I loosen my grip of Evan’s throat and let Riku pull me back, allowing Ally to swiftly move to aid her husband as he crumples to the ground, coughing and sputtering. She brushes his hair from his sweat-dampened forehead and caresses his beet-red face, crying for him. Crying for the life she nearly witnessed fade away by my own hands.
Someone rushes to help Evan to his feet, and with Ally pressed against his side, they usher him towards the exit.
“You didn’t take her,” he tries to spit over his shoulder in a strained whisper. “You just paid for her with every fucking dime you own.”
I don’t respond. I don’t even give him a second look. I just keep watching, as Ally makes her choice. Evan is the lesser of two evils. And I’m…I’m just less.
He’s the star in her life. I was just the understudy.
Just before she crosses the threshold, she turns to look at me one last time. Sunlight filters through a single teardrop sliding down her cheek, turning it to crystallized sorrow. I want to go to her, capture it in my palm and kiss it away until it dissolves into nothing. But her tears are not for me. They’re because of me.
The anguished angel slips away from me, fleeing my singular hell as fire trails behind her. Stars burn and fall from my sky, and the clouds cry, darkening in sorrow.
The sun is gone. I’ve lost her forever.
---Message 12 of 23---
Dear Justice,
Happy (belated) New Year.
I’m not sure if you’ve been receiving my emails, but as your publicist—and I still am your publicist, like it or not—I feel the need to keep checking in with you. You know¸ to update you on what’s going on here. And to let you know that we’re all worried about you.
There, I said it. I’m worried about you.
Last I heard, you were in Tokyo, and then holed up in a chateau in France. Your mother has been in touch, and told me that you were in Poland briefly, visiting your grandparents for the holidays. She’s a lovely woman, by the way. She even told the story of your unfortunate former name. Sean Connery and Michael Douglas, huh? Can’t say that I blame her.
Anyway, after Poland, the trail went cold. That was three weeks ago.
Look, I get it. You’re pissed at the world right now. But at least let me know that you’re alive so I know I’m not writing a corpse.
I doubt you’ve been keeping up to date with current events, because if you were, you’d be home by now. So I’ll spare you the gory details and get right down to business. Evan Carr dropped any and all charges against you. Apparently, you have a guardian angel watching over you, because his team was ready to go to war. So count that as a victory—your home is safe.
However, things may look completely different if you don’t get your ass back here soon. Diane and Riku came up with this crazy idea to completely transform Oasis into a Hedonism-style couples resort. And considering that you’ve got folks trying to visit this place like it’s Disneyland for perverts, I think it’s a solid plan. Laura and Brad have agreed to come on board full-time, teaching tantric yoga amongst other things. They’ve even talked to Candi and Jewel about a strip aerobics-type class and a more intimate, striptease course for couples. They are all happy to help, Justice. They care about you…we all do.
Obviously, Erin was not invited back to the property. Last I heard, she dropped out of med school and is one snort away from being a coked out call girl. Unlucky for her and her bullshit little blackmail stunt, once the footage was released from, you know, that day…her audiotape was worthless. So not only is she a lying whore, she’s a broke, jobless, lying whore.
I don’t know if you’re reading these, or if you’re even somewhere that has Wi-Fi, but just know that we’re rooting for you. Nobody blames you for what you did to Evan; that little shit deserved it. And now that everyone knows that you’re Winston Carr, II’s abandoned son, the whole world sympathizes with you and understands why you reacted the way you did.
They stole everything from you, Justice. Don’t let them take away everything that you’ve accomplished as well.
Okay, until next time. Maybe you’ll actually reply and let me know that you’re not dead in some ditch in Rio. Like I said before, we’re all here for you. If you want to leave Justice Drake behind, I totally understand. But don’t leave us behind. Don’t desert the people that love you. Okay?
-Heidi
THE EMAIL IS one of many I’ve read and discarded, stowing it all in that numb place inside me that isn’t allowed to feel or grieve. It’s better that way, for me, for everyone.
Heidi is right—I don’t keep up with current events. I don’t even watch television. Sometimes I pass a newsstand at an airport, and a familiar face looks back at me from those pages, but even that occurs less and less. According to the chatter amongst the local youth, I’ve gathered that a young Hollywood starlet is pregnant and she isn’t sure which Franco brother is the father. Ouch. Considering she’s barely legal, my money’s on Big Franco.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Amsterdam, enjoying a cup of herbal tea—you know…the fun kind—listening to the sounds of the city. It’s busy here, alive. Yet, there’s something so relaxing and mellow about this place. Maybe it’s the pot talking. Maybe my mind is finally distracted enough to feel something other than anger and regret. I even almost smile. Almost.
The shop girl grins at me, and I nod back. She’s beautiful, exotic with dark hair and features, yet her eyes are hauntingly light. A couple months ago, my gaze may have lingered on her just a little bit longer. Maybe I would have given her a small smile back. Just enough to show her that she had my attention, and could keep it, for a night.
The shop is empty, so she switches the television from a soccer match to what sounds like a comedy sitcom.
“Is this ok?” she asks me in heavily accented English.
I nod without looking at the screen and give her a forced grin. She takes it as an invitation and comes to stand at my little table.
“This is my favorite,” she says, smiling towards the TV. “And I’m glad they play the reruns in English. It helped me learn.”
I finally pull my attention away from the tiny herbs floating in my teacup and glance at the television. And the moment my eyes fall on the screen, I feel like I’ve been dumped into a dark, endless pool of ice-cold water. Just when I think someone has shown me mercy and thrown me a lifesaver, I realize that it’s weighted, and I sink straight to the bottom.
I can’t escape this.
I can’t escape her.
No matter where I go, she’s there. Even when she’s a million miles away.
Quirky Phoebe is comforting Ross, telling him to hang in there because no matter what, Rachel is his lobster. And once lobsters meet and fall in love, they mate for life. They always find each other. And sooner or later, Rachel and Ross will be together.
For the next half hour, I watch as pathetic Ross uses that reasoning with Rachel, trying to make her see that he is the only one for her. He fails miserably, of course, and Rachel dismisses him in exchange for more appealing prospects. Prospects like the Evan Carrs of the world. Because girls like Rachel don’t go for guys like Ross. No one wants the runner up.
The gang is sitting around Monica’s living room watching an old VHS tape of high school prom. Rachel is distraught after being stood up by her date, Chip. In the background sits lonely Ross—silent and unseen. His parents persuade him to take Rachel to the prom, and after some pressure, he agrees. And I see it—the light in Ross’s eyes. The very moment he is filled with hope and dreams and blind foolishness.
All of which are crushed into a speck of dust when Rachel runs past him and out the door…with Chip.
No one ever knew just how deeply Ross felt for her. He never told anyone. He isolated himself in his pain and rejection because he thought he wasn’t good enough. He knew he was the less than.
Adult Rachel sees him—finally sees him. And she understands. Ross was made for her. She was made for him. And no amount of t
ime or distance or circumstance can change that.
The two lock lips, and a giddy Phoebe repeats her heartfelt declaration from earlier. “See…he’s her lobster.”
As the episode ends, I get it. I finally get what Ally meant that day. And without rhyme or reason, I laugh.
Like, really laugh.
I laugh so hard that I’m doubled over, holding my side. The barista backs away slowly, startled by my sudden burst of hysterics. She probably thinks I’m high as a kite, and maybe I am. I don’t even care. It feels good just to release…something.
“Damn you, Phoebe Buffay,” I say out loud, shaking my head with a stupid grin on my face. “Damn you.”
Abu Dhabi
I HAD BEEN contemplating going home for weeks. But every time I thought about returning, I was left with the same bitter realization—I didn’t have a home anymore.
Oasis was/is still mine, yet it’s been tainted by paparazzi and tourists, hoping to get a peek at Justice Drake. It’s no longer the refuge I found after being extricated from the city as soon as I graduated high school. I used to blame my mother for taking the money in exchange for her silence, but then I realized that she did what she had to do to survive. Going against the Carrs would have been suicide, and I don’t mean that figuratively. If they truly wanted us to disappear, there’s no doubt in my mind we’d be struck down by some convenient “accident.” And even as a young Polish immigrant, with big dreams in the big city, she knew the kind of clout the Carrs held. So they bought our silence, and I learned the power of the almighty dollar. You could buy happiness, buy love and buy your freedom. And me? I bought a new life.
So here I am, trading one oasis for another, still trying to figure out what’s next, and exactly who I was before people even knew Justice Drake existed.
I feel like him—I am him. But I’m also Sean Michael Dovak too, the kid that was named to be a movie star. The kid that once slightly resembled Winston Carr, II and his son, Evan.
In an attempt to separate myself from that stigma, I did everything I could do to not to look like them. I cut my hair shorter, bulked up while the Carr men had naturally slender frames, and spent every moment I could outdoors, enhancing my inherited, tanned skin. Luckily, my mother’s strong European features erased mostly all remaining traces of Carr genetics as I grew older. Yet, every so often, someone would squint their eyes and tilt their head to the side curiously after seeing Evan and I together as children. And Mrs. Carr, the devil’s surrogate herself, did not appreciate the speculation.
Being Sean Michael always held a negative connotation. So, I became Justice Drake. And there was no shame in that.
The apartment I’m renting is about 1/3 of the size of the mansion at Oasis, but it suits me. Grandiose has never been my thing, and I fell in love with the clean, modern design of the space the moment I saw it. And since I really had no immediate plans to return to Arizona, I thought, What the hell? What better place to start over than an entirely different country?
That was about a month ago, and my little slice of Abu Dhabi still doesn’t feel like home. And part of me thinks that maybe it never will.
I make my way down from the luxury high rise and out into the morning sunlight, taking in the scents of car exhaust, spiced foods and incense. I bypass the nearby souks and tourist areas, and head down to a local café by the beach. Luckily, it’s early, and I nab my favorite table outside right away. One of the waiters recognizes me and hurries over to bring me a cup of coffee.
“Fresh fruit today, sir?” he asks, remembering my usual order.
“Yes, please,” I nod.
He bows with a knowing look and heads back into the restaurant to retrieve my usual platter of melon, grapefruit, mango and pear.
“Hmph. Figures you would order something healthy. Question: if you could only eat fruit or chicken and waffles for the rest of your life, which one would you choose?”
I freeze, nearly dropping the steaming cup of coffee just as it touches my lips. I set it down as carefully as I can muster and turn toward the voice. Toward the woman draped in all black, from the hijab covering her head, to the long, silken abaya touching her sandaled feet.
And I'm home.
Home in those eyes that aren't quite blue, and not quite green. Eyes that are too wild and too bright to possibly be real. A single ringlet of fiery hair breaks free and falls into those animated eyes. She tries to blow it away, causing her niqab to billow, and she laughs. She laughs, and it sounds like the sweetest music ever composed after suffering for years in deafening silence.
I don’t know what to say.
I just laugh too.
I SUCK AT writing these. While I am immeasurably grateful for each and every person that has traveled this journey with me, I always feel like I can’t truly convey that in the Acknowledgments. And the people that have been there for me, through thick and thin, through the ups, downs, and sideways of this literary rollercoaster, I strive to show them just how much I appreciate their love, support and friendship. And no little blast in the back of a book can fully describe that. It’s impossible.
So instead, I just want to thank you all. Author friends, reader friends, blogger friends… Thank you for all you do and for all you have done for me. Thank you for your encouragement and kindness. Thank you for every pimp, share, tweet, comment and recommendation. Thank you for reading this and reviewing it.
Thank you. YOU made this possible.
MOST KNOWN FOR her starring role in a popular sitcom as a child, S.L. Jennings went on to earn her law degree from Harvard at the young age of 16. While studying for the bar exam and recording her debut hit album, she also won the Nobel Prize for her groundbreaking invention of calorie-free wine. When she isn’t conquering the seas in her yacht or flying her Gulfstream, she likes to spin elaborate webs of lies and has even documented a few of these said falsehoods.
SOME OF S.L.’S DEVIOUS LIES:
Fear of falling
The Dark Light Series
Dark Light
The Dark Prince
Nikolai (a Dark Light novella)
Light Shadows- coming in 2014
Taint
MEET THE LIAR:
www.facebook.com/authorsljennings
Twitter: @MrsSLJ
www.sljennings.com
Enjoy a preview of
The Devil’s Contract
by
Claire Contreras
A chair screeched against the kitchen floor, and Amara knew Philip was finally leaving. Her hands were shaking as she stood, holding tightly to the table beside her. Tears began to pool her eyes as she thought about what she’d overheard—about her mother…the gambling…life as she knew it.
Her entire body trembled as she walked back into the kitchen. “I’ll do it,” she said.
“Amara!” her father shouted.
Philip was gleeful, throwing his head back in laughter. When he straightened, he looked at her, and what she saw in his eyes was anything but humor. Amara’s stomach coiled in disgust—in fear.
“It’s done then,” he said. “I will come back for you.”
That was the first promise Philip Batiste made to her.
SHE LET OUT a long sigh as she cleaned the last table. It had been a long workday at Anna’s, her uncle’s small restaurant. The idea of the only daughter of two wealthy individuals working at a restaurant was unheard of in their community, as were a lot of other things, which was why all of her neighbors’ houses contained more secrets than a confessional. All of Amara’s friends were inheritance babies. She was no different in most aspects. In fact, the main thing that set her family apart from others in their Westchester, New York neighborhood was that her family’s secrets were a little darker than most. Or so she thought. Either way, working part-time with her Uncle Vlady was the last thing her parents needed to worry about.
Amara slid in the booth, taking a moment to close her eyes as she rested her head on her arm. The restaurant was closed and mostly quiet, s
ave for the chatter and pans clinking in the back. Genevieve was probably out back taking her smoke break, or busy nagging Kyle, one of the cooks, in the kitchen. The circular motions she was making with her cleaning hand slowed to a halt as she fell into a light slumber. A loud bang on the now-locked door of the restaurant startled Amara awake. Sitting up quickly, and disoriented, her knee hit the underside of the table,. She let out a string of curse words as she rubbed it and stood and walked to the door, her heart was beating wildly as she did so. Using the rag in her hand, she wiped the condensation from the glass and looked into a familiar pair of brown eyes. Light brown with tiny specks of green that seemed to flicker in the light, they always made her feel like she was looking into a kaleidoscope. Amara turned the lock as Colin flashed his megawatt smile at her.
“You’re early,” she said, holding the door open for him.
In one swift motion, he stepped in, closed the door with his foot, and grabbed both sides of her face, placing a hard kiss on her lips.
“I missed you,” he said, still holding her face in his hands. He looked at her as if she was a priceless work of art, always managing to sizzle her with a level of passion that made shocks run through her body when he was near.
“It’s only been… seven hours,” she said, looking at the clock behind him, as she ran a hand through his soft, wavy hair. She ruffled it, massaging his scalp when he closed his eyes and leaned into her.
“Seven hours too long. It felt like a lifetime,” he murmured, opening his eyes and meeting hers once more. His eyes were always so direct, so intense, that she felt speared by them. Her knees always weakened and her blood thundered inside of her when he looked at her that way. Amara rolled her eyes and drew her hand away, turning around to wipe the counter of the bar.
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