Imperfect Princess (Modern Princess Collection Book 1)

by Sonya Jesus

  Imperfect Princess

  Modern Princess Collection, 1

  Sonya Jesus

  Copyright © 2020 by Sonya Jesus

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Touch Creations Designs

  Editing: Dr. Book Nerd & Baren Acres Editing

  Proofread: Cam Johns & Dominique Laura

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations for review.

  The characters in this book are works of fictions. Any similarities to persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental.

  This book may contain sensitive aspects which may not be appropriate for all people.

  www.sonyajesusbooks.com

  To all those who fall in love before the glass breaks.

  Contents

  1. Blood Tears

  2. Shard of Glass

  3. Deformed Perfection

  4. Ocean Sounds

  5. Fly-half

  6. Window of Sorrow

  7. Vita Bitch

  8. Word Piss

  9. Penny Trails

  10. Dandelion wish

  11. Fishing

  12. Meteor & Pennies

  13. Scars

  14. Kiss Me Naked

  15. @icequeenfashionista

  16. Eternity

  Modern Princess Collection

  For Suspense Lovers

  Also by Sonya Jesus

  About the Author

  1

  Blood Tears

  Thorn, Age 14.

  “I swear to God, Penelope Rose Thornton. If you say one more word, I’m going to leave you out here for a whole week.” My foster mom takes a long huff of her cigarette and rubs the butt on the cement wall behind her house, the ashes trickling down and falling to a small pile on the expensive mahogany wood.

  “I’m sorry, Meryl,” I pipe up between trembling teeth.

  She pulls another smoke out from a nearly fresh pack. Her voice is hoarse from the years of chain-smoking, giving it a terrifying vibrato. “Your sorry means shit to me. I was called into the principal’s office today to talk about you cutting swim practice. You made me look like a bad parent.”

  I don’t know what a good parent is, so I keep my mouth shut on the subject. “I didn’t want them to see my bruising.”

  She steps toward me, wrapping one arm around her puffy, lime-green robe and closing it tight. It’s not as cold as last week, but it snowed all morning, and frosty temperatures threaten to turn the carpet of fresh snow to ice. “What bruises?” she hisses out.

  She probably forgot about trapping me in the basement and slamming the door in my face. I had been holding on to the door handle when the momentum threw me off-balance. She didn’t push me, per se, but I fell down the flight of stairs, face first, and only stopped when my forehead slammed against the brick wall. I lost my vision for about two minutes, but surprisingly, not one bruise showed on my face, not even a swell. My arms took most of the impact, and dragging my torso down the eleven steps slowed down my speed.

  “From the other day,” I admit hesitantly. If I didn’t, she’d shove me in the basement again. I’ve been here six months, and the only time she talks to me is when she’s happy, which is barely ever, or when she’s drunk. Neither of those are apparent tonight, so I tread lightly. “I fell. On the stairs.”

  Her eyes narrow to slits, emphasizing the ebony color of her pupils. “How bad is it?” Her tone, devoid of concern, hints at worry—worry for what her husband will say if this gets around to him.

  “My ribs aren’t broken… I don’t think.” Even if they were, I doubt she’d take me to the hospital. “Some bruising, and my arm hurts. I can’t rotate my wrists.” I show her what I mean by holding my palms face up. At most, they rotate halfway before I wince in pain.

  Meryl clucks her tongue and flicks the cigarette free of ashes. Relief floods me when she doesn’t approach my skin. She’s not like my previous foster family, who preferred their ashtrays to be human. When I told on them, I was placed in a ‘better’ place.

  My eyes veer up to the opulent house. It’s ten of my last home in one, and most of the time, it’s only the two of us. Her husband travels for business, so he’s seldom here. From the little I know about him, he’s a nice guy. Older, in his sixties maybe, with kind brown eyes and a smile for me whenever he sees me. Not a pervy smile, a genuine one that reaches the corners of his wrinkly eyes.

  “Damn it.” She eyes me suspiciously, as if I had done this on purpose. “Rio is coming home tomorrow.”

  Rio is his nickname, short for Gaspar del Rio. “I didn’t know,” I clarify and glance down at my snow boots.

  “Of course, you don’t. I just found out today.”

  His schedule isn’t something we are privy to. Actually, I don’t know much about his job at all. I know he works with something called La Expansión in Spain and manages the port in New Jersey. No one talks much about what his job entails at the port, nor why it requires travel for such long periods of time. I figure he stays in New Jersey because of the travel time, but he’s been to Europe four times in the last few months, which Meryl is not happy about.

  She pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales deeply, the other hand skillfully balancing a lit cigarette between two fingers. “All you give me is more problems."

  “I can keep it a secret.” I was very good at those.

  Of all the people who have been in my life, Gaspar’s been the kindest to me. If he were here, I think he’d take me to the hospital, which is precisely what she’s worried about. He doesn’t have any children, not that I know of, and neither does Meryl. I assume she had once been a trophy wife, before addiction took most of her beauty.

  “He’s going to notice if you keep wincing every time.”

  “I’m okay,” I lie out of fear. I don’t want her to force me back inside. “I just need an excuse to skip swim practice until they aren’t noticeable.” Teachers care too damn much—consequence of being more than a number—and rich kids are assholes.

  Well, most of them. I glance over my shoulder toward the snow-covered trees. The lights in our backyard are on, illuminating the path to the rose garden just past the evergreens. There’s no fence between this house and the neighbors. I guess rich people don’t need to keep people away. Good thing…because I can sneak away to see Kai Madison.

  “I can write you a note for swim practice, but Rio will ask questions when we go over to the Madisons’ place for their block party.”

  “Why?” I’m a bit confused. I never once saw Meryl and Kai’s mom talk. Last I heard, they couldn’t stand each other. Gaspar’s old wife had been friends with Kai’s grandma, which is why they built the rose garden and the firepit. They used to spend hours together out there gardening and talking. Both women died years ago; Kai’s mom tends to it now.

  “Because it’s their turn to host, and they have a heated indoor pool.” She rolls her eyes and glances out toward the distance. She doesn’t know I go down to the rose garden to see her frenemy’s son. If she did, she’d bury me under the bushes back there. Meryl may hate the roses in her backyard more than she hates the thorn in her home.

  Thorn… A flutter in my stomach calls forth the warm feelings of my nickname. Only Kai calls me Thorn, and he is—

  “Let me see!” Her order summons me from my wandering thoughts.

  “What?” My vocal cords tremble or shiver from the cold.

  “Give me your jacket.” She extends her hand, palm up, in my direction. “And lift your shirt so I can assess the damage.”r />
  Uh… “Okay,” I mumble. Once Meryl sees these, she’s not going to let me out…ever! I shed off my jacket, immediately feeling the frigid temperature of winter in upper New York through my thin sweater.

  “Hurry up. You have swim practice tomorrow, right?”

  “Friday,” I correct, as I wrap my arm around my waist and lift the hem of my shirt up just below my breasts, exposing my discolored torso. I want to tell her it’s not as bad as it looks, but I’ve never seen such ugly bruising in my life. Some are larger than my hand and an array of colors. Bending over is hard, let alone walking without it aching.

  At the sight of the discoloration, she sucks in air between her teeth. “How far do they go down?”

  I gulp and cut the space at mid-thigh. “About here, but it’s lighter in color. The dark, nasty ones stop here.” I point to my upper thigh, where the ledge of the last step had stamped it with a horizontal line.

  “And your arms? You said they hurt?”

  I’m not naïve enough to believe she cares. “No bruising. I don’t think.” I wasn’t able to look in some places.

  “Give me the shirt, and let me see your thighs.”

  “Right now?” I swallow down the ‘It’s freezing’ part of my statement and do as she says before she flips her bitch switch. Thanks to my history in foster care, I’ve learned to wear layers. Always.

  With a large gulp, I shed my snow boots off and remove my sweatpants and hand them to her, so they don’t sit on the damp floor. She takes them from me with a scowl on her face. I strip down to my bike shorts and tank top, so she can assess the damage.

  “There are a few on your arms too. We can come up with an excuse that you’re sick or something.” She shakes her head and rests her cigarette on the edge of the porch table, then extends my clothes toward me. “Put it on before you get a cold or something. How the hell did you fall down the stairs?” Her question almost borders on pity.

  Stupidly, I begin, “When you shut the door—”

  “Are you blaming me?” She snatches the clothes she’s holding back, knocking her lit cigarette to the floor. “I disciplined you. I never laid a finger on you.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  She holds her free hand up in the air, silencing my tongue.

  I remain quiet, waiting to see where this goes.

  “I think you should know what it’s like to be out on the street.” A shallow smile crosses her lips as she bobs her head in agreement with her own thoughts. “Why don’t you spend the night out here for a little taste?”

  “Out here?” I echo back.

  “Maybe I won’t need to lie to Rio. And you’ll be too sick to go anywhere.” She smiles wickedly and steps inside the house, taking my clothes with her and leaving a fourteen-year-old shivering in the single-digit temperatures.

  Still better than some things I’ve had to deal with, I think, as I put my boots back on and stomp out the cigarette. Then, I swipe the blanket from the porch swing, tuck one of the decorative pillows under my armpit, and head toward the pool area to check the pool house.

  By the time I reach it, my teeth chatter and the tips of my fingers and nose are numb. I pull the hair ties from my hair and let the long locks provide some warmth for my shoulders and upper arms.

  I try the doorknob to the pool house, but it’s locked. A quick search of the premises reveals a duffle bag near the bar, probably forgotten from the warmer days. I open it to find a fluorescent lime-green windbreaker inside. It’s hideous but warmer than a sleeveless cut-off midriff and short bike shorts. I put on the large jacket and wrap the blanket like a skirt around my legs before heading to the rose garden; Kai will more than likely have the firepit going.

  When I reach the end of the property and step onto the trail that cuts through the garden, the blaze from the firepit lights the path, but it’s too far away to heat me. Not many roses bloom in the winter in upstate New York, except for iceberg roses, which line the path to the stone pit. Some are whiter and brighter than the glistening snow, and others a deep purple tone, almost burgundy when the light shines through the thin petals.

  Normally, they’re trimmed to look like lollipops—a narrow trunk with a circular head of buds and leaves. Tonight, the heaviness from the first snowfall mixed with the full blooms weighs the tiny branches down, giving them a weeping effect.

  Blood tears in the snow, I think, as I step down the small stone stairs toward the firepit. Nature cries for me. The thought, though slightly comforting, confirms my solitude. I’m always alone.

  But only when I’m not with Kai.

  I come to a stop near the first step of the large, hexagonal stone base. The warmth of the fire thaws my cheeks as I step forward within the open frame of the metal gazebo. The light gray of the stone is nearly charcoal after soaking up the melted snow. If there had been snow on the ground before, there’s none now. But some of the chairs are dusted with it.

  Kai’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, and his back against a wooden bench. His blond hair is up in a high bun, sitting at the crown of his head. He’s scrolling through his playlist, humming along to some song I recognize from the radio. The light from his screen illuminates the baby-faced features most girls at school fawn over. He doesn’t hear me approach because of the earbuds, so I take the moment to admire how beautiful he is inside and out.

  I’ve only known him for six months, but he’s my favorite person in the whole universe and the only person who puts a smile on my face. So, staring at him like a creeper is probably a bad idea.

  “You’re going to blow out your eardrums!” I shout loudly, as I slip my snow boots off and take a seat on the blanket he has stretched out, waving my hand in front of his face to get his attention.

  Kai smiles wide and plucks the buds from his ears. “Thorn! What took you so long?” He trails off when he takes in my lack of clothes. “What are you wearing?” His finger reaches for my blanket skirt.

  “Green isn’t my color?” I joke and rub my hands over my legs to warm them up and keep him from peeking underneath. I know Kai well enough to want to be next to him, but not enough to confide in him.

  “Everything is your color.” He gently pulls the curtain of red hair back, revealing my features to him.

  I chuckle softly and tuck my chin to my knees, hiding the crimson tint of my cheeks. “You don’t have to say nice things like that, Kai.” In my experience, nice words usually come with consequences.

  Kai retracts his hand and leans back. “So how was your day?” he asks, as if I had anything special to do.

  “Same as every other day.” I don’t mean to snuggle closer, but I like the proximity. It makes me forget about real life, even if only on Wednesdays. “School, homework…” Thinking of you.

  Comfortable silence ensues, one that there’s no need to fill. Kai unplugs the earbuds from his phone, letting the sounds of his playlist surround us. We drift slowly together, arms touching and kneecaps slightly angled inward. I rest my head on his strong shoulder, and he leans his on mine, both of us soaking up the warmth.

  I’ve never been one of many words—honestly, the longest conversations I’ve ever had was with my internal voice—but I’ve never been so comfortable not saying anything.

  We listen to at least three full songs before he shuts off the music. “You’re shivering. Why don’t you put your shoes back on?” Before I can answer or even realize it’s true, he follows up, “Why are you out here, wearing only that? It’s freezing out here.”

  “I got locked out of the house.” Partial truths are better than lies, right? I don’t want to lie to my only friend though. An unexpected nod from him propels me to explain further, “I didn’t want to be late for our Wednesday night chill session.” That sounds extremely awkward. Who the hell says chill session?

  Ignoring my uncoolness, as always, he asks, “Is Meryl not home?”

  Without hesitation, I angle my head toward him. The best way to avoid questions i
s to appear like I’m not hiding anything, so I shrug. “I didn’t knock.”

  He scowls, bringing his head closer. “Why not?”

  “I was afraid she wouldn’t let me out again.”

  Though I believe he sees right through my lies, he opens the Netflix application on his phone and pulls up the series we’ve been watching. “She doesn’t know you come out here to hang out with me, does she?”

  “Does anyone know?” I remind him this is our little secret. He’s a grade older than me, freshly turned fifteen, and we move in entirely different circles. My circle of one doesn’t even share the same lunch or study hall period with his circle of plenty. On the rare occasion, a stealth head nod from him in the hall suffices for acknowledgment. Getting caught with me was social suicide, even for a popular guy like him.

  “I heard you skipped swim practice.”

  “Why are people suddenly worried about what classes I miss?” Slightly uncomfortable by the fact, I huff and stretch out my legs; my numb toes feel like Popsicles in the nippy air. Wiggling gets the blood flowing again.

  “Ledger was in the office when Meryl came in. He thought I’d be interested in knowing the information.”

  “Ledger knows who I am?” I’m not even sure who he is, but I’m guessing it’s the dark-haired, muscle mountain that shadows him everywhere. They play rugby together—whatever the hell that is.

  My heart thumps erratically, and the nervous jitters in my fingertips launch them over the screen. Before I can press play, Kai traps my finger in his hand and leans forward.

  He smiles softly. Too softly.

  What is he doing? I swallow the burning lump in my throat and nervously glance up at him through my frozen lashes, a question mark planted between my crinkled brows.