Beautiful Lies (The Beautiful Series Book 2) Page 4

  I nodded, which seemed to be the only thing I was capable of. Killian raised his brows at Connor and a look passed between them that seemed to communicate more than words could. Then he turned on his heel and strode away. It was only after he was gone that I realized I’d never thanked him for coming to my rescue. I busied myself with hanging my coat in the locker and packing my books for today’s classes. Shouldering my backpack, I slammed my locker shut and spun the dial on the padlock. Connor was still there, leaning against the locker next to mine. His eyes were trained on my face, but I got the feeling he was taking it all in. The oversized hoodie, baggy sweatpants stuffed into my Ugg boots, the dark circles under my eyes.

  He wasn’t just looking at me, he was looking straight through me. He sees me, I thought.

  “I get it,” he said, his voice low.

  “Get what?” I asked, staring at the black leather cord around his neck, a glint of silver disappearing inside the collar of his gray T-shirt.

  “Trying to make yourself invisible,” he said.

  I swallowed hard, not sure what to do with his words, my gaze still focused on the pendant I couldn’t see.

  "St. Jude.” I lifted my eyes to his, my brow furrowed. Connor pulled out the silver medallion, a saint’s medal. “The patron saint of lost causes,” he said, tucking it back inside his collar.

  He reached out his hand, his fingers brushing my shoulder. I flinched from his touch and took a step back, tightening my grip on the strap of my backpack.

  “I was just going to carry your bag,” he said quietly like he was speaking to a wild animal he needed to approach with caution.

  “I’ve got it,” I said as the first bell rang, cutting through the voices around us. I ducked my head and started walking to my first period.

  “Do you still dance?” he asked, falling into step with me.

  I side-eyed him. The top of my head only reached his shoulder. He’d shot up over the summer. Tall and lanky, like he hadn’t quite grown into his body yet. “How do you know I dance?”

  His lips tugged into a smile, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. I knew he only had one and I liked that it was unique, not part of a matching set. “The dance studio is next to the gym Killian trains at. I used to watch you sometimes through the window.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip, his eyes narrowed on me as if he was trying to gauge my reaction to that confession. His honesty surprised me. It also surprised me that the thought of him watching me didn’t creep me out. “Sounds messed up. But it wasn’t like that. Promise.”

  “What was it like?” I asked.

  “You want the truth?” he asked as we stopped outside my classroom door.

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted. “You’re going to be late for class.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Looks that way,” he said, making no move to leave even as the late bell rang, signaling that we needed to be in our classrooms.

  My eyes darted to my classroom door, wishing I didn’t have to enter. I wanted to be impulsive. I wanted to take Connor’s hand and ask him to run away with me. To keep running until we put this place far behind us. Instead, I put on my brave face and asked him to give me something else. “Okay. Give me the truth.”

  He reached into the back pocket of his faded jeans, coming out with a folded-up piece of paper. He pressed it into my hand and I looked down at it. When I lifted my head, he was gone. I watched him sauntering down the hallway like he was in no hurry to get anywhere. Before he turned the corner, he spun around and walked backward, his eyes never leaving my face. Even from a distance, his eyes were mesmerizing, and I took an involuntary step forward as if to close the distance between us. He raised his arm in the air before he disappeared from my sight.

  “Are you planning to join us, Miss Christensen?” Mr. Salazar asked, his brows arched as he stood in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob.

  I nodded.

  “No hats inside the school,” he reminded me as I slipped into the classroom. Funny how the school enforced some of their silly policies, yet they let others slide. Reluctantly, I removed my hat as I slid into my seat in the third row, next to my ex-best friend, Holly Chambers. Stupid alphabet, I thought, as I felt her judgment. She continued staring at me as I dug out my notebook, pen, and textbook from my backpack.

  “Nice haircut,” she said, punctuating it with a snicker.

  My gaze snapped to her face. She wrinkled her nose as if she’d just smelled something bad. I gave her the middle finger and took some satisfaction when her dark eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. “What is wrong with you?” she asked, pulling a face. “Oh my God, you’re so weird. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

  I pushed the memories of sleepovers, giggling over cute boy crushes, sharing a tray of brownies while we watched movies, out of my head. Holly had ousted me from our little circle of friends at the beginning of this year. It had been subtle at first. I’d ask her if she wanted to hang out and she’d tell me she was busy with family stuff. Every weekend she had a different excuse. Turned out she was still hanging out with our other friends, meeting up to go shopping or to the movies, having weekend sleepovers I wasn’t invited to. I’d gotten to hear about it at the lunch table. One time I’d overheard a conversation where they were trashing me.

  “I hear she gives good head. Who knew that perfect little Ava would turn into such a slut?”

  “She always acted like she was so much better than us.”

  Welcome to high school. It was a miracle anyone got out alive.

  Ava Christensen, the perfect little princess, was gone. This was the new me. My skin was thicker. I would not be a victim. I was a warrior. I squared my shoulders, repeating the words in my head. If I said them often enough, I would start to believe it. I wouldn’t allow a douchebag like Jake Masters to destroy me. He’d taken enough, I wouldn’t give him that power.

  Mr. Salazar’s voice droned on and on about the Cold War. Everything he said came straight from the textbook. No point in taking notes. I looked down at the folded piece of paper I’d set on my notebook then tucked it into my textbook for later. I got the feeling it was something special and opening it now, with Holly sneaking glances at me, would ruin it.

  Connor was waiting outside my classroom when I exited, leaning against the wall as if he’d been there for a while. He pushed off from the wall, his gaze settling on my hair. I ran my fingers through the choppy layers.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “How did you get here?”

  “My magic carpet. You need a lift to your next class?”

  I laughed, earning a smile from him.

  “Hey Connor,” Holly said, flashing him a big smile.

  He jerked his chin in her direction. “How’s it going?”

  “Great,” she said brightly. “I’m Ava’s friend, Holly? We have fourth period English together?”

  Friend. Right. I brushed past them and weaved my way through the kids in the hallway. Knowing Holly, she’d tell Connor everything I’d confided in her, back in junior high when we told each other all about our secret crushes.

  “You need to point him out to me,” she’d said. “If he’s as cute as you say…”

  “I never see him at school.” It hadn’t been a lie. I’d catch glimpses of him sometimes in the hallway, but they were fleeting.

  She’d pouted. “Well, then we have to make it our mission to find him. Or you need to invite me to church sometime.”

  “You’re Jewish,” I reminded her, secretly thrilled about keeping Connor to myself, although I didn’t know why.

  After that, I’d stopped talking about Connor and Holly had stopped asking about him. I didn’t even realize she had a class with him this year.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” a voice next to me asked, and I caught the teasing tone.

  I glanced at Connor. “I just need to get to class. So, you and Holly—” I stopped myself.

  “I guess we have a class together.” He shrugged one shoulder.
“And I’m guessing you’re not really friends.”

  “We used to be. We don’t have a lot in common anymore.”

  “It happens.”

  “You can’t walk me to all my classes, you know.”

  “Who says?”

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Did Killian…” I took a shaky breath. Killian couldn’t have known what happened. He’d only caught the part where Jake had tossed me in the dumpster. After Killian had helped me out of the dumpster, I’d run away and hadn’t looked back, although I’d heard the sound of Killian’s fist slamming into Jake’s face. I’d heard Jake’s grunts and his words, “You’re a fucking maniac. Get your hands—” Killian must have shut him up with another punch.

  “Did you look at the paper I gave you?” Connor asked.

  “Not yet. I was…saving it for later. This is me,” I said, stepping aside to let kids get past.

  Connor ran a hand through his dark hair and squinted at the classroom door. “I gotta run. Art class is the only one worth going to. When do you have lunch?”

  “Fifth period.”

  “Same.”

  “Really? I never saw you at lunch.” My eyes widened after I realized what I’d said. He gave me a lopsided grin, a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes. “I mean, not that I ever looked…”

  “I usually hang out in the art room. Mr. Santos is cool with it. But I’m kind of flattered that you noticed. Meet you outside the cafeteria.”

  “You don’t have to…”

  But he was already gone, and I knew my words were wasted even if he’d hung around to listen to them. He’d be there, waiting for me. Leaning against the wall, his earbuds in his ears, the music blasting, his hand tapping out the beat on his thigh. He’d ignore his guy friends when they gave him shit for hanging out with the weird girl. If they hassled him about it, he’d tell them to fuck off. Connor, I would come to learn, didn’t march to the beat of anyone’s drum. He set his own rhythm. He was a law unto himself, a free spirit trapped in his own private hell.

  Later that night, alone in my room, the hip-hop music in my ears drowning out the voices in my head, I unfolded the thick piece of paper and smoothed my palm over the creases. Unshed tears clogged my throat as I studied the drawing. It was the first of many Connor Vincent masterpieces I’d collected over the years. But this one…would always hold a special place in my heart. Bluebirds soared over the rooftops of Bay Ridge, their color vibrant against the gray, cloudy sky and the washed-out world below.

  With a few strokes of a pencil and markers, he’d captured the feeling I got when I was dancing. Freedom. Joy. Flight.

  You have magic in your hands, Connor Vincent. How had he seen so much from outside the window of my dance studio? My bedroom door swung open and my mom stood in the doorway. She still hadn’t grasped the concept of knocking before entering even though I’d asked her to a million times. I folded the sketch and tucked it back in the textbook, safe from her prying eyes before I pulled out my earbuds.

  She lowered herself onto the edge of my bed and let out a heavy sigh as she inspected my hair. “Let me at least tidy it up,” she said, resignation in her voice. “I can’t let you walk around like that. What would people think?”

  “Why do you care what people think?”

  “I own a hair salon. This is no time to argue with me, missy. Let’s go. In the bathroom.”

  I followed her into the bathroom where a stool was already set up in front of the mirror. She spritzed my hair with water from a spray bottle and ran the comb through it, her heavy sighs letting me know exactly how she felt. I stared at myself in the mirror. All my life I’d been told by my mom and her friends, from strangers on the street that I was beautiful. Like a porcelain doll with bee-stung lips and gray eyes almost too big for my face. The jagged cut of my hair accentuated my cheekbones, made me look edgier. More like a badass. I liked it.

  “Why would you do this?” she asked. “You have such beautiful hair. Girls would kill for this color and it’s so nice and thick.” I met her brown eyes in the mirror.

  I’d tried to tell my mom about Jake back in September. “Oh honey, you’re a beautiful girl. Boys do silly things when they have a crush on a girl. Just be nice to him,” she’d said.

  “That’s the price you pay for flaunting it in his face and playing games with him,” Lana had said when I’d attempted to confide in her. There had been a time when we’d been close, but that felt like a long time ago.

  “I’m not playing any game,” I’d insisted, not sure why I was still talking to her. I’d slammed out of her room and our already strained relationship deteriorated further. It had been the dance classes that drove the wedge between us. I’d shown a natural talent, according to Miss Iverson, our instructor and Lana hadn’t. For me, dancing had come as easily as breathing. I felt the music in my soul, in every cell of my body.

  “Why did you cut your hair, Ava?” my mom asked again, a scowl on her face as her scissors flew through my hair, attempting to make it look nice.

  I wanted to tell her, but I knew I never would. I’d never tell anyone. My hand went to my cheekbone, surprised the bruise hadn’t been permanent. Surprised that nobody could see the damage. I could still feel the sting, the heat in my cheeks, the gravel digging into the knees of my jeans as I knelt in front of that douchebag on the cold concrete. He’d yanked me to my feet by my hair and tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let him see me cry. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. My mom was talking, but I wasn’t listening to her words.

  My thoughts drifted to those bluebirds, to the boy with mesmerizing blue eyes who wore a medal of St. Jude around his neck. “So those dance classes you take…what kind of music is it?” he’d asked over lunch.

  “It depends. I take modern dance, jazz, and hip-hop.”

  “Cool. So you wanna be a dancer?”

  I shook my head. “No. I mean, I just like to dance. My mom’s always talking about Juilliard, but it’s not my dream. I don’t want dancing to turn into a competition.”

  “I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yup. You dance for yourself because it makes you happy. You don’t wanna be judged.”

  “Exactly.”

  We’d talked all the way through lunch, about everything and nothing, and it had been fun. I hadn’t laughed or smiled that much in months. Not only that. Talking to him had been so easy and he had the ability to make me feel like I was the only person in the cafeteria. Like everything I said mattered to him.

  “What do you think?” my mom asked, dragging me back to the present.

  I looked in the mirror at my chin-length bob and mustered a smile for her. “It looks good.”

  “Don’t you dare take the scissors to your hair again. You’re still my beautiful girl,” she said, her face softening. She planted a kiss on top of my head, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “I love you, honey.”

  “Love you too.” I wished she’d find a different adjective for me than beautiful.

  “Why don’t you invite Holly for a sleepover this weekend?” she asked, her voice overly bright. “You girls always have so much fun together.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, knowing it would never happen but she smiled, pleased with my answer.

  4

  Connor

  I had a routine, something that had been lacking in my life before, but I strictly adhered to it now. At seven a.m. on Monday morning, my phone alarm chimed. I hauled my ass out of bed, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and ate fresh fruit, Greek yogurt, and granola. After guzzling a bottle of water, I refilled it from the tap and grabbed my backpack, already packed with my gym clothes.

  You’d never know I was a millionaire. My one-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint looked like a college dorm room. My mattress and box spring sat on the floor in my bedroom, next to a crate that acted as a bedside table. In the living room, a worn plaid sofa sat across from a flat-screen TV flanked by battered wood bookcases heaving with well-loved books.
A sound system, speakers, and crates stuffed with sketchbooks and art supplies, rounded out the décor. Despite the shabbiness of my apartment, everything was neat, tidy, and clean. I should take pride in that, applaud myself for turning a new leaf.

  Rising early and keeping my life organized were two of those baby steps I’d taken. Yeah, I was going places, I thought, as I headed out the door, and strode two blocks to the motorcycle garage where I parked my Harley. I put over three hundred miles on my bike yesterday. I rode up to the Hawk’s Nest Highway and got my adrenaline rush from shooting through the curves and taking the crazy hairpin turns. The winding road hugs the rock face, and the views of the mountains, river, and valleys gave me a natural high. Always a good thing.

  At 7:55, Tate and I entered the church basement for our weekly NA meeting. Tate was in his mid-forties but looked older, with a craggy face and graying brown hair he wore long and pulled back in an elastic. Lean and wiry, he was a good five inches shorter than me, but he was tough as they came. Back in the day, he was in a motorcycle club and served time for armed robbery. His heroin addiction had started in prison. With seven years of sobriety under his belt, I was the first person he’d ever sponsored, and he was the only sponsor I’d never tried to bullshit.

  We walked past the table laden with donuts and a vat of coffee and took our seats on folding metal chairs.

  “Christ, it’s hot in here,” Tate grumbled like he did every week. Even at this early hour, the air was suffocating and smelled like mildew. The fans in the corners of the windowless room sounded like helicopter propellers but did jack shit to cool it down.

  I sat back in my chair and tapped out the beat of the song playing in my head—Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song”—on my thigh. My theme song for today’s meeting. You said it, Bob, mental slavery is a bitch. Emancipate yourself, brother.

  During the meeting, Tate used a toothpick to clean the motor oil and grime out from under his fingernails. He was a mechanic and owned a garage, and the grease gathered in the cracks of his hands that never looked clean. As we sat in the stifling heat of the church basement, I half-listened to people’s addiction stories. I rarely shared my own story at the meetings. I was tired of rehashing the events and personal issues that had led me to this point in my life. These meetings were more of an accountability thing for me, an hour and a half in my weekly schedule that reminded me I was like everyone else gathered in this room.