by Lindsey Iler
Angels of Belle Meade
Lindsey Iler
Published by Lindsey Iler, 2018
Angels of Belle Meade
Copyright 2018 Lindsey Iler
KINDLE EDITION
All rights reserved. This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by © Sofie Hartley of Hart & Bailey Design Co.
Editing by Katie Mac
Proofread by Deaton Author Services
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgement
More from the Author
Connect with Lindsey
About the Author
This is to all the girls out there with dreams too big to be placed inside a box.
One day, you’ll prove to the world what you’ve always known about yourself.
You’re unstoppable.
Especially you, Desi, my sweet daughter.
Chapter One
Lennox
Straighten your spine.
Wipe that nasty scowl away.
Smooth the front of your dress.
Quit fidgeting.
This is the poisonous venom my mother has spewed at me tonight. Not one compliment. Not a sliver of a tender smile. No, those are reserved for my baby sister, Sarah Beth. My inner voice is bitter as hell, and there is no shame in admitting I’m desperate for a little bit of positive attention from my mother. Some would say I have mommy issues, and they’d be damn right.
“I’m parched.” My mother fans her flushed cheeks. Her expression contorts before my eyes. Years of anger are hurled in my direction with one single glare.
She actually hates me.
We’ve only been standing in this processing line for an hour, and she’s already managed to make me hate my newfound status in town.
A sharp poke hits my hip, and I peek down through my eyelashes at Sarah Beth’s hilarious, yet sweet smirk. All her bright, white teeth are on display like she’s won the blue ribbon in life.
Perhaps she has.
“She isn’t talking to me,” my witty little sister whispers. Even at nine years old, she knows who pulls rank under our roof, and it isn’t me.
“Aren’t you adorable?” I tousle her curled hair, checking over my shoulder to make sure my mother doesn’t catch me ruining all the hard work she’s done to make Sarah Beth the picture of perfection. She’s spewed hatred for much less. “Coming right up, Mother,” I singsong, bouncing from the reception line as if I’m pleased with running around at her beck and call.
My father, Dax Callahan, is officially the mayor of our quaint, nosy town. Once the other opponents heard The Great Dax Callahan was running, they pulled their hats out of the race, which made voting simple for the great citizens of Belle Meade.
‘The powerful stay powerful’ has been his mantra the past few months. Before he took office, he ran a multibillion-dollar corporation. What do they do there? The way he lines his pockets is never discussed. He refuses to reveal how we’ve always been privileged, clothed in diamonds and the finest furs. I have my own suspicions, and none of them are legal.
Still, here I am acting like the dutiful daughter, fetching water for the thirsty, and smiling until my cheeks feel like they’ll split in half.
“Having a good time?” Amilee Kingsley, one of my best friends, slips in line beside me. Her beautiful copper hair lays loose over one shoulder, held back by a barrette made of diamonds, no doubt real, in the most hypnotizing formation. She’s tall, lean, and every reason why girls immediately feel the flood of jealousy in her presence. Remarkable is how I’ve heard her described.
“What do you think?” I lean my hip against the impeccably decorated table.
Nothing but the best for the Mayor’s Ball. Although it’s tradition and always grand, my mother has taken it to the next level. I can only imagine how lavish the masquerade will be this year.
“You coming to the forest tonight?” Amilee reaches past me, grabbing a cup of water. As she takes a slow sip, she scans the room over the rim. When her stare lands on Dylan, he slyly grins. They do a silent dance, and Amilee waves to me as she walks to him.
“Do I look like I’m going to the forest tonight?” I run my hands over the ball gown I’ve practically been sewn into.
“We won’t be picking you up until eleven, and this shit show should be done by nine-thirty at the latest, so there is no real excuse for you to try to use on me,” she says tactically, twirling a single finger in the air.
Hannigan Forest is sort of a rite of passage in our town. Generations have used it as a means of escape. Parties inside the thick foliage essentially go unseen, which is the perfect set-up for eighteen- and nineteen-year-old kids.
My mother’s heel tap, tap, taps the tiled floor, gaining my full attention. With a snap of her fingers, she points to the empty space in front of her where she believes I should already be.
Chill out, woman. You won’t die. Unfortunately.
“I better deliver this to her, or heads will roll,” I say when I pass Amilee and Dylan.
Amilee’s chuckle rises over the pomp and circumstance, and only because she knows I’m not kidding. My mother’s reputation as a ball buster is well known. Children cross the road to avoid her icy stare, and adults nod respectfully in agreement to everything she says. It’s how it’s always been, and I’m sure how it will remain.
“Here you go, Mother.” I hand her the beveled glass.
She places her flawlessly lacquered lips on the edge, devouring the water as if she’s lost in the desert and never thought she’d moisten her tongue again.
“Took you long enough,” she barks, setting the glass on the table behind her.
“I can never do anything right, can I, Mother?” I wink at my little sister.
Sarah Beth is the good daughter, while I make it my mission to torment our mother for my own amusement.
“Now, ladies, please, can we get along?” my father interrupts. He’s regal and assertive on any given day. Perhaps that’s how he’s become successful. He doesn’t take no for an answer, and those around him tend to bend at his whim.
“Yes, Dad,” I answer, returning a hostile stare at my mother. She hates that I call him Dad and only offer her the basic courtesy of Mother. I might as well call her a bitch to her face, which has the same meaning as far as I’m concerned.
“Tonight’s about you, honey. My apologies.” My mother kisses him on the cheek. She keeps a close eye on me as she runs her hands through the back of his silvery hair.
Someone should remind her gaining his attention isn’t a competition.
I’m his daughter, you sick fuck.
My mother is right about one thing. Tonight’s festivities are about Dax Callahan. The M
ayor’s Manor is only open to the town twice a year. A gala and masquerade ball are thrown every year in his or her honor.
Hence why I’m stuck in a blush pink gown and ridiculous excuse for shoes with four-inch heels. I’d trade them for my black combat boots any day, but I’m expected to dress the part. Glitter sparkles in my hair, and my cheeks appear softer, lip-cracking smile and all.
Like a needle through delicate fabric, a soft lullaby strums through the room until it suddenly stops. Everyone is well aware of the absence of the music. The segment of silence is replaced with a haunting tune. A group of young men in tuxedoes out of a gothic fairytale, and women wearing cascading ball gowns made of silks and lace, step onto the dance floor. Their movements are antiquated, but hypnotizing.
As I watch, enthralled by the spectacle, a woman strolls onto the dance floor, not affected by the entertainment. As if the dancers understand her importance, they waltz around her, allowing her a clear path direct to my family.
There’s an air about this woman. Confidence rolls off her bare shoulders, down her lace dress, to the tips of her toes peeking out of the stilettos blessed to adorn her feet. Her hair is dark like a cloudy, midnight sky, and she has eyes that glimmer like diamonds.
Who is she? And what does she want from me?
Her harsh maroon lacquered lips loosen, though her shoulders tell me the truth. She’s uptight but trying to come across as refreshing and easy going.
“You must be Lennox.” The tall goddess talks directly to me, but she stands with her shoulders squared to my mother. They measure each other, a silent duel to see who holds the upper hand. Why they feel the need is beyond my understanding. She twists on her heels and offers her hand to me. “I’m Gail Blackstone. We’re new in town, and I heard the mayor had a daughter around my son’s age.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” A warm shock runs through me as her hand touches mine, and I jolt back. “Welcome to Belle Meade.”
“This is my son, Garrison.” The well-dressed woman shifts to the side, and a well over six-foot-tall heart throb comes forward to introduce himself.
Garrison extends his hand and does this romantic flip with his dark, devilish hair. The same warm spark runs through me again when we touch. He leans forward, his palm pressing mine, and his lips brush my earlobe. “Can I have this dance?”
His mother and my family watch, and suddenly, I’m stuck under Garrison’s thumb. There are ramifications for telling him no, and I’m not sure what my punishment would be.
I nod and allow him to escort me to the dance floor. The lights above us twinkle like stars in the desert, leading us through the dance. His hand rests low on my back, his fingertips dangerously close to my ass. The other holds mine between our bodies. He leads me, effortlessly, around the floor, our movements slow and rhythmic. I watch our feet, surprised how lightweight I feel in his arms.
Garrison’s fingers tip my chin, forcing us eye-to-eye. His skin is pale, but not sickly. All of his life stares back at me. We sway and spin. The dance floor is suddenly empty, and a crowd gathers around the perimeter.
“Don’t think too hard about them,” he instructs. “They’re jealous.”
A deep and amused chuckle rumbles in my chest. “You think awfully high of yourself, Garrison.”
“They’re jealous of me.” His voice rumbles and drips with sex. He leans down, his tongue practically skimming my earlobe. “They don’t get to hold you in their arms like I do.”
“One dance does not equate to a lifetime of endless love.”
“No, but one single kiss, if profound enough, can give you no other choice but to bend at my feet for eternity.” Garrison offers a knowing smirk. He’s playing me.
With a curtsy, I twirl to leave the dance floor. All of them are watching me. Some are skeptical, others enchanted. Mrs. Blackstone has a pleased, satisfied smile on her face, while my mother seethes beside my dad. I pass by them, and my mother takes a step toward me. My dad’s hand high on her bicep is the one thing keeping her from chastising me in front of our guests.
The ladies’ room may be my only hiding spot tonight. Once we’d moved into the mansion, my mother demanded restrooms be installed on the main floor, for the simple fact she couldn’t possibly share the same wash room with a bunch of commoners twice a year. Now, the manor is split into two sections; the living space and where we entertain. No one is ever allowed beyond the public areas. Armed guards are put in place during events to ensure noses aren’t poked where they don’t belong. We can’t possibly let them catch a glimpse of our real lives.
It’s where our weakness is held.
I ignore the watchful eyes of my father’s minions and scurry into hiding to collect my thoughts. What just happened? Garrison captivated the hell out of me. Being stuck under someone’s spell isn’t a good feeling when I’m used to being in full control.
“Can we talk for a second about how hot that guy was?” Emerson Saville, one of my other best friends, bursts into the room, swaying a bit on her heels.
“Someone cracked open daddy’s liquor safe,” I say, removing the light pink lipstick. I toss the tissue in the trash and replace the color with something much more me.
“Your mother will kill you if she sees that.” Emerson’s sinful grin warns me in the mirror when I glance up.
“We’ll see.” I rub my lips together, smoothing the burgundy shade.
“Now, back to the hot guy who looked seconds away from proposing to you in the middle of the dance floor.”
“No, he was not.” I take the spot beside her, and wishing for sleep, my head falls to her shoulder.
Emerson’s most skeptical glance meets mine in the mirror.
“I can read you like a manual, Lenny. Spit it out.” Emerson leans forward, forcing me to stand straight. What she can do is stop glaring as if she can see right through me.
“His mom, when we shook hands . . .” I stop myself, not having given myself enough time to process what had happened out there.
“What, were they abnormally soft or sweaty?” Emerson chuckles.
“I don’t really know. It felt off, if that even makes sense.”
“You’re going to need to give me more than that,” she says.
“I’m not exactly the intuitive type, but her intentions, although admirable, weren’t exactly sincere.”
“And you picked all that up from a simple handshake?”
If I didn’t love her, I’d smack the smirk off her face.
“A shock ran through her body into mine, literally felt as if it grabbed ahold of me and held me under her spell.” A searing headache embodies my weary accusations of Mrs. Blackstone. No amount of massage can ease the ache in my forehead.
“No offense, but . . .” Emerson holds up her hands, silently begging me not to knock her on her ass.
“Whenever there’s a but, it’s usually followed by some sort of insult.”
“Oh, it was going to.”
“It doesn’t make any sense, and I feel slightly insane even thinking it, okay?” I circle my finger around my temple, then abruptly stop, because even though I feel a touch off base with my suspicion, I refuse to look the part as well. “Let’s keep my crazy between us, okay?”
“Whatever you need, Lennox.” She smiles kindly.
After we leave the bathroom, the night continues exactly as I expect. We shake hands, express our gratitude for all of the townspeople’s support, and act as if we are a completely normal family. Behind the beautiful costumes—because that’s exactly what we wear—is a family full of deceit and lies. We smile and prance around as if all is well in the Callahan family. Our charade is for one reason only.
To deceive any outsider.
What no one sees is a mother who’s more worried about the white powder in her antique pill box, and a father who is too busy screwing anything in a skirt to care. They don’t see two young girls simply getting by, making their best attempt to blend into the wallpaper for fear of gaining their mother’s at
tention. No, they smile upon us with pride for simply allowing them in our presence. It’s much easier than knowing the cold, hard truth.
That’s the problem with the world. We assume we know things before we have all the information. First impressions are what we go on, without bothering to see past all the bullshit. We are wolves in sheeps’ clothing.
Once the last guest exits, I hike up my dress and head to the stairs.
“I’m going out with friends.” To avoid an argument, I don’t give her a chance. It’s not necessary since I feel her disappointment stabbing at my neck. “I did what you asked. I shook their hands. I smiled. The least you can do is not bat an eyelash when I leave, Mother.”
“Tomorrow is your birthday,” she says, matter of fact, like I don’t know. “I’ll need you home without the whore color on your lips.”
“And home, I’ll be.” I roll my eyes for my own satisfaction. I’ve mastered the act at this point. “Let me guess.” I stop on the top landing, high above her, looking down on her figuratively and quite literally. “A photo op? Another way to showboat me around town? Let them see how perfect we are, right?”
“It’s a day you’ll never forget,” she sneers at me, her teeth bared, and a wisp of happiness twinkling in her glare.
“Nineteen is not that big of a deal,” I say.
As I walk down the hallway, her whisper floats to me. “We’ll see about that.”
With the help of my foot, the door to my bedroom slams closed as I pass under the archway. When I’m alone, the dress draws my attention to the mirror. My hands skim the floral details on the bodice and the iridescent belt cinching my tiny waist. The sharp edge of my nails catch on one of the beads, and I pull at the string, destroying a cluster of flowers. I hate to admit how much I relate to this dress. Something beautiful, pulled in one direction until it begins to unravel. As I stare in the mirror, even with new imperfections, it’s still immaculate, a vision to bestow. The way the blush fabric cascades down my length is mesmerizing. The color is a clear contrast to my dark, long hair. Beautiful isn’t a word I’d use to describe myself, but even I have to admit, I’m some sort of dream in this dress.