Unbeautiful Read online

  Stale: Of course u can trust him.

  Me: Like I could trust Larry.

  Larry was another informant who almost ratted me out. Luckily, Stale figured out what Larry was planning on doing and arrested him before he could out me to Elderman.

  Stale: Larry was a mishap. I promise you can trust Brooks.

  Me: I hope so.

  Stale: Everything’s going to be fine. I swear. I can feel we’re getting closer to the location.

  He says that all the time, and it’s not the truth. I’m nowhere closer to figuring out the location of Donny Elderman’s warehouse than I was six months ago when this whole shindig started. The only thing I’ve learned is the drug trafficking world is extremely intense. Elderman’s men are cruel. And there’s a warehouse somewhere in Wyoming, but I’m not sure if it’s the main one we’re looking for, the one Donny Elderman lives in.

  Me: I gotta go do some stuff. I’ll text you next week after I get done at the writing center to let you know how things go.

  I stuff the phone in my pocket and climb out from behind the bushes to head inside but stop outside the door to have another cigarette before I go in. Puffing away, I watch as the sun glistens across the shallow hills. Usually, it’s quiet around the building, but I hear footsteps today. They’re faint enough most people wouldn’t hear them, but after losing my voice, my other senses seemed heightened.

  The moment I catch sight of the person rounding the stairs, my hands fall to my sides, and my cigarette hangs between my lips.

  Emery looks like an angel running down the stairs with her head tipped down, her attention focused on her feet. Her brown hair is like a veil behind her. Her lips are crimson, and the curves of her body are flawless.

  She’s too perfect to be real.

  I suck in a deep breath as she nears me and pull my cigarette from my lips, preparing to do something other than stare at her this time. I just can’t figure out what that other thing is.

  I never fully get to come up with a brilliant plan, because she ends up running straight into my chest and knocking the wind out of me. I stumble back, gasp for air, and drop my cigarette.

  “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!” she cries as she staggers back.

  I wave my hand, indicating that I’m fine as I force myself to stand upright. A loud breath flees her lips when she recognizes who I am.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She frowns and steps back, as if she’s afraid of me. Her eyes drop to the white lines branded on my neck.

  God, even her terrified frown is breathtaking.

  I offer her a smile because that’s pretty much all I can do other than try to pantomime, I’m not a freak. I just can’t speak.

  Her crimson lips part again and spill out words for me to capture. And I do. I fucking capture each one, breathe in the sound of each syllable and trap them in my lungs.

  “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She peers over her shoulder while nervously biting her nails.

  Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

  The sound of her voice is better than nicotine.

  When she returns her attention to me, she gives me the smallest of smiles. “Look, I’m sorry about the other day. I was feeling skittish about being in a new place, and I shouldn’t have run off like that, but…” she pauses, tugging at the hem of her running shorts that are so tight I can see her curves, “did you by chance read those papers of mine you picked up?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “Thank God.” Her chest heaves as if she’s struggling to breathe. “Do you still have them?”

  I nod, wondering what exactly is on those papers to create such a worried look on her face. Maybe they were more than journal pages.

  She chews on her nails. “Can I, by chance, have them back? I should have never thrown them out the window to begin with.”

  I nod, hold up a finger, signaling to her to wait, then hurry into the apartment to get the papers for her. I notice Luke and Violet are no longer on the sofa. I head for their room to get one of them to translate for me, even though I hate doing that. But I can hear them going at it like fucking rabbits on the other side of the door, so I decide old school is the only option I have right now. When I step outside, though, she’s gone, vanished into thin air.

  Frustrated with myself and my inability to speak, I light up another cigarette and fight the urge not to look at what’s on the papers, despite my overwhelming curiosity. It would be invading her privacy, and if I want a chance to get to know her, I can’t break that trust.

  I shake my head at myself. Get to know her. Like that’s even possible.

  I continue to mentally scold myself and smoke my cigarette until an uptight woman with long, black hair and fake lips strolls up the stairway. As she passes by me, she pauses to scrutinize me. I hold her gaze and cock my brow, challenging her arrogance. She sticks her nose in the air and marches up to third floor, stopping in front of Emery’s apartment. I watch as Emery lets her in, giving an anxious glance in my direction as she shuts the door.

  So, that’s her mother. I probably should have guessed. They look alike, only her mother’s older and a bit more plastic.

  I finish my cigarette, trudge back inside, and plop down on the sofa. I pull out the pieces of paper from my pocket and turn them over in my hand. Am I that big of a douche that I’m seriously contemplating taping them together to find out more about her?

  Before I can arrive at a conclusion, Luke wanders back into the room, appearing happy and high on life as he greets me with a nod. I nod back and quickly stuff the pieces back into my pocket. Then I start sorting through my creative writing books I need to take with me for the first day of class.

  “Hey, you headed to class soon?” Luke asks as he rummages around in the fridge.

  I have to wait for him to glance up before I shake my head and move my hands. “Not until tomorrow.”

  “Fuck, my truck’s at the shop. I was going to hitch a ride with you since I have practice today.” He grabs a bottle of juice before kicking the fridge door closed. “Guess I’ll have to see if Seth can take me.” Luke joins me on the sofa and stretches out his legs. “God, I can’t believe it’s already summer. Fuck, I need to do something other than sit here on my ass.”

  “You should have taken classes,” I sign as I set my stack of books on the table.

  He rolls his eyes as he unscrews the cap from the juice. “No fucking way. I meant something cool, like go on a trip with Violet or something.”

  My “business” phone abruptly vibrates from my pocket, and I instantly tense.

  “So my friend, Seth, wants to have a party here at our house tomorrow night,” Luke continues without noticing my tension as I fumble to get the phone out of my pocket. “He says that his and Greyson’s one bedroom is too small. I was planning on telling him it was cool and we could have a card game.” He elevates his hands in front of him when I give him a dirty look. Luke is a recovering gambling addict, and I made a vow when I left Vegas not to play for money anymore, unless I was doing undercover work. “With something other than money for a wager of course.”

  I nod distractedly as I check my text.

  Doc: Need u down at the bar tomorrow night at eleven.

  Doc is Elderman’s underboss. He’s the one who gives me orders on when and where I need to make pickups and drops. I’ve never actually met Elderman; our only conversations have been over the phone. I quickly found out this is common. The only person I’ve met who’s actually seen him is Doc.

  God, I freaking hate this. Just reading the text makes me nervous, even after six months of this shit. Living a lie, pretending I have more connections and power than I really do. It’s what Stale and Senford did to help get me in the door. They gave me a lot of drugs and a buyer. Just like that, I found myself in the middle of deals, hoping that one day I’d be taken into the main warehouse.

  Me: I’ll be there.

  “So, you’re cool with a party tomorrow night?” Luke interrupts my thoughts as
I put my phone away.

  I nod, barely listening to him as I try to figure out what I’m going to have to do tomorrow. Hopefully, just a drop. Dropping is the easiest.

  “Sounds good to me,” I sign. “I have to go to work at eleven, though.”

  “Fuck, that sucks. But don’t worry; we’ll make sure all the fun stuff happens before you bail.” He pauses. “You’re cool with the card game, though, right? Because I want to make sure. I know how much you hate them, considering what your dad used to make you do for him.”

  I nod, still out of it. It happens every time I get a text from Doc. I start thinking of different scenarios of what I might to have to do, and then my thoughts land on a final possibility—somehow Elderman has found out I’m working with the feds, and he’s luring me in to kill me.

  Luke leans forward and catches my eye. “Are you sure you’re cool with this? Because, if you’re not down, you can always say so.”

  No I can’t. Not really.

  “Yeah, I’m okay with a party.” I lie because it’s easier to untruthful when no one can ever actually hear me. I lie about who I am, about my past, about where I came from, about who I am now.

  For a brief, guilt-ridden moment, I consider telling Luke everything. After putting a roof over my head, he deserves to know.

  But like always, my hands remain motionless and my lips stay eternally sealed. Telling Luke means putting him in danger.

  And that’s the last thing I want to do.

  To anyone.

  Chapter 5

  The Breaking of Routine

  Emery

  I panicked. And not just panicked. Freaked the hell out.

  When the guy entered his apartment to get the papers for me¸ I received a text from my mother.

  Mother: I’m pulling up now.

  She was at my place while I was waiting for a stranger, who she would view as some punk, to get papers that contain some of our family’s secrets.

  I did the only thing I could.

  I ran back up to my apartment and tried to clean up every mess in sight before she made it up the stairway. I didn’t do a very good job, because she criticized every single speck of dirt. Fortunately, her visit was short. She only stopped by because she was in town running an errand for my dad and his partner. She said she wanted to say hi, to make sure I’m doing what I’m supposed to, and to check my amount of pills to be certain I’ve been taking my daily dose. I haven’t, but knew she’d check on me. So every day, I dump one pill down the drain.

  Satisfied by the pill count, she turned to leave but asked one nerve-racking question before she went.

  “Who’s that guy that lives on the second floor?”

  I’d shrugged. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about.” A lie. Having only chatted with one neighbor, I was pretty sure I could guess who she’d crossed paths with on the way up here.

  “Dark hair. A bunch of metal on his face.” She’d paused. “Have you been talking to him?”

  I shook my head. “No.” Which technically wasn’t a lie, depending on how you look at it. I mean, I have said things to him, but talking with someone usually means a two-sided conversation.

  “Are you sure about that?” she had asked, and I nodded. She folded her arms and tapped her foot against the floor. “Well, he looks like a criminal. Just what kind of place are you living in, Emery?”

  “This place is perfectly safe, Mother,” I replied, wishing she’d leave so I could breathe again.

  She gave me what I wanted for once, but not without uttering some haunting final words.

  “You better be staying under the radar. No one can find out who you really are.” She grabbed my cheeks and dug her nails into my flesh as she looked me straight in the eyes. “And I mean who you really are underneath those pretty eyes, lips, and makeup.”

  Swallowing hard, I bobbed my head up and down.

  “And keep taking those pills.”

  Then she left, and I wanted to scream but was too afraid she’d hear me, so I kept my lips fastened, the frustration still trapped inside me well into the next morning.

  As I lie in bed, watching the sun rise, thinking about my mother and the papers downstairs, I start to wonder who I really am. I’m not even sure I know. I’m slowly trying to figure it out, though, starting with the breaking of a routine.

  Instead of getting up at a specific time like I used to, I remain in bed for twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty-five. It’s only when the hour marker strikes and the sun peaks in the crystal sky that I pull myself out of bed.

  Once I do, I decide to do something really new. My mother has been so fixated on me taking those pills. I think it might be time for me to find out what they are.

  I grab my laptop and type in “pink pills.” Way too many different things pop up, so I try another route. I type in the number on top of one of the pills, still nothing.

  “Dammit.” I scroll through images and read a few websites, but nothing is useful. I do stumble across a discussion page where people are asking similar questions about pills.

  It takes me a while to work up the courage to create an account and post such a huge secret on the internet for anyone to read. I go with the name Unbeautiful because it’s about as far away from the description of me as I can get.

  After I post my question, I leave the computer open while I get dressed in my workout clothes to go for my morning jog. On my way out of the apartment, I rush by the wooden circle in the hallway because, like at home, the damn symbolic object gives me the creeps. One of these days, I’ll take the creepy thing down and burn it.

  I’ve never been a jogger before, but I’m finding the soundlessness therapeutic, as if I’ve somehow outrun my life. But even with the peacefulness of my feet hitting the pavement, I always feel a pang of nervousness, like someone is constantly following me. The feeling has gotten stronger with each passing day. I find myself frequently pausing to glance behind me. Sometimes, I see a car on the road or a person doing their morning walk. Today, the streets and sidewalk are vacant, though.

  Everything remains soundless and makes the jog a wonderful break from reality. That is, until I reach the parking lot of my apartment complex.

  “Emery,” Ellis’s voice rolls over my shoulder. “You have to come home. You have to help me.”

  My muscles tighten as I spin around, half expecting him to be there, standing under the carport. No one is there, though, not even any of my neighbors.

  I scan the yard for a few more minutes before I give up, chalking it up to my guilt over leaving Ellis behind in Ralingford.

  But as I step back into my apartment, the uneasy feeling returns to me. Something feels off, out of place. I look around the living room and kitchen. Candy wrappers, chip bags, and soda cans cover the counters and table, exactly where I left them.

  Shrugging the feeling off, I take a shower to rinse off the sweat. I ball up my lacy black shirt and jean shorts just to add wrinkles before putting them on. It’s not the easiest thing to break such deeply engrained habits, and by the time I’m dressed, a heavy dose of adrenaline is soaring through my veins.

  In the past, the next step of my day would be makeup. Instead, I fix my hair into long, brown waves with silky curls at the ends, making myself so pretty on the outside. My eyes, though, they’re a different story. No matter how much I try, they never sparkle; never show any signs of life, even now. Still, I try to put sparkle in them, dress them up before I check the discussion board.

  Nothing.

  But that’s okay. It just might take some time.

  I shut my computer down and go into the kitchen to dump one pink pill down the sink. Then I sit down by the window to eat my breakfast. Like every morning for the past week, the guy who has my papers is sitting under a tree near the bushes, scribbling in a notebook. His shoulders are slouched, as if the weight of the world is bearing down on him. He’s always frowning, too, and his eyes… He seems sad, almost broken, as though he’s been beaten down. From afar, he remind
s me of the people back at home that live on the Shadow side of town. But up close, he’s a more exquisite sight than the most gorgeous person I’ve ever crossed paths with.

  The longer I stare at him, the more I become lost in his movements, in the way his hand moves gracefully across the paper. I wonder what he’s writing. Is he writing about his life? Himself? Someone he loves?

  I contemplate going down and asking him. Better yet, I should go ask him for the papers. After my spastic episode yesterday, I can’t work up the courage to go out there, though. He hasn’t even spoken to me yet, probably because I weird him out too much with my nervousness.