by Layla Frost
Table of Contents
Damaged
Copyright
From The Pervy Heart Of The Author
Dedication
Preface
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Connect with Layla Frost
Titles by Layla Frost
© 2021 Layla Frost
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication 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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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.
Formatting by Christina Smith
From The Pervy Heart Of The Author
I’m gonna keep this short and sweet.
If you’re trusting me enough to take this ride with me…
Thank you.
Brynne Asher—
This was an absolutely wild experience that came together perfectly. Not only that, but it was also so easy. Thank you for rolling with my insane idea and for bringing the Dillon sisters to life with me. You are the adulty Aria to my winging-it Briar. The wine to my cupcake. The chips to my salsa.
I absolutely adore you and can’t wait to collab again…
To the illogically anxious. The depression nappers. The comfort bingers.
To the fucked up. The flawed. The quirky. The scarred.
To the damaged.
This one is for you.
The Dillon Sisters Duet is a collaboration between Layla Frost and Brynne Asher. It’s been a long time in the making. Deathly and Damaged can be read as standalones or in either order. When you read one, you’ll NEED the other in your life. These books go together like a finely-aged wine and a decadent cupcake.
Enjoy your time Aria and Briar. Because no one does drama like the Dillon sisters.
Prologue
Free
Briar
I WAS DYING.
Not metaphorically. Not exaggeratedly. Not dramatically, in my teenage angst of I-can’t-even.
But literally.
Again, not how I would literally die without chocolate. The real literal.
At sixteen years old, I was dying. Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.
A.L.L.
Or, as I called it, all the bullshit.
I could feel it happening. As if my cancer were walking from room to room within my body, flicking the OFF switches to power it down. But it was moving too slow. A meandering stroll, painfully poking and jabbing as it dragged its feet through me.
The absolute worst part—which was saying something because there were a lot of worst parts—was there was no escape from my cancer. I couldn’t zone out on YouTube or escape into a book. I didn’t have the blissful moments where it slipped my mind for the briefest second. Even in sleep, my pain seeped into my dreams, taking away any break I might’ve had.
It was worse in the hospital. I was surrounded by death and pain and sorrow. The sharp antibacterial smells. The nurses. The doctors. The tubes coming out of my body, leading to the annoying beeping machine next to my bed. The ever-present rumble of voices outside my door, and the frequent crying and screaming from the other patients or their loved ones. Even the lack of darkness.
I’d never appreciated total darkness until I was surrounded by the harsh glow of lights that never fucking turned off.
It was like a constant spotlight, shining on my disease. Stealing my peace. Robbing me of any comfort I might have found at the end of my short life.
Closing my eyes, I willed my body to just give up. If I had the energy, I would’ve dragged myself out of the room until I found something to end my pain.
People don’t understand the pain of cancer. Not really. Because cancer was scary and huge, that was what everyone focused on. They didn’t know it wasn’t just the horrendous disease itself. How each new symptom needed a new treatment which led to a new side effect that would need a new treatment. It was a never-ending cycle, and every part of it was awful. The treatment sucked. The side effects of the medication sucked. The wear on my already frayed mental health sucked.
The stuff that was supposed to help me ended up hurting me, and that fucking sucked.
Tears burned behind my closed lids. Not because of the pain or because I felt sorry for myself. They were rage tears directed at the universe and myself.
I should’ve killed myself when I had the chance. When I felt it getting worse. I shouldn’t have been such a coward and a failure. Now I’m stuck in this damn bed.
Powerless.
Useless.
Out of control.
Alone.
But I wasn’t alone. Beyond all the nurses, docs, techs, cleaners, and other pediatric patients, there was my constant companion.
Death.
I knew he wasn’t really there—I might’ve been crazy, but I wasn’t totally bananas. But sometimes in the middle of the night, in the light shining in from the hallway, I could see him. Lurking in the corner.
Haunting me.
Taunting me.
When I was first diagnosed, Death was an invisible specter I was running from. I hadn’t wanted to die. But after aging a hundred years in six months, I was ready for him. Racing toward him. I wanted him to take me and end the pain.
He never did.
I wasn’t sure how long I stayed like that, my eyes closed against the sunlight that streamed onto my face, gloating that it was free while I was trapped. When I eventually dozed off, my dreams were invaded by the sounds I heard outside my door and the pain I felt in my bones.
When someone touched my hand, hope flared in my chest before I was even awake. But when my eyes flew open, it wasn’t Death.
It was an angel with a backlit halo of dark hair.
“Aria?” I croaked, wondering if I was still dreaming. Or maybe it was a fever hallucination. Either of those made more sense than her actually being there.
Thanks to our eight-year age difference—not to mention our everything else difference—my sister and I weren’t exactly close. I meant that literally, too. She’d long ago fled to attend school across the country, which was just another thing I was jealous of.
; Rubbing the sleep and bleariness from my eyes, I dropped my hands to see she was actually there. Happiness surged through me.
My big sister obviously didn’t feel the same. Tears filled her eyes before sliding freely down her cheeks.
“I look that good, huh?” I deadpanned. “You don’t have to cry about my beauty. You’ll outgrow your ugly duckling stage eventually, too.”
It was a bad joke for a lot of reasons. The Dillon sisters were blessed with good looks. Mine were stolen like everything else, but Aria was just as gorgeous as I remembered.
More so, actually.
If I’d felt inferior and riddled with sibling rivalry over my beautiful, smart, lithe older sister before, it was times a million now that I was gaunt and pale and sickly.
“You look beautiful,” she said. Funny enough, she likely believed that. She was wrong, but in her mind, it wasn’t a lie. She could find the good in the wickedest of witches.
“It’s my hot new diet.” Feeling much, much older than sixteen, my bones and joints creaked and popped as I struggled to sit up.
“Use the button,” Aria chided, already in doctor mode even though she was still in her doctorate program to become a psychologist. She pressed the button to raise the head of the mattress.
The elevation made my brain feel like a balloon inflating in a too tight space. My head swam and nausea hit. I barely had enough time to turn my face away before I threw up all over myself, the bed, and the floor.
Finally get a visitor, and I almost barf on her.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, choking down more stomach acid at the rancid taste that coated my tongue.
Aria’s voice was surprisingly vehement as she bit out, “Do not apologize.”
I could hear her moving across the room before the sink turned on, but I couldn’t bring myself to move or call out to stop her. Blindly, I reached out and hit the button for the nurse. At least I was hoping I hit the right one.
Aria returned with a damp cloth, wiping it across my face.
I jerked away quickly and, thanks to the sudden movement, I was dangerously close to barfing again or passing out. Either would be better than my sister having to wipe my face like I was a baby. “Fine.” I inhaled slowly. “Paged the nurse.”
“Just let me—”
Gathering all my strength, I grabbed the cloth. “I’m fine.”
Luckily, Dana—one of the nurses I liked—came in as my garnered strength deflated. “Got sick again?”
“Again?” Aria whispered.
Dana didn’t share that it wasn’t the first, second, or even third time I’d thrown up so far that day. “I’ll get you cleaned up and then go get your next dose of Zofran.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, even though I didn’t feel thankful. But none of it was her fault, and I was always polite to a beauty-pageant-contestant T.
After paging people to mop, yet again, Dana gathered her supplies. She carefully transferred me into a chair on the opposite side of the bed from Aria before reaching for my headwrap.
My hand darted up to hold it in place.
Sympathy softened her gaze. “You’ve got a little vomit on here.”
It was stupid and vain to be concerned with something so superficial, but I was mortified at Aria seeing how all my blond hair had fallen out, leaving me looking like the love child of Skeletor and Mr. Clean.
Since I couldn’t sit around in my own sick, I had no choice but to let Dana remove the pretty floral wrap one of the volunteers had made for me.
“So,” I drawled to Aria, already knowing the only color in my complexion was my burning cheeks, “how’s school? I’m sure it’s not as glamorous as all this, but tell me everything.”
The worry never left her expression as Aria gave me the distraction I needed by telling me about her psychology program while people fussed around us to clean up my mess.
“Time to get you changed,” Dana said, helping me sit on the edge of the remade bed before looking at Aria. “Please wait by the door and close the curtain.”
But it was too late.
Aria’s gaze was narrowed, focused like laser beams on where my thin, scratchy gown had rode up to expose my thigh.
Even when Dad was being an overbearing ass or Mom was being… Mom, I’d never seen Aria anything other than pleasant, sweet, and irritatingly calm. But as she stared at my leg, rage and something else burned in her blue eyes.
“Aria, go,” I ordered, harsher than I meant as I quickly yanked the fabric back into place.
Her gaze snapped up to meet mine and whatever the other thing was in her expression, it overtook the rage. I didn’t know what it was, but I still hated it. She stepped back and closed the curtain, her own movements harsh.
Once I was cleaned, changed, and back in bed, Dana opened the curtain and gestured Aria in. “I’ll be back with your meds.”
I barely had the energy to nod.
Getting up and moving to a chair two steps away shouldn’t be so strenuous, but my body ached as though I’d done a triathlon followed by a light 5K. I was exhausted. Nauseous. Embarrassed.
And so damn sick of it all.
I must’ve dozed off because the next time I opened my eyes, Dana was there with my meds and my favorite herbal tea.
Great. I finally get a visitor, and I barf and fall asleep.
I’m an awesome host.
“Sorry,” I muttered to Aria.
She just smiled and waved away my apology. I wondered if she’d follow the Dillon method of ignoring unpleasantness, but as soon as we were alone, she asked, “How long?”
I played dumb. “How long what?”
“You know what.”
She was right, I did.
Even though talking was the last thing I wanted to do, my exhaustion and medication worked together to loosen my tongue. “A while.”
“Why?”
I rolled my head to look at my sister. My beautiful, brilliant sister. I used my floppy, weak arm to gesture down my floppy, weak body. “Why not?”
Like it just struck her as strange, her angry glare shot around the room. “Where the fuck are they?”
I didn’t think I’d ever heard her swear. The crass word seemed bizarre coming from her, which made me smile. At least, I tried to smile. I wasn’t sure if my lips cooperated. “You missed their bi-weekly visit.”
“They only come twice a week?” she hissed, outrage shaking her voice.
“Is that what bi-weekly means? Damn, I’ve been making a fool of myself. No, I mean every two weeks.”
“What?” Lowering her volume and softening her tone, she went full-on shrink. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I didn’t have a dream job for my future. I was pretty sure I didn’t even have a future. But in that moment, I knew down to my faulty bones that she’d be as good at her dream career as she was at everything else. There was something about her that made people feel safe to open up.
Which was why I blurted, “I’m going to die.”
I had to hand it to my sister, she didn’t light a pair of rose-colored glasses on fire to blow smoke up my ass. She gave it to me straight. Or at least as straight as she could, given my uncertain future. “Maybe. But not if the doctors can help it.”
“I hope they can’t. I’m ready. I want this to be over.”
I was sure Aria had something beautifully inspirational and insightful to say, but I didn’t hear as I drifted off to sleep.
I wonder if this will be the time I don’t wake up.
_______________
Three years later
I WAS SUPPOSED to be sad.
It was a funeral. Funerals called for sadness, right? Mourning. Shed tears. The whole nine.
Except I didn’t feel sad.
I didn’t feel anything.
Thankfully, my hazy, medicated fog came across as somber as I sat at the funeral home. Based on the sympathetic glances everyone had been shooting my way, I must’ve played the part of the grieving daughter well.
&nbs
p; But one person wasn’t buying it.
“You okay?” Aria whispered, not for the first time.
“Mmhmm,” I murmured, discreetly checking the time to see if I could take my next dose of meds yet. Usually I loathed the stupor I lived in. Well, I loathed it for the bits I was able to feel something before my next dose kicked in. But that day, I welcomed the escape.
Since it was way too soon, I zoned back out and didn’t hear a word anyone said during the overblown service. I was vaguely aware of Dad’s voice booming from the podium, but it was gibberish in my ears. Wah-wah-wah-wah, like the adults in Charlie Brown cartoons.
I hadn’t realized the service had finished until Aria took my hand and stood, keeping hold of me. Ever the dutiful daughter, she took her place next to Dad, dragging me along for the ride.
There’d be no morbid parade to the cemetery since Mom had been cremated. We were having a reception at the house, but it wasn’t going to be a loving remembrance with potluck casseroles and togetherness. The exclusive, catered affair would be a cold and socially calculating opportunity to see and be seen.
It was the perfect tribute to a cold and socially calculating woman.
We stood together to receive condolences, playing our roles.
The picture-perfect family in our picture-perfect grief.
For a while, at least.
Then Dad took off to wherever to talk to whomever, leaving Aria and me to receive fake sympathy from Mom’s equally fake friends. It was a big fake-fest.
Each offered some variation of the same generic platitudes, daintily dabbing at their eyes despite the fact they weren’t crying. After all, they couldn’t risk ruining their makeup.
Or showing normal human emotion.
That was until one woman reached us. Splotchy faced and openly weeping, it took me a moment to recognize the member of Mom’s country club circle—well, the outer edge of her circle.
“Girls,” Sharon Anderson cried before breaking down into more tears as she threw herself into our arms.
My gaze darted to Aria, who just shrugged and patted the back of the hysterical woman.
“Your mom was a goddess,” Sharon whimpered wetly into Aria’s hair.
