Shallow

by Kenborn, Cora

  “Mom, I got the full scholarship.” My voice stutters, and I grab the wall for support. “I’m going to Duke University in the fall.” A heaviness settles in my stomach. My dream is happening.

  Tears tumble down my mother’s cheeks as she cups her hands over her mouth. “Oh, son…”

  “I’m going to be a doctor,” I whisper. “I’m going to save the world.”

  Squealing, Mom throws her arms around me, causing us to both stumble backward. “Oh, Carrick, I knew it! Your sister will be so proud, honey.”

  I break our embrace and smile, even though I try my best to hide it. “Mom, would you mind finishing the room? I promise I’ll clean the next three to make up for it.”

  Her elated grin fades. “Not if you’re going where I think you’re going.”

  “You don’t know her like I do.”

  “You only think you know her. She only talks to you if there’s no one around to see it.”

  She’s still ranting as I run down the broken-down steps three at a time. I don’t have a car, but I do have a beat-up motorcycle that gets me where I need to be. And right now, the only place I need to be is with the most beautiful girl in the world.

  * * *

  Present Day

  For an hour, I’ve stared at the centerfold of Shiloh’s magazine. Not out in the open, of course. I have it shoved in the center drawer of my shitty, beat-up desk just in case someone comes in. I’ve tried to pay invoices, return calls, even force myself to call Taryn, but I find myself gawking at her sex-kitten stare like I’ve never seen a woman before.

  I’d followed her trial. That shit was all over the news like she was goddamn royalty. After I heard the judge say felony probation, I stopped paying attention. What Shiloh wants, Shiloh gets, and if it had been anyone else, they’d be behind bars by now.

  Groaning, I scrub my palms over my face and tilt my head back. You’d think after seven years I’d have the woman out of my system, but I guess sometimes hate and lust run parallel. I loathe her, but time has done nothing to extinguish the fire inside me every time I see her half naked on the cover of some skin mag.

  Is it possible to want to fuck someone to death? Like, literally to death? Because I think I’m there.

  As I weigh the moral implications, my office door opens and Frankie pokes his bald head in. “Hey, boss, you got a minute?”

  Shoving the drawer closed, I grab the handful of overdue invoices I snagged from Frankie’s desk and try to look busy. “I have one minute. You’d better talk fast, junior.”

  Rubbing the scruff on his jaw, Frankie settles into the metal chair in front of me.

  “Comfy?” I ask with a smirk.

  “I know about her.”

  I kick my feet onto the edge of my desk. “Is this purely a guessing game, or do I get multiple choice?”

  Frankie rolls his eyes and sighs. “I told the guys to stop being assholes. They’re being stupid, but it’s because they’re thinkin’ with their dicks. They don’t know all the shit I know.”

  “And what is all the shit you think you know?”

  “I know you and Shiloh West have history. I also know whatever went down between you and her—it’s like Tupac tragic.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?” I drop my feet as my face heats. No way am I having this conversation with anyone.

  Undeterred, he nods to the crumpled invoices in my fist. “Didn’t bother to grab the mail off my desk before today, did ya?”

  “No money coming in. There’s no reason to open bills I can’t pay.”

  Before I can react, Frankie’s out of his chair and sifting through the wad of mail in my hand. A protest sticks in my throat as he jerks one letter out of my grasp and waves it in front of my face.

  “This drop came overnighted, and I may have opened it.”

  “So?”

  “It came overnighted three days ago. You may wanna take a look before you have yourself a shock you don’t want the others to see.”

  A bizarre sense of déjà vu sucker punches me. I pull the letter out of the envelope and have to read it three times before I believe it’s real.

  No.

  No way in hell.

  Dear Mr. Kincaid,

  This letter is to inform you that the state of California has mandated Shiloh West to serve out her three year felony probation sentence in South Carolina. In three days, Miss West will be transferred to Myrtle Beach, where she will serve her sentence of forty hours per week of community service at the Elizabeth Kincaid Community Center.

  You are to record the arrival and dismissal times of Miss West for official documentation. Miss West will arrive on time for her scheduled service unless otherwise excused by her probation officer, Mr. William Emerson.

  You have forty-eight hours to submit a formal refusal of Miss West’s assistance, along with a valid reason the court should consider reassignment. If no contact is made, please expect Miss West to report for service on Thursday, June 15th.

  Sincerely,

  Judge Harold J. Oliver

  Los Angeles County District Court Judge

  The paper shakes in my hand. I have no idea how to feel. On one hand, the thought of seeing Shiloh again makes me want to drag Frankie back into the ring and beat the shit out of him. On the other hand, the idea of Shiloh being at my beck and call is too tempting to resist.

  Fuck it. I’m past the refusal window anyway.

  “You knew?” I ask, still staring at the letter clutched in my hand.

  “Yeah, and I thought you did too. The way you’ve been mopin’ around here, I just thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  I drop my head in my hands, the reality of seeing her again hitting me hard. “Shit.”

  “Boss, I know you don’t like the girl, but she’s comin’ here whether you like it or not. Your problem is gonna be when those idiots out there see her.”

  “No one touches her,” I growl, the intensity in my voice surprising me. After his words sink in, I narrow my eyes and wave the envelope in the air. “They were talking like they knew she was coming too. Did you tell them?”

  “Nope. It’s all over the news she’s coming back to Myrtle Beach, boss. The only thing nobody knows is that she’s comin’ here.”

  Slamming the letter onto my desk, I press my fingers against my temple as my head pounds against it. “As always, she gets off easy. She kills someone and gets a slap on the wrist. Now, she gets to be our problem. Lucky us.”

  Frankie scoots his chair back and slaps his thighs. “I know this is probably the last thing you wanted.”

  A slow smile lifts one corner of my mouth as years of planning finally come to fruition. “On the contrary, Frankie, I can’t fucking wait.”

  Three

  Shiloh

  The minute I step off the plane, I know I’m screwed.

  I’ve endured months without a relapse, but the churning in my stomach makes me ache for the relief one line would give me. I crave the numbness and perpetual motion—a habit born and cultivated by the very people who damned me for it.

  Instead, I’m stone-cold sober as the welcome wagon arrives at the Myrtle Beach International Airport. They’re at the terminal in full force, jumping into action as if they’ve been awaiting my arrival. Cameras and flashes buzz around me like a swarm of killer bees. Only these bees aren’t interested in stinging me—they’re out for my blood.

  Instinct has me covering my face with the inside of my elbow as the guard’s firm grip on my other arm maneuvers me through the crowd. “How did they get into the terminal?”

  “They probably bought a ticket. One shot of you would more than pay for their out of pocket expenses,” she says in a clipped tone.

  I keep my head down and stumble behind her. I don’t know why I thought slipping into town would be easy. I’m a radioactive train wreck barreling through a sleepy Southern town that swallows gossip like starving animals in the wild.

  “Everyone move,” she yells, waving her
arm. “No cameras, no comment.” Regardless of her authoritative warning, the shouts keep coming.

  “Shiloh, is it true the Maynards are suing you in a civil case?”

  “Shiloh, what do you have to say about the protestors lined up outside?”

  “Shiloh, let us see your face.”

  The last one makes me wince.

  “There are protestors?” I whisper to the large female directing me through the airport.

  “What did you expect?” she mumbles while guiding me around a second wave of paparazzi. “You’re a criminal, not Miss America.”

  “That’s harsh.” I groan as her thumb digs into my skin while she steers me into a tiny elevator.

  “I call ’em like I see ’em.” The pressure on my arm releases, and I hear her muscular body thump against the far wall of the elevator. “You can look now, princess. Cameras are gone.”

  I blink, the tight, metal enclosure coming into focus as it descends to baggage claim. My heart thumps a wild rhythm in my chest, and sweat beads along my brow. While I didn’t expect the cross-country trip to be a vacation, becoming a walking beacon definitely wasn’t on my agenda.

  People mostly kept to themselves on the six-hour flight, with only the occasional whisper or flash of a pathetically hidden camera phone alerting me to the fact anyone even cared I was there. The female officer contracted to ensure I didn’t ditch the plane and fly to Mexico glared at me the whole time and shook her head.

  Kind of like she’s doing now.

  Only then I was stuck in a tiny flying deathtrap, and now I’m stuck in a tiny box held up by cables and fishing wire. Both make me want to crawl out of my skin.

  Crawl out of my skin.

  If only that were possible. I can’t help but chuckle to myself as I tug on the neck of my t-shirt, my throat expanding with panic.

  “Something funny, princess?”

  I glance at the officer’s shoes. They’re a sensible black, with double-knotted laces and thick soles. I assume they’re designed to chase down prisoners who make a break for it. However, their purpose is really inconsequential with the concealed gun tucked into the back of her waistband.

  “No,” I answer as a sudden jolt lets me know the elevator has reached its destination. “I just can’t breathe in enclosed spaces.”

  Sensible Shoes moves in front of me, but I’m not sure if it’s to ward off any more paparazzi or to block my exit. Her short brown hair is tucked neatly behind each ear, and I can’t find a trace of makeup on her face. The concept fascinates me. Before the accident, I couldn’t imagine going outside without my armor.

  “Well, then you should thank that rich daddy of yours that you aren’t suffocating behind bars.”

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  She maneuvers me forward with a heavy hand on my shoulder. “What’s to like? There are a different set of rules for your kind. You’re overprivileged, overpaid, overindulged, and shallow.”

  I freeze.

  Well, that didn’t take long. I thought I’d be back at least twenty-four hours before I heard that nickname again. Some things never change.

  Clenching my jaw, I dodge another swarm of paparazzi and make my way toward the baggage claim carousel to collect my belongings. I managed to shove everything in two suitcases, leaving the rest in West Hollywood with a promise from Lena to ship more should I want to set fire to what I brought with me.

  I’m not a minimalist or a glass-half-full kind of girl, but bringing everything with me just seemed too final. At least by leaving the majority of my things in the penthouse and persuading Lena to sublet, I’m able to give myself the illusion that I’m not stuck here for three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. Twenty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty hours.

  Not that I’ve done the math or anything.

  As I take a step toward the conveyor belt, Sensible Shoes grabs my shoulder again. The unnecessary display of dominance is irritating, and I whip around to let her know when she shoves me toward the double sliding glass doors that lead outside. An outside that’s crowded with the aforementioned protestors holding up signs encouraging me to go to hell.

  Too late, bitches. Been there done that, crawled home.

  “Wrong way, princess. This is as far as I’m obligated.”

  “But I need my bags,” I argue as she guides me toward a sleek black sedan.

  I plant my feet the minute the doors open and the warm, coastal South Carolina humidity crawls down my throat. I’ve forgotten how stifling it can be and how the salty taste seems to coat your tongue. It makes me long for California’s crisp breezes.

  There’s an unmistakable sneer in her tone. “They’ve already been gathered and stowed away.”

  “By whom?” I raise an eyebrow, not sure whether to fully believe her.

  “That would be me, Miss West.”

  My body shifts as I gaze at the intimidating man leaning over the top of the sedan, an amused smirk etched across his face. He’s got to be at least six-two, and with his tailored black pants and charcoal-colored button-up, he seems to have taken a page out of Sensible Shoes’ fashion manual. His hair is dirty blond, trimmed professionally in the back and sides, while the longer length of the top dusts below his eyebrows, making him appear less than procedural.

  Immediately, I know he’s not a townie. I lived here long enough to spot one a mile away. His demeanor is little bit Midwest ease and a lot of New York cockiness.

  Sensible Shoes raises her palms and takes a step backward. “My contract was for a safe delivery, princess, not babysitting. This is the end of the road for you and me.” She gives me an exaggerated salute and disappears through the glass doors.

  Shaking my head, I come out of my stupor long enough to fire back at both of them. “You’re just handing me off to some stranger?”

  “I assure you I’m no stranger, Miss West,” the man offers in a deep voice. “Or at least I won’t be after you get in.”

  “Are you my driver?” I frown.

  His eyebrows draw together. “Are you serious?”

  The blasé response irritates the hell out of me, and my hands settle onto my hips. “I assure you I’m quite serious, and also cautious. I’m a vulnerable woman standing outside an airport being lured into the equivalent of a candy-filled van.”

  “That was a rhetorical question. Cabs are over there.” He points in front of us toward a caravan of taxicabs lined up along the curb.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not taking a cab.”

  “You were expecting a pumpkin and some mice?” When I just glare at him, he continues. “Unless you want to answer to the mob over there, get in, Miss West.” Patting the top of the sedan with his palm, he lowers himself into the driver’s seat. “You’re already late.”

  He seems normal, but abduction isn’t on my agenda for the day, so I plant my feet and fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who you are.”

  “I’m William Emerson, your probation officer,” he says, popping his head over the top of the car.

  William Emerson and I stare at each other as if he can’t believe I’m arguing with him. Finally, he shakes his head and rounds the car, his hand digging inside his pocket as he advances. I have no idea what’s he’s doing, but I wait until he pulls his hand out to scream.

  “Don’t touch—”

  He produces a small leather rectangle, and I blink a few times as it drops open, revealing a blue badge and an official ID. “William Kyle Emerson, South Carolina Department of Corrections.” He snaps the badge closed just as I reach for it. “Any more questions?”

  Yes, a thousand. But I’ll hold my tongue.

  “You have my bags?” I ask, nodding to the trunk.

  “I do.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To meet your unofficial employer for the next three years,” he answers while opening the passenger’s side door for me. “He’s expecting you.”

  He’s expecting me.


  As I reluctantly lower myself onto the black leather seat, I click my seatbelt with only one thing on my mind.

  Please let he not be him.

  Four

  Shiloh

  Seven Years Ago

  April – Prom

  As I descend the stage, a herd of people mill around me. I force a smile to make them think I care, but inside I’m rolling my eyes.

  “I knew you’d win,” Taryn squeals and flips her chestnut brown hair over her shoulder. At first glance, her smile seems sincere, but there’s a quiver on the right corner. It’s Taryn’s tell.

  Everyone has a tell when they’re lying, and if you think they don’t, they’re just skilled at hiding it. It’s a stroke of the hair, a twitch of the nose, a nervous bite of the lip. Or in Taryn’s case, a smile slip. She doesn’t know she does it. It’s best to keep that kind of information close to the cuff. Especially when you’re surrounded by people who’d offer you a ride in their car, then shove you in front of it.

  I’m not paying attention to her anymore because I feel him. I always feel him before I see him. I know when he’s watching me. It used to freak me out, but now it’s become a comfort—like a tattered blanket you really need to toss, but can’t because it makes you feel safe.

  That’s him. A safe blanket.

  Taryn rolls her eyes and motions over my shoulder. “Oh, look, Shiloh, your puppy has arrived.”

  Even if I hadn’t felt his presence, her face tells me what’s about to happen. If I had any power to stop it, I would. However, as I hear his discreet cough behind me, I know it’s out of my hands.

  “Congratulations, Shy,” he says. “I had everything crossed for you.”

  “Everything but your balls, since they’ve been tucked inside Shiloh’s purse since ninth grade, huh?”

  I’m mortified. “Taryn!”

  Ignoring me, she leans over my shoulder and gives him a slow perusal from head to toe. “Look at you all geek chic tonight. Where’s your date, Lawn Boy?”