I guess it doesn’t really matter how she introduces me or to who she does that to. After all, I won’t be around to face any of them on a daily basis or hear whatever they think of me.
Don’t let them get to you. None of these people matter at all. Nothing matters anymore.
I try to calm myself but the tension keeps growing with the anxiety that is growing within me. I need to release all this tension in me. I look to my left where my mother is standing beside a statue like figure that is my father. We are standing in some kind of line, waiting to ‘accept’ stupid, meaningless words of faux sympathy. None of these people feel the heavy depth of loss, they don’t feel the weight of George’s absence as much as I do.
“Straighten up and smile, Astraea.” My mother sternly instructs with a forced smile on her face as she reels me in to stand closer to her. I shoot her my best fuck you smile, then a pointed look down at her arm that has somehow wound itself around my elbow. I am not so disillusioned to think that she has suddenly been hit by a long overdue maternal instinct to comfort her only remaining child. I know my mother, all her moves, her counter moves and her words are calculated well beforehand.
A sinking sense of doom hits me as I stare at my mother. I wonder what she is up to now but, I don’t have to wonder long because in that moment, I feel it again. A chilling sense of being watched. Like I’m being studied by an unknown force. Something tells me that I’m about to meet this force.
“In case you haven’t noticed, there is nothing to smile about here.” I flatly state, trying to ignore the gaze that I feel on me.
“Don’t be a smart mouth, young lady. Now is not the time.”
“It’s never the time with you, is it?” I mumble but I’m sure she heard me and I don’t care. My mother’s attention is soon grabbed by the people she wants too impress and as I take them in, I suck in a breath. Oh my God.
No way. Not today, oh God not today of all days when I’m so vulnerable. Deep in the recesses of my mind, darkness is knocking at a door that I have no intentions of opening. The things behind that door have the ability to suck me into a vortex of madness, depression and sorrow. For the first time since arriving here, the need to run away is so overpowering that I begin to breathe a little faster, the pounding of my heart begins to increase. My alarms, these are my internal alarms, letting me know that danger is approaching. Fuck, I need to leave. The pill I took a few hours ago isn’t doing much to keep my nerves in check.
Fuck.
“Denise! I’m so glad that you could come.” My mother’s voice is suddenly so sweet. I wonder if she thinks this is some kind of social event, not her own son’s funeral.
“Amanda, my dear. I’m so deeply sorry for your lose.” My entire body freezes as soon as I hear that voice. “It’s in these times that we are reminded that time is indeed very short.”
I’m hit in the chest by a force so huge, it knocks the wind right out of my lungs. I remember that voice. I also hate who it belongs to.
I watch as my mother who actually has the audacity to produce some kind of water works out of the blue, gush all over the She-devil of Westbrook Blues. But then again, nothing ever changes here, not even my mother’s obsessive need to please Denise King, the woman that told me in my face that I had no business to stay in Westbrook.
She delivered the last blow to my already broken soul—and I think she knew it too—when she told me that her son doesn’t want me here anymore. Who was I to question the sovereign messenger that she was? How could I question anything when it was all too clear that no one wanted some broken, damaged and raped goods like me. Not my parents, not the boys and definitely not Ace and his mother.
Denise’s face is the one I saw each time I thought or dreamt of Westbrook Blues over the years. The disdain, the disgust mixed with pity on her gorgeous plastic features. I can live a hundred lifetimes, but I don’t think I will ever forget that look on her face when she told me to leave, an instruction given by her son.
I hate her with a passion that rivals the pain I’m currently feeling.
Okay, I can totally ignore her, so I turn and look at my mother’s profile, dismissing Denise King as subtly as possible, only to almost gasp in shock as I watch three tear drops fall down my mother perfectly made up face, with the help of surgical procedures of course.
“I still can’t believe it myself. One moment he was here and the next, my baby was gone.” My mother’s voice catches with a hiccup, an actual hiccup. Did she go to acting school these past few years? Because her acting skills have improved from pretending like she didn’t know her husband was an emotionally absent cheater, to now pretending like she gives a damn about her son.
Just, wow. The great Meryl Streep or the goddess, Viola Davis, have nothing on Amanda Fields. The Oscars have to recognize my mother for being the shittiest bitch on the planet.
“I’m deeply sorry. Sons have a special place in their mother’s hearts.” Denise King says.
If only she knew my mother is the exception to that observation, but then again, I’m not so sure about Mrs. King herself. I never liked her while we grew up. She just seemed so. . .cold and pretentious, much like my mother tries to be now. I guess there must be a contest in snobbery for the housewives of Westbrook. In that case, my money is on Amanda, she’s worked so hard to be a bitch these past years, she deserves the recognition.
But then again, Denise King is a force all by herself, without the reminder of whose mother she is. . .
I would have much preferred not to see her face—particularly her eyes—today.
“My apologies for Phil, he couldn’t make it back in time from Japan to be here today. He sends his deepest regrets.” She says with a tight smile, “And as for Alexander, I have no idea where he is.”
My heart starts thundering at the mention of his name. I swear, a wave of dizziness hits me from out of left field. It’s almost as if I’m tipsy, drunk on some kind of poison that threatens to kill me just from hearing that name—his name.
My palms start to sweat furiously. Is it hot in here? This church is large and we are standing right by the open doors—greeting people—I feel like there isn’t enough air to calm me down.
I’m in control of everything around me. I’m in control of my emotions and feelings—not anyone else.
I repeat the affirmations that my guidance counselor taught me until I zone back into the present with Mrs. King and my mother. I can do this. I’m not staying long anyway. I won’t be facing him at all. Or them—I won’t be facing them.
“Oh, I completely understand. It’s just comforting to see you here.” My mother says with a sniffle, wiping her faux tears away as elegantly as possible with a silk cloth. As if she is in the presence of actual royalty.
“And is this Astraea?” Suddenly, Mrs. King’s icy cold blue eyes and their full force, are on me. I almost cower because of their weight but I hold my own. I don’t like her, she has never liked me, great! With that thought in mind, I dismiss the intimidation that she radiates in waves, look at her like she means nothing, because she is nothing.
“Yes, she just flew in actually.” My mother rushes to explain but Mrs. King and I are locked in some kind of staring battle.
I watch as she takes me in—like, fully take me in. Her gaze racks me up and down, from the strands of my hair that flows to my waist, the dress I’m wearing and then down to the sneakers on my feet. It’s there that she purses her lips in disdain, as if she finds my choice of footwear repulsive at my own twin’s funeral. I look down at her own footwear and notice that she has on a pair of black Jimmy Choo heels. How classy of her, fitting her stereotypical roll of a bored, too spoiled housewife to the t. Good for her. If only she could take one of those heels and stick it up her. . .
Now is not the time, Raea. Not the time.
“Yes, you have grown quite well dear.” She says, but there is nothing endearing about her voice. In fact, if I knew any better, I would say she isn’t happy about seeing me. Well, the
feeling is mutual!
“I can’t say the same of you.” I say with a polite fuck you smile on my face.
“Astraea!” My mother gasps in embarrassment. I have no idea what’s happening here but my mother is suddenly so interested in pleasing this woman—at George’s funeral no less. I need to know why, because my mother is over doing, much to Denise King’s knowledge.
“Yes Mother?” I say to her but my gaze is trained on Mrs. King. I watch as her eyes widen, then she raises her delicate hand, as if to clutch her chest in a dramatic manner as she realizes that I just quite literally insulted her aging process.
She is flawlessly beautiful, but my insult is said in a way to obtain information. I want to see just how vain this woman is and where she is in life. If she is offended by that comment, then that will let me know a lot.
I’m waiting for her to say something back but I’m shockingly surprised when she throws her head back and laughs in a low, melodic laughter that is surprisingly very pleasant to the ear. I’m aware of the few heads seated closest to the entrance of the church—turn to watch as the beautiful Denise King laughs.
It’s a sight alright and I’m sure my mother is jealous right about now.
“Oh my, so witty and as sharp as ever!” She says as she looks back at me with a twinkle in her eyes. I’m not sure if I feel reassured or if I should raise my guard up. It’s like I’m being bated for something that I’m not even aware of.
“Welcome back dear, I hope we catch up soon.” She says as she watches me and a shiver goes down my spine. There is no way I’m going to be playing catch up with her. Definitely not with her. Not even on the coldest day in hell, where she lives.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be headed back to London as soon as possible.” I inform her, but she only shoots me a smile like she knows something I don’t.
“I’m really sorry about your brother, Astraea. I know it’s harder for you than anyone else.”
I’m rendered speechless just like that.
I’m not sure what I was expecting her to say next but it’s definitely not this. Just the way she says the words alone, as if she understands exactly what I’m going through, makes me pause and assess her all over again.
What game is she playing at? Why is she here to begin with?
As I look at her, the lingering sadness—maybe it’s regret—in her eyes that’s not quite hidden by the icy demeanor she wears all the time, that makes me pause. I’m taken aback by this one moment of vulnerability from her. But just as quickly as I noticed it, she seems to come back into her heifer tendencies.
She pats my folded hands, then turns to move away. I watch as she walks towards the front of the elegant, gold furnished old church as if she owns the building. Hell, she probably does but no church will save her rotting ass from hell. I do hope that she knows at least that, if nothing else.
“Astraea.” My mother’s sharp voice calls for me but as I turn to look at her, my attention is sharply snagged by something else. I don’t know what it is or who it might be but I’m certain that someone is in that dark corner watching.
I keep staring, hoping to catch who it might be, then just as quickly, I catch a glimpse of two really tall, brawny and oh my goodness, hot boys.
They also look and feel familiar to me.
My heart begins to pound, my vision becomes tunneled as it hones in on those two guys. Could it be? But no, George said they were no longer friends. Are you sure about that, Raea?
From where I stand, both their profiles are in my direct line of site so I move, trying to get a real look at either or both their faces. But it’s almost as if they know I’m watching, so they move along with me—blocking themselves in a weird way that I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t paying attention.
They look so damn ethereal, as if they are above this place. Like, they don’t mix with people way. Sure, they must be the hottest guys I have ever seen. Athletic built, great head of sexy hair, tall, and large frames of muscular bodies adorned by the kind of clothes rich people can identify. The way they move, the way the hold themselves reminds me so much of a certain group of boys though.
One of them has a head of brunette locks in a perfectly messy style that is doing wonders from him, judging by the attention he is getting from some of the girls that I greeted earlier.
A number of students from Westbrook Blues High are here, most of them are strangely girls with their eyes glancing back at the two boys in the dark corner every few seconds. Well, at least their attention isn’t on me anymore.
A lot of the students present loved and respected George. He was a football player but he had a passion for baseball that annoyed me when we were younger. Each time I wanted to watch my program on t.v, he would change the channel to some boring ass baseball game. To make it even more frustrating, he would enact the ‘techniques’ he saw on screen with his bat right in front of me.
That very day I went out and bought the entire chic-lit and detective books that caught my eye in the bookstore.
Fuck, my chest twists painfully. Even thinking of him, it doesn’t feel at all like he is gone.
I move again, trying to ear hustle some of the whispered gossip but I can’t hear anything. I study the way the girls and some of the guys are watching the two boys. It’s almost like they are all waiting—on bated breath no less—for them to do something. Some of the kids are looking at them as if they are surprised to see them here, judging by their nervous expressions.
Right next to the cute guy with has a charming smile on his face, looking straight at the girls—is another drop dead hot and strangely unimpressed by everything and everyone around him. He has blonde hair, also in some kind of cut, shorter on the sides and longer on top and it obviously makes girls crazy.
Just their mere presence in the church is causing a stir and that pisses me off. Maybe I should match over there and demand to know who the hell they are, thinking they can come in here and disrupt my brother’s funeral like this—from the back of the church no less. The girls seated in the back pews of the church look like they want to be closer to the two boys, delirious by their presence, making me roll my eyes. If these bitches don’t get their shit together. . .
“Are you listening to me?”
My mother’s voice finally reaches my ears and I realize she was saying something while I was people watching.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” I say distracted as I find my gaze falling towards that damn corner.
“I said George is going to be laid to rest in the estates family plot.” My mother explains.
“Family plot?” I question as I look at her and notice my father now coming back in the church with someone walking alongside him. When did he even leave? They look friendly as if they are some kind of friend or business partners, God forbid he stop running his empire on such a day as this. Eye roll.
“Yes, the one closer to the estates.” She explains.
“Wait, I thought that was only for the founding families?” My eyebrows rise as I think back to the history of Westbrook estates, a history that my brother and I were taught before we moved in when we were seven years old. I should have known then that my parents were super obsessed with Westbrook.
The Westbrook family plot is a fenced, protected burial site for the families that supposedly founded this town. The valley and all the land in the mountains where the estates are located—was all apparently ‘founded’ by three super families. Kill me now with the corniness.
The three families were, the Easton family, the Montreal family and of course, the King family.
The same families of the three boys that stole my heart, threw it to the hard ass ground and then stomped on it like it was nothing. I mean, I expected that type of behavior from only one of them, since he hated me with an intensity that made breathing hard and my attraction to him the biggest confusion of my life.
From the very first day we met, Ace has hated me. I tried to ignore it but I just couldn’t. He was
all I thought about, consuming my childhood. I don’t think I have any memory that doesn’t have him in it. Good or bad, he was always there. Until he wasn’t.
The boys abandoning me hurt me more than anything else that had happened to me that night. In my head I had conjured up this fantasy, a fucked up fairy tale where my boys would ride into the night, saving me and destroying the man who violently assaulted me, leaving me for dead in the foyer of the huge ass mansion. But, like every other expectation I have ever had in life, that didn’t happen. Instead they sent me away.
So, hearing from George that he had a fall out with the boys wasn’t really surprising.
But even then, nothing hurt as much as Ace’s decree that I leave Westbrook. Nothing made me want to give up on life—several times—than the blue-eyed devil with a gorgeous smirk that he mastered from childhood.
It sucks that I was so obsessed with my tormentor. I don’t know what it says about me that I knew all four of the boys were all going to be heart throbs as we grew older, and yet I would hope that Ace would see me. But he never really did.
I just don’t want to think about what they are like now. I don’t want to know what he is like now.
Back to the damn estate family burial plot!
Where does my family fit in with all of this? The Fields are not part of that wretched triangle of power. Why is George being buried there? Something is not right here.
“Yes, but we are now part of the estates community so we have land there as well.” My mother waves a careless hand and then we proceed to greet more people who pass on their condolences but I’m not perturbed.
“Since when? There are other families that have lived their entire lives in the estates, much longer than we have, but they have never been given land in the family plot.” I state with suspicion as soon as the guest are gone.
“Astraea, a lot has happened here in your absence. I suggest you catch up.”
Clearly.
And with that, she drops the subject as soon as my father draws closer and the casket that has my brother’s body is now at the entrance being carried by six men from the funeral parlor.
Reckless Hate: A Bully High School Romance (enemies-friends-enemies-lovers-enemies) (Westbrook Blues Book 1) Page 6