Beastly Lights

by Theresa Jane

  Beastly Lights

  Theresa Jane

  Copyright © 2017 by Theresa Jane

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is published by Inkitt the Hipster’s Library. Join now to read and discover free upcoming bestsellers!

  Chapter 1: A Lonely City

  Chapter 2: A Game of Cards

  Chapter 3: The Day After the Night Before

  Chapter 4: Here to Collect

  Chapter 5: Moving Day

  Chapter 6: Singing in the Shower

  Chapter 7: Follow the Rules

  Chapter 8: Hold the Phone

  Chapter 9: Blank Canvas

  Chapter 10: Babysitter?

  Chapter 11: Fractured Dreams

  Chapter 12: Throw Away the Key

  Chapter 13: Drive By

  Chapter 14: The Maid Lives for a Day

  Chapter 15: Almost Brothers

  Chapter 16: That Is the Question

  Chapter 17: The Dress

  Chapter 18: Her Debut

  Chapter 19: The Economy of Gossip

  Chapter 20: Tornado

  Chapter 21: Oh Brother!

  Chapter 22: The Rules

  Chapter 23: The Girlfriend

  Chapter 24: Payback

  Chapter 25: What Happens Now?

  Chapter 26: Nightmares

  Chapter 27: The Fallout

  Chapter 28: The Gift

  Chapter 29: Goodbyes

  Chapter 30: Distance

  Chapter 31: My Personal Lullaby

  Chapter 32: Recovery

  Chapter 33: The Condition

  Chapter 34: Discharge and Departures

  Chapter 35: The Big Show

  Chapter 36: Backstage Pass

  Chapter 37: Surprise Me

  Chapter 38: Whirlwind

  Chapter 39: An Outsider’s Eye

  Chapter 40: Broken Pasts

  Chapter 41: Explanations and Revelations

  Chapter 42: Stitches

  Chapter 43: On the Eve

  Chapter 44: Whispered Words

  Chapter 45: Escape!

  Chapter 46: Empty Walls

  Chapter 47: Finding Home

  Chapter 48: Mistakes Made

  Chapter 49: Arrivals

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1: A Lonely City

  “Amateur at best,” I grumbled, swirling my spoon viciously through my coffee. “Come back when you have worked on your style a little more.” How could they say that about my work? More importantly, how was I going to pay the rent this month without that paycheck?

  I huffed out another frustrated sigh as I sipped on what was probably the last real cup of coffee I would be having in a long time.

  This was the third gallery this month that had rejected my pieces, and the tin I kept hidden under my bed with my life savings was starting to gather a serious layer of dust.

  I had been in New York for over two years now and had only managed to sell three pieces of art. Personally, I think the last guy took pity on me when I broke down and started to hyperventilate in front of him.

  This was also one of the many reasons I liked to lock myself away in my studio/apartment for as many consecutive days as I could manage. I pretend to blame it on the need to hone my artist focus and channel my inspiration, but it’s actually because I like to avoid human interaction at all costs.

  Holing myself up in my rundown, shoebox-sized apartment also stops me from spending money I not only don’t have but also from lamenting over the things I might be able to purchase if I did have it. Things like food and clothes without gaping holes in them are luxuries I just can’t afford in my current financial state. Thankfully, after moving out of my brother’s apartment a year ago, I have avoided him ever seeing where I live because if he did, I am certain that he would judge me more than he already does.

  I would have stayed with him, as he would have liked, had it not been for the daily fights we would suffer through, which always ended with him slamming his apartment door and returning early in the morning, loudly stumbling to his bed. He rarely made it there and somehow always ended up on the living room floor beside his expensive, if somewhat uncomfortable, leather sofa. Whenever I sat on it, I always felt as if I were being examined by a psychiatrist.

  My brother may be a talented lawyer, but his taste in furniture left something to be desired.

  "Freya," came my friend's voice from across the café. Her brown hair was pinned back perfectly and her gray suit sitting exactly as it should as she pushed through the midmorning rush of mothers and their young children. I could barely tolerate the screaming or the incessant nagging from the moms to get their kids to act civilized so they could gossip with their friends.

  I plastered a fake smile across my face as Darla approached, internally groaning when I saw she had brought her dull boyfriend with her.

  The two worked in an office downtown for Marcus’ uncle and had apparently fallen madly in love a few months ago, but how anyone could fall in love with a man whose hairline was already receding at twenty-five is beyond me.

  "Hey Darla," I greeted flatly, my mood too sour to achieve the level of perk she always seemed to have. “Alfalfa,” I nodded at him as the two took the seats across from me. His grim face didn’t even twitch, his bushy eyebrows never flinching from where they sat atop his dull brown eyes. He didn’t even bother returning my greeting, not that I could blame him. I was less than welcoming.

  "How did it go at the gallery?" Darla asked, looking over at Marcus and sharing a private look before returning her attention to me.

  "Terrible," I answered, swirling the remnants of my coffee that had now gone cold. "They didn’t like my pieces."

  "That’s horrible," she cooed, and I flinched at her insincerity. When we had met after I arrived in the city two years ago, she had been calming and sympathetic toward me. She had helped any way she could when we had both been working at a local café bussing tables. But after she started working at Marcus’ office and he had somehow won her heart, she began to drift away from me. Probably because of my aversion to the man sitting beside her, but in my current fragile state, I was happy to blame her for our fractured friendship.

  "What happened?"

  "They said my pieces were too juvenile, my style wasn’t what they were looking for, or some rubbish like that," I dismissed, running my finger through some spilled sugar on the black table.

  "Don’t worry, I’m sure the next gallery you visit will love your pieces," she promised, and I couldn’t stop the snort from escaping.

  "Yeah right."

  "Maybe if you were to finish your degree, a gallery would be more inclined to pick up your work," Marcus suggested haughtily, his voice more monotone than ever.

  "Maybe if you developed a personality, I would be less inclined to fall asleep when you talk," I shot back, glaring at him as he watched me with a bored expression.

  "Marcus," Darla scolded, nudging him in the shoulder as he muttered something under his breath. “Sorry about him,” she smiled, returning her attention back to me. ‘I think you’re a talented artist, and any gallery would be lucky to have your artwork displayed on their walls.’

  "Thanks Darla," I smiled weakly, pushing my cup away from me.

  "Darla, we need to go," Marcus announced, tapping annoyingly at his expensive watch.

  "Already?"

  "My uncle is expecting
me," he answered with a pointed look.

  "Right," she answered hurriedly before looking back at me. "I’m sorry Freya, we really do have to go."

  "Right, of course," I muttered. "You have a real job."

  "You’ll get there one day." She smiled sympathetically, almost condescendingly, and I held my tongue. The only reason she had the position she had now was because she was sleeping with Marcus. She had been just as lowly as I had been only six months ago, when she had been dreaming of becoming an actress while we were bussing tables still.

  "Maybe," I shrugged, gathering my tattered shoulder bag that had more patches than bag left. It was mere threads away from falling to pieces. Not that it held anything of value other than the keys to my hovel of an apartment. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

  "Actually," she started hesitantly, and I reluctantly brought my eyes to her again, feeling a sickly sensation wash over me. "I’m-we’re busy Sunday."

  "But we always go to Central Park on Sundays. It’s a tradition. We get dressed in workout gear and meet up by the fountain before we decide that exercising isn’t for us and instead go get coffee at Stefan’s Café and eat a ridiculous amount of red velvet cake until we are both so full we declare we will never eat again," I rushed out, barely stopping for a breath.

  "I know but…well, Marcus and I, we have plans on Sunday. We’re, well…last night Marcus," she paused for a moment, looking over at Marcus with an excited smile before continuing. "He proposed."

  "Oh."

  "And we’re looking for venues on Sunday. We want the wedding to happen as soon as possible, and that means we’re both going to be extremely busy over the next couple of months, you know…planning and everything."

  "Right," I muttered, gripping hold of my fraying bag strap tighter.

  "It’s all very exciting," she beamed, turning her excited look back at me, and I realized I should have one of my own mirrored back at her.

  "Of course…con-congratulations," I choked out, feeling an odd sensation start to wash over me.

  "Thanks," she breathed out wistfully before her arm was tugged by the incessant Marcus.

  "Come on, Darla," he pressed, trying to get her to move through the hordes of mothers and their uncontrollable children. One child was on top of the table screaming so loudly that his face was turning red, and all I could think was, he was lucky. He could scream as loud as he wanted, from whatever table he wanted, and society wouldn’t think he had lost his mind but if I did that, the men with straight jackets would be called and I would be shipped away to a padded room. Yet, at this moment, it was all I could think of doing.

  "Sorry Freya, we need to go." There it was again, ‘we’, not I, we. Darla was the one friend I had. Admittedly she wasn’t the greatest, but in a city like New York, it was nice to know you weren’t alone. She was the friend that barely had her life together and yet here she was getting married, pushing papers at her nine-to-five job while I was busy getting rejected from every art gallery in Manhattan.

  "I'll make sure you receive an invitation as soon as we decide on a date," she promised as Marcus pulled her from the café.

  "Lucky me," I muttered sarcastically before making my own way through the mess of people, pulling my threadbare coat tighter as the fall breeze whipped fiercely through the city streets.

  I strangely found myself wandering the cold streets of New York hours after leaving the café. I couldn't bring myself to return to my apartment and stare at my unwanted pieces of art. Instead, I found myself on the exclusive side of the city where all the trees were nicely trimmed and the sidewalks were clear of leaves despite the cold October chill in the air. I wandered the streets, feeling small in comparison to the grand buildings that lined it, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to live without the fear of whether you would make the rent this month or if you would be able to pay for dinner tomorrow night.

  Did they have friends inside those intimidating walls, or were they as alone as I was? Was it true that no amount of money could buy you company? However, from where I was standing beneath an arched entrance of a stone building, the absence of money didn’t mean friends either. Surely, if we were without friends, without someone to rely upon, money might just be a good fallback. A way to silence the gaping hole in my chest as the wind whistled through it. Living inside those walls couldn't be all that bad when my life was the alternative.

  Chapter 2: A Game of Cards

  "Shoot,” I hissed, looking at my barren wallet. I needed to get another job.

  “Miss?” The cashier looked at me expectantly, and I felt my face flush with embarrassment at realizing I had run out of money at the supermarket, again.

  “Well,” I laughed nervously, stuffing my wallet back in my beat-up bag a little too harshly. It really should have been retired years ago, but obviously, I have a money problem, and a new bag wasn’t high on my list of priorities.

  “Again?” He asked patronizingly, and I felt my face flame even brighter as I realized it was the same guy as last time. I shrugged and smiled sheepishly before making my hasty escape from the store, again. Sometimes the life of a struggling artist was tiresome, especially when it failed to pay the bills, or for dinner even.

  Once out on the street, the gravity of my situation hit me, as loud as the growling of my stomach. When I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the grimy storefront, I couldn’t help but sigh in defeat. There was only one option left now. Mason.

  * * *

  Sometimes I wondered whether my brother trusted me, considering he still refused to give me a key to his place. Which is why I was reduced to picking his lock just to steal twenty dollars to buy some dinner.

  Once I was inside, I shut the door softly behind me, knowing that he was somewhere in here. It was Saturday night, poker night. I just hoped that he was drunk enough that he wouldn’t notice me.

  Slowly, I made my way through the hallway until I reached his bedroom, where I froze with my hand resting on his door handle. Obnoxious, drunken laughter rang out through the apartment, and I sighed in relief. There was no way he was going to realize my thievery until the deed was done and the money was already spent.

  I felt a satisfied grin spread across my face as I went to his dresser and dug around in his drawer until I realized with a sinking heart that there wasn’t any money there.

  “Damn it, Mason,” I hissed, slamming the drawer shut in frustration. He must have finally caught on and hidden his money somewhere else, or I had simply exhausted his change drawer the last time I was here. What was I going to do now? I thought, slumping on his bed and resting my head in my hands. Again I heard the laughter ring out through the apartment, and I knew my last option was a risky one. However, if I was going to eat tonight, it had to be done.

  Grudgingly, I got to my feet and moved over to his doorway before making my way down the hallway to the source of the laughter. Slowly, I inched my head around the corner of the archway that led into Mason's living room, and my eyes immediately rested on the wallet sitting beside him on the table.

  Impossible, there was no way I would be able to make it in and out of there alive. Regretfully, I was about to step back from the door when I heard my name being yelled out from across the room, and I knew I had been found out.

  “Freya,” Mason yelled, and I cringed at how much alcohol it would have taken him to reach this stage of drunkenness.

  “Mason,” I answered quietly, reluctantly coming out from my hiding place.

  “Who’s this, Mason? Have you been holding out on us?” My eyes immediately jumped to the man sitting across from my brother, and I almost fell over in shock. It couldn’t be…

  “This is my sister Frey.”

  “Mason,” I groaned, hating that he called me that.

  “Oh come on Freya, don’t be shy,” he coaxed, waving me over. Slowly, I dragged my feet across the floor, all too aware of the many eyes on me, none more piercing than those of the golden-eyed rock st
ar.

  It was hard to miss him, and in my brother’s living room, he looked larger than life. He was on billboards all over the city, his gold eyes glaring at you as if you had done something to make him angry. On every street corner, women were swooning, and jealous men were looking at his solid abs in awe. No human could look that perfect.

  There he sat in all his perfection, watching me with his piercing eyes that were slightly glazed over from all the alcohol I’m sure he had consumed. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how he had ended up in my brother’s apartment. My older brother was a lawyer, not a rock star. Why would the two possibly run in the same circles?

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight, sister dear?” Mason chuckled as I stood beside him, rolling my eyes at his drunkenness. Our father had done a number on him, especially considering he was the success of our family. Me, I was the struggling artist who had no prospects and apparently no money to even support myself.

  “Well…” This day couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

  “You need money, don’t you?” Reluctantly, I nodded my head, never lifting my eyes from the hardwood floors, knowing that everyone was watching and listening to our conversation. “When are you going to get yourself a real job?”

  “Leave it, Mason,” I whispered, making to leave the room when his smooth voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Wait, Freya, you might just make this night interesting.” Slowly, I turned my head and saw a playful smirk on the rock star’s face, and my insides began to squirm. I may be indifferent to him, but I was still a woman.

  “And how could I possibly make Liam Henderson’s night more entertaining?” I shot back, trying to hide my discomfort.

  “Up for another round, Mason?” Liam smirked at my brother as the others at the table started to deal out the cards and place their bets.

  “Always, but what are you thinking, rock star?” Mason asked, eyeing Liam skeptically.

  “I’m just going to make the stakes a little higher,” he shrugged, and immediately I hated where this was going, wishing my brother had the sense to back down.