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
Ruined
By: Rachel Hanna
www.RachelHannaRomance.com
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Prologue
June, 2008
I cracked my knuckles, which is an awful habit, as I sat in the back of the police cruiser. I'd never been in a police car, and I made myself a vow that this would be the one and only time I ever would. I felt something sticky as I ran the fingers on my right hand across my left hand. Blood. Wishing I had access to a bathroom or at least a wet cloth, I opted instead to sit on my hands. Out of sight, out of mind. At least that was the goal, but it didn't work.
How did this happen? Shock consumed me over and over again. Regret. Guilt. Anger. Sadness. A flurry of emotions threatened to overwhelm me for the tenth time that night. Choking back another set of sobs, I slowly pulled out my hands, completely numb from sitting on them, and stared at them through the flickering lights of the two police cars. The blood was dry and caked onto my hands. The image would forever be burned into my mind. A lot of images would forever be burned into my mind. There would be no escape for me. A wall slowly crept up around me, and I knew that no one would ever be able to climb over it.
Off in the distance, I could see my distraught mother talking to a police officer on the stoop of our formerly cohesive family home. She had her arms pulled around her, as if she was hugging herself for comfort. I'd only seen her do that one other time, and it was when Grandpa died three years ago. I could see her tear stained face, and I could feel my own tears returning to sting my eyes once again. When would the tears stop? Surely a person could get dehydrated from crying, and if that was true I was in medical trouble soon.
As I watched her, I felt my mind become detached from my body as if I was watching a terrible movie with an awful ending. I could see an invisible but immensely strong wall being erected between my mother and myself. How would she ever look at me again? She would surely regret the day I was ever born, and I couldn't blame her.
I saw my mother glance at the police car that now housed her one and only child, and the grief that rocketed through her face was palpable. Her smart, popular fifteen year old daughter was locked in a police car and there was nothing she could do about it. I wasn't even sure she ever wanted to see me again.
Chapter 1
August, 2012
I sit on the balcony of my bedroom, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and breathe in the salty sea air as I do every morning. Something about the ocean is healing, but I've been breathing in the same air for over two years now and I'm still not healed. I don't think I will ever be healed. They say that time heals everything, but I don't see how the simple ticking of a clock can heal a damn thing. It sure hasn't done that for me. Maybe I need a new watch.
Everyone thinks I'm okay now, at least those who know my secret. Everyone else just thinks I'm your typical nineteen year old getting ready to start college in a week. Moving across the country wasn't difficult for me at all. Leaving my childhood home and the people who hated me with a passion was a welcome event, but moving to Charleston, South Carolina where no one knows me hasn't exactly been easy either. I gave up the idea of having friends the same night I was put in that police cruiser. You can't trust people to have your back. Not even your own family. You can become enemy number one very quickly.
I take a final sip of my coffee as the sun rises over the ocean. Then I do what I do each morning. I breathe in one final lung full of sea air, and I let my past go for the day. I have to do it all over again each morning as it creeps back into my mind every time I sleep. Like an unwelcome visitor, I throw it out into the ocean every morning. It's a tug of war, and I'm not really sure who's winning at this point.
My days are spent being the fabulously wealthy step daughter of a real estate tycoon and the perfectly groomed daughter of an elite Charleston socialite. My mother has fallen into the life of her dreams here. She adores her husband of two years, Bruce Avery, and the fact that she no longer has to work is a plus for her. She spends her day shopping, laying out on the beach and occasionally volunteering to cement her place in the community.
Still, I'm glad my mother is happy even if I'm not. I released happiness in the back of a police car. I gave it away and allowed the Universe to give it to someone else. I couldn't enjoy it, and holding onto the hope that I could ever have a piece of happiness for myself again was too painful for me. Better to just release it into the wind. It's like having a beautiful pair of shoes that you leave sitting in your closet. You shouldn't do that; you should donate them to someone who can and will wear them.
"Bruce, we have to tell her sometime soon," I hear my mother saying downstairs. When will she ever realize how well this huge, hollow house transmits sound? I sneak to my doorway, cracking it open just enough to hear their conversation downstairs.
"I don't want Willow to be fearful of him. He was a good kid, just a bit misguided back then."
"Can't he stay somewhere else?"
"No. The probation officer said that this is how it's done, and I can't just abandon him. His mother is dead, baby. There's no one else."
I back away from my bedroom door and take a deep breath. What are they talking about? Who is coming to live with us? As far as I knew, Bruce never had children of his own. Maybe he's helping a friend?
Moments later, I hear my mother calling up the stairs for me. I walk out of my room trying to act like my normal self, whatever the heck that is.
"Good morning, dear," my mother says as she kisses me on the cheek at the bottom of the winding staircase that leads into the formal foyer with marble floors. Did I mention just how incredibly rich Bruce Avery really is? His house is like a freaking mansion sitting on the beach, and there is more gold and marble in it than I've ever seen in one place in my life. The house looks like Donald Trump decorated it himself.
"Good morning. What's up?" I ask as she puts her arm around my waist and walks me into the living room. I sit on one of the overstuffed chairs next to the massive marble shrouded fireplace. She and Bruce sit on the sofa, and I know this isn't good. It's never good when two people sit down across from you and hold hands.
"Honey, we need to tell you something," my mother starts. Her new fake Southern accent is grating on my last nerve, but considering the amount of pain I've brought to her life in the last several years, I choose to keep my mouth shut. She could prance around naked all over town and I wouldn't utter a word. I have no right to criticize my mother after the compassion, albeit fake to me at times, she has shown me.
"Okay..." I stammer wondering where this is going. I hate suspense. I don't even watch Survivor on TV anymore because I can't stand the suspense of tribal council. How silly is that? Suspense brings anxiety for me. I'd rather just know everything that is going to happen in my life in advance so I can plan for it. Surprises are dangerous. That's a lesson I learned the hard way.
"Well, you see, we've been keeping something important from you for a long time now. Bruce has a son." She tak
es a deep breath as if she has been holding in air for the last month.
"Okay. I can live with that. A step brother. Where is he?"
"In prison," Bruce pipes in. He is fidgeting and nervous which is completely out of character for him. I wonder why telling me is so nerve wracking for them. "He's currently in prison in Atlanta, but he is being released in two weeks." Bruce is talking faster than normal as if he's just trying to push the words from his mouth as fast as possible. I feel a little sorry for him.
"Where will he live?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"He will live here," my mother says looking down at her hands and trying not to sigh at the end of her statement. This must be hard for her because she wants to support her new husband, but I know she doesn't want her life derailed yet again by another unruly young person. She's already experienced that once with me, and now a convict is coming to stay. Lovely.
"Can I ask why he was in prison?" It takes a lot of courage for me to ask, but the truth is that I want to know who I will be living with. I need to protect myself, and one cannot protect themselves adequately without knowing what kind of threat they are dealing with in advance. I like to prepare myself for these kinds of things. I didn't used to be Type A, but I became one at fifteen.
"Willow..." my mother chides as if I have asked for the details of their sex life or something.
"It's okay, honey. She deserves to know more about her step brother," Bruce says. At least he gets my need to know although I am quite sure if my mother ever told him the truth about me, my butt would have been sitting on the curb long ago. "Kellan got involved in a bad crowd in high school. It was never drugs for him, only alcohol. One night, when he was seventeen, he made a really stupid decision and drank too much before driving a group of his friends home from a party. He fell asleep at the wheel and veered into oncoming traffic. His best friend, Jake, was thrown from the vehicle. He is paraplegic now. His other two friends got some minor scrapes, but they were okay."
"So why did he go to prison then? Because his friend was so badly injured?"
"No. There's more. When he veered into oncoming traffic, he hit a minivan with a young mother and her two toddlers inside. She was the wife of a police officer, and they were coming home from vacation. The father was following behind them in another car. She and those babies were killed instantly." Both Bruce and my mother start to choke up. I can tell the pain is so fresh for him.
"Wow. How horrible..." is all I can manage to say. I feel stupid. But really what does a person say to something like that?
"They sentenced him to five years in prison, and his time is up. He just turned twenty three years old."
"Have you met him?" I ask my mother. She shakes her head no. "Why haven't I heard anything about this before now? I mean everyone around here seems to know everyone else's business."
"Because this all happened in Atlanta. My business used to be there. I moved to Charleston to get a fresh start and make a place for Kellan when he came home. A place where he could start over too." The pain on Bruce's face is palpable.
I'm not sure what else to say at the moment, so I look to my mother. Her face shows me nothing. "If there is anything I can do to help prepare his room, let me know."
"Thanks, Willow. I appreciate that, but Carmelita will handle it." His maid is like his right arm. She cooks, cleans and takes care of pretty much everything for our family.
I stand up and start toward the foyer when Bruce calls out to me.
"Willow, I hope you'll give him a chance. I know you're not used to being around someone who has killed other people, but please try to get to know him. He's going to need all the support he can get to shake the stigma of being a felon. I have no idea what kind of guilt the boy has been living with for all these years."
I give a slight smile and nod my head before heading up the stairs. I can't speak or look at him for fear that he will see my own demons in my eyes. I sure know what Kellan is feeling, but no one can ever know that or our cross country move was all for naught.
Chapter 2
My palms are sweaty, and my heart is racing. I hate this feeling. It makes me feel completely out of control, and I hate to feel out of control. Control is the only thing holding my soul together. But here I am, facing down anxiety yet again as I stand at the back door of my first college class. Thank goodness I seem to have overcome the panic attacks I used to have. I had to put college off by a year just to get my courage up. Thankfully, Mom told Bruce that I needed a year off to "find myself". I've never understood exactly what that means. I can't get away from myself no matter what I do.
Math for Liberal Arts. In other words, math for stupid people who are more creative than they are logically smart. I want to be a Journalist, not a mathematician. Thankfully, my dean knew just what class to recommend to get my required math credit.
Running late - an oddity for me - I have to walk into an almost full classroom. Just as I had feared, people turn and stare as I make my way up the aisle to a seat in the front. Why is it that no one ever wants to sit up front? Oh, that's right. No one wants to do this lovely walk of shame I just did.
I slide into my seat just as the nerdy male professor, Dr. Shanks, makes his way to the chalkboard. I'm surprised that Deaton University still has such old timey classrooms, but it is a beachside college and not the Ivy League. I figure I can start here and finish somewhere bigger and better once I get my life back on track a bit.
My dream is the be a reporter. I want to tell stories. I want to tell them correctly and not slanted. I've been the subject of some slanted stories, and once your name is mud it is hard to come back from. I want to give people a chance to tell their side of things and redeem their lives and reputations. Maybe it sounds Pollyanna-ish, but I don't care. I'm still young enough to dream that it's possible to change the world.
"Welcome to Math for Liberal Arts. I am Dr. Shanks. This class is all about numbers, which are my first love..." Oh, God. Not one of those kinds of teachers. He loves math. He's going to make my life miserable. I force myself not to let that sigh that is already welling up inside of me to come out.
As I am listening to Dr. Shanks introduce himself, I let my mind wander a bit. I knew this would happen in math class anyway, but I didn't think it would be on the first day. I've been through worse, a lot worse, so this should be a cake walk.
The door opens, and I am immediately distracted by its need for some WD-40. The squeak causes everyone to turn around, much to the dismay of Professor Shanks. But I am not as distracted by the squeak as I am the guy entering the room. For the first time ever, I actually feel my heart skip a beat.
He's got sun-tinged brown hair, just the right amount of tan on his skin and piercing blue eyes that immediately connect with mine. He's wearing jeans and a nice baby blue golf shirt, and I am positive he or his parents probably belong to a country club somewhere close by.
He doesn't seem to care that anyone is looking at him, including Dr. Shanks. It is at this point that I finally realize the only seat left in the room is right next to me. The classroom is set up so that two people share a small rectangular table, and cute guy is my table partner.
As he slides into the chair next to me, he gives me a sly smile and pulls his notebook and book from his backpack. For the rest of class, he doesn't utter a word or even look my way, and when class ends he leaves without a word or a glance. Part of me is glad that I didn't have to meet a new person and drive myself nuts over behaving appropriately. But another part of me that I didn't even know was there is kind of upset that this good looking mystery guy didn't seem to notice me as a woman.
I wonder who I am kidding. You can't get close to a guy - or anyone really - without them eventually knowing about your past. I cannot and will not allow that to happen, so I have to remain firmly locked in my self imposed prison cell.
"Hi," I hear a female voice say from behind me. "I love your purse." The girl is a little shorter than me with thick brown hair and dark brown e
yes. Her grin goes from ear to ear, and it's a safe bet she was on her high school cheerleading squad since she makes me want to jump up and down or do a cartwheel or something.
"Hi," I say, unsure of what she wants and why she is approaching me.
"I'm Emmy," she says holding out her hand to shake mine as she balances her too heavy backpack on her other shoulder.
"Willow," I say, still trying to process what she wants. I always do this. I'm very guarded when it comes to anyone new talking to me. What do they want? What are they trying to get from me?
"So what's your major?" she asks as we both start to walk out of the classroom.
"Journalism. And you?" I say, trying to make small talk.
"Cool. Mine is business. I know, boring!"
"No, not boring. What kind of business do you want to go into?" I say, using my new Journalism skills of question asking.
"I have no clue!" she says giggling as we walk down the stairs of the old building. "Do you live in the dorms?"
"No. My parents live just down the beach, so I live there."
Ruined Page 1
