Beautiful Hell: A Contemporary High School Bully Romance Read online

  “Tell you what, Giselle. You go on your way, go home, take a hot bath, do whatever it is you do to relax,” I continue, eager to get this over with. “Come tomorrow, you and I will meet at school, we’ll be polite and pleasant to one another, and no one will have to know what a pathetic little tart you really are. But if you so much as run your mouth off, I’ll make sure your best job opportunity is at the nearest Walmart.”

  That’s it. That’s the final blow, and she knows it.

  It’s enough to send her crying out of my room and out of my house, forever. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the tires of her car screeching outside. It’s like a massive weight was removed from my shoulders. I only started dating her because I knew it would upset Kira. Boy, do I feel stupid now…

  15

  Kira

  I’ve finally found the courage to try my luck on the treadmill again. I’ve managed to make the pain go away before… why wouldn’t I be able to do it again?

  Taking deep breaths, I start the casual walking program and get on. At first, I move as though I’ve got a massive pole up my butt, permanently chastising myself for having allowed such physical degradation. I’m so fucking stiff, it’ll be a miracle if I ever perform a decent Arabesque ever again.

  Remembering my doctor’s words, I repeat them aloud. “Practice. It takes practice. It’ll be like starting over from scratch.”

  Can I do it, though?

  Can I really do it?

  I want to. The talk I had with Janelle didn’t feel like much progress at the time, since I was more or less hearing my father speaking through her, advising me to not give up on Wharton just yet. It didn’t feel like much progress, but it turns out that it was exactly that. By the time we were done with our coffees, and as the sugar rush from that chocolate cake subsided… I realized that I wasn’t done trying with ballet.

  Not yet, anyway.

  I could give it another shot. Heck, I am giving it another shot, right now…

  “Practice. It takes a lot of practice,” I say the words again. “It’s like starting from scratch.”

  That was much easier when I was a wide-eyed little girl fawning over Misty Copeland’s routines on TV. I’m tired now. Glancing to my left, I see the Oxy bottle on a side table, and I’m filled with hate and revulsion. Dammit, I’ve got to find a way to get that shit out of my system.

  As soon as the thought worms its way through my head, a sharp pain jolts up my leg, and I cry out. Falling off the treadmill, I land on my ass. Before I can even tell what’s happening, I burst into tears, no longer able to control myself. The pain only gets worse, throbbing, searing through my flesh as I look up at the Oxy bottle, filled with the pills that have both soothed and damned me this whole time.

  I have to break free…

  But not today. “Fuck it,” I mutter and pull myself back up, reaching for the Oxy. I pop one in my mouth and chew it like candy, its bitterness making me shiver. “Fucking fuck it.”

  Maybe it’s time to admit I have a problem. How do I even go about doing that? Do I… what, check myself in at the Betty Ford Clinic? Let the whole world know that the Fowler & Malone heiress has a fucking drug problem? That’ll quickly destroy my very last chance at a Julliard slot. That’ll be it. I will have nothing. No ballet. No Oxy. Just the prospect of Wharton and one day stepping into my father’s shoes—and that sounds like a fate worse than death.

  It’s my fault. Crying my heart out, I admit it. My fault. I put myself in this position, and now I don’t know how to get out of it.

  I’m so broken, so empty and helpless, so focused on my self-loathing and existential misery, that I don’t even hear the door open. I only hear Margaret’s gasp before she takes me in her arms.

  “Oh, honey, what happened?”

  Finding her soft and meaty shoulder, I finally let it all go. Sobbing, I hide inside her embrace as we stand for a few good minutes. Margaret has been like a second mother to me, for as long as I can remember. After Mom died, she acted as an impressive substitute, remembering every single detail of my old routine. This woman deserves a statue and a fucking fortune for all the work she put into raising me.

  I know her better than I know my father… which is a sad thing to say, but it’s the truth.

  She says nothing, waiting for me to calm down. She just holds me, as I remember the struggle that she went through just to get the morning pancakes right, filled with blueberries. I remember the trips she frequently made into the city just to get our favorite brand of maple syrup. I remember how many days she spent sewing and fixing my tutus. The hours invested in shopping for the right pair of ballet shoes.

  Look at me… crying while hooked on Oxy, desperate to get back to dancing… making a fool of myself and basically throwing all of Margaret’s efforts down the drain. And look at her, holding me tight, refusing to let go while I seek comfort.

  “I’m so sorry,” I manage, drawing deep breaths. My eyes sting, and I hope I’ve cried all my sorrows out already. It’s exhausting.

  “Oh, Kira, what are you sorry for?” Margaret asks gently, as she steps back to look at me. I shrug, pointing at myself.

  “Look at me. I’m a fucking mess…”

  Her eyes widen, since she rarely hears me curse. I think she might melt into a literal puddle if I say “fucking” two more times. “Kira, you’re having a rough time. It’s not hard to tell. But I know you, honey. You are strong. Stronger than you think…”

  I can’t help but scoff at the numbness seeping through my limbs. The Oxy is working, as always. The quickest route through the darkness, only it leads to even more obscure places. I need to look for the light but… where do I start?

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I say, leaning into a dresser and briefly glancing at the treadmill. “My mind is my own enemy right now. Whenever I think of doing something good for myself, something that requires some work and a certain kind of sacrifice on my part… it just turns against me. It sabotages my every effort to not be a mess…”

  Margaret cups my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her. For the briefest of moments, I find peace in her amber gaze and her motherly smile. Even when I’m a complete fuck-up, she still loves me. She accepts me. She encourages me to keep fighting.

  “Kira. Life will keep throwing punches at you,” she says. “This is only the beginning, and the way you handle whatever it is your going through now will define you for the rest of your life. Will you let this hurdle keep you down, or will you kick and punch until you overcome it?”

  She’s seriously asking me this, and I know what I want to respond with. The words just won’t come out. All I can do is stare at her and wonder… do I even deserve her in my life? My failings hurt her, too. She doesn’t look like she’s about to walk out that door anytime soon so… what do I tell her?

  “I want to fight,” I manage, my lower lip quivering. My eyes are getting wet again, the burn expanding down my throat and through my ribcage. It’ll take a little while longer for the Oxy to fully kick in. I’m waiting for a fucking pill to make me feel better. “I want to dance again.”

  “You have a long road ahead of you,” Margaret replies, firmly holding me in place. She’s not ready to let go of me yet. “Your heart is in the right place, but you’ve been through so much, already. I know… I know that losing your mother left a hole inside that not even I can fill. And the leg problem, well… it came at the worst of times. Your father lacks the patience he needs to guide you, to support you… I know that, too.”

  “So, what can I do?”

  I’m dangerously close to giving up. To spending another day in the paralyzing embrace of prescription medication. To feeling sorry for myself and doing absolutely nothing about it, once again. I need help.

  “You can take a deep breath,” Margaret says, and I do just that, closing my eyes for a second. “And you can take it one day at a time, provided you fight to make tomorrow better than today. It’s the best anyone can do in your circumstance.” S
he pauses and looks at the pill bottle on my side table. “I can’t tell you how to live your life, Kira, but I can tell you that those pills are just bandage. You need to let your wounds breathe, not keep them covered. It’s the final stage of the healing process… that’s where you’re stuck, honey. When the effect wears off, you know you’re exactly where you were before. You’re not moving forward, nor backwards… You’re just lingering, Kira, and life won’t let you linger for much longer. You’ll have to pick a direction.”

  I nod slowly, not at all shocked that she knows about the pills. Margaret knows everything about me, probably even the things I don’t want her knowing about. Case in point, she just looked at the Oxy like it wasn’t the first time she was seeing it.

  “Does Dad know?” I ask, my voice faded. “About the pills…”

  She shakes her head. “No. Not unless you want him to. Unlike me, he’s not wired to pay this much attention. Just remember, Kira. I love you, no matter what. I will always love you, as though you were my daughter. And I’m here, whenever you need me. Okay?”

  “Okay…” I’m about to cry again, tears already rolling down my cheeks, and Margaret wipes them off with a handkerchief.

  “Enough, honey. You’ll make yourself look like an allergic toad,” she says, and I snort a chuckle. Her sense of humor is as loopy as ever, but it’s effective. “Take deep breaths and go sit under the shower for a while. Scrub yourself clean and go through your closet. You’ll need to pick a dress for tonight.”

  I look at her, waiting for additional details. My brain no longer functions properly. It’s either the Oxy or the depression. Or both. Either way, I’m missing something here.

  Margaret is quick to pick up on it, giving me a wide and hopeful smile. “It’s Thursday, Kira. Dinner with your father at Carlotta’s, tonight. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

  “Ah, right, the last Thursday of the month,” I mumble.

  Dad and I try to be social with one another, at least once a month. We usually have dinner at Carlotta’s. We don’t talk much, but we manage to go through an entire evening without starting an argument. Since he left me a Wharton brochure this morning, I’m certain he’ll want to bring it up. Maybe I can use this opportunity to set some things straight and to get certain things out of his head.

  He might hate me for it, but I’m determined to follow Janelle’s advice. It’s better if I tell him exactly how I feel, right now, instead of letting him yammer on, thinking I’ll do what he wants. I’m sure Margaret would agree, as well, though, to be fair, she’s had enough of our father-daughter drama already. I can’t blame her.

  “Has he confirmed for tonight?” I ask, wiping my face with her handkerchief, as rogue tears slipped well after she cleaned me up seconds ago.

  “No, but you know him. It’s one of the few things he doesn’t miss out on. Be patient with him, Kira. He’s not a bad man. He’s complicated and impulsive and downright difficult, but I know he only wants what’s best for you,” Margaret says.

  “He only wants what he thinks is best for me,” I reply. “It’s important that we make that distinction.”

  In hindsight, I have to admit… I can see the pattern. Almost all the men in my life are complicated and impulsive and downright difficult, not just Dad. I think of Elias, and I can certainly add a string of expletives to further describe him, but the truth continues to stare me in the face—Elias is more like my father than he’d care to admit.

  Perhaps it’s why I’m drawn to him and why his presence is so powerful and impossible to ignore. However, unlike Dad, Elias was never quick to hate people. He was modelled by his own father.

  “Come on, Kira. Take a long shower. Let it all go for today. Put on something nice and spend an evening with your father,” Margaret says, pulling me back into the real world.

  It sounds easier said than done. But what better place to start this so-called journey of self-healing, if not by tackling the largest pachyderm in the room—my dysfunctional relationship with my father. Maybe if I start fixing something there, everything else will come with greater ease.

  Margaret is right. I need to let my wounds breathe in order to complete the healing process.

  Glancing at the pill bottle, I sigh deeply and leave it behind.

  Let’s try this...

  WHEN WE WERE YOUNGER

  It’s the Harry Winston New Year’s Day Gala, and I’m possibly the youngest person to ever perform at such a prestigious event. Being the daughter of William Malone has something to do with it, obviously, but I try to convince myself that it’s also because of my reputation as a ballerina. The whole of Hampton Heights has seen my past performances at Trinity. Half of the people in this room have given me flowers and standing ovations, more than once.

  I belong here, in a certain sense.

  Dad’s with me, looking dapper as always. He’s had a few drinks to get himself started. He’s more comfortable at parties he hosts. Everywhere else, he’s like a fish out of water.

  “Kira, you look spectacular!” Joe Fowler says, walking over to greet us.

  The ball room is enormous, and there are over two thousand people attending this event. The crème de la crème of the Hamptons. Bankers. Big Pharma. Tech. Ivy League darlings. The same faces I’ve seen at other parties.

  Every year, Harry Winston puts on this fancy dress night to showcase their latest and most exclusive designs—more often than not, they end up selling half of their collection before the evening is over. Some of the money goes to charity, but most people come here just for the sake of dressing up and guzzling down thousand-dollar-bottles of champagne.

  Waiters move through the crowd, carrying trays with elegant hors d’oeuvres, mostly caviar and other fancy canapes. Personally, I’d kill for a cheeseburger right about now, but I’ve spent two weeks intermittent fasting in order to get myself to fit into this dress. I don’t regret that decision, because almost everyone around us is looking at me, admiration twinkling in their eyes.

  “Joe. Good to see a familiar face,” Dad says, beaming at his friend and business partner.

  “Janelle! Yes!” I exclaim, hugging my best friend. She’s always at these events with her father—not that she’s a fan of expensive dresses and uncomfortable shoes, but mostly because she’s precocious and understands the value of networking. This girl is going to rule the world someday. I don’t see Mrs. Fowler anywhere. “Where’s your mom?”

  “Oh, she’s back home, preparing our Mexico getaway,” Janelle replies, shining like the sun in her gold sequin dress. It might be a powerful sartorial statement, but I’ll give her credit. Janelle is rocking it, which is such a rare sight for a girl who usually sticks to starched shirts and knitted vests.

  “How’s the party coming along?” Dad asks Joe.

  “Not bad. They’ve got a pretty impressive collection this year,” Joe replies, handing him an event brochure. We missed our copies on the way in, it seems. My gaze is quickly drawn to a necklace with a signature stone the size of my eye. “Like that one, huh? It’s their first artificial diamond centerpiece,” Joe says, noticing my awe.

  “Elias is here, by the way,” Janelle tells me, scrunching her nose, then measures me from head to toe. “And you look stunning…”

  I may be sixteen, but I am perfectly capable of sporting an Audrey Hepburn-style dress, complete with a medium set of curls and matching Harry Winston diamond earrings and necklace. Margaret convinced me to keep my outfit black and simple, and I can certainly see her point, now. There is beauty in simplicity, and I seem to be drawing a lot of attention. Then I remember that Elias is at this event, and I become my own enemy through rabid self-consciousness. Maybe I should’ve worn the red dress…

  “Kira. How’s your ballet class going?” Joe asks, giving me a warm smile. He’s like the uncle I never had. Mom was an only child, and Dad has two brothers whom he never speaks with. A family feud or something.

  “Oh, it’s great. I’m finally old enough to audition
for the Nutcracker. They have Julliard scouts coming to visit, every Christmas,” I eagerly say, while my dad rolls his eyes.

  Joe, however, seems almost as excited as I am. “I hope you’ll send us invitations. I haven’t seen you dance since you were ten!”

  “I definitely will. Madame Olenna says I can invite up to five people if I’m selected as the prima ballerina.”

  “Which is exactly what you’re going for,” Janelle giggles.

  “Abso-friggin-lutely!”

  “Anyway, you two girls hang out for a minute while I talk to Joe about something,” Dad interjects, like the usual rain on my parade. I feel my eyes narrowing as I watch them both step aside. The music and the many voices are enough to drown out their conversation, but I’ve learned to read Dad’s lips. It’s the only way I can figure out what’s going on, sometimes.

  “You’re reading lips again, aren’t you?” Janelle asks in a low voice.

  Briefly looking at her, I flash a devilish grin. “Wanna know what they’re talking about?”

  “Not really. I respect their privacy.”

  I laugh. “Well, whoop-tee-doo, little Miss Goody Two-Shoes!”

  Janelle grabs two champagne glasses from a nearby waiter’s tray. Luckily for us, we both look as far from underaged as possible, but I am still amazed by how quick she is to misbehave when I challenge her innate righteousness. “Miss Goody—what now?” she grins and hands me a glass.

  “Quick, let’s gulp it down before our dads see us,” I say and down the champagne. The bubbles dissipate and warmly spread through my stomach. Three minutes later, I’m giddy and fuzzy. I look at Dad and notice he’s annoyed. I can tell by the muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “I feel so bad,” Janelle chuckles, then frowns at me. “What’s wrong, Kira?”