Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1)(19)
“Wow,” Jackson doesn’t hide his astonishment at the luxury block. My mother and I have the same fearful look in our eye.
“Are you sure he’s away?” I ask her.
“Magda said he would be for the next two days,” my mother answers.
Magda is my father’s P.A., my mother’s friend, and my father’s mistress. Has been for the past 12 years. Talk about a convoluted f-uck up. Jerry, the doorman, smiles as we walk past and into the elevator. My mother presses P and we ascend to the top floor of the building.
Jackson is clearly in awe of the apartment, from the extravagant flower arrangements that adorn the expensive hall tables, to the baby grand piano in the foyer, to the imported Italian leather lounge suites and marble tiles. I hate the extravagance, hate every square inch of this place, and every memory it recalls in my mind. My mother walks purposefully to her bedroom, ignoring her surroundings.
“I need to grab a few things as well,” I say to Jackson, leading him to my old bedroom.
My bedroom is Queen Anne and shabby chic through and through. My father paid a designer a small fortune to cater to my every whim, mainly because the daughters of other families would see it. I don’t stay for the reminiscing, and instead walk straight over to my walk-in closet. The wardrobe is bigger than our whole dorm room at Brown. Jackson follows me in, and all of a sudden I am ashamed of the sheer amount of expensive shit that surrounds us. The shoe rack is lined with rows and rows of Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos. The handbags hung neatly on the adjoining shelf cost nothing less than $1000 each. The racks look like the inside of a designer clothing store.
I pick up a Louis Vuitton overnight bag and throw in some sentimental pieces of jewelry. Next, I grab a box that’s filled with paperwork, and shove everything to do with my investment portfolio into the bag and reach up for a small shoebox and place that in as well.
“Can I help?” Jackson asks.
I’m so focused on taking our shit and getting the hell out of there that I forgot that he was behind me. “I’m good, got everything I wanted,” I smile and stand on my toes to kiss him slowly on the lips.
The sound of breaking glass shatters the moment. I grab my bag and race towards the hallway, with Jackson in tow. My father holds my mother by her hair. Hearing Jackson’s and my footsteps in the hallway, my father turns and flings my mother to the side like a rag doll.
“You!” he yells pointing a finger in my direction. “I should have known you had something to do with this, you ungrateful little bitch.”
Jackson tenses beside me and I place my hand in his firmly. To the left of us, in the corner stands who I presume is a high-class hooker, trembling in her stilettos. As my father approaches, I notice that his eyes are glazed over. He’s drunk, extremely drunk. He stalks over and grabs my wrists my wrist.
“How many f-ucking times have I told you that disobeying me is not a good idea!” he yells. His breath reeks of whiskey and cigars.
Jackson steps between us. His jaw tenses noticeably and he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. “Let her go,” he says, low and threatening.
“And who the f-uck are you? Trailer trash has no right to tell me what to do in my house, with my wife and daughter. Walk away, * before you find yourself locked up.” He tightens his grip, and I wince as he twists my wrist. There’s a moment of brief silence.
“She’s not your daughter.” My mother’s voice comes out soft and trembling from the other side of the hall.
My father twists my arm, causing a small whimper to escape my throat. Jackson’s right fist comes up and connects with his jaw with a sickening thump. My father staggers back. “You’ll regret that you little punk,” he says rubbing his jaw.
“Doubt it,” Jackson says as he grabs all of our bags and the three of us leave the apartment.
We situate my mother into the back seat of the SUV and haul the bags into the trunk. Jackson walks around to open my door and as I go to climb in, a familiarly irritating voice echoes in my ear. “Well, hello angel.”
And just when I thought the day was a f*cked up as it could possibly get. I hate the fact that I have to turn around. “Bryce.” I stare at the pompous idiot with complete indifference. His grey suit and Technicolor tie remind me of how tacky he truly is.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, practically inhaling me as I stand there looking for an escape.
It makes absolutely no difference that Morgan, my ex-friend and his replacement girlfriend is standing right next to him. Bryce’s hair is slicked back and greasy, but then, Bryce has always been completely greasy in general. How he was the “it” guy of the Manhattan social scene and why I bothered to get involved with him, I’ll never truly understand.
“I live here, Bryce,” I deadpan. “Morgan,” I say nodding a pretend smile in her direction.
“Honey, you look well! The casual look really suits you,” Morgan replies in a sickeningly sweet singsong voice. “Or do we have this fine young man to thank for your glow?” Morgan reaches for Jackson arm, and he not so subtly pulls it away, as if she’s got scabies.
“Jackson, meet Bryce and Morgan.” My reluctance to introduce them is glaringly obvious. Jackson clearly shares my sentiments, because he nods at the two, barely even looking in their direction.
“Look at you, all grown up,” Bryce continues. “Shame I didn’t think more carefully about my choices,” he finishes, licking his lips. Morgan looks like she’s about to stab something, and Jackson’s jaw tightens in annoyance.