Reckless Hate: A Bully High School Romance (enemies-friends-enemies-lovers-enemies) (Westbrook Blues Book 1) Page 5

  It’s his blue eyes that have haunted me none stop these past four years. The very same eyes that I kept fighting the darkness just to see and at the same time, allowed myself to fall into the abyss just to somehow conjure the feeling I got each time those frosty blue eyes were trained on me.

  I gasp and tears start falling down my cheeks.

  This room feels like them—all four of them. It feels light—like Noah. Silent and broody like Emmett, a bit happy and full of life like my brother but then I can feel the chill in the room and I know who contributed that.

  “Umm, I’ll just leave you to it. You have less than forty-minutes until the car leaves for the church, Miss.”

  And with that, Emma scurries out of the room, leaving me to take in the room with tears in my eyes and an overwhelming sense of peaceful chaos within me, like a brewing storm.

  Even when I kept telling George that I would never come back to Westbrook Blues, he clearly ignored me and went on to create this, with some help that is. God knows George was never good at colors—that's probably Noah. A sad chuckle leaves me as I think of my boys. But something tells me they are no longer boys.

  I guess George really hoped that I would one day come home.

  “YOU SHOULD COME BACK, you know.”

  “No, George. I can’t stand being there at all. The thought of it gives me hives and goosebumps.”

  “So, you won’t even come for me? Even if I have something huge for you prepared there?”

  “Well, I love you and you know I hate surprises” He smirks at that and I laugh, “but the only way I will ever set foot there is if you die. Are you about to die?”

  We both start laughing and then he turns away and looks out the window when I keep laughing but his laughter has long since died down.

  “No, but it would be a step in the right direction if you faced your demons.”

  “Yeah, some demons will consume you whole if you face them—let alone if you get close to them. I’m good George. I’m good here, forever.”

  I REMEMBER THAT CONVERSATION from two years ago like we just had it a few hours ago. I remember that very visit for many reasons that make me angry for other reasons. For one, that visit was my mother’s last time coming to see me in London. After that, she might as well have washed her hands off of me—look at the way she just welcomed me home for context.

  George, being my lifeline, kept coming back every two months. Each time he did, he would try and convince me to come back. My answer was always the same and now I am back, as if I somehow spoke his death into reality. That’s just some messed up voodoo but fuck, how is it that George is gone? It all doesn’t make sense and doesn’t feel right.

  A knock sounds at my door and I quickly wipe my tears away. I will never let anyone within this house or around this town see me at my most vulnerable. Never again.

  “Yes?” My voice is strong, sure, maybe just as hard as my mother’s but whatever.

  “Miss, Sir. Fields has instructed that you come down to the study as soon as you are done. I have also laid out an outfit for you to wear as per Madam Fields’ request.”

  Hmm, Daddy dearest has summoned me. And Mommy thinks she can dress me up to fit her ‘image’.

  “Thank you.”

  I glance towards the large bed where I notice an elegant, strapless dress laid out, as well as a pair of beautiful high heels that I will not wear, come hell or high water.

  I pick the dress up, wiping my tears away with fury. I cross the room to what I’m guessing is the closet, and look at that, I’m right. I start rummaging around the closet looking for my luggage so I can take out some of my clothes, fresh underwear and shit but all my bags are empty.

  The devil may work hard, but the maids here work harder and faster. Especially when they have Amanda Fields as the Lady of the house. I roll my eyes at that and rummage around the many drawers until I find brand new and expensive underwear and bras neatly laid out. And everything is in my size.

  The fuck?

  I open the rest of the drawers in shock, sliding open the wardrobe doors as I go. I’m met by rows upon rows of perfectly laid out, organized clothes. All of them in my size.

  Okay, don’t freak out. Just breath, you don’t have placement issues. This is temporary.

  Is it though?

  Why are there this many clothes in this room when I don’t live here at all? Surely there must be some kind of mistake.

  Where are my clothes—the very same ones that I came with from London? I search around other drawers to no avail. I open cupboards, move around the stylishly expensive clothes that hang on the racks but my own familiar clothes are nowhere to be found.

  Surely these maids must have put my clothes somewhere or else, where could they be? My shoes!

  I inspect the rows upon rows of shoes perfectly displayed on the shelfs with perfect lighting like my walk-in closet is some kind of fashion show but my sneakers aren’t there. It dawns on me as I search for my clothes that they are all gone and my mother is responsible for it all.

  Thanks to the fucking anxiety pill I took, my nerves are calm. I feel composed and not at all bothered. A few items of clothing will not derail me from my plans, not even when my dearest mother obviously has a scheme brewing. I’m chill. I’m not about to lose my shit so, as gracefully as possible while making a mental note in my head to confront my mother, I walk out of the closet, straight for my large bathroom and shower away the long travel, with a calmness that I have mastered for four years.

  While in the shower I remind myself who the fuck I am and why I am here. I’m not staying for long. I’ll be out of here as soon as I see to it that my brother is resting in peace.

  AFTER TAKING A NICE long shower, and making sure that I test to the limit—the time constraints that my mother imposed on me, I’m finally ready for the funeral.

  Much to my annoyance, I had to put on some makeup to my pale face. I have no idea who is going to be at that damn funeral but none of these Westbrook bratz will get to me or catch me not on point. I might have just lost my twin brother, but I still have my pride. The same pride that I had to work on. I won’t allow this place to break me anymore that it has already.

  I even pinched my cheeks so I look a little human, instead of the ghost that stares back at me in the mirror. But I can’t do anything about my red rimmed eyes. The tears just came down fast and hot as soon as the shower started, suddenly feeling so acutely, the absence of my brother.

  Being the other half of someone else is both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing for all seventeen years of our lives because even when I felt like giving up and dying, George still had the will to live. Somehow, I don’t know how though, I stayed alive simply because he willed it. But now. . .

  “Astraea, you get down here this instant!”

  I hear my mother’s stern voice as I slowly make my way down the stairs, watching her as she clutches her expensive diamond necklace, irritation marring her face. Who wears diamonds at a funeral?

  “I’m here.” I announce in a bored tone. I hate this place, I hate my parents even more. I can’t wait to leave. I know it looks like I’m a spoiled rich kid but I guarantee, Amanda Fields is not for the faint of heart.

  “And about time too. This is not London young lady, as long as you are in this house, you will be on time or else.”

  Her violent threat is issued like a decree and when before I would have shivered in fear, this time I just chuckle.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Amanda, I just got lost. You are right though, this is nothing at all like the mental institution you left me to rot in for the past four years. This is worse.” I point out, looking for a rise out of her. And I’m not wrong, at least in London, there was some semblance of life. This monstrosity is just. . .empty and dead.

  My mother’s eyes widen. I watch as she gasps, completely bewildered that I talked back to her, but I’m not done.

  “Why isn’t Auntie here by the way? You remember her, right?
The woman who was more of a mother to your children in four years than you have ever been thirteen years before that. Surely you remember your own sister—the one your own husband was. . .”

  I don’t get to finish my statement because in a blur of a second, she marches over to me and slaps me right across the face. My head whips to the left and a gasp leaves her but I let out a chuckle.

  The slaps stings like a bitch but I just got my answer. My mother is no longer the gracious, lovely woman she used to be. I mean, that should have been obvious when she screamed in my thirteen-year old face that I’m lying, simply making up drama, accusing people when in fact I was just a reckless, spoiled and entitled little bitch.

  She never questioned anything, never bothered to take her time to find out what happened to me. Instead, soon after shouting at me in that hospital room, she signed me away to stay in an institution.

  Aunt Sarah is my mother’s way younger sister. I think she is closer to my age than she is to my mother which is probably why I tolerated her. That was, until I found out that she hiked up her ratchet skirt, spread her knees and gave it up—repeatedly—to the man who is supposed to be my father. The same man that never bothered to see me while I was out there, but apparently had all the time in the world to leave his wife to go bone said wife’s sister in the very city that I was in.

  I have the best family ever.

  Before that though, Sarah would visit me often, almost on a daily basis. She never looked at me like I’m crazy, but maybe that was all an act, knowing what she was doing with my father behind my back. Sarah is just like her sister, smiles in your face, turns around and stabs you in the back repeatedly, then turns around and questions you with faux concern where the blood is coming from.

  Talking about her now, is only to see my mother’s reaction. I wanted to see if she knew what was happening all these years and yup, she knew. And she is still with that asshole.

  Sarah was supposed to come out here with me for her nephew’s funeral but she didn’t even drive me to the airport. I know my mother had something to do with it. After all, my father much preferred her over my mother any day of the week.

  “How dare you speak like that to me in my house? You are here. . .”

  “Because my brother died, you bitch!” I shout, cutting her off. “George is dead and you stand here in front of me, looking like you are about to go have tea with your little circle of daft friends. What do you call yourselves these days, huh Mother? The Real Housewives of bitchery? Oops, the Real Housewives of Nasty Westbrook, yeah that’s the one.”

  I watch unbothered as her face begins to grow darker with color, getting angrier with each word that I utter. Maybe I should shut my mouth now, yeah I should but I can’t. I can’t stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth.

  “You are a self-serving bitch, I’m surprised you could get your head out of your own ass for your own son’s funeral, seeing that the daughter you fucking sent away for four years is back!”

  “You have no idea how I feel about your brother’s sudden death and by God Astraea, if you are looking for the monster in me, mention anything about a mental institution to anyone—anyone at all—today and I’ll unleash a kind of hell you have not suffered before.” She spits as she gets into my face. I can literally see the hell in her eyes but I’m no longer that girl anymore.

  “If I were you, I would tread carefully. We wouldn’t want that monster to show in front of the prosperous yet weirdly sympathetic community of Westbrook, now do we?” I mock, pouting my lips, throwing my head back to watch her like the pathetic excuse of a woman that she is, knowing full well that I’m grating on her last nerves.

  Good. The days of me being scared of this bitch or anyone in this town are long gone.

  All this woman cares about is her ‘image’. Meanwhile, her sorry excuse of a cheating husband, only cares about dipping his pen in company—and societal—ink.

  Pathetic. And to think George was around all of this. . .misery. Strangely though, he never brought it up, never talked about any of this mess at all. I still wonder if he knew what happened to me four years ago. . .

  There is a cold vindictive threat in my mother’s eyes that is so foreign to me but very much expected from Amanda Fields. George tried to downplay what was going on here but I’m no fool, I can see exactly what he wasn’t telling me. Our mother is no longer our mother.

  “Astraea. . .” She starts but I cut her off with a hand to her face, happy that I took that pill before this confrontation—or else my emotions would be all over the place.

  “Don’t worry mother.” I spit the word with as much venom as I can muster, years of turmoil and abandon being released in that moment. “I got your back. I know how you don’t want your little friends, that you don’t even like, to know just how disgusting you are. We wouldn’t want word to get out about how vile, obnoxious—and whoops would you look at that. . . imperfect—you are.”

  “You, ungrateful little brat!”

  “Enough!”

  We both freeze as we turn to look at my father who just spoke. I don’t know if it’s me or is it the temperature of the large foyer that has just dropped down to way below zero, but it suddenly feels so arctic in here as soon as my father opened his mouth.

  “Astraea, that is unbecoming of you. Talking back to your mother like that.” He says, his dark hazel eyes starring me down until the only place that I manage not to feel the weight of his stare is by looking down.

  Just seeing the man— and God knows I wasn’t ready for it—but seeing this man makes my heart twist so damn painfully in my chest, it leaves me almost gasping for breath. As I stare at the floor.

  He used to be my father, damnit. The hero of my life, and the greatest disappointment of my life. The guy literally broke my heart, by the looks of it now, he doesn’t care about that either. After four years of not seeing me, he strides in here pretending like he knows me—or anything about me to say that. I can’t bear to be in his presence.

  “You will do as your mother says. Is that understood?” His voice booms and echoes through the walls of this fancy foyer.

  “Yes.” Is all I manage to say. I won’t bother saying anything else, simply because I know he doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say. He never said a word to me after that night, and I won’t say anything to him now. It’s really a win, win scenario.

  I’m practically an orphan and my only sibling is gone. The boys that I once thought were my rock all hopped on the train of disappointing me. I can’t express just how much life has broken me, and just when I thought I was going to be alright, fucking George up and died. Even that doesn’t sit right, just like the fucking suit my father is wearing like a damn drug lord.

  I watch as he walks towards the front door which is miraculously opened by one of the servants who I did not notice at all.

  “Now hurry up, let’s give your brother the funeral that he deserves.”

  My father and George were close once before but somewhere along the way, that also fell apart. And that was before that damn party. So now that he says a funeral my brother deserves, what the hell does he mean?

  Once upon a time, I was his little girl. Once upon a time, he was a father and Amanda was a mother, just simple parents. But then, you can’t stumble around life, living on fairytales. Those damn things will just give you a kind of heartache that you can’t articulate. I’ve learnt that the hard way.

  I haven’t seen the man in over four years, not a single phone call, not a simple parental check-in. I got nothing at all, just static silence from him. It was almost seemed like I never existed. Like I was never here.

  I follow my parents out the door and we make our way to the waiting limo that will take us to the cemetery. As I get in, I make sure that I’m seated as far away from both of them as I can. But that must be on everyone’s mind because both my parents don’t even bother looking at each other. I should have taken a cardigan or something, about to catch a cold with all the chill in h
ere.

  I ignore them both, trying to come up with a game plan. I realize that I’m in this fucking world by myself now and so, nothing matters. I don’t have anything to lose so I’m going to be as reckless as I please. For one, I’m going to fuck all of this shit up.

  I just need to find out what the hell happened to my brother first. I’m alone yes, and in a way it feels like four years ago all over again. But this time, I’ll fucking straighten my spine and dish out all the hell and hate this place gave me like a pro.

  Starting with the two people responsible for my particular kind of hell.

  Amanda and Richard Fields.

  I’m going to enjoy watching them fall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ASTRAEA

  I HAVE NEVER REALLY understood the concept of death or funerals before. Hell, I have never been to a funeral my entire life but now here I am, never been in a church, never believed in anything before.

  The fragments of my already broken heart are aching and I think I’m about to have a panic attack.

  We are standing by the entrance to the church where we have been greeting all the mourners, the well-wishers and everyone else who came to pay their last respects to George. God, there are so many people here, more than I anticipated. And all of them are staring at me like I’m a freaking ghost.

  Almost everyone is looking at me funny. Most of them—probably kids George and I went to school with a long time ago—almost do a double take when they see me. It’s clear no one expected me to be back here, as a matter of fact, something tells me that these people thought I was dead. If only they knew.

  I can hear the whispers spreading in hushed out tones throughout the church. I can just about feel multiple sets of eyes on every inch of my body, as if I’m being scrutinized for their entertainment.

  As for my dearest mother, she made it a point to introduce me to every single ‘friend’ of hers as the ‘daughter that was doing amazing things overseas, now brought back by tragedy’. Bitch, please.