by JA Huss
Contents
Creeping Beautiful
DESCRIPTION
PART ONE - IGNORANCE IS BLISS
CHAPTER ONE - McKAY
CHAPTER TWO - ADAM
CHAPTER THREE - INDIE
CHAPTER FOUR - DONOVAN
SESSION #1 NOTES
CHAPTER FIVE - McKAY
CHAPTER SIX - INDIE
CHAPTER SEVEN - ADAM
CHAPTER EIGHT - DONOVAN
SESSION #19 NOTES
CHAPTER NINE - McKAY
PART TWO - TRIPPIN' ON SNAKES
CHAPTER TEN - INDIE
CHAPTER ELEVEN - DONOVAN
SESSION #87 NOTES - PRIVATE
CHAPTER TWLEVE - ADAM
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - McKAY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - INDIE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - DONOVAN
SESSION #WHO-GIVES-A-FUCK NOTES
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - ADAM
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - McKAY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - INDIE
PART THREE - THROUGH THE GATE
CHAPTER NINETEEN - DONOVAN
SESSION #178 NOTES - PRIVATE
CHAPTER TWENTY - ADAM
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - McKAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - INDIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - DONOVAN
SESSION #191
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - ADAM
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - McKAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - DONOVAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - ADAM
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - McKAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - INDIE
CHAPTER THIRTY - DONOVAN
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE - McKAY
CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO - INDIE
EPILOGUE - ADAM
END OF BOOK SHIT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CREEPING BEAUTIFUL - BOOK ONE
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design: JA Huss
Copyright © 2020 by JA Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-950232-20-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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DESCRIPTION
McKAY
I wasn’t the one who broke her but I played my part. She came to us when she was ten. I raised her. I loved her. I taught her how to survive in a world of evil men. But it wasn’t enough.
ADAM
I wasn’t the one who saved her but I did my best. She needed me as much as I needed her. Bought and paid for on the auction block. But not for the reasons you think. She was my weapon.
DONOVAN
I wasn’t the one who lied to her but I hid her truth. She was broken before I got there. Wild and angry. Defiant and bratty. But she trusted me most. She loved me best. So I set her free.
Indie Anna Accorsi is a woman lost in her past.
A pretty little nightmare.
A gorgeous piece of misery.
A mess of lovely darkness.
She is creeping beautiful.
And now we want her back.
INDIE
If I had to choose between them, I would die. There is just no way I could only choose one.
I need them all.
I don’t even care if that’s selfish. I want them all.
And if I thought I could have Nathan St. James, then I would. I would have him too. I would keep all four of them because they are each different, and unique, and give me something I can’t get from anyone else.
Every single way they fill me up has been written in this journal. So if it’s not clear by now, there is nothing left to be said. There are simply no words to describe my need.
But I am afraid that you will see this and you won’t understand. And I don’t care if you are Nathan, or McKay, or Adam, or Donovan. I need you to understand.
How many other ways are there to describe Nathan St. James? He is my boy next door. He is my best friend. He is the firefly-catcher, and the treehouse-builder, and the swamp-charmer.
Oh, I know what Adam would say. “He was running around on you back in high school.” Yes, Adam. He told me all about what he did. He told me that you caught him. He told me what you said to him. And I get it. If Nathan loved me best, he would be more careful with my heart. He’d be like McKay.
McKay is so very, very careful with me. McKay is my soul. He is my trainer. He is the dinner-maker, and the hair-washer, and the nightmare-chaser.
But McKay will never admit he has always loved me. That I am his first, and only, one true love.
So I have Donovan. Donovan is careful too. He is my mind-reader. My note-taker. He is the light in the dark, he is the filler of holes, he is the voice in my head that keeps me calm during my stormy nights of insanity.
But he’s part-time. We all know it. He will never take me with him to LA and I wouldn’t want to go. This is my home. Right here. This is where I belong.
And that’s where Adam comes in. Adam. My owner. My knight. My protector. He is my partner in crime. The fixer of mistakes, the leader of us all, the untouchable one.
He is like a mean old dog who will bite anyone who gets too close.
Everyone but me.
He lets me get close.
But will he share?
Will any of them share?
Only if I make them.
So this is how I made them…
PART ONE - IGNORANCE IS BLISS
Everyone has secrets.
They can be big or small.
Mean a lot or very little.
They can change lives, they can destroy bonds, they can break hearts.
But a secret always comes with a reason.
Everyone has been told a lie at least once.
That lie can be bad or good.
It can spare your feelings or crush them to dust.
It can hold you prisoner or set you free.
But a lie is just a secret in the shadows.
Everyone has been discarded by someone at one point.
That rejection can kill your spirit or lift it up high.
It can set you down a path of revenge or redemption.
But secrets, and lies, and rejection are almost never about you.
So before you go lookin’ for those secrets. Before you go uncoverin’ those lies. Before you let that rejection seep into your heart and wound your soul—ask yourself this:
Do you really need to know the truth?
Because that truth doesn’t come with a return policy.
You cannot unknow things once they are known.
You can’t unsee things once they are seen.
So be very, very sure that you need those answers.
Because it will change everything.
Ignorance is bliss, my friend.
Pure. Bliss.
CHAPTER ONE - McKAY
PRESENT DAY
Indie Anna Accor
si blows into a life the way a hurricane spins across the Gulf of Mexico on a late summer night. She is both terrifying and sensational. The kind of girl you can’t walk away from even though you know damn well she is out to destroy you.
She is hard rain that stings your skin, and overflowing rivers that carry things away, and there’s always a debris field left behind. Little smudges of dirt and detritus that remind you she was there.
She was fucking there, ya know?
But she is someone else too. She was small once. And OK, maybe she was never exactly sweet. But she had her moments of balance and peace. I call those moments the ‘eye of Indie’. Like ‘eye of the storm?’ Wild winds raging all around her. Fuckin’ shit flying everywhere. Houses blowing by, air-raid sirens blaring, and she is standing in the middle of it all with her eyes closed and her chin tipped up. Calm.
And you never quite know if she’s just immune to the chaos or if she’s controlling it like some force of nature.
I don’t care what she’s done or will do in the future. It doesn’t matter how many years pass or how many other ways I know her, in my mind she is this girl. The Eye of Indie. The one I first met when she was ten.
This afternoon she is swirling dark skies pouring out tears. Drenched through to her skin, cornered, wide-eyed, filled with fear, and with no way out.
She needs something.
Not specifically me, just one of us. And I’m easy to find.
Indie’s long straight hair always looks dark even though it’s blonde. Her face is too pale even though she tans brown in the sunshine. And her eyes remind me of angry thunderheads backlit by wild blue lightning.
That’s a storm right there if ever there was one.
But she always comes with flowers too. There is always another, hidden side to this girl.
There’s no telling how that flower will present—a small bud tucked behind her ear, an embroidered patch on her old, ripped jeans, or a new tattoo on her wrist.
I have seen her with all three in times past but this afternoon it’s just a graphic design on a t-shirt partially visible through the opening in her jacket.
But let me be clear. Because it would be a mistake to assume her obsession with botanicals and her Bohemian name accurately describe the monster inside her head.
Indie Anna Accorsi is fragile like footsteps on thin ice. She is soft like the skin of a poisonous snake. And she is quiet like a panther watching you from a tree.
You do not take your eyes off her.
Today Indie is faded, ripped jeans and tough-girl brown boots. Black leather jacket with a maroon-checked flannel underneath, and a vintage band t-shirt peeking through the haphazard button job.
Guns N’ Roses. I recognize it—used to be black, now faded to gray. White skull flanked on either side by red roses. She stole it from me when she was eleven—and immediately I start wondering how much thought she put into this little impromptu visit.
Indie Anna Accorsi is not spontaneous. She is a well-thought-out plan.
She wears a faded pink velvet choker around her neck. Also, something I recognize. And she’s turned the cuffs of her flannel into fingerless gloves. Small holes at the wrists with thumbs poking through.
She is not the Eye of Indie right now.
And I did that to her.
I made her—I shaped her into this wicked paper-doll of a girl.
This isn’t bragging.
It makes me sad to see her. It makes my heart hurt in a way I can’t explain. It fills me with regrets.
But it wasn’t just me.
I wasn’t the one who broke her, but I definitely played my part.
When I open the door, it’s raining so hard there’s a waterfall rolling off the awning covering my stoop. The loudness that comes with the storm is like a background soundtrack to a very sad movie.
Indie’s leaning against the old wooden fence on the far side of my gravel driveway smoking a cigarette. How she even keeps that thing lit in this downpour, I’ll never understand. It’s like she’s got a shield around her hand and the rain never touches it.
She didn’t knock so I have no idea how long she was standing outside looking through the front window of my shop. From the state of her drenched clothes it was a long time. And right now everything about her is cold and wet.
Something about her is always cold and wet.
“Indie,” I say. But my whispered greeting is way too soft to make it past the pounding of the storm around us.
Lightning strikes off in the distance. Right above her head like she’s the goddess of storms. And then, seconds later, the low rumble of thunder formally announces her arrival.
I extend my hand, beckoning her with two fingers and calling to her the way someone might call to a fearful stray dog. “Come here,” I say. “Come inside. You’re wet.”
She takes a long drag on her cigarette, drops it in the gravel, and then crushes it with the tip of her soaked brown boot.
“I need something.” She calls this from across the driveway.
“Come inside. I’m not talking to you like this.”
She never takes her eyes off me, but her left hand dips down to her flannel and she pulls it up. Just a little. Just enough to show me the gun tucked inside the waistband of her jeans.
“Understood,” I call back. “Now come inside.”
She looks to her right, down the length of my long, lonely driveway, then pushes off the wall and walks through the downpour like it’s a calm summer day and not a violent, late-winter evening.
My hand is still extended when she approaches but she doesn’t take it. Just pushes past me, her leather jacket dragging against my t-shirt, transferring some of her wetness to me as she enters.
I turn with her, close the door, and stand there. Just watching her as she places a hand on the surface of my small shop table and starts kicking at the heel of one boot to get it off her foot. She does it again with the other one and then she’s barefoot.
No socks. Never wears socks.
“Don’t start with me about socks.” She reads my mind as she shrugs the jacket off, water dripping everywhere on my concrete floor, and drapes it over the back of a metal folding chair. Then she lets out a long breath of air. “I wouldn’t ask. You know I wouldn’t ask. But I need you, McKay.”
“Of course.” I whisper this, afraid she will run if I talk too loud or get too aggressive with her. “Whatever it is, I’m here. You know that.”
She smirks at me, crooked smile revealing the perfectly straight teeth I paid for when she was fourteen. “I guess I do.” She says this as she peels off her flannel and then tosses it onto the table.
She doesn’t remove the gun from the waistband of her jeans.
I have a lot of questions for this girl. Starting with, Where the fuck have you been for the last four years?
I don’t say it out loud. But I don’t need to. She can read my mind.
“Where haven’t I been? I’ve been everywhere. Every-fucking-where. But this isn’t a social call.”
Immediately my mind is spinning with possibilities. Why is she here? What has she done now? How hard will it be to clean up this mess? And… will this nightmare ever end?
“He’s done it again. I’m so fucking pissed off right now, I could murder someone.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Who is the bane of my existence? Why is he always so uptight and controlling, McKay? Why isn’t he more like you? Huh? I mean… does he like being the asshole? Does he get off on making me angry? Why? Why does he do this?”
I was holding my breath during all that. So I let it out. “What did he do this time?”
She presses her lips together, frowns through it. And her eyes get glassy and bright as she takes a deep breath. “He took him.”
Holy fucking shit. “Who?”
“Adam.”
“No, who did he take, Indie?”
“Nathan. Who fucking else? I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Na
than?”
“My husband.” She snarls these words out like she can’t believe I’m playing this game with her. But I’m not playing at anything. After four years I’m just genuinely sick hearing that name come out of her mouth. “Ringing any bells here? You’re such a fucking piece of work, you know that, McKay? And if you’re just going to defend Adam, I’ll go back the way I came and you can pretend you never saw me.”
She bends down, reaching for one of her boots like she’s going to put it back on, but I put my hand on her arm and give it a squeeze.
She looks up at me, then straightens. Tight-lipped and sad.
“No. I’m not defending him. I’m just confused, Indie. I’m trying to understand what you’re saying.”
“What I’m saying is this. I’m sick of this shit, OK? I’m fucking sick of it. He has no right to tell me what to do anymore. None.”
“I… I don’t understand, Indie. Have you… talked to Adam?”
Her face screws up for a moment. Like she’s thinking about this. Then she lets out a long sigh. “No. But I don’t need to talk to him to know what he’s up to.”
“… OK.” I play it cool. “I get it.” Even though I don’t. If there’s one thing I’ve come to terms with over the past four years it’s that I don’t understand one goddamned thing about what we were doing with this girl all those years.
I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand why Donovan was brought in, I don’t understand why I was brought in, and I don’t understand how we all fit into the big picture.
And there’s always a big picture. There’s always an ulterior motive when it comes to the Company. Even if the Company is gone, the remnants are still there. The objectives still linger. We all played a part in that too. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past fourteen years it’s this: Letting go of your purpose is not as easy as it sounds.
But Indie is in no state to hear the truth right now.
Funny. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s never been in a state to hear the truth.
