Real Girl (Aston Creek High 4)

“Fuck Marcus,” I grunt. “Fuck you all.”

“Watch your language,” she scolds, tossing the keys at me.

I scramble around on the bed, trying to get the keys that land just out of reach. Naturally, she doesn’t help me and I have to strain against my wrist to get them.

I instantly get busy unlocking myself and as my wrist comes free, I launch off my bed, more than ready to be off this filth that reminds me of one of the many shitty nights I’ve endured.

As I get to my feet, Maria turns and starts walking for the door. “Follow me.”

She speaks in a no-bullshit tone and I realize that if I don’t do as I’m told, my punishment would be worse than anything Lucien could possibly do to me.

I silently follow her out the door, keeping a few feet behind while searching the hallway for anything I could slip into my pajama shorts that could be used as a weapon. Since Blake and I left, it seems this place isn’t so cluttered with random shit anymore and I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

It’s as though this house has been baby proofed. There are no sharp edges, nothing I can break off that could be used to inflict harm. It’s as though they had prepared for this.

With no other option, I follow Maria to the end of the hallway, scowling at her back as with every step I take, I’m reminded that this is all on her. She was the one who put the target on my parents’ back for Anton to take them out. She was the psychotic bitch who was jealous of my mother. She’s the one who had to have her life.

Because of her, I miss my parents every day and I’ll never let her forget it. But now isn’t the time. Right now, I’m free and need to focus on figuring out a plan to get my ass out of here. If I stay much longer, I’m going to end up knocked up with Lucien’s baby in my guts and Marcus’ ring on my finger, and no, that wasn’t exactly how I was planning on spending the next few weeks of my life.

If I’m going to be knocked up with a ring on my finger, I’d want it to be Slade’s. Though chances are good that I’ll never see him again.

The thought has a piece of my newly lightened soul darkening once again. If I spend much longer here, I’m afraid that everything Slade has done to help me feel free again will all be for nothing.

Maria leads me into the room at the end of the long hallway and as I step over the threshold, my world crumbles.

It’s like a big mafia wedding came and threw up in here. There are ribbons, cakes, table settings, six floor-to-ceiling vision boards, a selection of rings, and who can forget the massive over-the-top wedding dress in the middle. I would have called it a gown if it wasn’t such a disaster. That’s not a fucking gown, it’s the laughing stock of the room. It’s fucking hideous.

It’s bright white, covered from top to bottom in crystals which makes it look as heavy as a house. There’s a sweetheart neckline that plunges low between the chest which on me would look like an absolute joke. The train is ten miles long, and not to mention the poofy bottom which I would get lost in. It’s nothing at all like I’ve always imagined.

When I get married for real – not this sham of a wedding – it’s going to be elegant with a splash of sexy. Maybe ivory silk that flows down my body and a veil that sits up in my hair. To be honest, I haven’t really thought too much on the topic. I always just assumed I’d never get the chance. But seeing this monstrosity before me, it makes it clear what I don’t want.

“Right,” Maria says, “take your clothes off and put this on. We need to see how the dress fits. I was able to guess your measurements from previous gowns we’ve had made but you know how it goes.”

I let out a sigh and walk over to the dress with Maria’s eyes on me. “I’m going to have to help you into it. I can’t have you snagging one of the crystals and ruining it. You wouldn’t believe the drama I’ve had with the dressmaker, especially after all the canceled appointments when you never came home. Gloria is an absolute bitch but she works magic. I’ll be happy to be through with her when this is all over, that’s if she’ll even agree to come out for another dress fitting.”

I tune out her chatter as I know not a damn word she speaks is relevant or important. After all, I’ve been dealing with this wedding bullshit since I was fourteen years old. I mean, what teenager wants to spend their afternoons and weekends picking out table settings only to be told they’re wrong and to choose again the following night?