of the stars I would get from my room—the same stars that I was introduced to by the boy who stole my first kiss when we were alone and enjoyed tormenting me, ruthlessly, while in public.

  Nothing about the moon and the stars interested me at all, until that night, getting the best view from one of the boy’s estates, which so happened to be my neighbor. We would camp outside—0r rather, the boys would camp outside but since I never had girl friends of my own for a long time, I snuck in their little campsite, but I think they knew.

  It would be me and the four boys that consumed my life and then proceeded to destroy it at a time I needed them the most. Fuck, I hate this repeating cycle of thoughts. Each time I think of Westbrook, I can’t help but be reminded of every good thing that ever happened to me while I was here.

  Noah, the cute boy who declared himself as my best friend one Thursday afternoon at school, after all the other girls refused to play with me and the mean boys made fun of me.

  Emmett, the silent, smart and kind of shy boy that stole my heart and brought out a nurturing side of me that I never realized I had or that he would need it. All I knew was, he was mine to take care of—even in shy silence.

  Alexander—Ace—the ring leader of them all. The frosty blue-eyed boy with a short temper and an evil hint in his smirk. The boy who would bully me in private, ignore me in public but still stole my heart with each time that he laid eyes on me like I’m. . .the stars to his dark sky.

  Then my twin turbo, the better half of my life, George. The vibrant energy
that kept me together in all these years but now. . .

  I shut my eyes tightly, hoping that when I open them, this will all be just a dream. Westbrook Blues gave me so much joy but for the past four years, I have never thought of the good without the immediate torrent of evil flooding in my thoughts, souring each memory I have of this place.

  I sigh as I think back to how gullible I was when we moved here. I was so excited for life. But that, just like everything else, was smothered, then completely disappeared, not leaving a single trace. No, that’s a lie. I had a trace of my existence before. I had the very best part of my existence with me, still alive but now—that too—has been ripped away from me by this very place.

  The other half of me—the light to my dark, the joy to my miserable existence—is gone. The emptiness I feel can testify to the absence of life within me now. And thus, the reason I’m back. Viciously summoned by the sudden death of the very best of me—my twin brother, George.

  Barely eighteen years old, never having done any of the many rambunctious plans he had for the rest of his life and now he is gone. Gone just like that. . .

  I wish that little girl could spend more time in the sun, play as much as she wants because life is short. Just because you are still breathing doesn’t mean you are alive. I haven’t been alive for four years now and if I’m honest, I don’t mind it at all. I would have remained in my state of bleak depression if it wasn’t for George. The only one that I bothered to gather myself up to talk to. Pulling myself out of my self-inflicted ruts just to see his smile, but now. . .even his light has been snuffed out. Permanently this time.

  “Just a few minutes to the estate, Miss.”

  I’m jarred out of my thoughts by the deep, old voice of Mr. Trumbull. My family’s butler who has been with us—or rather, with them—for as long as we have lived here. The old geezer has been glancing back at me through the rearview mirror every five minutes since picking me up from the airport forty-eight minutes ago. I don’t have a watch. I hate those damn things but I am very good at numbers and counting. God knows I have counted down to the milliseconds until my life would end but instead, four years later—it’s not me who is not breathing and I hate that more than anything else.

  “Thank you.” Is all I manage to say.

  There is no need to lash out at the poor man for following instructions. Honestly, one would think that after tragedy strikes, a family would rally together and maybe my parents would actually have the decency of picking me up themselves but no, they have been held back by “an unexpected”, long forgotten prior engagement. What kind of engagement would that be on today of all days?

  I fucking hate this place. My fingers continue to twitch, needing to light up a blunt. I just want to inhale and exhale something right now but I can’t. How the hell am I going to get through this?

  I was just a broken, lost thirteen-year old girl and they sent me away like I was nothing. When I needed them the most, when I really needed shoulders to lean on, when I needed my boys—they deserted me, ordered me to go away after the mess I allegedly created for myself.

  The click, click sound of the tongue bar in my mouth knocking around my teeth is the only sound that I can hear, but my heart is competing right along it.

  Four years and I haven’t seen my father, the man that was supposed to protect me—to be on my side. Four years and my mother—my cold blooded, bitch of a mother would much rather hang by the fine thread of her Tom Ford gowns before she ever acknowledged reality. It was George that kept everything in check, George who kept me informed but now he’s gone and I have no idea what I’m about to face. Well whatever. It is what it is, isn’t it?

  The scenery quickly changes as we leave the valley and go up the side of the mountain, to the estates that loom over like freaking scary houses with beautiful masks.

  My stomach begins twisting. I start sweating. No, no, no. This is not happening, not now, not in this car with Trumbull’s curious gaze sweeping to mine every few minutes. No, keep it together Raea.

  I knew I should have popped a pill before leaving the plane. I should have done something to calm my nerves but fucking hell, I thought I could take it.

  I close my eyes and try to stop my heart from racing, try to control the anxiety that is about to become a full-blown attack. Now is not the time, it’s hardly the time to be dealing with all of this bullshit anyway. I can do this. I have to do this. But just as soon as I affirm that to myself, I make the mistake of looking out my window and I see it.

  I would recognize those huge, intimidating gates from anywhere in the world. The gates of hell are what they are—housing the devil and his minions. I would also trace that Westbrook Blues crest from my sleep. It’s bigger now—I think they enlarged it somehow. It’s gold now, gleaming in the sunlight with no short of grandiose and splendor that attacks anyone who dares to approach the damn gates.

  That crest does the talking for the estates that lay beyond that gate. Hell, it does the talking for the rest of Westbrook Blues.

  I see it clearly as the car comes to a stop—for security clearance. I can see the two phoenix birds that surround the sword. And right on top of the sword is the crown. The crown that represent Ace King—or more precisely his family but whatever, it’s him. He is everywhere and nowhere at the same time and I hate it. I hate how my heart flutters and my fists clench. I hate how I just sucked in a breath but I mostly hate how it’s the crown that I keep seeing over and over again in my head.

  My gaze drops down the crest, and at the bottom is some kind of engraved flames that the birds fire out, aimed at the tip of the double-edged sword. I don’t know what happens, but a flashback hits me square in the chest right then. Suddenly all I can see, all I can feel is the blazing of a roaring fire. The fire is so close, so real that I swear, I almost feel it about to scorch my skin.

  I start panting, my teeth start rattling and I have a sudden urge and need to run away.

  “Stop the car, please.” I plead but my voice is too low and almost inaudible. I need to get out of here.

  I need to go.

  I can’t go through these gates. I can’t go back there. I was lying to myself on the way over, I can’t do this. I won’t ever be able to do this.

  “Pardon, Miss. I didn’t hear what you said, could you repeat that please?”

  “Stop the damn car!”

  I don’t know if the old man hears me or if he decides to purposely ignore me but the car actually gains speeds as we pass the gates. Irritated and dreading each second, I begin scratching my own palms, ignoring the moisture there. My breathing is heavy and audible in the back of the SUV, my gaze is frantic as I look around. It feels really hot in here, as if there is an actual fire somewhere. I look around, trying to find an escape route but as if the old man can actually hear my thoughts, I hear the tale tell sound of the doors clinking locked. Fuck.

  “I’m sorry Miss. But we are almost there. You can rest once we arrive.”

  I’m tongue tied. I don’t say a single thing but I’m panicking.

  Breathe, Astraea.

  I try to take deep breaths, clutching the pendant around my neckline like a lifeline of sorts but it doesn’t help as the first estate comes into sight. It’s large and intimidating huge stone structure that I clearly remember, looming over as if taunting me. I faintly take it in but I quickly forget it as the car speeds down the private lane.

  I need to gather myself. In less than a minute, I’ll be facing my parents and I can’t do that in this state of mind. I have to be calm and not allow either one of them to get to me or affect me in anyway. Smart, be smart Raea.

  Quickly, I unbuckle my seat belt, tug up onto the bench on my knees, then turn back, over the seats, where the steward stored my luggage. I frantically search for my small backpack, barely aware of my surroundings that are changing rapidly as we drive. I’m barely aware of the car that is behind us or the intense gaze that is trained on me—seemingly knowing exactly what I’m doing from over there.
But I’m unaware of that as I search for my backpack.

  My breathing falters more than once but I push away all the other bags, in search of my backpack—until I peek at the black and blue leather strap buried under the bigger suitcases. I reach forward and tug it with all my might, just as it lets loose, the car comes to a screeching halt, forcing me to lose my balance and I tumble backwards until my back hits the passenger’s seat behind me, halting any further movement from me with a dull thud. I hear a loud, purring engine of a powerful car but it’s soon gone as if it was never there. Fuck, this panic attack is really doing a number on me.

  “What the hell, T?”

  “My goodness, are you alright?” Trumbull questions when he glances back to inspect the trouble he caused, finding me unceremoniously spread out on the car’s carpeted floor. His monotonous voice is still the same but there is some lingering annoyance in his eyes. Annoyance at me? I don’t know.

  “I’m alright. What happened?” I try to question but my voice is shaky. My entire body is shaking but I now have my backpack in my grasp. I don’t bother righting myself to sit on the bench again. I don’t think I could make it either way.

  “Oh, just a little unexpected road trouble, is all.” He explains then turns back and soon the car is in motion.

  I ignore his explanation. Honestly, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about what road trouble we got into so long as I have my bag.

  Quickly, I make short work of the locked zipper, undoing it, I sink my hand right in there, digging around, searching, hunting for the one thing that will put me back in my zen mode that I worked so hard to get into. My hand latches onto the bottle, I pull my hand out quickly, gasping with bated relief as soon as the bottle with only twelve pills left—is in my hands.