Untitled Beauty (Somewhere-in-Between Book 1)

by C. E. Wilson

  Untitled Beauty

  A novel that falls Somewhere-In-Between by C.E. Wilson

  For the latest news and updates: www.cewilsonauthor.com

  Cover Image by Desiree DeOrto Artist and Designer

  Untitled Beauty

  ISBN-13: 978-1537624310

  ISBN-10: 1537624318

  Text copyright © 2016 by C.E. Wilson

  All Rights Reserved

  For my daughter, Quinn.

  I’ll never stop writing for you.

  You make me want to be the best person I can be.

  Untitled Beauty

  Chapter One

  For as long as I can remember,

  beauty has always enslaved the beast.

  “A client is interested in you for his daughter. She’s about your age, so it should be a good match, Eleven.”

  The man’s voice is sweet and smooth, and though I can hear him clearly, I make no move to acknowledge I’m listening. He wants me to listen. He wants me to jump up and down at the opportunity of being purchased; that means I have a shot to be a Beauty.

  I’m still not sure if I want the chance, though I’m aware I will only be judged twice more.

  Lifting my head up slowly, I notice the owner of the voice hasn’t left and his enhanced blue eyes fix on my dull ones with a sharp expression. The heavy collar around my neck and the chain attached make turning away difficult, but I won’t look down if he’s already seen my face.

  “Ahh, so you are listening, Eleven,” he says with a smile. “It’s good to know that your appearance has not yet affected your intelligence.”

  “I’m not ugly,” I say in a low voice, catching him off-guard. The chains jangle as I look away. “I’m a Potential and that’s good enough.”

  “You’re a Potential,” he says. “An Eleven. You’re a long way from Twenty.”

  “I still have a chance,” I say carefully. “They wouldn’t want me if I wasn’t a Potential, right?” I turn to meet his gaze. Long dark hairs fall over his eyes like they would in a movie, but his shoulders remain squared and tense. He knows what I’m saying is true. A family of Beauties wouldn’t want me to serve them if they didn’t think I had potential. Eleven is a safe number. It’s higher than the mean, but barely. If my new family decides I’m not worth the trouble, they could send me back.

  My seller doesn’t like to think about such inconveniences.

  “I’ve had it with your insubordination, Eleven,” he says in a gruff voice, reaching for an unseen object outside the doorway.

  I try to remain calm. Throwing a fit will only make the lashes more intense and if marked enough, I may not be purchased. Time is running out quickly and I can tell my seller is not in the mood for my attitude.

  “This family could easily change their mind after I tan your hide. You don’t want that, do you, Eleven?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re a rare Potential,” he says as he steps into the room.

  Chains shift as he shuts the door behind him, sealing us in almost absolute darkness. He brings a scent mixed with sweat and cologne. He’s above a Potential, but barely. His lowly position is why he works with people who disgust him. I catch the sound of him flexing the whip in his hands, beating the soft leather against his palm as he comes closer.

  “They say Elevens are the rarest Potentials of all. You could make it into mainstream society, but there’s always a flaw holding you back.”

  I flinch against the wall as he tests the strength of his strike right to the side of me. The leather kisses the cement wall and he laughs.

  “Not as cocky, are we now, Eleven?” he asks, still flicking the whip across the air.

  The bite of his lash will hurt, but he won’t ruin skin the day of a sale. He needs the money just as much as I need to get away from him. Our positions prove that not all problems are solved by attaining personhood. He’s out of his chains and he’s no longer considered an ‘it’, but he needs the money and I’m worth a fair amount. My chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes. The possibilities for my frame. Dammit, the taste of my lips, and the most sensitive parts of my flesh. He’s always looking for excuses to touch or tease, but he’ll never tell anyone because of the shame he would endure for enjoying his catch.

  He snaps the whip for effect and I cover my face, not wanting to feel the lash on my cheeks.

  “They’ve offered more than I personally think you’re worth,” he says to me, dropping his hand at his side. “The girl is a year or two younger than you. Fifteen or sixteen, I believe. How old are you now, Eleven?”

  Silence fills the air and, without hesitation, he snaps his whip against the tops of my bare feet. I hiss in pain and curl my feet under my thighs as he continues to wait for an answer. The whip snaps, catching right below my knees. Eyes watering, I lift my head, gasping out.

  “Seventeen, now,” I grunt, fighting back the tears.

  “What?” he asks, snapping the whip once more.

  “Seventeen now, sir,” I cry out. “I’m seventeen.”

  “And what’s your name? How will you introduce yourself when your new buyers come to claim you?”

  He’s playing a game. I know what answer he wants and he knows what answer he’ll get. I could give him what he wants, but as I remember I’ll leave the farm in a few hours, courage returns.

  I lift my tear-streaked face to meet his beautiful one. Cruelty twists his perfect features. I bite my lower lip and try not to think about the dryness against my tongue.

  “Grace,” I say. The whip cracks over his head as a lash catches my arm and I scream out in pain. He manages to inflict amazing amounts of pain without ruining the skin. I hate him.

  “What’s your real name?” he snaps. “Tell me.”

  “Grace, sir,” I cough out.

  “No! Your name, you filth! You Potentials! You… arrogant… lot of no good…” another lash, “… nasty…” yet another, “… Potentials! Say your true name or I’ll call your buyer right now and cancel the deal!”

  I cough out bile and blood from my freshly bitten tongue on the cement floor, staining the surface, and finally lift my head. He stands there, thick and strong. And dammit, despite his cruel words, eerie smile, and rough handling, he’s still attractive. He has to be. He’s flawless.

  “Tell me,” he growls, flexing his wrist. “What. Is. Your. Real. Name?”

  “Eleven,” I cry out, saliva and blood escaping. “Eleven.”

  “Eleven, what?”

  “Eleven is my name, sir,” I say as the feeling of defeat washes over me. More blood flows to the floor as my seller sets down his whip. I press against the wall as he approaches. Crouching down, he reaches out and grabs the chain attached to the thick iron collar around my neck. I lurch forward and he kisses my forehead. His lips are soft and the rich smell of apples and spice fills my nose. I hate how he smells like warm apple pie. I hate that even after another lashing I’m still attracted to him.

  My body doesn’t have a choice. It’s only natural for a Potential to want more when something immaculate is placed in front of them.

  “You’re going to get me a good price,” he says, keeping his lips close to my forehead. “And you’re going to have a chance to no longer be a Potential. I know what you are, Eleven. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t understand my stock. You have a chance in a few months to better your standing. And then, only one more chance. This family could give you the life you want if you cooperate. Why are Elevens so difficult?” He smiles and reveals a perfect set of veneers. I hate them.

  I hate how beauty permits enslaving the beasts.

  With money and a sponsor, even the ugliest p
erson can have flawlessness and receive anything they’d want out of life. With good looks, they can live a full life. The old days when anyone could be ugly and still live happily and normally are long gone. Flawlessness and beauty is the only way to survive. Flawlessness comes naturally with good genes or money. By any means possible, Potentials have to find a way to obtain beauty.

  This new life offers five chances to earn the title of Beauty. Five measly chances to prove your worth to people who hold the right to exist peacefully in this cruel world in their porcelain-like hands.

  Birth, five years old, twelve years old, eighteen years old, and twenty-five.

  At these crucial times, we are summoned to the council and determined whether to be a Potential or a Beauty. If a child is found to be a Beauty by the council, he or she can go out and get a good job. They are given rights that, at one time, everyone received. These days, it didn’t matter whether a person’s black or white, tall or short, thick or thin so long as they’re proclaimed physically attractive. Physical beauty didn’t always matter, or so I’ve been told. In fact, at one time a person received inherent rights without question or judgment. Today, beauty is the only thing that makes life worth living.

  So what happens to the non-Beauties? What if a child is found to be a Potential?

  Well, then everything’s withheld. Those rights. The right to be a person. The right to a real career, to function in society. Gone. All a Potential can hope to do is find work to get the money needed to buy flawlessness. That’s all Potentials can do as second-class citizens and if we cannot find jobs, we become commodities. Items – objects purchased and sold like a toys. Treated like dogs or slaves sold to the highest bidder.

  Potentials are scaled from one to twenty. Nineteen has the most potential and is the most likely to receive a sponsor. These sponsors pay for Potentials to have surgeries to become Beauties. These surgeries are very expensive, unless you’re willing to entrust your future to an unlicensed amateur operating out of his basement. Ones are the lowest of the Potentials and will probably be found sleeping on the streets or as the lowliest of slaves, either way, living in their own filth. Eleven is not the best number, but it’s higher than Ten and all the numbers before it. It’s also a very rare rating which makes us highly sought after by collectors.

  I still stand a chance at receiving a sponsorship.

  “I’ll let you rest,” he says, kissing one of my calloused hands before standing back up.

  I am not like him. And though I can’t stand him, he’s my only chance of getting out.

  “The family will be here shortly,” he finishes. Rolling up the sleeves on his crisp button-down shirt, I notice the bulging muscles in his forearms as he opens the door to leave. “Make sure your face is clean, Eleven,” he says firmly before closing the door behind him.

  I stretch out on the floor, but remain seated. I’m not high on the list of Potentials, but all hope isn’t lost. My hair is bland, but soft. My eyes are dull, but alert. I am not broken yet. He won’t sell me if I don’t have the chance to get a sponsor. I’m not looking forward to meeting my new family, but I am excited to get out of this damp cell.

  Other Potentials cry and wail from nearby rooms down the hall. They must be young. If they understood how the world works, they wouldn’t cry out. Tears and carrying on only infuriates the care-people.

  Play by the rules when dealing with Beauties. That is the only way to survive.

  My true name isn’t Eleven, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give my seller another chance to strike his whip across my face and ruin me to a Ten or Nine. I’ll let my new family decide what they’ll call me. Even if not called by name, I’ll always remember the ranking given on my fifth birthday to keep my spirits up. Eighteen. Two numbers away from a real life.

  And yet, here I am – seventeen years old and an Eleven.

  I tug on the chain hanging from my neck in irritation and bite my lower lip for a second before looking up towards the tiny hole in my cell door, my only source of light.

  I may be a Potential, but my true name is Grace. And I will achieve beauty by any means possible.

  Chapter Two

  A low voice rumbles from a behind the door to the garage. “When am I going to see her, Celia? You’re being unfair.”

  Instinctively I can tell it’s a Beauty talking. Beauties always have the same voices. They’re low and they rumble. They’re like maple syrup on a stack of freshly made pancakes. Like glaze dripping off a fresh doughnut or runoff from a warm cherry pie. I haven’t enjoyed sweets lately, but I can remember the sight and scent.

  My new owner speaks up in a clear voice. “It’s not up to me. Dad says it’s not ready.”

  “So he’s keeping her in the garage?” he asks.

  Why does he sound upset? If I’m not ready to serve, then I’m not ready.

  I can imagine Celia’s frail shoulders rising and falling with a shrug. “I suppose so. You know how he is. Daddy strives for perfection. He doesn’t want any mistakes.”

  “But… isn’t the garage freezing?”

  He has no idea how cold.

  The clothing supplied thus far is minimal, but I’ve been much worse off in the past. My new owner was gracious enough to provide a few blankets to ward off hypothermia. I wrap one closer as the two young people continue speaking. I wish they would open the door and ask me their petty questions, but a Potential defending themselves goes against everything the world stands for. I’m not a she, yet. I’m an it. A Potential who must be hidden.

  “Won’t she mind?” the male voice asks.

  “It’s not a person,” Celia says, ever practical like her father. “It’s a Potential.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing? Celia… you do remember I used to be a Potential, don’t you? I wasn’t a Beauty until I was twelve. If I hadn’t scored a Twenty, I could be her.”

  “You’re nothing like her. You’re a Beauty and you can’t be downgraded.”

  “Still, treating her like an animal is wrong. I remember—”

  “You shouldn’t think about your past. That thing in there? It’s mine until official judgment in a few months.”

  My ears perk up as the conversation continues right outside the door. My newest owner Celia has hardly shown herself since her father purchased me. I’m supposed to serve her, but he determined I ‘wasn’t quite ready’ so here I remain, chained up in the garage like an untrustworthy dog. I still can’t tell whether he’s looking to sponsor me or not. What I do know is I’m not even good enough to trail his daughter around until he says it’s okay.

  Celia’s a Beauty through and through with her rich, sky blue hair and large green eyes. She’s tall and slim, and wears clothing that brings out the most in her delicate curves. Her bangs constantly fall across her pale green eyes as though there’s a timer on them and her nails always sport an immaculate manicure with a pink base and white tips. I’m jealous. I could be like her if I had scored more than an Eighteen on my fifth birthday.

  Two points away.

  However, it isn’t Celia, so much, who I’m curious about. A male and quite obviously a Beauty. This is the second time I’ve heard this voice around her. At night, I try to imagine what he looks like. I don’t have much else to do to make time go by. Celia and her father are already burned into my memory. I know what Celia’s mother looks like simply by the sound of her voice when she talks about her disgust with me. She doesn’t understand why Celia needs some ‘ugly thing’ watching over her.

  No. None of them intrigue me in the way that the male stranger does. I’m only interested in the owner of that voice. I picture him with ruby-colored eyes and rich brown hair. I try to picture him with silver hair and white streaks and eyes the color of amethysts, but I don’t know why. The possibilities were endless when it came to a Beauty. I have never wanted to see anyone so badly. He sounds like he’s my age and I’m even more intrigued when he speaks of once being a Potential.

  “I want to at least see her, Celia. I�
�m going to have to meet her eventually,” the voice says. “Don’t tell me you’re worried?”

  “What’s there to be worried about? It’s chained up. It can’t hurt you.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he says softly. Bodies shift behind the door and I shift too, willing my chains not to rattle. “Are you afraid I’m going to talk to her? Talk about being a Potential?”

  “I’m not worried about that, either,” Celia says with obvious doubt in her voice.

  “I heard her hair is brown and her eyes are green.”

  “It’s eyes are hazel. There’s a difference. It’s an Eleven. It’s not like it’s that impressive.”

  “Ahh!” the male voice says triumphantly. “So you are worried about others seeing her.”

  “It…” Celia trails off and I imagine her nervousness.

  Whoever stands in front of her must be incredible looking to fluster her so. I would melt into the floor if someone with bright red eyes stared me down.

  “I think I finally understand why those beasts are called Potentials.”

  “Why?” the guy asks.

  “Daddy thinks it’s special. Even as an Eleven. He says it has the potential to be a Beauty.”

  “An Eleven is a long way from a Beauty, Celia. You’re worrying about nothing. Let me see her.”

  “No. Daddy says it’s not ready yet. They still have to clean and train it.”

  “Has your father considered sponsoring her?” the young man asks.

  I suck in a breath as Celia shifts behind the door. My chains suddenly shift and both people behind the door abruptly end their conversation.

  “It’s listening,” Celia says at last. “We shouldn’t talk in front of it. I don’t want to get its hopes up.”

  “So she doesn’t know?”

  “Let’s talk upstairs,” Celia said.

  Their voices fade as I realize how close I was to learning whether I’d have a chance of receiving sponsorship. Whether Celia intended for me to find out or not, being cleaned up is a good sign. No longer being dirty means her father doesn’t want some thing ruining his daughter and home and pissing off his wife. Hope whispers at the thought of a warm bath with lots of apple and pear-scented bubbles.