by Mia Harlan
Fractured Heart
LUV Academy #1
Mia Harlan
Vivi Clarke
Contents
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
Thank You For Reading
Free Bonuses
Note from Mia
Note from Vivi
Fractured Heart
Copyright © 2019 Mia Harlan & Vivi Clarke
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in any reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the prior written consent of the authors.
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Chapter 1
I tighten my grip on the scrub brush and attack the bathroom floor. The cleaning solution smell fills the tiny room. The artificial lemon burns my nose and permeates my hair and clothes. My hands throb, my back aches, and I sympathize with Cinderella. Not the ball gown-clad princess, since my Prince Charming hasn’t shown up yet. I mean the servant girl, minus the wicked stepmother and ugly step-sisters.
At least I’m finally done washing the old, creaky stairs. The bathroom may be tiny but the acoustics in here are amazing. I marvel at how deep and resonant my voice sounds when I start to sing. I may not have Cinderella’s little animals to help me clean, but I lose myself in the magic of music, until the world around me disappears.
“Roonie Hill!” Father’s angry voice thunders across the house. “You stop that racket, you hear? And get down here. Now!”
My heart nearly explodes out of my chest and I jump to my feet. My heart-shaped, onyx pendant slams against my collarbone. I instinctively reach for it and the cold stone gives me a modicum of comfort.
Why is Father home so early? He doesn’t get back on Fridays until—I grab my phone and glance at the time—eight o’clock!
The blood drains from my face. I should have had dinner ready for him five minutes ago. I should be in the kitchen, ladle in hand. I should not, under any circumstances, still be upstairs. And I definitely should not be singing.
“Roonie!” Father bellows.
I drop my phone on the counter and rush downstairs. I don’t have time to wash my hands, so I wipe my dirty palms on my jeans and skid to a stop in the kitchen doorway.
Father is seated at the table in his sweaty, gray Bulldogs hoodie and navy-blue sweatpants. He takes one look at me and scowls. “You’re a mess. A filthy mess.”
“I’m so sorry!” I rush to the sink and wash off the remnants of the cleaning solution from my hands.
Father’s right. My faded pink sweater is drenched in sweat and my jeans are torn and dirty from cleaning. What if we’d had company? Or Prince Charming finally decided to rescue me? It‘s not like Fairy Godmother’s going to suddenly pop up with a gown and slippers.
“I’m hungry, Roonie.” Father takes a healthy swig of beer and slams the bottle on the table.
I jump and my palms start to sweat.
Why doesn’t he ever get up and serve himself? I left an empty soup bowl on the table and stew is simmering on the stove. The delicious aroma is wafting through the kitchen but it’s like the idea never even crossed his mind.
I stare down at my feet, half for effect and half out of fear. “I’m really sorry, Father. I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean…didn’t mean…,” Father mocks. “Why am I not eating?”
I can think of several reasons, none of which I dare voice aloud. I snatch up his empty bowl, not missing Father’s narrowed eyes or the frown lines marring his forehead. Those, coupled with the glazed look in his eyes, set my heart racing.
I grab the metal lid covering the pot of stew and let go with a yelp. The lid crashes back onto the pot, the clang echoing loudly through the kitchen.
“You can’t do anything right!” Father shouts as I cradle my burned palm against my chest. “You’re a mess. Never got into college. Can’t even get a job.”
My eyes water, but I fight back tears as he berates me. Crying will only make things worse, and I can barely think through the pain.
“You’re wasting your time, making up stupid songs.” Father chugs down some beer and gestures at me with the bottle. “Where’s my dinner?”
I try to ignore the sting from his words, and my burnt palm, as I jump into action. This time, I grab a towel so I can lift the scalding-hot lid off the pot. Steam rolls out and hits me in the face. My palm aches but I don’t dare react as I ladle heaps of delicious stew.
Only when I’ve set a full bowl in front of Father and he begins to eat, does the panic in my chest start to recede. Thankfully, so does the pain in my palm.
“How hard is it to have dinner ready?” Father grumbles, sending stew-laced spit across the table. Someone should tell him not to talk with his mouth full, but that someone isn’t going to be me. I’m also not going to ask why he didn’t get his own stew if he was that hungry.
I should say something to placate him, but he hates when I make excuses. Like, absolutely, positively hates it. Plus, telling him I lost track of time because I was singing is out of the question. Not only does he think music is a waste of time, he can’t stand the sound of my voice. It’s too high-pitched, too whiny—too much like Mom’s.
“Roonie!” Father snaps.
I jump. “Yes?”
Was I humming? I have this awful habit of humming while I think, and it drives Father nuts. You’d think I would learn not to do it by now, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to stop.
Father holds up his beer and raises one eyebrow in annoyance. Probably means I wasn’t singing.
Taking the hint, I recycle the empty bottle and get him a cold one from the fridge. Father opens it. He takes a long gulp and lets out a contented sigh.
“Sit. Eat,” he orders. “Keep your old man company.”
“Yes, Father.” I grab a bowl of stew and sit down across from him. I’m still tense, waiting for another tirade, but Father stays silent. Maybe this won’t be one of those nights after all.
As I start to eat, I mentally go over the lyrics of the song I wrote this afternoon. In the first verse, Cinderella arrives at the ball. She finds out that Prince Charming never showed and her heart sinks. She thinks her night is ruined until she gets asked to dance. Then, she twirls around and around in her beautiful blue gown, smiling as she switches partners every song.
Surrounded by my princes
The music shall play on
Midnight’s hour shall come and go
But we’ll still dance till dawn…
&
nbsp; It’s my best song yet, and I smile when I reach the chorus.
“Stop that,” Father demands, slamming his fist on the table.
“Sorry.” I duck my head and squeeze my lips shut, so no sound can escape. I have to consciously focus on staying quiet—on not singing the song still playing in my head. When it comes to music, I can’t help myself.
“Is there dessert?” Father spits out, more stew peppering the table as he speaks. “I want some goddamn dessert.”
“Apple pie.”
Even though I’ve barely had a chance to eat, I jump to my feet. I bought the pie ready-made this morning so all I have to do now is heat up a slice and add a scoop of ice cream. It’s a lot safer than me actually baking, especially after last time. I’d had the pie in the oven when I came up with an awesome idea for a song about Fairy Godmother. I only got distracted for a second and then…
“Stop humming!” Father shouts, eyes narrowing. “And get me some pie.”
“Right away!” I rush to the fridge.
“This is why you’re not married,” Father grumbles as I take out the bakery box. “No husband would ever put up with you, and I’ll drink to that.”
My heart sinks, because he’s right. What’s the point of daydreaming about handsome princes when I can’t even get one regular guy? Scratch that, any guy…even some pimply college freshman.
I’m not even all that pretty. Father’s always reminding me that I’m too skinny and that my face is plain and freckly. What bothers me most is that my mousy, brown hair and plain brown eyes remind me of him.
Plus—I hate to admit this—but no guy has ever asked me out. If I wasn’t the coach’s precious daughter, and therefore completely off-limits, maybe I could have had some desperate prom date. But no guy was willing to anger Father just to go out with someone like me.
“You’re a screw-up,” Father mutters as I set the slice of apple pie in front of him. “An ugly screw-up.”
His words are like a physical blow and the excuses just bubble out. “But I finished the laundry, Father. I got groceries and made dinner, too. I’m almost done scrubbing the bathroom floor and—”
“Roonie!” He cuts off my babbling. “Did you just talk back to me?”
There’s a note of warning in his tone as he lowers his fork and white-knuckles his spoon. I gulp as his glare burns into me.
“N-no.” I quickly lower my gaze.
“And since when is almost good enough?” He shouts, like he’s on the field addressing his team.
“Sorry, Father.” My body tenses with fear.
“Sorry? Sorry?!” Father slams the beer bottle on the table, dishes rattling together from the force. He jumps to his feet and his chair scrapes across the ceramic floor.
The familiar sound makes me cringe and I instinctively back away. Father may be drunk, and he definitely no longer has the look of a quarterback, but he’s still fast on his feet. He stumbles forward, swings his arm back, and slaps me across the face. The sharp sound echoes through the small kitchen as pain shoots down my jaw. Tiny needles prickle across my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I cry, gripping my stinging cheek.
“No, you’re not!” Father reaches forward and curls his fingers around my heart-shaped pendant.
“No, please. Father, don’t,” I beg, and instantly regret it. He’ll stop at nothing now that he knows exactly how to hurt me.
“You’re useless,” he shouts, yanking hard, and the chain snaps. I grab for it and Father shoves me away with enough force to knock me to the floor.
I slam onto the hard ceramic tiles. Father takes a step forward and I already know what comes next. “Please, Father. I promise I won’t do it again!”
Father laughs, a cruel glint in his glazed eyes. He sways a little and my necklace slips from his fingers.
For a second, I think it’s accidental. That he’s so far gone that he dropped it and I’ll be able to get it back.
Just as that sliver of hope forms, he slams his sneakered foot on my pendant. “Useless!” he shouts. “Just. Like. Your. Mother!” He stomps on my onyx heart, punctuating each word as his foot connects with the stone.
“No!” I cry out, lunging to rescue my heart. I know I should stay put. If I wait for Father’s anger to pass, I’ll be safe. But what good is safe when he’s stomping on my heart? Destroying the pendant Mom slipped into my hand in the hospital, just before her body went limp? How can anything else matter?
With a pained cry, I grab Father’s ankle. He retaliates by kicking me in the stomach, hard. The air escapes my lungs in a whoosh of pain and I double over from the impact. Father advances, kicking me again. He hits me right in the gut and pain reverberates down my back as I’m pinned against the fridge. I curl up in a ball to protect myself as Father swings his foot back. Squeezing my eyes shut, I prepare for an onslaught of pain that never comes.
Something clatters into the living room. Mom’s pendant!
I jump to my feet, barely registering the pain as I race in pursuit. I drop to my hands and knees, frantic to find it. A loud belch echoes from the kitchen and the floorboards creak as Father stumbles into the living room. The possibility of him attacking me and the constant reminder from my throbbing ribcage are nothing compared the horror of not finding my necklace.
For a second, I think it’s vanished, like magic, but then I spot the onyx stone in front of the faded brown couch. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and scramble forward. Then, I see what Father’s done and let out a strangled cry.
A spider web of jagged lines runs across the pendant’s surface. When I pick it up, it breaks apart in my hand—four pieces of a fractured heart.
Chapter 2
“Where do you think you’re going?” Father shouts when I stagger to my feet and stumble toward the front door. “Get back here!”
“No!” I close my hand in a tight fist. The jagged pieces of my fractured heart pendant dig painfully into my palm. There’s something comforting in the sting—something that urges me to keep moving.
“You’ll be back, Roonie Hill,” Father calls after me. “You’ll be back…you mark my words.”
“Never!”
“You have nowhere to go. Nowhere, Roonie!”
“I don’t care,” I sob. Anywhere is better than here, and the only thing that matters right now is getting away.
I try to move quickly despite the pain, afraid Father will attack me again. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even bother coming after me. His footsteps recede as he heads back to the kitchen and I hear his satisfied belch.
Tears blur my vision. When I stumble into the night, the cold air stings my wet cheeks. My footsteps echo on the unforgivingly hard pavement. Each step sends waves of pain shooting up my injured back and ribs.
I don’t care. I need to get away—away from my thoughts, away from my old life, and away from Father.
He’s right about one thing, though. I don’t have anywhere to go. No close friends or neighbors to take me in and no other family. My high school classmates all got into college and moved away. I’m sure a few of them would let me visit, but I have no way of reaching them. I left my phone next to the bathroom sink and I didn’t take my wallet.
All I’ve got are the clothes on my back and my fractured heart.
I should turn back, but I don’t.
I stumble along past house after house until I reach a brightly-lit front-facing window. Inside, a little girl with brown hair just like mine is seated on her mother’s lap, a large picture book propped open in front of them. As they flip the page, I picture a fairy tale unfolding—a story with handsome princes and happy endings. It reminds me of my own childhood. Of my own mom.
When the woman pulls the little girl in for a hug, I remember what it felt like to be loved.
A gust of harsh wind blasts past and chills me to the bone. It whips my messy brown hair at my face and I suddenly feel like a cursed mermaid, tangled in unruly seaweed. I must look like a mess. My face, usually
pale, turns red when I cry. My eyes must be puffy, and I feel snot running down my face, too. I wipe it away with the sleeve of my pink sweater and stare down at Mom’s pendant. The four jagged onyx pieces stare back at me, each one a cold, sharp reminder of why I left home.
I rearrange them carefully on my palm, forming the shape of a heart. The pieces fit together, but there’s no hiding the cracks that connect them—no hiding how my heart is no longer whole.
With a whimper, I stuff the pendant in my front jeans pocket and my fingers graze a few bills. I move closer to the streetlight so I can count them. Twenty-three dollars—enough for food but not much else. Even if I sleep on the street, which is completely out of the question, I wouldn’t survive for more than a few days. Then what?
I stuff the bills in my pocket and start walking. Every house on this street is home to a happy family. Warmth. Light. Safety. A shuddering sigh catches in my throat and threatens to turn into a raw sob. I push onward.
It’s only once I’ve reached the small, wrought iron gate that I realize where I’m going.
I’ve taken this path before, dozens of times, but only in the light of day. It cuts through the forest that inspired my song about Red Riding Hood and her pack of wolves.
I hum it as I look out into the trees. It’s always so beautiful here during the day. In the late afternoon, the sun reflects off the top of the clock tower, which just barely peeks out over the canopy of trees. I love looking at it and the other buildings that make up Lawrence Underwood Valley Academy for the Performing Arts, the local arts college.
