But if my eighteen years on this planet have taught me anything at all, it’s that sometimes who you really are isn’t what the world actually wants from you. In fact, it’s been my experience that good things only happen when I pretend to be someone I’m not — until enough time has passed that who I have to be turned into who I’ve become.
If that makes any sense.
Anyway, the point is, sometimes you have to fake it ‘til you make it. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past six years — faking it. And now I’m so good at being this version of Delaney Underwood that nobody even remembers the way I used to be, back before I woke up and realized I would never succeed until I became someone else entirely. It’s all a role, something my parents pushed on me until I just couldn’t resist any longer.
I’ve been playing this part for so long now that I can scarcely remember what I used to be like.
I sit up in bed and stretch, a yawn escaping my mouth as I swing my legs over the side of my plush, four-poster bed and trudge across the room to sit in front of my vanity mirror. I reach over and pull the jeweled cord of a designer lamp to my left, casting a pillar of bright white light across my face. I survey my face critically in the mirror, scanning for imperfections, for a flaw in the armor I must wear every day.
I smile to myself, realizing with a sigh of relief that there are no blemishes, no problems at all with the reflection in the mirror. I do this every morning, blinking blearily into my mirror with a sense of creeping worry, as though I might one day see some hideous, unfamiliar face staring back at me instead of my own. Sometimes it feels like I’m living under some magic spell, and at any moment the rug could be pulled out from underneath me. My life is good — really, really good — and I know I should be grateful, but when you get used to living a certain way, it just becomes your new normal.
Even if this wasn’t who I used to be… it’s me now.
I bat my wide, china-blue eyes and give myself a coquettish smile, my dimples appearing identically in each smooth cheek. There is a light smattering of freckles across my straight button nose, and my lips are full and pouty. People tell me I’m pretty; in fact, my entire existence is predicated on that fact thanks to my parents. What I am, the way I live my life, it all depends on my looks. And I’ve worked hard to get to this point.
I pick up a brush and sweep my long, gently curling champagne-blonde hair over one shoulder and begin to tame the snarls created during my night of tossing and turning. During the day, nobody can possibly see through the opaque shield of cool, unapproachable beauty I’ve built around myself. But at night, when I’m left all alone with my thoughts… that’s when my old weaknesses and insecurities start to rear their ugly heads. I tend to have nightmares a lot. Sometimes I’m walking through the halls of my high school naked, my classmates jeering and laughing uproariously at me. Sometimes I’m just falling, falling, falling into an empty abyss. I wake up in a cold sweat, feeling lonely and afraid.
But if having bad dreams every other night is the price I have to pay for excellence in my waking hours, then so be it, my parents would say. I’ll take whatever I can get.
Smoothing my hair down so that it falls in luxurious waves around my shoulders, I walk over to my dresser and pull out a flowy white-and-blue striped tank top, pair it with a pair of denim shorts, and then make my way into my spacious en suite bathroom to wash my face and put on makeup. I enjoy the ritual of putting on makeup. It’s like putting on a mask and reinventing myself. It’s a fun way to express myself and enhance my looks. With everyone believing in the power of Photoshop, and the stunning models plastered everywhere, the expectations on women keep getting higher, and I aim to keep up.
I apply a cursory layer of mascara, a sheer BB cream to my face, and dab some rosy-tinted gloss onto my lips. Blowing a kiss into the mirror, I decide I look good enough to venture out into the world.
It’s summertime, and I have a plan to set in motion.
I stroll down the hallway of the huge, palatial estate I live in with my parents, basking in the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. There are birds singing gleefully outside, and not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day.
When I walk into the kitchen, I am greeted by the welcoming scent of fresh coffee brewing. I pour myself a mug, stir in some non-fat creamer, and grab a croissant from the covered dish on the counter before walking out onto the back pavilion. Here in Savannah, Georgia, it’s not unusual to see houses left over from the days of plantations. Ours is one such house, a massive, white colonial-style estate with a full front porch and a few acres of lush green landscaping. There’s an in ground pool and gazebo in the backyard, and the latter of which is my favorite place to sit and enjoy the morning.
I settle down onto the cushioned swing seat under the gazebo, just out of the sun’s harsh rays but still open to the fresh, balmy air. Butterflies and dragonflies buzz and flutter lazily around the yard, alighting on the blooms of my mother’s rose garden. There is the pervasive smell of jasmine and hibiscus in the air, and I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. There’s no denying the fact that being outside, surrounded by nature, is one of my most cherished activities, despite my high-maintenance persona. Sometimes when the elaborate dog-and-pony show of my life gets to be too much, and I just want to shed the layers of make believe and feel authentic for once, I just step outside and walk among the immaculately-maintained trees, bushes, and flowers of my backyard. It’s refreshing to know that nature doesn’t care about what I pretend to be or what I used to be — it simply exists. The natural world is ever-changing, yet comfortingly constant.
Unlike my world.
As I sip my coffee and nibble my croissant, I reflect on what all it has taken for me to make this total transformation. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a little cocoon dangling from the wooden awning of the gazebo. I give it a sympathetic smile, thinking, I know how you feel.
For the first twelve years of my life, I was just a little caterpillar. Chubby, innocent, unaware of the world around me. I lived in my own little universe, my nose constantly buried in the pages of some fantasy novel. I wore thick glasses and paid very little attention to my looks, despite my beauty queen mother’s attempts to make me more attractive. As a child, I simply didn’t care what I looked like. I was a smart kid, always devouring new information, and I wasn’t afraid to show off my knowledge and wits. I was always the first one to raise my hand in class, always the top student. And I was content with that… until puberty started to kick in.
Seventh grade. That was my turning point.
When I was twelve years old, I looked across the classroom and my eyes fell on the cutest boy I had ever seen: Brandon Grier. He had cropped brown hair and blue eyes and I thought he looked just like the princes in my fantasy books. I spent the entire seventh grade year casting sidelong glances at him, dreaming that he would one day notice me. At that point, I was naive and childish enough to think that I was good enough for a guy like him. I didn’t know that my unkempt hair, nerdy interests, and chunky glasses would disqualify me as “his kind of girl.” At the end of the year, on the last day of school, I finally plucked up the courage to talk to him.
It went a little something like this…
“Hi, Brandon! Now that it’s summer, I was wondering if maybe you might want to come over and play with my new microscope set sometime?” I asked, full of guileless optimism.
“Um, no. Because I’m not a loser,” my prince charming snorted cruelly.
Cue the derisive laughter of my entire seventh grade class as I rushed out of the room to go cry in the bathroom for an hour until our housekeeper — who doubled as a chef and a nanny — came to pick me up from school.
I shudder to think about that horrible day. It was the first time reality had stepped in and slapped me across the face, forcing me to really think about my life in a critical way. Up until then, I had been content to live in my fantasy books and imagine a world that suited me better. But after Brandon unceremoniously trampled
my heart, it became clear to me that if I wanted to survive in this world, I needed to change myself.
And so I did. I spent that whole summer poring over magazines, scouring the internet for Cosmo tips on how to become pretty and desirable — which was, admittedly, an unhealthy obsession for a twelve year old to indulge in. But my father has always been endlessly supportive of anything and everything I want to do, and my mother was overjoyed at the opportunity to finally mold me into the picture-perfect princess she always wanted.
So with a combination of my daddy’s money and my mom’s tutelage, I entered the cocoon and emerged in my thirteenth year as a much smoother, sleeker version of my former self. Over the course of grade eight, I continued to bolster my skills at dressing and preening myself, and then over the summer before I started high school, I went away to a finishing school crash course my mother had been pushing for years.
When I stepped into the halls of my high school on the first day of freshman year, I looked like a totally different girl. I transformed from a slightly chubby, nerdy little outcast into the very definition of the It Girl. It didn’t take long for everyone to notice. For the first time in my life, boys were interested in me. Girls were jealous of me. People hung on my every word and competed for my attention. Brandon Grier asked me out, and I said yes. He didn’t seem to remember the time I regretfully approached him in seventh grade, and I didn’t remind him. That was part of my past, and it didn’t jive with the new, improved Delaney Underwood.
She didn’t hold on to regrets. It was all about the future, and the stepping stones I needed to walk on to become the person my parents wanted me to be. Even though my dad had always been supportive, I couldn’t help but notice his relief at my more traditional interests. In fact, no matter who I talked to, they seemed to expect me to be the butterfly I became.
It was an intoxicating rush.
And I have been riding that high for years.
Of course, there is a downside to shedding your old self — sometimes, you lose even the parts of you that you kind of liked to begin with. For instance, nowadays I don’t have the same thirst for knowledge I once had. In fact, to keep in line with my super-cool ice queen persona, I have had to feign nonchalance for so long that I hardly feel much of anything anymore. Instead of being top of the class, I simply skate by with passing grades. For a while, I was the head cheerleader, and I was pretty damn good. But when talent scouts started hounding me, I quit the squad, not wanting to commit myself to anything too lofty.
My whole identity is based on being too cool for… well, anything.
And just because I play the role of a vapid blonde doesn’t mean I’m not still smart — I just use my wits in a different way. Instead of studying physics, I study people. I am a master manipulator, especially when it comes to men, of all ages. All it takes is a sweet, disarming smile or the flip of my shiny blonde hair and I can render a man harmless.
My dad is no different. He’s too busy with his demanding job to really question anything I do, and he spoils me endlessly. My mom is a little better at seeing through my innocent act, but she’s too consumed with her own attempts to maintain the beauty of her youth to really pay much attention to me. She spends most of her time flitting between the tanning salon, the dermatologist, the hair salon, department stores, the nail salon, and martinis with the girls.
Of course, sometimes my charm backfires. Brandon, my now ex-boyfriend, is still devoted to me — almost to the point of being a stalker. I broke up with him on the day of graduation. I never forgot that he broke my heart, even if I let him believe I was in love.
But he still calls and texts me constantly, acting like we’re still together, like he just refuses to accept that I don’t want to be with him anymore. I got tired of his begging for me to give him my virginity, to commit to him, to give in to a life of being his trophy girlfriend and inevitably his trophy wife.
Here’s the thing: I may look the part, and for all the world I may act the part, but I know where to draw my limits. I’m nobody’s little plaything. I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I know I don’t want to end up wasting away polishing china sets and waiting for my husband to come home and pay attention to me. I’m just not that girl.
I look at some of the brazen little sparrows, chirping around the little feed box that hangs in the corner of the gazebo, and hear their little sister chirp weakly. She’d fallen from their nest a couple weeks ago, and I really thought she was going to die. The mother had abandoned her, so I took her into a tiny cage, slowly trying to nurse her back to health.
It really wasn’t easy, and my friends would all have abandoned me if they realized I was grinding up earthworms to feed her every day, but I’m really happy she seems to be doing better. I toss the rest of my croissant to her brothers as I lean down and look in on her cage.
Putting my finger through the bars, she quickly lands on it, peeping at me urgently. I can’t help but laugh as I reach for the little bug catcher I keep near her cage, and pull out a small worm. She’s gotten old enough that she’s able to do it herself now, and when I place it in the cage, she ravenously eats it.
I’m filled with mixed feelings at her healing. Part of me is proud that I managed to nurse her back to health, but a bigger part of me is sad, because I know I’m going to have to let her go before my big plan. She’s trapped in a tiny cage, never able to soar in the skies and stretch her wings.
I feel a lot like her, honestly, so maybe setting her free will be cathartic.
“Maybe both of us will finally feel free, sweet bird,” I say wistfully. Draining the rest of my coffee in one gulp, I stand up and head back inside to confront my parents with the plan I concocted last night.
Well, at least the plan they’ll think I have.
My parents are lounging in the breakfast nook while our housekeeper, Marie, tidies up in the kitchen. I step into the room and clear my throat. My dad looks up from the newspaper in his hands and my mom merely flutters her fingers at me in a kind of girlish greeting, not even tearing her eyes away from the iPad in her lap. I can tell from the look on her face that she’s online shopping. As usual.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my dad says, smiling warmly at the sight of me.
“Hi, Daddy,” I reply sweetly, walking over to hug him and perch on the arm of his chair.
“Are you all packed for the flight out tomorrow morning?” he asks, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. Here it was. Time to launch Operation Freedom Weekend.
I bite my lip and tilt my head to one side, making myself look concerned. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Oh? What’s wrong, Laney?” he questions, his thick brows furrowing. I take a deep breath and tuck my hair back behind my ear.
“Well, you see, there’s this college counselor coming into town to take interviews with potential students and I really want to go meet with her. I know I have to start really taking charge of my future and I don’t want to miss this opportunity. And… the only time she’s available to meet with me is this weekend,” I explain, staring downward sadly.
“You’re going to meet with a college counselor on a Saturday?” my mom pipes up, giving me a slightly suspicious look. Damn it. She’s always quick to point out the flaws in my plan. Luckily, my dad is the one who makes the decisions around here, and I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger.
“Well, maybe we can just postpone the trip for a few days,” he suggests. “I wouldn’t want to leave you here alone while your mother and I go gallivanting off to Europe.”
“Oh, no! You two should go ahead and I will meet you in Switzerland. Don’t postpone your trip because of me,” I counter quickly, wanting to stick to my own plan. The whole point is for them to go on without me.
“Well, I would just feel so awful making you fly over there all by yourself, sweetheart. It’s just not safe for such a sweet girl to travel alone,” Daddy says, scratching at his chin thoughtfully. My mom is casting p
uppy dog eyes at him, clearly not wanting to postpone their trip, either. Seeing this, I jump at the chance to work another angle.
“I’m eighteen years old, Daddy! I can handle it. Besides, you and Mom never get to have any time to yourselves. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a whole romantic weekend in Europe before I show up?” I add, shrugging. My parents exchange knowing glances and I have to resist the urge to shudder. Ew.
“I suppose that might be nice,” my dad says, starting to warm up to my idea. “But the thought of my little girl traveling so far by herself still worries me. What if I give you my credit card and you buy flights for you and a friend? Maybe Caitlin? I’m sure her parents wouldn’t mind if she took a little trip to Europe. She can fly over with you to meet us, spend a few days, and then fly back home.”
I light up with excitement. This is turning out even better than I’d hoped!
“Oh my goodness. That would be perfect! What a good idea,” I say excitedly, throwing my arms around him. He chuckles and pats me on the back fondly.
“Anything for my little angel,” he replies. “Especially if this is something good for your future. Picking a college is very important. I know you’re still not sure which school you want to go to, and I think meeting with a counselor will really…”
I pretend to listen dutifully as my dad goes on and on about the importance of going to the right school and getting the right degree. I’ve heard it all a million times before. He wants me to go to an Ivy League — despite my grades — and part of me wants that to. The part of me I keep locked up, deep inside and hidden away. Once he gets a call from the office, he cuts the lecture short and heads off to work. It’s not long before my mom flounces out to meet her friends for a drink and a manicure, leaving me home alone.
Grinning victoriously to myself, I send a group text to my three closest friends, Caitlin, Lyssa, and Megan, and fill them in on the details. There is no interview with a college counselor. Instead, the four of us are all going to buy flights to Barcelona tomorrow afternoon on my daddy’s credit card, after my parents leave. My girls and I are going to have one hell of a weekend in Spain — responsibilities be damned.
Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0) Page 75
