BEAUTIFUL DEVIL
(The Rockstar Duology Book 2)
Sharlyn G. Branson
Copyright © 2018 by Sharlyn G. Branson
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
No parts of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author. This book is licensed for your personal use only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or death, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and situations are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Edited by Lisa LaPaglia (Evident Ink)
Cover design © by Sharlyn G. Branson
Formatted by BB eBooks
Also by Sharlyn G. Branson
Between Clouds and Stars
Limits of Destiny Series (Volume 1-5)
About BEAUTIFUL DEVIL
(The Rockstar Duology Book 2)
The past couldn’t be changed. It left its ugly wounds, which needed a long time, maybe almost a lifetime, to heal. And even when they did heal, the scars left behind would always remind us what happened.
For so many years, I’d lived under the shadow of death, without love, without letting anyone get close to me. My soul yearned for true love.
Emily Delon was innocent, far too pure for my demonic soul, but I managed to make her mine anyway.
But could our love defeat the dark shadows hiding in the future?
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also by Sharlyn G. Branson
About Beautiful Devil (The Rockstar Duology Book 2)
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
Epilogue
Author’s note
About the Author
Bonus Material: Free chapters of Limits of Destiny
1
Emily
I returned to my apartment, which now seemed even smaller since I spent so much time at Ryan’s huge house. I threw my handbag at the desk. Then I bent to pick up my cat and lay with her on the bed, suppressing the desire to scream and cry.
The little treasure snuggled on my breasts. Kitty was small and incredibly fluffy. She meowed, prompting me to pet her. I slid my fingers across her tiny head and she closed her eyes and purred. The soft sounds calmed me down, if only for a while.
My thoughts returned to everything that happened. I was tormented by Ryan’s wild sexual fantasies and desires. It was a piece of cake for him to get two women in bed for a threesome. I’d never take part in that, I didn’t have those desires.
It wasn’t too long ago when I hadn’t wanted to give myself to one man, let alone consider the possibility of two—at the same time. I’d given my virginity to the only man who stole my heart—Ryan Wilder. And he took it in the most seductive way possible, without causing any physical pain. He was a sex God who took whatever he wanted.
If you give your love to a man, your identity is lost—that’s the naked truth. Men become controlling and try to break you. They want to fit you into a mold, but that mold never quite matches. And inevitably, a woman loses her individuality, striving to satisfy her man.
Ryan was no exception to the rule.
My roommate, Misty, entered my room, interrupting my thoughts.
“What happened for God’s sake? You passed through the living room like a thundercloud, without even saying hi.” She asked demandingly, hands on hips.
Her chin was raised, she looked like a haughty queen, hair tied in a loose bun with large earrings hanging from her ears.
“Sorry, I’m not in a mood to talk. And to argue? Even less.”
She sat next to me on the bed. “What did Ryan do? Did he cheat on you?”
I sighed loudly. There was no getting out of this situation without telling her what happened. “I played the wrong film by mistake. A recording of Ryan having fun with two chicks.”
For a few seconds, silence fell. My friend gazed at me compassionately. I didn’t need her pity.
“Fuck, that’s a lucky guy,” Travis, Misty’s boyfriend, said loudly, his voice preceding his entry into my room. His words won him not one, but two angry stares. If looks could kill, Travis would be a dead man.
He raised his hands defensively. “It’s true. I don’t know any man who hasn’t dreamed of having a threesome at least once.” He glanced at Misty and softened his face, trying to act like a fawning cat. “I don’t need that any more, now that I have you, my precious. You give me everything I need.”
As expected, my friend melted at his words. He leaned toward her and gave her a deep, sloppy kiss, making Misty wrap her arms around him with a sheer pleasure.
I rolled my eyes. Men. For them, real feelings held no value.
2
Emily
Past
The New York apartment where I lived with my mother and brother was small, but it was big enough for the three of us. There was one major problem. Mom always got too drunk and brought men home.
Today was no different.
As soon as I heard the man’s voice, I tugged my brother’s hand, quietly getting his attention.
“Fabien, let’s go play our game,” My whisper was mouse soft. I crossed my fingers and smiled with as much as excitement as I could muster, hoping he would agree.
Our game, consisted of us hiding in the closet, while I quietly told him stories I made up on the spot. They were about good magicians who cared for the poor and the needy, animals that could talk to people, and good parents who took care of their children. Our game was always about good things. Maybe because there wasn’t enough good in our lives.
We hid in the closet for one simple reason—I was afraid one of the men might come into our room and hurt us. In order to avoid drawing anyone’s attention, I had to make sure my four-year old brother didn’t make noise.
“I’m hungry. I want to eat,” Fabien whined, refusing to go into the closet.
“Please, Fabien, we’ll eat later,” I implored, silently blaming myself for forgetting to bring food from the kitchen earlier. “Do you want to play with the airplanes?” I took two model airplanes from our small toy box and lined them up on the carpet. “Let’s make a runway. How about it?”
“I want Mom.” Huge tears started running down his small, still-babyish face. His lips curved down, making my heart twist in pain. I was only eleven, but I already knew our mother wasn’t capable of looking after us properly.
“Mom’s busy, she has a guest.”
“I’m hungry.” He raised his small fists to his face and wiped his wet eyes.
I hugged him and stroked his head. “Calm down. I made potato soup. It’s still warm. Be quiet and stay here while I go to the kitchen and bring you back a bowl.”
Slowly, I pushed to my feet and twisted the doorknob. The hinges creaked as I slid the door open and shut. I heard voices from my mother’s room. Her laughter sliced through my heart. How could she have fun
with some man instead of taking care of her son? I was still a child and, therefore, no substitute for a mother, no matter how hard I tried.
I went into the kitchen and poured some soup into a bowl.
As I cut a slice of bread, I heard the familiar creak of the door and the man entered the kitchen. It was Pete, one of Mom’s usual guests. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his hairy chest. The zipper of his jeans was undone, showing a bulge under his boxers.
“Well, what do we have here?” As he walked toward me, I took several steps back. He was clearly drunk. I smelled alcohol on his breath. “You’re beautiful, sweetie. And what’s that under your T-shirt? Your breasts have started budding.” His glazed eyes flashed with perverted delight.
Gripped by fear’s ugly tentacles, I froze in the corner. The hands of terror were choking me hard, making blood throb in my ears.
The air in the room became dense and heavy.
As soon as my mother entered the kitchen, she said, “Let her be, Pete. She’s still a child.” Then she grabbed him by the elbow and tried to get his attention. In the process, her robe became undone, revealing one of her breasts.
Mom was very beautiful—long, blonde hair, small nose, high cheekbones and thick lips. She always told us she would become a world-famous actress and earn lots of money. But that never happened. The directors came and went, never getting past her bed. Years passed, but Mom never got her big break. My brother and I were the products of those dreams.
One day, I asked her about my father and she gave me a photo of some man. She explained he was a businessman who travelled a lot and, therefore, had no time for family and kids. Fabien wasn’t lucky enough to find out about his father. I suspected my mother didn’t actually know.
Pete grabbed a handful of my hair. Horrified, I barely suppressed a squeal. “You’ll be even more beautiful than your mother. We just need to wait until your breasts get a bit bigger.” He laughed as if he’d made a great joke.
Eyes wide in terror, I looked at my mom. For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes.
“Please, Pete, leave Emily alone. Let’s go back to the bedroom.” She wedged herself between us and ran her hands across his hairy chest.
He gave her his attention. Pete’s mouth twisted into an ugly smile. He let go of my hair to grab her ass, and I fell to the floor.
Too shocked to move, I watched as she led him back to her bedroom. My face was wet—tears had been streaming unnoticed down my cheeks. I wanted to scream, cry aloud, but I needed to be quiet.
I turned to the open door and saw Fabien standing there, holding a small toy airplane.
“Don’t cry, Emily.” He rushed to me and hugged me with his small arms.
I kissed his curly brown hair. Tears blurred my vision.
Not knowing what else to do or how to stop it, I let desperation engulf me and broke down, piece by piece. The sticky, dirty fingers of hopelessness sank their nails deep inside my skin.
* * *
The best decision my mother ever made regarding my brother and me was to buy us all airplane tickets to France. Elise intended to leave us to Grandma and Granddad and go back to the States, but I was grateful to her anyway. I knew I’d been a hair’s breadth away from being raped that night. Pete was drunk and muscular enough to force himself on me. Having already lived a tormented life, such an experience would’ve completely crushed me.
I had no problem getting used to my new, much calmer situation. My grandparents’ apartment was very cozy. Provence was very nice, and I loved walking down its colorful narrow streets and running through fields made purple by a dense lavender cover. My only difficulty was in school, where I found it hard to read in French.
It was even tougher for my brother. When he was born, Mom decided she’d only speak English to him. I didn’t know the reason for her decision. When we went to France, my brother only knew five French words. In kindergarten, he came back crying because he couldn’t understand the other children. He was sad every day—despite Grandma’s attempts to cheer him up. Even though Mom was a terrible parent, he missed her.
Days turned into months. Fabien acclimated to his new environment and things gradually fell into place. We were much happier in France than in our tiny New York apartment, where there was more alcohol than food. Granddad and I didn’t build a stable relationship, but Grandma was completely different. She put so much effort into caring for us, and I loved her with all my heart.
But the happy times didn’t last.
That fall, my brother became very ill with the flu. He had a fever for two weeks. Grandma Chantal took him to different doctors, but they simply prescribed him fever treatments. Six months later, at the end of January and one month before his fifth birthday, Fabien became ill with diabetes. When he was admitted to the hospital, his blood sugar was at the highest value the measuring device could display.
That was the worst day of my life.
Afraid of losing him, I fell in a deep, dark hole and couldn’t climb out. I cried day and night, but that didn’t lessen the pain. I felt more helpless than ever before. No matter how much I wanted, I had no way to help him.
When Grandma brought him home, Fabien had an insulin pump attached to a belt on his jeans. Some color had returned to his cheeks.
But the torment didn’t end.
Every three days, we replaced the pump’s catheter. The procedure was quite painful. Fabien couldn’t get used to the pain of having his skin pierced by a nine-millimeter needle. The catheter change became a ritual—one hour of Fabien crying before the insertion of a new tube.
“Grandma, why are you doing this to me? I don’t want it… It hurts… Please, don’t,” Fabien would repeat again and again, as if reciting a mantra. He didn’t understand that he could die without insulin.
What four-year-old would?
Grandma repeatedly called the chief physician for help, but he assured her it was the same with all kids—a shocking experience at first, but they eventually got used to the procedure.
That nightmare continued for three months. Then a neighbor offered some advice to Chantal. If Fabien followed a vegan diet, he could live normally, without needing insulin injections, and might even be cured. Grandma was extremely stressed and at a loss, so she decided to give it a try. We struggled to stop the tears and pain.
The vegan diet lasted nine months. My brother didn’t touch animal products, didn’t have insulin injections and his glucose levels were perfect. But it didn’t last. It turned out the claims that veganism led to an insulin-free life applied only to adults suffering from Type 2 diabetes. In children with Type 1, whose beta cells had been destroyed by pancreatic antibodies, veganism wasn’t a viable treatment.
The only helpful thing we learned during this so-called experiment was that fatty food, in particular, animal products, resulted in the elevation of glucose levels. And an active lifestyle and sports helped decrease glucose levels.
Fabien went back on insulin, but it was administered using injections, rather than a pump.
Life with diabetes wasn’t easy, especially for Chantal, who did everything. She was like a nurse—measuring blood sugar with the unit, calculating the amount of carbohydrates in Fabien’s food, and injecting insulin. However, she received no help from the state for that. We had health insurance, but the cost of Fabien’s medication was only partially covered.
Granddad railed against the world. “Big pharma makes billions every year from selling insulin,” he’d say. “Which is why they haven’t invented a vaccine to treat diabetes. They’d be crazy to do so.”
I pondered his words and sometimes thought they might hold a grain of truth. But we were just ordinary people, and we couldn’t change the way the world worked.
I made sure I helped out as much as I could. Whenever I felt depressed, I told myself many diseases were much worse than diabetes. No matter how hard it was, the only important thing was that Fabien was alive.
When night cloaks the Earth in darkness, most p
eople retire for a good night’s sleep, so they face the new day rested and strong. Chantal Delon did not do that. Every night, before bed, she set the alarm clock for midnight and three in the morning, because she needed to monitor my brother’s glucose levels. I never knew how she found the strength to do it. She was a tough woman, but everybody’s energy becomes depleted sooner or later. I was worried she might become ill from exhaustion.
Without Chantal, Fabien and I would have no one. She was our salvation.
My grandfather, Jean-Paul, rarely helped. He was a prisoner of depression, locked tight between its walls, and he never tried to escape.
* * *
One night, I woke up from a nightmare. In my dream, I wandered some scary cave, where bats hid in the passages. I tried to escape but could not find the way out. I noticed a narrow passage that I hoped would lead to freedom. I entered the passageway. Instead of finding an exit, I saw creepy dead bodies frozen from the cold.
Fully awake, my entire body was drenched in cold sweat. Even my feet felt wet. I switched on my bedside lamp and headed to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. There, I found Grandma sitting on a chair by the window, weeping silently. I realized she finally reached the end of her tether.
Chantal never let herself cry in front of us, and when she saw me, she wiped her wet face with her hand and asked sternly, “Why aren’t you asleep, Emily?”
I rushed over to her and held her tight. “Let’s take turns getting up and measuring Fabien’s sugar levels. I can do it, too. That way, you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep half the time.”
She caressed my back and kissed my hair. “You’re still a child, Emily. I can’t make you do things meant for adults. Fabien is growing and needs protein. As you know, whenever he’s had meat, his sugar levels rise during the night. If you miscalculate and give him too much insulin, you might kill him. This task carries too much responsibility for a child. Anyway, you help me so much during the day.”
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