High Class Harlot (Switching Tracks Series Book 2)

by Delia Steele

  High Class

  Harlot

  Switching Tracks Series

  Book Two

  Delia Steele

  License Statement:

  This book is a written act of fiction. Any places, character, or similarities are purely coincidence. If certain places or characters are referenced it is for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent except in the case of quotations and reviews.

  This e-book is for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2013 Delia Steele

  All Rights Reserved

  www.deliasteele.weebly.com

  Formatting by: Fancypants Book Formatting

  http://www.fancypantsformatting.com

  ISBN: 1500360686

  ISBN-13: 978-1500360689

  Dedication

  High Class Harlot’s are a dime a dozen, don’t let that phase you. Just because someone next to you has nicer clothes, the better car, or seems to have it all: looks, love, and the guy, stop to take a closer look. I know it’s hard (most of the time), but don’t judge them. Rise above that. They may walk a road more similar to yours than you realize. Their sexy, shiny, slutty shoes will move them down the same walk as you, but at least you don’t have to tolerate spiked heels, open toes, and bad arch support. They may talk the talk, but bank, when they walk that walk, it hurts them just the same, if not more. In reality, they likely envy you more than you do them, causing them to act the bigger ass of the group. So never compare yourself and feel little. Tie up your sneakers and strut like a boss. BECAUSE YOU ARE!

  .

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Prologue

  You may think you know me, but rest assured, you do not know me. Yes, you know my name is Amandolette and that my friends call me Mando; and yes, I come from the Spring Lake Community, where all the rich snotty bitches live. But what you don’t know are things like: I’m full of hate, I’m envious, I’m promiscuous, I’m a wanderer, and my folks and I don’t click. The only thing in my life my parents and I agree on is the adoration we have for Aurora Wilde Tate.

  Aurora, or as I call her, Rory, blazed into our lives my senior year of high school, and she quickly melted us like the wildfire she is. I have never seen a girl so strong. She was dealt the worst luck in life I have ever seen, and instead of using it as an excuse, she kept playing the game until she beat it. I’ll never be like that. I don’t have what it takes. She was a pariah and transformed into a diamond. I am what people consider a diamond, when the truth is: I’m cubic zirconium—inexpensive; a knockoff; a cheap-ass imitation of the real thing; that flawed facet that appears perfect to the naked eye, but when you look close, you see all the chipped pieces. I don’t possess that get-up-and-get-shit-done attitude. I am more of a sit-back-and-see-what-happens kind of girl. I feel as though I have searched my entire life trying to find myself, but in my heart, I think I’m designed to be lost. As sad as it is, I like the process of the search: the constant going, moving, looking …just not the pretending. I am loud, eccentric, and blunt; and I refuse to compromise those traits. They are the only real qualities I have. Them and being loyal to a fault. That’s why I stick around my folks. My mom, Rosaria, is a good woman, but she is weak and quiet—everything I never want to be. My dad, Balthazar, runs over everyone. He plows his own path with no regard for the little people in his way. I will not be who he wants me to be.

  I should tell you, I am incredibly envious of Rory. She is who she is, and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. I, on the other hand, have always felt like I was walking on eggshells. I know you’re thinking, Yeah, right, but it’s true. Fake it until you make it, right? That’s the story of my life.

  The day I met Rory, I knew she would change my life. I was leaving my Gran’s house; and there she was, wandering around the lot, looking as though she was talking to herself. I remember making a siren noise and yelling, “Hurry, someone, catch that fucking fire crotch; she’s running wild.” I hopped off the porch and sprinted up to her to introduce myself. Name’s Mando. I like shit loud and wrapped in bright colors. None of that walks-on-the-beach kind of shit. Dudes suck, and chicks suck harder. Nice to meet you, Red Hot. Then I stuck my hand out. It was love at first touch. She stuck her hand out to meet mine, and those big, freaky, green windows to her soul sucked me right in. I fell so hard my ass hurt for days after that. When I looked into her eyes, the strength I saw in her had my knees buckling. I was instantly jealous of the vigor she radiated. She rocked, and I loved her ‘I’m here bitch; deal with it’ attitude that comes with a side of happy. I wanted some of that! I started being more myself in that instant—more like Rory: strong, carefree, and nonconforming to social hierarchy. She’s my better half.

  Fuck me, I sound like a clit licker now… Well, Rory makes you feel that way. She’s my best friend eva! I’d cut a bitch for her, and she knows it.

  You think being rich means your life is perfect… BONK, WRONG! You think having money makes life easy… BONK, WRONG AGAIN! You think being wealthy means it’s all good in the hood or whatever… Then you are majorly fucked up in the cranium. Rest assured, it’s true that money is the root of all evil. The gate in front of Spring Lake Community, or SLC as we call it around here, may as well be the gate to Hell. Only the Devil’s minions live inside.

  I’m not sure where to start this story, but I feel I need to explain a few things. CALM DOWN! Don’t get your G-string twisted, peeps! I plan to tell you all about the lifestyles of the rich and bitchy, present age-25. I just need you to understand that I love my Rory; I really do. But when she came into my life, it went from Hell-level 4 to Hell-level 9. People compare me to her at every turn. My parents adore her, Rome idolizes her, and everyone who meets her loves her. Hell, YOU LOVE HER! And she deserves love in her life. But don’t I deserve love, too? Does my being born with a silver spoon in my mouth make me less loveable?

  When Rory got pregnant, I figured my folks would chill out. Wrong. I worship my Goddaughter; I do, but instead of backing away when Saige came along, my parents just loved them that much more. This envy has caused me to snap at my best friend repeatedly. It even causes me to avoid her at all costs. While I was away at FIDM for school, it was easier. I wasn’t in her shadow there. I know you’re thinking, Poor little snot-faced, Prada wearing, rich kid isn’t center of attention now, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I hate our money. I hate people classifying me as ‘Hig
h Class’. If I had my way about it, I would live with my Gran. I wouldn’t think twice about switching tracks. I always say I need to check on her, but truth is…I just need to be free for a while. Gran can run circles around me. Hell, last week the old coot asked me if I had been doing my kegels. Then she proceeded to tell me I would have a saggy vag if I didn’t and that no man wants to look at a saggy vag.

  See, we didn’t always have money. We moved to America when I was around three for a better life. We brought Gran with us, and that was it. I don’t know anyone else in my family, which I assume is best, considering I don’t care for those I do know.

  I hope you’re a ride-or-die chick if you’re attempting to take on my story. Strap on your seatbelt, bitches, and get ready for one hell of a ride. If you can’t handle it, you may want to jump ship now.

  Chapter One

  I hear the noise down stairs and assume it’s time to roll out of bed. Throwing my feet over the side, I drop my elbows to my knees and just sit with my head hung. I hate getting up. I hate feeling this way. I’m not even sure how long I stay bent over that way, but my mom opens the door and rambles in her broken English, “Mija, I have to work. Breakfast in microwave.” She slides the door shut. I don’t like treating her this way, and she isn’t used to me being so standoffish. I can’t help how I feel, though. It’s my parents, along with the distance between me and my loved, ones that’s causing this. I miss Rory every day. College almost killed me! Then I get back here and find she left for Toby, of all people. Well, not really, but it helps me justify how I feel. She left for Saige. She would hop countries for that girl. And she may as well have. Like everyone in my life, Clay adores them, so he followed them to Atlanta. He could have stayed here with the garage, but no, he went with them so he could help Rome run his own garage. I don’t think any of them considered leaving me for a second. How their absence would affect me. It hurts. I don’t blame them, though. This mess I’ve turned into isn’t pretty. I miss being my exuberant self—the hyperactive, happy girl everyone loved. She seems like a memory these days. Once in a blue moon, I wake up and smile. Lately though, it seems my world is covered in gray, flabby matter. I just want to tuck tail and run away from this life.

  I finally lift my head and stand, making my way across the room, feeling the posh cream carpet underneath my feet. I slowly scan my room in disgust. The huge bay window overlooking the garden is beautiful as always; the billowing, shimmery gold curtains making it almost majestic. The huge cabinet holding all the gorgeous gowns I bought for no reason at all towers over me, its golden detail giving it an elegant beauty. My opulent makeup table catches my eye. I slide into the seat and stare at the girl looking back at me. She is unfamiliar and unforgiving. It’s funny, all the years I sat right here applying my harlot red lipstick and batting my long, black lashes as I got beautiful for a night of partying hard. It’s only now that I realize the reflection isn’t me at all. I am not what I see. I’m not this pretty girl looking back at me. I am nasty, dark, and ugly inside. What kind of person hates everyone around them and pushes them all away? Me.

  I reach down and retrieve the ugly, orange bottle from my vanity drawer. I twist the top and dump two tiny, white, round pills into my hand. I’m a joke, I think as I throw the pills into my mouth, washing them down with a swig from the bottle of vodka I bought on my way home from Atlanta last night. In high school I was everything and envied by everyone. Now I have to take depression pills to function on a level people can tolerate. What the fuck happened to me? I scrub my hands down my face and stop, staring through my spread fingers, getting madder by the second at the bitch staring back at me. I can feel the anger and the pain ripping me in two, making me feel like two different people. I slam my hands down, scaring myself. Where did that come from? I watch my reflection, and I see the hate taking over, fighting with my confusion. What is wrong with me? Everything is happening so fast that I can’t stop it, yet I feel like I’m in slow motion, watching it from across the room. I throw the orange bottle in the trash beside the stand and grab the mirror, jerking it down so fast I can’t comprehend where the anger even started. I jump up causing the chair to slide across the floor. “Why do I feel this way? What have I done to deserve this?!” I scream at myself in the reflection of the now twisted but still standing mirror. I go to kick it, but something stops me. I can’t see because the death grip on me is intensifying my rage, blinding me. Once the hands let me go, I spin like a flash on my heel, ready to attack whoever it is… And there stands my mother, small and petite, with fear in her watering eyes as she watches me. I notice her body trembling as she tries to figure out what’s going on. She takes a step towards me, and I step back, putting one hand out to let her know to keep her distance. It’s because I don’t trust myself not to hurt her, but she takes it wrong and the tears flow at my supposed rejection. It kills me to know I am doing this to her. She is so weak and scared, and now she is watching me come apart in a horrifying way. She cowers, backing slowly into the corner, and I can’t help but lay it on her.

  “Why, Mama? Why is it that everyone wants to give her everything, and I sit here like I’m nothing. Clay loves me? No! He can’t! If he did, he would have stayed and not followed Rome off, leaving me alone with you people. I live here. I live your life; I do your job. And why? Because everyone and everything I care about is gone, and you two made it happen. You gave them a first class ticket out of Hell, yet when I try to go, you lock the gate. You hold me hostage, watching me burn. Why, Mama? Why do you treat me like a child? Look at me! The things…”

  The door jerks open, and filling the doorway is the devil, himself. My father stands there, towering over my still cowering mother, staring right into me. I don’t back down. I never have. I NEVER WILL! He can’t induce the feelings in me that my mother does. I never knew the man she remembers—the good man he once was.

  “Amandolette, stop this! Stop screaming and scaring your mother.” He has the nerve to make demands of me?! Ha!

  “Me… I scare her? Have you seen her lately? Do you see anything? You pompous-ass fool.” I scream as I grit my teeth in anger. I believe if someone tried to touch me right now, I would rip their arms off with my bare teeth like a damn zombie from The Walking Dead. “Fuck with me, old man; one time, fuck with me. I dare you,” I taunt him menacingly. “I am done being the bad guy here. I have hated you for so…” Just like that, he turns and starts walking away like I wasn’t even talking, like what I have to say is of no importance.

  “Rosaria, let’s go, honey. Chico is here, and I need to deal with him before I drop you off at the diner. No need to lavish her little tantrums; they’re getting old.”

  As instructed, my mother leaves without trying to reach me. Just leaves me…again. I stand, staring at the open door for a long time. I see Chico glance in as he walks by, heading to my dad’s office, but he doesn’t say a word. I drop to my knees, put my face in my hands, and cry. When did life start weighing me down? I want to smile again. I miss being me.

  My head is pounding—likely from the vodka I devoured last night during my one-man pity party in the hot tub. I seriously need to lay off the booze and get my ass in gear. But that thought is fleeting, vanishing faster than the contents of a liquor bottle in my hand. I get up, get presentable, and head down the stairs to the kitchen, where my food should be waiting for me.

  I hear the guys as they descend the stairs to where I am, but I don’t turn around. No matter how much makeup I just applied, Chico saw me crying. He saw me weak. I move around with my back to them, humming some sad song to myself. That way, if they speak, I can play like I don’t hear them. I pour my orange juice and pick at the biscuit Mom left me.

  “Amandolette, stop that awful noise.” I stop and tense. Seriously? It’s fucking humming. Therefore, I do what I do best—I get louder and put more drama into it. He doesn’t own me. I change the words to an upbeat song and make it my own. “Pour some pity on me…,” I sing. I hear him clear his throat, so I turn to mak
e sure he sees I am pissed. “Sorry, Balt. It’s how I feel today. Miserable. Get over it.” I turn back around and resume my humming, knowing he hates when I don’t call him some form of Dad. Rory taught me to channel my feelings with music, and today it’s just magnifying how I feel. I take my plate and glass and make myself comfortable at the granite bar. My home is beautiful, but like my reflection, it’s a ruse. What you see is not what you get. My home may be nice to look at, but the inside houses evil and ugliness. Just like me—pretty on the outside, but rank and dark on the inside. Part of me wants to cry again, but I think I am over that. Once is enough.

  I continue my meal in peace, not sure where the boys went and not caring. Before I can finish, though, I can feel him. My Dad speaks from close behind me. “You know, Amandolette, you hate me for the life I live, but you’re no different. You think I don’t know how you used your looks through school to get what you wanted? I know you, pretty girl; you’re much like your mother. You pass your body around the same as I pass my product around. You and I are the same, except I am the boss. I suggest you chin up before I shut you up. Life’s shit sometimes, little one; and you need to grow up, accept it, and move on. Look around you, and appreciate the life you have—the one I CREATED for you. No one has it like you do. Others dream of this lifestyle, while you spurn it. I suggest you suck it up and stop fighting me at every turn. We have to make the best of our lives and what we are given. Fuck the rest, Mando; you know that.”