Hunt Me
Page 1
Contents
Title
Author's Note
Free Book
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Free Book
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other Books & Upcoming Releases
Author’s Note
This book can be read as a stand-alone. Here a little introduction if you didn’t read the previous books:
Sam lives with four girls—Kendra, Leonara, Ruby, and Skyla—in her house in Florida.
This is Leonara’s story.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Elodie Colt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Warning:
This book contains explicit sexual content and harsh language.
Recommended age: 18+
Cover Design: Art4Artists
Editing: Swish Design & Editing
Proofreading: N.R. Locker Editing & Author Services
Formatting & Editorial Design: Elodie Colt
Dedication
To Steven James Hendry who was my role model for this book :)
They say that memories define us. That they form our personality and make us who we are. They do. I know better than most.
They also say that memories change with time. Altered, morphed, and distorted by our daily experiences, twisted by our fragile mind, shattered by our ability to forget, therefore concealing their undiluted essence.
Is this a weakness? A product of the imperfection of our mind? Who knows…
Then again, what if it all serves a purpose? What if the human brain knows exactly what it wants us to remember for our own protection?
I wish what they say was true. I wish time would have changed my memories. I wish I wouldn’t remember, but I do.
I remember every single detail of these twenty-one minutes, crystal-clear as if it happened yesterday. The longest, dirtiest, and most painful twenty-one minutes in my life, starting with him opening the door to my room to leaving me drowning in shame.
A time span that felt like a small forever…
And twenty-one minutes was all it took to destroy my soul.
My white bedsheets with the washed-out stains of tomato sauce. The rhythmic thump of the headboard rattling against the wall. The belt buckle scraping the back of my thigh. The stale breath of beer. The TV screen throwing streaks of light over my fisted hands. The black Nike T-Shirt I bought two days earlier, now scrunched up around my waist and constricting my skin. The digital clock on my nightstand, the one my mother bought on our visit to Barcelona, displaying a picture of the two of us in front of the Pablo Picasso Museum.
It’s all there—branded into my mind for eternity.
Over the last five years, I’ve mastered the art of locking any thoughts of that fateful night in a mental vault where they stay put most of the time, but sometimes they crawl out of my carefully crafted fortress. This happens mostly in crowded places where people stand behind me, and I feel their breaths on my neck or their hands close by.
It’s also one of the reasons I chose a job to work at night, so I always get a free spot in the last row on the bus, and no one can linger behind me. I prepare my sandwich at home instead of going to the bakery to avoid waiting in line and getting trapped in a queue. I buy my stuff online instead of going to a shopping mall to evade civilization. My office desk is positioned in the farthest corner next to the wall so I can watch everything that goes on around me.
Remember when Sam found out that Matthew planned to propose to Jillian, and Kendra wanted us to go out for one night? It was terrible. Eventually, I ended up on the porch drawing a girl who was so drunk she was lolling on the ground, mouth wide open and drooling on her dress. When I finished, I folded the paper and stuck it into her purse. I would love to have seen her face when she found it the next day.
Anyway, the only ones who don’t set my nerves on edge when they invade my comfort zone are the girls—Kendra, Sam, Ruby, and Skyla. Oh, and there’s Zach, my piercer and tattoo artist. Totally harmless. Might also have to do with the fact that he’s gay and in a steady relationship with Kendra’s hairdresser, so I think I’m on the safe with him.
Apart from the constant fear of anyone lurking in the shadows and jumping me from behind, I have a coping strategy—art.
I was born with a talent for drawing, which I’ve inherited from my mother, who lived to be an artist. Whereas she preferred painting with a brush and using colors to create her masterpieces, I’ve always thrived in swinging a pencil. I like the sound the tip makes gliding over a sheet of paper, the way I feel it scratching the surface. I love how I can use the lead to create shades adding to the depths, and how I can bring a drawing to life by placing shadows and light reflections here and there.
Drawing is my therapy. The essence of my life. My temporary reprieve. My strategy to escape the dark veil of horrific memories constantly looming over me like the Sword of Damocles. As soon as I hold a pencil, my mind relaxes. When I draw, everything else becomes insignificant. Time loses its meaning, and the dark memories of my past subside. Along with my phone and house keys, a 2B pencil and a sketchpad are my essentials.
So, working as an illustrator in one of the biggest agencies in Florida is the best thing that ever happened to me. Granted, I’d rather not waste my talent for designing hearts, skulls, and flowers for T-shirts and logos, but I don’t complain. I can do what I was born to do and work mostly at night when I can avoid people. Actually, Kendra was the one who got me the job.
Tilting my head, I examine the illustration on my Mac, trying to decide if I got the mixture of yellow and orange right or if I should use a darker tone to enhance the flames engulfing the Phoenix on the screen. Our agency landed an assignment with a notable video game producer, and my boss, Carla, put me in charge of the branding for their newest adventure game, Legends of the Firebirds.
Getting the sketch right was quite hard as the client stated explicitly that the firebird’s shape should look like an eagle. As usual, the challenge is the eyes. Drawing animals is a science in itself, something I’m usually quite good at, but eagles are a different league. No idea why, but it’s nearly impossible to get their magnificence on paper.
“Leo. Oh good, you’re still here,” I hear Carla say when she breezes into the office. She wears a fire-red blazer, its hue matching the one of my Phoenix and hurting my eyes.
Carla is okay. She’s always super busy and doesn’t hover around much, letting her people work in peace. She’s a great artist and draws awesome cartoons. As far as I know, she once worked on a project for Pixar Studios to sketch the characters for the new Toy Story movie.
Her fuchsia lipstick clashes with her outfit, and I’m close to telling her that the combination is a no-go, but I manage to remain silent. I tend to utter the first thing that come
s to my mind, which usually results in people getting offended, and I can’t afford to piss off Carla.
“This looks great, Leo,” Carla compliments when she halts next to me, glancing at the screen. “Make the beak a little longer and fade out the wings here,” she instructs. “By the way, the advertising agency wants another revision of their logo.”
I groan. “Again?”
Carla clicks her tongue. “This is what they pay us for. They’ve changed the color palette to this one here, so if you could adapt the logo variations by tomorrow, that would be great.” She hands me the new color palette with electric blues and a horrible mustard yellow.
“This is awful,” I mutter.
“I know, but they pay us good money. Remember, the customer is king. You might need to make the background a little darker, so the yellow doesn’t drown.”
I hate this project. This is the fifth time the client wants us to change their branding, and the color combination gets worse each time.
“By the way,” Carla starts, perching against my desk. “I have good news. A client was quite fascinated by one of the pencil drawings you gave me at your job interview.”
My ears perk up. “Which one?”
“The one you called Ravenous.”
One of my best pieces so far, in my opinion. Ravenous is a drawing of an eye with tree branches as eyelashes fading off to flying ravens on top, and tears running down the cheek to then flow into a pool of water that looks like a lake nestled in the forest. One of my more surrealistic pieces.
“And?”
“And…” Carla continues, her smile growing bigger. “He wants to buy it for three hundred. I wanted to ask you first.”
Three hundred dollars for this piece that didn’t take me longer than forty minutes?
“Wow, cool. Of course, he can have it.”
“Great. Oh, one more thing… You know I’m going to New York in two weeks for the exhibition at the Studio Museum Harlem. I was thinking about bringing a few of your creations.”
It takes me a second to realize what she’s offering. “Wait, you want to exhibit my drawings in New York?”
“A few, yes. I was thinking about exhibiting a set of five pieces of Ravenous. Do you think you can draw a few variations by the end of next week?”
“Of course,” I mumble in astonishment.
“Great. I’ll give you the details tomorrow. Are you okay with coming into the office a little earlier for the next few days?”
No, I want to reply but swallow it down. It would be stupid to let a chance like this go to waste. “Sure,” I utter, even managing a little smile.
Carla nods in appreciation. “Okay, see you tomorrow then.”
“Good night.”
“Wakey, wakey, Leo!” Skyla chirps annoyingly as she bangs the door to my room open. “Today is shopping day!”
“Fuck off…” I mumble into my pillow, dragging the blanket over my ear in an attempt to shut her out.
The mattress dips as Skyla hops onto it making me bounce. “You know what day it is, Leo,” she says in a scolding tone.
Yeah, I know, which is why I intend to stay in bed the entire day. “Get out of my room, or I’ll choke you with my pillow…”
“Aw, come on, Leo. It will be fun, I promise!” Skyla cheers in excitement.
I try to will myself back to sleep, but Skyla doesn’t accept my silent treatment, switching to another tactic instead. I know what’s coming, so I hold onto the headboard as she grabs my ankles to yank me out of bed.
She groans in an effort but surrenders quickly when she realizes I won’t budge, letting my feet plop down on the bed. “Ugh, you’re a lost cause. I give up,” she grumbles before storming out. I sigh in relief, cocooning myself into the blankets again. “No chance,” I hear Skyla complain in the hallway.
“Let me,” another voice responds—a voice I haven’t heard in months.
I’m short of bolting out of bed but remain put. If she expected a happy reunion, she’s dead wrong. I’m selfish, I know, considering she’s the reason I didn’t cut my veins with my father’s razor blade all those years ago.
Because it was like this…
I was cowering in the subway station after stealing money from a pedestrian to buy food when a girl with dark red hair stumbled over me in her hurry to catch the metro. The only pencil I had left—an ugly brown one I’d found in a trash can near an elementary school—broke in two as the girl stepped on it with her ridiculous heels. My first thought was to pick up the broken pieces and pierce her green eyes, but she beat me to it with the words, “Oh no, I’m so sorry! I’m always so clumsy. Here, take these. I just bought a bunch for our store.”
I watched the girl with her bouncy red locks fish out a brand-new set of high-quality pencils and handed them to me, and I gaped at her in astonishment.
Her eyes fell on the picture I’d just finished—a sketch of a young girl with orange hair and a pair of fat headphones on her head. I’d watched her while she waited for the metro. Her deep eyes speaking of defiance had pulled me in enough to eternalize her on paper.
“Oh wow, this is stunning! Did you draw this?” the girl wanted to know, her eyes wide.
I slowly nodded, eyeing her skeptically, and pulled the picture closer to my chest as if it were the most precious thing I owned. My pictures were all I had. Nobody would take them from me.
The girl’s eyes softened when she took in my protective stance and shy demeanor. “Wow, this is just… I’m speechless. I’ve never seen a drawing like this. It’s perfect.” Peeking around me, she glanced at the folder on the floor stacked with more of my drawings. “Can I take a look at them?” she asked tentatively.
I quickly shook my head, sending her a dark glare. No one ever touched my pictures.
The girl nodded as if she’d expected my answer, retrieving her purse from her bag. “Can I buy that one?” She pointed to the drawing I was still clutching in my hands. I could only stare, stunned by her question. She was willing to give me money for my art?
My mouth nearly dropped open when she pulled out fifty bucks.
“Is that enough?” Before I could answer, she fished out another fifty. “Let’s make this one hundred. Definitely worth it.”
That quickly made my decision to sell her my art. A fucking hundred dollars was something I hadn’t had in my possession for a long time.
Long story short, this was the beginning of a deep and everlasting friendship, probably the only one I ever had. Kendra, I learned, sat down beside me, not bothering about the dirty underground beneath her pristine white jeans, and I showed her my pieces one by one, the metro she had been in a hurry to catch forgotten. She bought us food and told me everything about her job at a designer store called Lacy Megan’s, her favorite bands, her obsession with a DJ named Aaron Callaghan, and her passion for fashion.
She fascinated me. The way she viewed the world with so much optimism, the fire in her eyes, the love for life, the warm smiles she gave me as if I weren’t just a poor and dirty girl rotting on the streets with no money, no home, and no friends.
She didn’t judge me wearing run-down sneakers splitting at the seams, whereas her Valentino pumps must have cost a small fortune. She didn’t throw me patronizing glares for carrying the little belongings I had in a garbage bag, whereas a brown-checkered Louis Vuitton bag dangled from her shoulder. It was the first time I felt as if someone really saw me and not just treated me like a ghost.
Kendra brought me back to life and made me open my eyes to a world that was more than the dark veil of endless misery I believed it to be. She made me laugh, she made me love, she made me live.
Still, I’m wearing the ugly scars of my past resulting in what you’d call ‘social incompetence,’ or, as my therapist once put it, an ‘incapability of understanding emotional cues in the social environment, which is essential for developing superior social skills and form positive interpersonal relationships.’
When I told Kendra about my shrin
k’s verdict, she fell into a fit of laughter before hugging me and saying, “That’s why I love you so much.”
You see, it’s not that I can’t engage in social relationships, I simply don’t want to. Whenever someone looks at me, I’m overwhelmed by the weird feeling that they can see my past, that they can see what happened to me and then step on the broken pieces of what remained. My comfort zone includes Kendra and the girls living in Sam’s house, but that’s pretty much it. Sometimes, even their proximity suffocates me, and then I retrieve to my room, get a sketchpad and a pencil, and shut off my mind to the outside world.
Am I a coward? Certainly. I don’t need a shrink to tell me I’m running from my fears instead of facing them. That hiding behind baggy pants, floppy shirts, and caps is the cocoon I’ve created for my protection. Or that the multiple tattoos cloaking my skin are an act of provocation, indicating an antisocial personality disorder.
What nobody understands is that I still saw. Even months after the bruises had healed, I could still see where his hands had been, where his fingers had gripped so tightly my bones protested, where his nails had dug in so deeply my skin tore. Whenever I looked at myself, I saw his hands on my body, so I covered each part he’d tainted with his touch.
None of the girls know about my past, not even Kendra, but I think she can guess. It’s okay. At least, she doesn’t try to set me up with anybody like she usually does with everyone else.
Of course, it wasn’t easy to keep it a secret. The girls still try to get me to talk now and then. But the only answer I give them was that my father was arrested for dealing drugs which left me on the streets. Technically, it’s the truth, as it was by his actions that I ended up as a mental case, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
Approaching footsteps and a door opening bring me back to the present. I don’t need to open my eyes to know who’s sitting down on the bed, recognizing her perfume from miles away. Hot steam rises up my cheeks, and I sniff as a delicious aroma hits my nose.