Beautiful Deceit
Albany Walker
Copyright © 2020 by Albany Walker
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Albany Walker
Cover design done by Opulent Designs
Proofreading Jessica Herron
Created with Vellum
Contents
Untitled
Prologue
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Albany Walker
Prologue
Blood drips slowly from my cupid’s bow, falling down to my bottom lip. My tears mingle with the drops of blood. The once steady flow is now barely noticeable as I grab a bag that I've hidden under the loose floorboards in my room. I have a plan.
He's been silent for over two hours. I’ve waited, backed into the corner of my childhood room, listening for signs that he is gone or asleep. I pray he's passed out and that the quiet creaking of my bare feet won't be enough to wake him.
A small button on the sleeve of my shirt catches my nose, as I again try to wipe the blood away. I need to move unnoticed but can’t chance staying in this house long enough to clean myself up. I hiss from the contact. I won’t do that again.
My hope to make it another three weeks is gone. I wish I could finish my sophomore year and collect my final paycheck from the small grocer where I work. Mr. White would probably give it to me early.
The floor creaks from down the hall. I freeze. Is the house just settling, or is he up?
When no more sound follows, I continue gathering the few personal belongings I've stowed away over the last year. Things have been getting progressively worse. If I want to make it to my junior year, I need to run now.
With one final look around my childhood room I throw my backpack over my shoulder and slink, silently as possible, through my bedroom window. The drop from the second floor, which seemed so dangerous a short few years ago, doesn't faze me. I know where true danger lies.
As I walk down the dirt drive, I turn around and look at the house my mother loved, the family farm my mom and dad built together. I wish I could walk through the kitchen door once more and feel her presence and hear her humming a little song while she bakes. She’s gone. Nothing can change that. Now all I feel as I leave is relief from the fear and pain.
I turn my back, knowing I'll never see the old house again. Tears fall as I make my escape.
Chapter 1
I wake to my phone vibrating loudly against my nightstand, its camera light flashing, telling me it's time to rise. The buzzing alone wakes me; I'm still a light sleeper. It's funny how fast your body becomes accustomed to things, like waking from footsteps or shuffling from outside your door. Even years later, when the need to be constantly on guard has passed, I still can't seem to sleep through the slightest noise.
I swipe my finger across the screen, stopping the alarm from sounding again. The sun isn't fully up, so the room is still relatively dark. I wish I could close my eyes and fall back to sleep. I scissor my legs under the covers trying to find a cool piece of fabric.
My dirty blonde hair is piled into a loose messy bun on top of my head. I rub the slight ache of my scalp, from sleeping in it all night, then swat at the tendrils that escaped. One of the few things I've kept from my old life is my long hair. I'm reminded of my mother every time I look at myself in the mirror. Her hair is one of the strongest memories and saddest reminders I have of her.
I sit up slowly, looking over the home I’ve made for myself.
Everything looks exactly like it did when I went to sleep, just like I knew it would. I can't help but check every morning when I wake. It’s another habit from my old life.
Owning my studio is the greatest progress I've made in the last seven years. When I finally ran, it was to Rita, my mother’s best friend in New York. I should have left with her after the funeral. I would have left too, if I had any idea the kind of monster my stepfather would turn into. Instead, I wanted to remain close to my mother's memories and our home. The violence didn't start overnight, and it didn't start with fists. He often cried and mourned my mother so dearly that I wanted to help him grieve.
He began with words, lashing out in what I believed was grief. You still can't convince me that the words hurt less than the physical blows. My body always healed, but the words are still in my brain banging around violently, surfacing when I least expect it.
In the end, all it took was me knocking on Rita’s beautiful ivory door, and I was welcomed into her life to rebuild my own. I didn't tell Rita everything, not at first, just enough for her to know how serious the situation was; she understood by looking at me that night. She knew I needed an escape.
I don't know how she managed it, but within two weeks I had a new identity. My old name disappeared. I became Samantha West, a junior year transfer student at a small private school in downtown New York. Hiding in plain sight, Rita called it. I didn't care what she called it as long as that monster couldn't find me.
He called Rita about three weeks after I left. I was shocked it took that long. Who else did I have to turn to? There certainly wasn’t anyone in his town. He asked if she'd heard from me. She played it off well. Even with me standing nearby, she began acting frantic, offering to come down and look for me. He said he was sure I'd turn up, and that I'd only been out for a few days. She's probably just at a friend’s house, was his excuse. Rita called everyday for a week asking about me, to make sure he didn’t suspect that I was with her. It must have worked, because on the seventh day, he said I'd finally returned and not to worry anymore. She needs to be punished for her behavior. So I won't be lettin her talk to ya just now. I shook hearing those words, I knew if he ever had the chance to punish me again, I'd be dead or wish I was.
I shiver thinking about how much worse it could have been and how bad it almost was.
Rita called occasionally for about a year, continuing the charade. He always told her I was busy or out with friends and that I couldn't come to the phone. After a while she let disappointment seep into her tone, saying she understood and knew that I grew up and didn’t need to hear from a distant friend of my mother’s. She told him she would stop bothering him and me, but told him to call if he needed anything, and with that she cut herself from his life.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. I let my bare feet drop to the cool, wood floor, the sensation grounding me to the here and now.
I stre
tch my arms above my head and arch my back, removing the kinks left over from sleeping. I pad soundlessly over to the kitchen and turn on my one-cup brewer. I have an hour before I need to leave for work, so I move to the only room in my studio with a door, grab a few linens and start the shower.
I enter the oversized stall surrounded in frosted glass and place a washcloth on the wide bench seat. It’s made of the same white tiles that cover the walls. I strip, tossing my clothes into the separate laundry space on the other side of the bathroom. The triple shower heads pound down on my back and head, helping me to wake up. I wash and get out faster than I'd really like, but I need coffee if I'm going to survive the day, and I can’t let it go cold.
I dry my hair quickly and apply a coat of mascara to my lashes through the still fogged mirror. I return to the kitchen in my panties for my first cup of coffee. When I add creamer, I notice I'm almost out, so I start mentally compiling a list of what I'll need over the next few days.
I slide my legs into my favorite skinny jeans and look through my collection of bras. It truly is a collection. I have so many and each one is stunning. I don’t know why I have collected so many, no one but me sees them. I just can't seem to stop buying more. Today, I’ve picked a french cut ivory satin with black lace upper cups. I feel a pep in my step from just putting it on. I tug a white, off-the-shoulder sweater over it. It is dense enough that you can't see the black lace through the weave. I grab a pair of low-heeled, brown boots from my closet and give them a quick dusting.
I look up at the clock to see I only have ten minutes before I need to leave. I make another cup of coffee in one of my to-go cups and grab my small purse shoving my phone inside as I lock the door. I turn the doorknob twice before walking down the stairs past the empty studio beneath me. The building is small, with just two converted studios. I feel safe knowing only one other person can enter my building.
As I pass, I hope whomever moves in is as quiet as the last owner. It has been unoccupied for almost three months. The previous owner was a bit of a hoarder, so I can’t imagine the place being in an appealing state for prospective renters, particularly those having to pay New York prices. I've gotten used to living in the building alone. I can’t imagine having a neighbor any time soon.
As soon as I open the door my ears are assaulted with the sounds of the city. I paid to have the entry and my studio soundproofed. The landlord wholeheartedly approved, especially since I was covering the costs. Without it, I'd never sleep a wink due to the constant clatter. In addition, I had stronger locks and an intercom installed when I moved in for my own peace of mind. They're worth every penny.
The walk to work is quick, and Anna is waiting for me by the storefront. My lips lift in a natural smile as I see the frazzled woman searching through a giant bag she likens to a purse. She huffs as her phone rings continuously, while remaining out of sight.
"Ah-ha," she exclaims, as she brings the bright green phone to her ear. "Hello....hello?" She pulls the device away and looks down at the screen. Her foot stomps dramatically as she fumes about the missed call. She turns to me. "It was him, Sam. I just know it was him! We had such a good time the other night. I knew he'd wait a day to call, but now I've gone and missed it!" she says bitterly at the missed prospect.
I nod my head sympathetically acknowledging her predicament, even though I haven't been on a date in years. I don’t know why she’s so upset though. Can she not just call him back? I don’t ask, because I can expect a patronizing reply. I reach down to lift the gate that protects my store, letting myself and a still fretting Anna, into the entrance.
"I'm sure you're right Anna. Just check your voicemail." Her eyes light up and she looks down checking the phone again.
"Doesn't look like he left one," she mummers as I fit my key into the old iron lock. As I pull the door open, the smell of old books and coffee invokes a sense of belonging. I've only experienced this in a handful of places since my mother passed. Rita’s house once gave me that feeling before she lost her battle with cancer. My studio is more of a safe harbor than a place where I can belong, but my store greets me every day with this feeling of being a part of something.
I hear the tail end of Anna’s question, as I reset the alarm. "Pardon? I didn't hear all that." She's not bothered in the least by my folly.
"I said. Do you think he'll call again? I mean I hope he doesn't think I'm ignoring him," she frets openly, her hand flitting along the bookcases. I can't remember his name because she dates quite often unlike myself, but I do know her type. I’m sure he's like all the others, rich and good looking. She uses a high-end dating service; she's only 21, but she's looking for a husband.
I sigh.
"He'll call back," I assure her, then quickly change the subject, or she'll have me analyzing his every word. “The new shipment is due today, and I have some online orders to fill. Then I'll check on the inventory when it arrives,” I turn walking toward my office. “Let me know if you need anything else before then," I’m opening the door when she pipes up from the register.
"Where's Jess?” She looks over to the empty coffee station. I rub the bridge of my nose lightly as I scan past the tall bookshelves, over the worn-in sofas and chairs, to the area Jess usually occupies.
"Ugh, today is Monday," I state dumbly.
"Yeaahh," she prompts.
"She went to meet Tim’s family this weekend and won't be back until tomorrow," I make my way over to the coffee machine. It looks like it belongs on the cover of a steampunk novel. It is far more complicated than the Mr. Coffee I used when I began working here in high school. Mr. B upgraded the coffee machine before I bought the place from him. Damn the ever-complicating coffee culture of New York. "Shit. How does she make this look so easy?" I don't even know where to start a brew.
Anna gives me a sympathetic smile from the register across the room.
I find a traditional-looking coffee maker, only larger, and muck my way through making a pot of black tar. The rest of the intricate contraption goes unused through the dayshift. I make a note to give Jess a raise after fiddling with the machine for an hour trying to make a latte. A few customers are disgruntled by the lack of choices, but most seem to be bemused with the increasingly coarse language and continual abuse I give the behemoth machine.
The entertainment is at my expense and so is the tar coffee. I can’t imagine making anyone pay for it.
Jude, the afternoon shift barista, comes in at three, allowing me to abandon the coffee cart for the back room so I can complete the online orders and finally check the status of the new arrivals. I leave the store just after six in old George's capable hands. He’s been working here far longer than me.
I sigh softly in relief as I enter the small grocery store nearest my home because my day is almost over. I pull the list that I managed to write during my lunch break from my purse and begin to gather the items, and even pick up a few that just look good as I shop.
I'm bending over looking at a display of California strawberries, when I feel the front bar of a shopping cart slam into the back of my ankles. I immediately straighten and jump forward to get away from the achilles killer. My leap causes me to knock countless cartons of berries to the ground, a few of the red fruits bursting forth from their packages and rolling onto the floor.
My groan of embarrassment is quickly followed by a deep masculine chuckle. I whip my head around to find a young boy, about 13 years old, pushing the cart directly behind me. That certainly wasn’t him chuckling. If his red face is anything to go by, he’s nearly as mortified as I am. I instantly feel equal parts pity and confusion, as my brain is trying to connect the deep timber of the laugh I heard with this rather timid looking kid.
"I'm so sorry," he stammers just above a whisper. My face softens, and I smile at him.
"No problem sugar," I drawl. The accent I've fought hard to cover pops out unbidden by me. He looks down with a small smile that immediately falls when he notices the massacred fruit near my feet.
"Oh man, my mom’s gonna kill me." There's no fear behind the statement, so I know he won't really be in any trouble.
"I got this buddy, you go on and find your mama. No worries." I tell him anyway.
He looks torn between helping and running, "Are you sure? I really am sorry."
I nod and make a shooing motion with my hands, "I'm sure. Go on now."
I crouch down and begin stacking the unopened containers back onto the display. Only two popped open, as I start to grab the berries from the floor and drop them into the containers, someone kneels across from me and grabs a couple berries from the floor.
"Thank you," I utter quietly as I finish my task, keeping my eyes down. I don't need to see whoever it was that witnessed my embarrassment.
"No problem sugar," a deep voice smoother than sin says. Damn, even while he's making fun of me, he sounds delicious.
My eyes are slow to travel up his crouching body. Dark boots cover his feet, strong legs encased in pair of well-worn jeans, knees spread wide. I swallow thickly. A dark long-sleeved t-shirt is pushed up past powerful forearms, showing off a tan as out of season as the strawberries. He stands before my eyes can reach his face. I sigh, now eye level with his boots. I'm not sure if it's from relief or loss, but nonetheless I'm happy he'll be on his way, so I can get out of here with a little dignity.
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