Julia's Journey (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 2)

by Lowe, T. I.

  Julia’s Journey

  A Coming Home Again Novel

  T.I. LOWE

  Copyright © 2015 T.I. LOWE All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design - www.indiecoverdesign.com

  All Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  I dedicate Julia’s Journey to Brody Widener for sharing his journey through cancer with me. He kicked that cancer’s butt!!

  In loving memory of Betty Gore Boyd. Miss ya, lady.

  My Naked Life

  I’ve heard the same thing for what feels like all of my life—repeat of the same request, sometimes told nicely, sometimes not so much…

  “Take off your clothes. Slowly. I want to enjoy the view.”

  I do as he says. First sliding off my jeans, and then my shirt.

  “All of it,” he whispers.

  After only a moment’s hesitation, my bra and panties join my clothes on the floor. I am completely exposed to him. Shivering slightly, I stare out my bedroom window.

  “My beautiful Rose. Do you know how beautiful you are?” his husky voice asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, innocently.

  “Take off your clothes, please. We need to fully examine your body.”

  I numbly pull my clothes off and stand before these people naked and vulnerable.

  The doctor pokes and probes, the nurse takes notes, and I stand here staring at the sterile gray wall. I just want to lie down and go to sleep, forever.

  “You realize if you don’t start eating you will die.”

  “Yes,” I reply, impassively.

  “Take off your clothes,” I’m instructed. I do so quickly with no hesitation. “Good. Now, slowly circle so we can get a good look at you.”

  I do as I’m told. They motion for me to do another slow circle and I obey.

  “You’re a size two,” the agent states instead of asking.

  “Yes.” I stand before them with my hands by my side while they assess my body. I try to suck in my stomach and cheeks for the duration of the meeting. My eyes meet theirs while I try to act confident.

  “You think you can shave that down to a size zero?”

  “Yes,” I assure them with determination.

  “Take off your clothes. We need to check you for drug paraphernalia. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I mumble while peeling my clothes off. This is second nature to me now. A female counselor checks my body over and finds me clean. I try to focus on a poster on the wall, which is blurry but says something about saying No.

  “Are you on anything now?” she questions.

  “Yes,” I slur, wasted.

  “Take those clothes off so we can get this party started,” he begs. I vaguely realize I’m fumbling with my dress to get it off. I don’t have control over my body and am having a hard time completing this simple task. A task I have done millions of times on command. My body sways back and forth while he watches me.

  “Do you know how sexy you are?”

  “Yes,” I slur, dazedly.

  It’s been a long journey—a journey that is all the same. Everyone demanding to see my body. The beast who raped me. The counselors at the eating disorder clinic. The modeling agencies. The counselors at rehab. Endless men…

  Did they all see me naked?

  Yes.

  Did I hate every minute of it?

  Yes.

  Chapter One

  Julia

  Grief keeps me company on a pew in this somber church tucked on a lonesome street in NYC. The gloomy day appears to give no notice to the subtle snowflakes collecting just outside. Winter has been brutal and is quite fitting for partaking in the event for which we are gathered. Today I join my modeling family to remember Marna Casio and her way too short life. We’ve modeled together for nearly a decade. I wasn’t aware her quest to stay super-thin had crossed over the dangerous line.

  Sure, Marna passed out occasionally from deprivation…but hadn’t we all? Normally, all we needed to do was down a sugary can of pop and we would be good as new.

  Sadly, Marna’s heart couldn’t take the stress and so we’ve lost another one of our own. I know all about the heart hiccupping and sputtering experience. I place my perfectly manicured hand over my own heart now to make sure it’s still doing its job. Besides the sad squeeze from losing another friend, it feels to be in good working order at the moment.

  My intake of a shaky breath catches the attention of Sawyer Helms as he sits somberly beside me. He reaches over and gently pats my thigh to let me know I’m okay. I don’t feel okay—at all. Sawyer is my sometimes model boyfriend. At the moment, we’ve decided he is not. But the friends with benefits seem to work better for us anyway. I give him a sidelong glance and take in his perfect profile. The man is graceful, in a charcoal gray designer suit that accentuates his long, lean body. His rich brown hair is perfectly styled and his square jaw is accented with a slight shadow of stubble. Those whiskey colored eyes are masked behind his designer shades. Most of the mourners are wearing shades as well, so he fits right in. My oversized ones are perched on my nose, concealing my swollen red eyes. I smooth my gray sheath dress which compliments my companion perfectly. Perfect is the fantasy we create for the public. We’ve done so many photo shoots together, and so it seems second nature to also pair our outfits away from the camera. You are required to keep up appearances at all times—this is actually stated in my contract with the modeling agency.

  I’m vaguely aware of some short chick singing some sad song as she is dwarfed by the six-foot-tall portrait of Marna she is standing beside. Marna was an absolute Latina goddess with long raven hair and golden skin that was always flawless. It’s such a shame she’s no longer here. Almost unbelievable, in fact, and I’m sure I would deny it today if I didn’t see her lying in that fancy casket at the viewing last night.

  Shaking off my disbelief, I allow my eyes to scan this ultra-sleek congregation. I’m looking just towards my right side when my eyes land on fellow model Greyson Stone. I have to look twice, because I barely recognize him. We’ve worked together off and on for my entire modeling career, which began when I was only sixteen. I’m on the other side of thirty now, so it’s been a long friendship. Well, maybe that’s the wrong word for it—acquaintance is more realistic. I’m not so sure if I have any real friends. It’s hard to tell in this industry. I sling the word friend around with abandon as all my friends do, but I honestly don’t know the true meaning of it.

  I’ve not laid eyes on Greyson in two years, since he pretty much vanished, and I’m not crazy with what I see. He is beyond pale and has a gaunt appearance to him. The last time I saw him, he was bronze with long dark honey hair—a hue between blond and brown that has always been unique to him. Though he has always been thin, he used to have an elegant lean muscle tone. From where I sit, it looks like he has lost all of that. He is wearing his own pair of shades and has a black beanie covering his head. I know he is trying to blend in, but blending in is not possible for Greyson Stone. He has always carried such a presence with him, although the presence is a bit scary today. He is wearing all black and looks like a vampire, quite frankly.

  Sawyer nudges my arm to get my attention and I have to tear my eyes away from the shock of Greyson. Sawyer looks over my shoulder to see what or who has drawn my attention. He lets out a faint gasp as he spots Greyson and shakes his head disapprovingly.

  Friends come and go in this industry, but I have always felt a twinge of regret from losing Greyson. I just hope t
he guy hasn’t entered the danger zone. From the looks of him, my hoping is fruitless. The danger zone varies between eating disorders and substance abuse, and he looks to be fancying one or both at the moment. My legs beckon me to scoot out of my pew and meet him just a pew away, but I stay put to avoid causing a commotion. He’s a ghost of himself, and I worry he will vanish before I can get to him. I silently beg him to look at me, but he remains focused forward. He has to know I’m just off to his left.

  Sawyer meets my eyes in his own disbelief. “Dude looks bad,” he whispers. I nod my head in agreement before returning my attention to the reason why we are here today; to say goodbye to another friend.

  Chapter Two

  Julia

  Another pew in another church in NYC. It is a dreary March day with rain spilling down in a subdued mist. Everything seeps gray with sorrow and is fitting for my emotional state at the moment. I cannot believe we’ve lost another friend. I had my suspicions a while back that straying over to the danger zone had occurred. All the signs were there, but I chose to ignore them just as everyone else did. Now we have to bury another fellow model.

  A cocaine overdose is not a nice thing. Sure, you start out on a euphoric high like no other. You are invincible with crazy amounts of energy. You can go for days, and sometimes a week passes without you having any recollection of it. But in a blink, everything tilts off its axis and things become confusing. Insomnia can really trip you up as the comfort of sleep evades you ruthlessly. Then the fever sets in and you are on fire. It scorches you and nothing can quench your thirst. Chest pains kick in and add to your misery. It’s agonizing, and above all, terrifying. You try to grasp onto a flimsy cord that attaches you to your life and the threat of it severing is ever present.

  I came dangerously close and this scared me right into a stint in rehab, where I left that nasty habit permanently. Never do I want to feel that way again.

  My friend got too dangerously close and nosedived right off the cliff with the cord snapping completely, which is why we are here to say goodbye. A friend I was not ready to lose. I saw what was going on… Sitting here, knowing I might have been able to have done something, leaves me sick to my stomach.

  No.

  I should have done something. Now it’s too late to wrestle with the what-ifs. My friend died a painful, horrific death and I did nothing to prevent it. My throat tightens at this reality, making it almost impossible to swallow.

  I use a tissue to lightly dab at the escaped tears. After taking a few deep breaths to compose myself, I steal a glance at Sawyer. His head is solemnly bent during this long-winded prayer. We are both in midnight blue and look fitting enough to be a couple, yet he is sitting two pews over from me on the other side of the aisle. He must sense me staring because he peeks sideways in my direction. I look away quickly, hoping he didn’t catch me, because I can’t do this with him today. Maybe I shouldn’t do it with him ever again. The man is on fire and I’m getting so tired of being burned by him repeatedly. We decided he was my boyfriend again, but I walked in on him playing boyfriend to another woman just last week. So, yeah. I’m done.

  I keep my gaze towards the left, away from Sawyer. As I look over the crowd, I see another familiar head bowed. Bella Warren was a close friend to Greyson as well as me and he has snuck in here today to pay his respects. His head is concealed today with a fedora that matches his black sports coat, trying to look inconspicuous, I’m guessing. Again, he is failing. Bella adored everything about Greyson Stone, as most do, and always loved him in a pair of jeans. I can hear her now in my head, flirting with him about how only he knew how to properly fill out a pair. I ease up in the pew to get a better look at him, and sure enough he is wearing a pair of dark washed jeans. It’s evident that this is his tribute to her. My throat constricts painfully with that thought.

  Greyson is a great guy friend to have, an “always got your back” kind of person. He was always riding Bella and me to keep our acts clean. I can only imagine the guilt he carries for not being around for her. It seems he’s been off somewhere wrestling with his own demons. Again, it’s too painful to swallow.

  I had planned on grilling him after Marna’s funeral a couple months back, but he disappeared during the closing prayer. I’ve tried looking up his number over the last year and have also tried talking the modeling agency into sharing a contact number for him, but they are adamant about the whole client privacy issue. His elusive self has only popped in at funerals. Weird, I know. Greyson always had his act together and I’m still in shock at his odd behavior and him disappearing over the last two years. He’s lying really low for some reason, and I’m beginning to worry he has gotten himself into some type of trouble. He still looks like a vampire—too pale and unnaturally thin.

  The prayer finally concludes. Now some guy stands at the podium and begins to sing in a rich voice. I start to go over a mental checklist as he sings about days gone by. It is midday and I need to get a run in after this service. It was raining too hard this morning, but I can manage a run in a drizzle just fine. I had a half of a green apple and a bottle of protein water today, so that’s approximately seventy-five calories. If I run four miles, I can finish the apple and have three shots of vodka tonight and still be in the good.

  I have all the details worked out by the end of the song. The dark-skinned singer is now replaced with a pale speaker with ruddy cheeks. His voice is on the opposite side from the singer as well—fragile and aged.

  “Bella Warren was a bright light that was unfortunately dimmed way before her time…”

  After respectfully trying to listen for a while, my phone vibrating interrupts my best intentions. I slide it out of my small clutch and check the screen. It’s a confirmation for the flower delivery to Bella’s family. I’ve ordered my signature Julia Rose bouquet to be delivered to their home—an all-white arrangement of various roses. I have a long relationship with the floral company due to me having a white rose arrangement delivered to my apartment once a month.

  I’m about to put my phone away when it vibrates again—a horribly timed text message from my agent. She wants me to pick up the contract Bella is now unable to fulfill. It’s a designer jeans ad and pays an obscene amount because the campaign requires partial nudity. The only thing you wear is the jeans. No top. No shoes. I went over the contract with Bella before she decided to do it, so I know it states that the model’s hair will be styled to flow over the nipples and hands will be placed to conceal the breasts in some of the shots as well. It was a great opportunity for her and I encouraged her to take it.

  I text Leeza a Yes. I had a feeling that text would be coming after I got the news of Bella’s fatal overdose. We are close in appearance with long pale blonde hair and baby blue eyes. We have a subtle sun-kissed look to our skin and we are both five-feet-eleven-inches tall. The only difference is that I’m a size double zero and she was a zero. I was initially passed up for the ad because I was deemed too skinny. Go figure.

  Tucking my phone back into my clutch, I cancel my vodka plans, not wanting to chance any puffiness since the photo shoot is scheduled two days from now.

  Four miles, then I will finish the apple with another protein water and head to bed early. I resolve these plans by the time the speaker concludes and is followed by another long prayer. As soon as amen is said I look over to Greyson and sure enough he has disappeared once again. I wish I was the praying type, because I would whisper one for him.

  I decide to whisper one anyway. I’m just not very confident that God hears me.

  Chapter Three

  Julia

  A few weeks have passed in relative quiet for my world. No funerals. No uproars in the media. Well, none so far. I’m keeping a few things on the down-low, hoping the tabloids don’t get wind of them. I am at another gathering of my peers. It’s being held at the modeling agency I am signed with, Ignited Modeling Agency. The name says it all and they claim to represent the hottest male and female models in the world. The invitat
ion declared tonight a celebration to remember those we’ve lost too soon and to also celebrate our success. I’m no fool. I’ve been to one of these required celebrations before and they always follow closely after a drug overdose or suicide or a death related to an eating disorder. This isn’t a party. This is an undercover mission. Tonight the agency will have counselors patrolling the party, looking for those that may be in danger. Tomorrow there will be hushed rumors of about a half dozen people being checked into a rehab of some sort. I’ve only been caught once and have no desire to be caught again.

  Being a veteran of this business, I’m prepared. I forced myself to eat an entire Lean Cuisine earlier so that I wouldn’t be chancing a passing out episode. It took me a while to manage downing it all, but I stomached it for the cause. I’m also dressed in wide-legged black trousers with a flowing teal blouse to give me some bulk. I’ve styled my long blonde hair in fat curls to add more volume to me, too. That should keep the eating disorder bloodhounds from sniffing around me too badly. I scan the crowd and see some newbies showing off their bony backs in slinky dresses. They are displaying their rail-thin frames naively. I’m pretty sure some of these girls will be going on an extended vacation after tonight.

  I’m trying my best to stay away from the alcohol, but when I do give in, I have a different guy grab me a shot of Patrón each time. Really. What is this agency thinking, serving up the finest selection of alcohol and expecting us to not indulge? I know it’s a test, and I’m pretty sure I will fail this one. Since keeping my nose clean, quite literally, alcohol has become my poison of choice. Some people have a piece of chocolate to calm them, or a cigarette. I choose alcohol. What’s the harm in that?