Scarred Beautiful Read online

I drop my bag to the ground and release my firm grip on the suitcase handle. I hold out both hands in anticipation…of what, I have no idea.

  Peyton shakes something that sounds like a maraca and it lands in my palm. “Ambien,” she says with a smile. “Just in case you have a freak-out.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Now, for the good part.” She reaches into her Gucci purse, pulling out three mini bottles of Jack Daniels, and shoves them into my hand. A mischievous grin spreads across her face. “In case you get thirsty.” She winks and her brown eyes light up like the Fourth of July.

  I look at her lovely gifts. “Great. So you’re trying to get me drunk and high.”

  “Yeah. Pretty much,” she states blandly.

  My ears pick up a child screaming in the distance, seemingly over a lollipop that has fallen to an untimely demise. It jolts me and I nearly drop my newfound addictions to the ground, the child’s cries morphing into the voice of Dad yelling at Mom because she got him the wrong cereal.

  I watched Mommy hover in the corner, Daddy’s arms against the wall on both sides of her head. He looked so scary, and I was afraid for Mommy.

  “I told you to get the Goddamn Captain Crunch,” he shouted, and I saw Mommy’s eyes fill with tears, just like mine did when Daddy would come to my room.

  “Now get the fuck out of here and go get my cereal,” Daddy yelled again, and Mommy ran out like a scared little mouse. I wished I could have helped her, but I couldn’t even help myself.

  I shake off the shiver that crawls down my spine and quickly stuff the pills and liquor in my bag before meeting Peyton’s gaze. “Well, this is it. You’re entitled to my clothes and shoes, even the Louboutins, after I’m gone.”

  She nudges my shoulder with her own. “Will you stop! You’re going to be fine. Besides,” she begins, winking and rolling her hips, and I look around to make sure no one noticed her obscene gesture, “you know what people do when they go away to these conferences, don’t you? Sin, baby. Flings of sin.” She laughs but her expression falls when she sees the color drain from my cheeks. With a soft exhale she reaches for my hand. “Seriously, sweetie, all will be well. Text me through the entire flight if you need to.”

  I throw my arms around her, pressing my lips together and forcing my eyes shut as if this single embrace can overcome my internal struggle.

  “You’re going to squeeze all the life out of me if you’re not careful,” she squeaks out.

  Reluctantly, I pull back, dropping my hands to my sides with a sigh. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “See ya, and I wouldn’t want to be ya,” she teases, laughing and walking toward the exit, her manicured fingernails waving high in the air.

  “Very funny,” I call out, but that’s why I keep her around.

  I grab my suitcase and turn briskly to wave at Peyton one more time before watching her amber waves and perfectly curved figure disappear into a sea of travelers, leaving me completely alone. An extraordinarily happy woman with a blonde bob and straight, white teeth greets me from behind the counter. I feel like I’m in a commercial.

  “Good morning! Welcome to Delta!”

  “Morning,” I reply, suddenly wishing I could have whatever she’s just had. As soon as she turns her head to wink at the dark-haired Adonis further down the counter, the one who must use the same brand of whitening toothpaste, I realize maybe that’s exactly what I need.

  After leaving Miss Congeniality, I check my suitcase and go through security clearance to find Gate 35. I’ve still got about an hour until it’s time to board the plane, so I take out my cell phone and send a couple of texts: one to Gabby, letting her know I’m at the airport, and one to Peyton, telling her I’m still alive.

  I can’t seem to stop fidgeting so I plod over to one of the shops to kill some time, grab a bottle of spring water, and some M&M’s to calm my nerves. My heels drag as I make my way back to the sitting area before I finally take a seat and tear open the bag of candy, picking out the green ones first because they’re my favorite. I remember always hearing stories about how they’re an aphrodisiac, not that I necessarily need any help in that department.

  The contemporary romance I’ve been reading on my Kindle is calling my name, so I pull it from my Dooney & Bourke handbag and dig in. I love getting lost in a good book, especially one with a happy ending, mostly because I know that won’t be in the cards for me. The screen blurs as a heavy breath releases from my chest before I continue to read about Andrew and Camryn. I’m completely absorbed in the story so it takes me a while to notice the little girl standing in front of me with short, curly red hair, a multitude of freckles, and the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I stare at her face, a happy smile lifting her pudgy cheeks.

  “Hi,” she says, rocking back and forth on her black Mary Janes while she eyes my M&M’s.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I return, peering at her tiny body until my gaze lands on her Scooby Doo t-shirt and I freeze. My throat closes up and my neck burns. Her lips are moving but her words are no longer registering in my ears. The only thing that is, is the rush of blood. Suddenly I’m back there. In my room. With my dad.

  “Remember, this is our special thing we do together.” He smiled but it wasn’t happy like Mommy’s. “I’ve got your favorite Scooby Doo band-aids all picked out.”

  I drop the bag of M&M’s to the ground, scrambling to my feet before I stumble to the nearest bathroom. Pushing open the door, I stagger to the sink, turn on the faucet and splash a blast of cold water on my face. It’s a wake-up call, but one I desperately need right now. I’m not that little girl anymore, I keep telling myself, I’m a twenty-eight year old woman. Yet as my head lifts slowly and my eyes crawl up to the mirror, the image of a scared, fragile child with sad, bleak eyes is staring back at me. My hands grip both sides of the sink and I clamp my eyes closed, hoping like hell when I open them, she’s gone.

  By the time I make it back to my seat, the red-headed girl is nowhere in sight, no doubt telling her mom about the scary lady with the candy. The only thing that remains are my M&M’s scattered all over the floor. I reach down and pluck them up one by one, throwing them away in the nearest garbage, and that’s when I hear my flight being called over the speaker.

  “Flight three-fifty-five from New York to Los Angeles now boarding at Gate thirty-five.”

  A wave of heat washes over me and I feel lightheaded. For a second, I consider bolting out of the airport to anywhere. I don’t even care where, just as long as I don’t have to fly. But then my subconscious smacks me over the head, reminding me that this is the first of many trips I’ll have to take, and I need to get a grip on the swell of emotions threatening to swallow me whole.

  I grab my purse and carry-on and get in line behind the other passengers, waiting for my group to be called. Closing my eyes, I try to picture myself in a calm, serene place, just like my therapist always suggested. I’m trying, I really am.

  After the all-too-happy flight attendant checks out my boarding pass, I slowly walk through the tunnel leading to the plane. I take one last, longing glance back at civilization before I step in and my fate is sealed.

  The plane isn’t too crowded yet. I scan the rows looking for seat 4D and thankfully find that it’s along the aisle. I have no desire to be near the window so I can watch as we descend into oblivion. After stuffing my carry-on in the overhead rack, I sink back into the seat which actually feels pretty comfortable. My eyes drift closed, mostly so I can stave off the panic attack that’s headed my way like a tornado. I wipe my sweaty hands on my gray pencil skirt. I can do this, I can do this, I tell myself. Of course, I eye the Jack Daniels in my bag and decide it couldn’t hurt. With a darting glance to the seats nearby, I quickly twist the cap off and take a couple of swigs, wincing a bit as the strong taste glides down my throat.

  The white-lined notepad is hanging out of my bag and I pull it out to work on a redesign for one of our clients. The flight attendant announces we’ll be departing shor
tly, and with that, I take a deep breath and let it out gradually.

  I feel eyes on me and turn my head to see a man with salt ‘n’ pepper hair and a wrinkled forehead staring at me. It makes me want to glare at him and shout, “What the hell are you staring at?” but that would be incredibly rude and that’s just not me. I mean, I realize he’s only looking at the shell: the shoulder-length raven hair highlighted in caramel, the startling green eyes, the dimple on my left cheek. Kyle used to love my dimple. I’m temporarily rattled by the memory but quickly try to brush it off.

  I focus instead on my sketching, desperate to distract myself from the hollow in my chest, the many cuts that refuse to heal no matter how much ointment I slather on top of them. The juice bottle design is coming along nicely, the label taking on a more contemporary look with bright colors and bold lettering, exactly what the client requested.

  “Hey, beautiful, is this seat taken?”

  A voice attempts to snap me from my thoughts but I ignore it, until I hear it again. It’s thick, it’s rich, and it’s throaty.

  “Yoo-hoo…beautiful. Is it okay if I sit down?”

  And when I look up, it’s sexy as hell.

  Dear Lord, Sweet Baby Jesus, and an Oh My God all wrapped up in one. I hope to hell my mouth isn’t hanging open right now. He has hair the color of the night sky and eyes a deep brown, a square jaw, and lips with a contour so perfect it looks like they were hand-drawn. Oh, and did I mention he’s cut. Yeah, he’s cut—like ripped: strong, athletic build and a slim waist, a six-pack accentuated by low-slung jeans, and a white t-shirt that adheres to every single muscle, and I mean…every…single…one.

  When I finally find my tongue and make sure it’s securely in my mouth, I speak. “Sure. Let me just move my bag.”

  He grins, and then all bets are off—like full-on gorgeous off. He’s got perfect white teeth and a captivating smile. We’d make a good complement to one another. I mentally scold myself for sounding like a dog in heat but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying the view.

  When he reaches up to place his carry-on and briefcase in the overhead compartment, his shirt eases up and I glimpse the tiniest sliver of tanned, hard stomach. If he wasn’t so close to me, I’d pull out the Jack Daniels because I definitely need a drink.

  He sits down and I immediately inhale something spicy mixed with sweat. I might not need that Jack Daniels after all. At the rate I’m going, I could get drunk on him in about two seconds. I breathe deeply through my nose and hope he doesn’t notice that I’ve taken a liking to his scent. There is something terribly wrong with me, I know. You’d think I’d never seen or been near a guy before. But this guy is, well, he’s hot with a capital H. Just the way he called me beautiful made me want to give myself over to him, bow to his every whim.

  I busy myself again with the design I’m working on when Mr. Hotness speaks.

  “So, do you come here often?”

  When I look up, he’s grinning, making the green flecks in the brown of his eyes sparkle. I smile back and wonder if it’s obvious I find him unbelievably hot. I have to press my thighs together, that’s how hot I think he is.

  I arch a brow, scrutinizing his forward approach. “Does that line usually work for you?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never used it before,” he replies with a slight tip of his lips.

  Yeah, right.

  “I’m Ryan,” he says, extending his hand, a cocky smile sitting on his ever-so-perfect mouth.

  Well, Peyton was right about the freak-out, but not for the reasons she initially expected. I’m a bit afraid to touch him. I already feel like I need a new pair of panties and that could be just the thing to push me over the edge. But what other choice do I have? I can’t leave him hanging. It’s like an olive branch dangling in front of me and I have to take it.

  His hand is rough yet smooth, strong yet gentle, and I can almost imagine him kneading my skin with those hands. I make the mistake of looking up, and when I do, I’m greeted by those alluring, dark irises and an expectant stare.

  “Your name?”

  Oh yeah.

  “I’m Fran.”

  I try to pull my hand back but notice he seems to be exploring it. His thumb is stroking over my knuckles and I’m getting turned on…just from that simple touch. “Can I have my hand back?”

  His lips turn up in a grin. “I don’t know. I kind of like the way it feels in mine.”

  Okay. Where’s the Jack Daniels?

  He lets go and I instantly regret it. The rubbing sensation was lulling me into a sensual calm and slowing my rapid heartbeat.

  I’m tapping the pencil on my pad, needing to keep my hand occupied, but it’s a bit hard to concentrate because I keep catching whiffs of his cologne. It’s soothing and makes me want to just curl up next to him and go to sleep, or fuck him senseless—I can’t decide which one. My thoughts make me sound like a sex-crazed lunatic. The fact is, I do love sex but in all honesty it’s a coping mechanism. It helps to block out the pain. As far as I’m concerned, if it’s sex or alcohol, I choose sex. It’s not an addiction for me. It makes me forget…and I’d do anything to forget.

  I glance at Ryan from the corner of my eye and notice he’s reading a magazine. I tilt my head to the side trying to make out what it is.

  He senses my stare and turns the cover my way. “Architecture Magazine. Pretty interesting stuff, in case you’re wondering.” Closing it, he shifts his body my way, once again giving me a great view. I can now see his long, lush eyelashes that practically fan his cheeks, and his smooth, gentle eyebrows.

  “So, is that what you do?” I ask, trying hard to maintain eye contact and not drift to his lips. They’re very distracting.

  “I am an architect,” he answers proudly.

  He eyes my notepad, squinting to make out what’s on the page. “What do you do? Are you some kind of an artist?”

  I giggle. “I guess you could say that. I’m a design manager.” Listen to me, I sound like I’ve been doing this job forever. Not. But, if there’s anything I am, it’s focused and determined to succeed, and I won’t let anything stand in my way.

  His lips turn up at the edges, curiosity flashing in his eyes. “What kind of design do you do?”

  I’m kind of used to this line of questioning and where it leads. I flick the tip of the pencil against my mouth and evade his gaze. “Mostly advertising and branding.”

  He smirks and raises an eyebrow, and I already know what he’s thinking. “Sexy ads?”

  I sigh a little louder than I’d intended. “Not exactly. I mean, there is….” I pause, like I’m about to say something taboo, “a sexy quality to the ads sometimes.” When I say the word sexy I can feel his stare move leisurely down from my face to my breasts, and then travel to my legs, leaving a trail of heat on my skin.

  “How ‘bout a demonstration?” he teases, grinning that ridiculous smile of his that must bring women to their knees.

  “The bathroom here is a bit small,” I flirt back, and then scold myself again for acting this way. This isn’t what I really want, but the longing inside my chest, the constant twist and pull at my core tells me something different. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me, held me.

  He laughs, the sound a deep rumble from his chest. “I’m sure we could make it work.”

  And just like that I want him.

  His eyes roam over my body in slow appreciation. “Hmm…perhaps another time, another place.”

  “Perhaps,” I reply, my face flushing a bright shade of red before I look in the other direction. I’m starting to feel an ache between my legs and the waywardness of my mind is taking me places with Ryan I need not go.

  I slowly turn back around to find his gaze hasn’t shifted. It’s still deadlocked on me, so I divert my focus back to the drawing. I’m paying way too much attention to Ryan and decide I’m going to punish myself for the rest of the trip and ignore him.

  The ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign lights up above me
and I hear the accompanying ding. Knowing what comes next, I latch on to both sides of the seat and suck in a breath. I scrunch my face up, close my eyes, and count backwards from ten, feeling Ryan’s eyes on me, yet again.

  “You okay?” he asks, his voice sincere, offering a small smile.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. Totally fine. Thanks,” I respond a little too quickly, trying to ignore the fact that the plane is tagging down the runway. Well, that was sweet, he actually looks concerned.

  I take out my iPod and earbuds and pop them in my ears, playing the songs of Parachute so loudly that I can drown out not only the sound of the plane but my own thoughts. I close my eyes and let the music carry me away.

  An unsettling feeling stabs at my stomach and jolts me awake. I look beyond Ryan snoring quietly beside me and see why. We are dropping. The plane is falling out of the sky. This is it. This is how it all ends for me. My breathing picks up as tears fill my eyes. Without realizing it, I let out a strangled noise and Ryan stirs. When he sees the panic overtaking me, he immediately sits up and reaches for my hand.

  “Fran, what is it?” he asks, my terror reflected in his eyes.

  I squeeze his hand, my nails biting into it, shaking my head frantically as the tears fall down my cheeks and slap against the silk fabric of my blouse. “We’re…I…I d-don’t want to die yet.”

  Ryan looks at me, his brow crinkling, unable to comprehend my emotional breakdown. He places his other hand over mine and attempts to stop the trembling that has finally reached there. “Fran, what are you talking about? You’re not dying,” he assures, his voice soft and even, a valiant attempt at talking me down from the ledge I’m about to fall from.

  “I-I can feel it,” I sputter, “we’re d-dropping fast….I never should’ve…should’ve gotten on the plane.”

  There’s a momentary flicker of recognition in his eyes before he takes my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “Fran, we’re not dropping. We’re descending. We’re about to land at LAX.”

  I blink several times, trying to process his words. “You mean, we’re not plunging into the ocean? W-we’re not going to die?”