by Cora Kenborn
Shallow
Cora Kenborn
Edited by
Gillian Leonard
Twisted Publishing
Books are like music—some hear and some listen.
Thank you for listening.
Contents
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the author
Stalk CORA Online
Also by Cora Kenborn
Prologue
Shiloh
Ten Months Ago
Mirrors.
They’re funny things.
Sometimes, when we’re all dressed up and painted to perfection, they reflect an image everyone strives to emulate. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I love them. I walk by them and stare at myself, occasionally shocked at the woman looking back at me—Shiloh West. The one who’s in demand all over the world for the image they’ve created.
Other times, I catch a glimpse of the coastal country girl who still hides inside the desired woman. The bitch everyone hated because all they saw was a vapid waste of space.
Shallow.
Risking one last glance, I straighten my pale pink dress, making sure the neckline is pushed down far enough so that my breasts make the next day’s tabloids.
Mirrors.
They don’t lie.
They also don’t hide dirty little secrets. Cursing, I run a finger under my nose and wipe away the faint white powder. Tilting my chin back, I check for any residue. When I’m positive all is clear, I flash a brilliant smile at myself then spit in the center of the mirror. Saliva trails down the glass, splitting my image into a grotesque comic book villain.
You can lie to cameras. Mirrors tell the truth.
I fucking hate mirrors.
Every eye in the club follows me as I make my way back to the VIP lounge. Sliding into the booth next to my friends, I paint on the plastic smile I’ve perfected over the years.
“To the ones who love us, copy us, take our pictures, but will never be us.” I lift my three-olive martini and shove it toward the middle of the elevated booth, missing Lena’s and Kirkland’s glasses completely. Half the liquid sloshes over the rim and coats Kirkland’s silver pantsuit.
“Damn, Shiloh! How many of those have you had? We’re right here, for God’s sake.” Even with her face scrunched up, Kirkland Maynard still looks like Jessica Rabbit. Half the men in the club have probably jerked off to her covers just for her tits alone.
“Not nearly enough.” After draining the glass, I slam it onto the table and hold my hand in front of her face. “I’m sober as a judge.” I expect to see a steady palm, but instead find myself digging two fingers into Lena’s fake eyelashes.
“Son of a bitch!” Smacking my hand away, Lena blinks the dislodged fur ball until it suctions back onto her eyelid. “You’re cut off.”
I can’t help but laugh. Cut off. There’s no such thing in our world. Dealt-in, catered-to, and over-ass kissed are more like it. We want for nothing. If our resting bitch faces slightly falter, no less than a dozen people flock around us either begging for our forgiveness or complementing our every detail. Our lives revolve around excess. We’re envied by our peers, loathed by women, lusted by men, and overpaid by a king’s ransom.
We’re models, and appearances are everything.
We’re the elite. The few who achieved worldwide fame on beauty and a deep sense of self-worth.
No regrets.
Mostly none, at least.
You can’t survive in this business living with regrets. If you do, they’ll eat you alive and spit you out. Chin up, eyes forward, and conscience clear. For seven years I’ve lived by that code, and it’s brought me international fame I never dreamed possible. My face has graced every fashion magazine from New York to Milan. I’ve bedded A-list actors and chart-topping rock stars. I have more Instagram and Twitter followers than the president of the United States and probably twice the hate mail.
Take a good look. Do I look like I care?
Hell no.
People can say whatever they want. You aren’t shit in this world if you don’t have haters. I’ve had them all my life. Even in high school, girls hated me. Not because of anything I did, but because even then, I made no apologies for who I was.
A bitch.
Real is real. Some are born to lead and others are born to follow. Drive the train or board the bus.
Beep-beep, motherfucker, I’m at the wheel.
I know the drugs are taking effect when I want to dance to the music I forced myself to tolerate moments earlier. Unfortunately, the club has lost its appeal, and I’m ready to go.
Go ahead. Judge me. Call me an addict.
My fascination with nose candy began late in high school. Too busy popping diet pills and avoiding emotional attachments, I didn’t find the uncomplicated “fuck it” quality of getting high until my senior year. Say what you will, but life could be in the shitter and with one hit, you feel instantly optimistic about your miserable existence.
That’s some powerful shit.
“This place is over. Let’s go.” I stand, not bothering to care if anyone follows. Why? Because I know they will. I lead, and people follow. However, I’m two steps away from the table when I realize I’m one bitch short of a party.
Lena licks her lips as the waiter drops another fruity drink on the table. “You two go. I think I’ll stick around and let José buy me another drink.”
“It’s Javier, Miss Delacruz.”
“Does it really matter?” She takes a sip of her drink and winks.
I want to be mad, but I can’t help but laugh. Javier, or whatever his name is, doesn’t stand a chance. Lena’s a goddess with long raven hair and flawless bronzed skin that wins her countless magazine covers. If she wasn’t one of my best friends, I’d probably fabricate a fucked up rumor about her just to make people hate her. But you can’t hate Lena. She’s one of the realest bitches around, and she actually likes me. I can count the number of women who’d give a shit if I lived or died on two fingers.
I’m standing with both of them.
Used to Lena’s open pussy policy, I yank Kirkland’s hand when I feel resistance. Stumbling at the top of the staircase, I sigh dramatically. “Come on. My buzz is going to wear off, Kirk.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Kirkland’s lips pinch together as she stares at Lena’s bloodshot eyes.
Lena waves her off with a flick of her wrist. “Doll, I’ve been prowling for dick long before you two could recite the alphabet. Now, go find your own playpen. This one’s mine. Kisses, my loves.”
> “Call us when you get home,” Kirkland calls out as I drag her down the stairs.
Just to have the last word, I yell up to the VIP area as security flanks us on both sides, “Remember to ice down your vag. You have a swimsuit shoot tomorrow and you don’t want to have meat flaps, you slut.” Lena’s throaty laugh echoes behind me as the cool Los Angeles air whips my blonde curls around my face.
The minute my Louboutins hit the pavement, a tree trunk of an arm slams across my chest. “Wait here, Miss West. I’ll get your car.”
Here’s the problem with being famous. I love the attention. I love people willing to bend over and take it up the ass just to please me. What I don’t love is being told what to do, and this guy just snapped my final nerve.
“Not without these.” Pulling a set of keys out of my Louis Vuitton purse, I swing them around my finger. Just as he lunges for them, I shove a palm against his chest. “Don’t make the mistake of forgetting who signs your paychecks.”
Lights flash around me, but I’m too high and pissed to care that paparazzi are starting to crowd us. Over the years, I’ve learned to tune them out. Photographers are my bread and butter, and if they want a gratuitous crotch shot—so be it. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.
“Miss West, you’ve had too much alcohol to drive,” the guard whispers. “I’d be failing as your personal security if I allowed you to do this. Now, hand over the keys.”
“Oh, you mean these keys?” I dangle them in front of his face, and his cheeks redden as I jerk them away at the last moment.
“Shy, just give him the keys.” Kirkland forces a smile and poses for the cameras. “You know he’s right.”
Logically, I do know they’re both right. Hell, I’m drunk and high. Getting behind the wheel is stupid even by my standards, but paparazzi and television cameras are on me. Passing the keys off to one of my guards would be the equivalent of admitting I have no control over my own life.
Fuck that.
Control is all I have left, and I’ll be damned if the next tabloid headline will be, Shiloh West, stoned and bare-crotched, gets carried away by bodyguard from LA nightclub.
Hell no. My keys. My life. My terms.
Handing the keys to the valet, I lean in close. “Pull my car around, and if you let anyone else drive it, I’ll have your balls and a mimosa for breakfast. Are we clear?”
The valet attendant seems like a decent guy, but I’m pretty sure he pisses himself the minute I grab his tie. Men are so easy it’s pathetic. I bet if I touch his dick he’d come right there in his cheap khakis.
Not five minutes later, I smile to myself as my beautiful yellow Lamborghini Gallardo pulls up beside us. She was an extravagant present to myself, but after seven years in the business, I deserve her. Sure, she set me back almost two million, but when you’re one of the highest paid models in the world, people expect a certain standard from you.
Can anyone imagine Shiloh West driving a fucking Honda?
I’d rather die.
As my angel revs at my feet, the distinctive roar of her V-10 engine pulls my grin tighter across my face. The valet attendant opens the door, shaking his head with what I assume to be envy as he runs his hand down the side.
“She’s a beaut, Miss West.”
“Of course she is.” Irritated, I brush his hand away from the door. I’m no idiot. I picked the Gallardo for a reason. It ensures that wherever I go, I’ll be seen and heard. Heads will turn, and I’ll be the topic of conversation. Just as I’ve always liked it.
Stumbling slightly, I slip behind the wheel and flash the paparazzi their long-awaited crotch shot. “For the lifestyle section, boys.” Giving a flirty wink, I slam the door and click my seatbelt.
Just as I put it in drive and hit the gas, a god-awful gagging noise comes from the other side of my car. I turn in horror just as Kirkland slaps a hand over her mouth and puffs her cheeks out.
“So, help me God, Kirk. If you puke in my car, I’ll kill you.”
“I’ll be fine.” Dropping her hand, she waves it toward the windshield. “Just drive. I won’t ruin the fun. I promise.”
Sure.
If Kirkland pukes in my car, I’ll rip out her red hair and mop the floorboard with it before shoving it down her throat. We’re best friends—well, as much as rivals can be friends. She did steal the recent Sports Illustrated cover away from me. Something about my nipples being off-center.
Whatever. I’ve never had any complaints about my nipples.
Screw Sports Illustrated. I just got the cover of Maxim, anyway. They’ll come crawling back. I’m happy for Kirkland. Really.
Mostly.
The cover still should’ve been mine. I make more money than Kirkland. I’m in higher demand. That cover would’ve been my hat-trick. Three covers in a row.
“Shiloh! Watch the lines!”
With cocaine and alcohol still rushing through my veins, my response to her outburst meets in the middle of my brain with a rush of obnoxiousness and delayed reaction. Slowly turning my head, I catch her gaze and throw my hands up in anger.
“What the fuck, Kirk? Are you seriously yelling at me while I’m trying to drive?”
The way her eyes bulge, I know I’ve made a grave error in judgment. I just don’t know how bad until it’s too late.
“Car!” It’s the only word Kirkland yells as she reaches across me and grabs the unmanned wheel. With what feels like stretches of blurred minutes, I glance up to see an eighteen-wheeler has veered into our lane and is headed straight for us. The deep horn blows like a boat arriving to harbor and part of me wants to hit my own horn in response—almost as an answer to an unresponsive lover.
Is that psycho?
Probably.
The slow minutes finally speed up, and everything becomes clear again. Light and darkness combine, blazing past us as they mold into twisted streaks. It’s only then that I realize it’s not the truck, but me who has veered into his lane—and my hands aren’t on the wheel.
“Shiloh! Do something! Oh, God!” I don’t see Kirkland’s hand jerk the wheel hard to the right until the last second. I can’t feel anything as the realization that we’re going to crash settles deep within me. Covering Kirkland’s shaking hand with my own, I hold her grip steady into our sharp turn.
Which, obviously, is the absolute worst thing we could’ve ever done.
Know what sticks in my head the most right here?
Britney Spears’ Toxic is playing on the radio.
God apparently does have a sense of humor.
My beautiful car fishtails, spins, and does a complete three sixty in the middle of the road before becoming airborne. I scream. Kirkland screams. I think one of us screams again. I can’t be sure, because at that point my airbag smacks me in the face—hard. A searing pain rips through me and warmth coats my lips.
Then there’s silence.
Every time I’d pass by one of those horrific highway wrecks, I’d watch with sadistic fascination at the destruction strewn across the asphalt. Most people would rubber neck then look away, ashamed at their interest.
Not me.
I wondered what went through their minds during their last few seconds. Did they scream? Did their ears fill with screeching metal as their lives flashed before their eyes? Did they cry out for God to help them?
In reality, none of that happens. There’s a peaceful quiet when you’re about to die. No flashes of light. No memories of happier times. The heavens don’t open up, nor do the flames of hell shoot up to claim you. There’s just acceptance and silence.
As I fill my lungs for the last time, I reach for Kirkland’s hand and smile at my own private joke.
The ravine looks as shallow as me.
One
Shiloh
One Week Ago
“All rise. The Court of Los Angeles County is now in session, the Honorable Judge Harold J. Oliver presiding.”
My fingers pause from playing with a loose thread on my dress as the bai
liff’s deep voice catches my attention. He stands with an impeccably straight spine, every limb and button on his brown uniform in place and orderly. There’s no expression on his face. It’s like his emotions have been vacuum sucked, leaving only a shell.
I like him already. I know his game.
“Shiloh!” Barry’s sharp voice warns. Instead of meeting what I can feel is his heated stare, I watch my lawyer’s fingertips press hard onto the mahogany table. “Stand up, for Christ’s sake.”
A quick glance around the courtroom confirms why he’s pissed. Everyone is standing but me, the defendant, the one whose fate will be decided in mere minutes. I’m the one who should be standing with wobbling knees. Instead, I’m picking at random threads, thinking about the bowl of cereal I left sitting on the kitchen counter of my penthouse and the disgusting mess it’ll be when I get back home.
If I get home.
It makes me smile. I’m still Shallow West. Even in the hour of my reckoning.
“Yes, sir.” Before Barry can pull another ventriloquist act and yell at me through his perpetually chapped lips, I smooth my virginal white dress and stand. I hate this dress. It’s demure and cute and has cherries on the lapel.
Goddamn cherries.
Like anyone’s going to buy this shit. I’m Shiloh West, not a fucking Dress Barn model.
