It truly amazes me, the power of a woman—the mere ability for a woman to open her mouth and twists the reigns of the universe with just a few words, whether or not they are true or false. Not only does the power of a woman's words amaze me, but Felicity Felix, more specifically, amazes me.
Because I cannot think of anyone who would pull off a stunt such as this with the utmost confidence and contentedness. Honestly, I think this woman is insane.
"Are you serious! That grimy bitch!" Sarah yells at me when I explain the entire situation, from beginning to end, when we arrive back at the manor. She paces the library just as she did when she was on the phone earlier, except she is angry, and I am angry, too, but more reserved about my anger. Why? Because if I show the extent of my anger with Felicity, the paparazzi, and
April 4th, 1999, Beverly Hills, California "Leslie, sit up straight, your posture is making my head hurt." My mother stares at me with the utmost rigor in her eyes. When I do lengthen my back and sit up straight, that hardness never leaves her black irises as she continues to stare at me as if I'm subhuman. It isn't my fault, I try to tell her—my developing breasts not only give me back pain, but make me reluctant to stand up straight in fear of being mistaken of "showing them off." "We need to take you to a chiropractor. That did little to assist you," she tells me, taking a sip of her wine. My little sister, Samantha, doesn't say anything at my mother's words at the restaurant table. How could she, really—she's
Fiona is sitting next to me on the couch in the guest house. Loretta is next to me as well, offering me a glass of warm tea that awakes my congested nostrils that occurred due to my crying fest.I sniffle and take the steaming cup from her hands, "Thank you.""No problem, honey." The unease doesn't leave her features. "What happened?""Yes, what happened?" Fiona asks as she rubs my shoulder. The contact is something I'm not used to, especially from a motherly figure such as Fiona. She sees how tense I am and stops, but I can't help myself: I broke down, crying in the kitchen in front of Fiona Vaun, which resulted in her having to help me to the guest house as the tears kept flowing like a river. Usually I'm very well-composed in situations that are water-work inducing, but for so
"Ommmm....ommmm...."My hands at heart center, I take deep breaths and try to find my inner Yoga warrior. Emphasis on the word "try", since my stress level is so up the roof I can feel the gray hairs pushing out of my scalp.The early morning summer breeze rushes through the front porch of the guest house as I channel all of my negative energy into the wood beneath me. But it isn't working. Because no matter how hard I try to get rid of the dark, clouded aurora that last night in North Carolina left behind, it still lingers in my mind about the chaos and disaster we left behind at Oliver Epps's birthday party."Sun salutation," I instruct to myself. I stretch my arms above my head and behind my shoulders into "waterfall" pose before bringing them in front of me, touching my toes, then
The next morning, I turn off my alarm clock and its loud, annoying ringing and get out of bed. Stretching my aching muscles, I force myself to set my focus on today's party at Abraham Collingwood's house. Which reminds me that I need to wear something red.I open the closet and look through my clothes until I pick out everything that is a red hue; a silk maroon button-up blouse, a cardinal long sleeve top and finally a burgundy dress lay across my bed. After careful consideration, I decide to wear the silk blouse.After showering and spending a good hour combing my hair under the water, I slick it back into a bun and begin to get dressed. Buttoning up my blouse, I look at myself in the mirror and wear a sour look at the reason for wearing such attire. Although I told Sebastian to remove any sort of Liberal thinking from his brain
** "Why does he always have to make everything so hard!?" I mumble to myself, pushing branches away from my face as I walk further into the woods. Upon entering the forest, it's like an entirely different atmosphere; the giant oak trees and enveloping leaves they hold block most of the sunlight, minus a few soft spots that illuminate the area dimly. I'll be honest, I'm a little...scared. If there was a word to describe "scared" with less prominence, then that would be my current emotion. "Sebastian, where are you?" I call out with no answer. The only response I get is from a few birds above and another noise that I cannot label. Oh God. After treading down a descending surface, I am fin
A myriad of thoughts rush through my mind at Sebastian's two simple words.He looks at me and waits for a definitive answer. What do I say? Or better yet, what will my mouth allow me to say that isn't remotely idiotic sounding?I nod slowly, "Oh...s-sure."I hesitantly roll up my skirt until the hem of my stocking is completely visible. His hand then slides my stocking down with apprehensiveness in his fingers. His hands are rough when they touch my skin; goosebumps rise on my arms.He lifts my foot to remove my stocking and looks at the cut on my foot. His right hand is holding my leg up at my calf while his left hand holds my foot gently."It's actually not that bad," h
Three hours. Three hours of walking, falling, tripping, whining, mentally dying and coming back to life again in the woods. "Sebastian, I don't think I can go much longer," I pant, holding onto a tree for support. My legs are sore from the calf all the way up to the thigh, and every step I take creates the most intense feeling of ache I have ever felt. "We're almost there," he says. He does a better job at hiding his tiredness and pain than I do, but it's still evident all over his body, especially in his worn-out eyes. I let go of the tree and drag myself to keep up, "Well how do you know that? How do you know how far we have to go? We could...we could be wandering here all night, fordays, even. What if we don't make it? What if we don't make it to the ro—"
I would be lying if I didn't admit that I secretly await Sebastian's arrival. About how I secretly think he's going to walk up to me, apologize, and hopefully say more honeyed words that will sequentially stir my judgment and make me forgive him. And how I secretly think that this will all be over then; by the time he apologizes, someone will rescue us and take us home, where we can finally rest and forget this ever happened. But that isn't the case. Because when I turn my head to the right of the road, pass the blinding rays of the sun, I see Sebastian walking. Away from me. His legs move at a slower pace on the gravel. His hands are in his front pockets, and his head is facing the sun in the sky. But he's walking, and he isn
** This scenario seems too familiar to me. You know—the scenario of me crying on my kitchen floor while trying to calm my nerves with a glass of wine. The familiarity of this is probably what's hardest. It seems like my life is a cycle of reoccurring events. Sebastian's gone, and I'm here surrounded by a broken wine glass. But I'm not the innocent one; I went after him shortly after he left me flustered and deceived against my kitchen sink. There was broken glass involved in that, too. Broken glass, screaming, pushing, hitting. Most of that done by me. I'll take the blame for that. I suppose it's best to explain the events that came after Sebastian left me in my kitchen. I c
**I come into consciousness shortly after I pass out. Claude has me on the sidewalk when I finally open my eyes. I hope that when I open my eyes, the last hour or so would be just a dream. But sadly, that isn't the case. "Leslie," Claude tells me. "I need you to breathe." This time, I take deeper breaths and keep a rhythm. In and out, in and out. My hands are tightly gripping Claude's forearms as I sit on the curb; I might fall over without his support. "I'm sorry. It just...I just—" "Don't apologize." He says to me, his blue eyes wise and trusting. "You need to get out of here; you've had enough for today."
**I wake up the next morning and immediately get to work.I've been receiving calls about Sebastian's party since I opened my eyes—E! News, People, TMZ, POPSUGAR, you name it. Apparently, they all want to know the reason for Sebastian's erratic behavior at his house party and why he was so ballistic in the first place. Darcy and I have been commenting the same thing: "We don't have a comment on that at this time." The ironic this is, I'm the reason he was acting that way in the first place. Though, I'm the last person they'd expect to push Sebastian to that point.I sit at my dining room table, sipping coffee even though I'm not in the mood to consume much of anything, and sift through the rest of my emails on my laptop. I'm trying my best to keep 'him' out of my mind, bec
** "This is Sebastian. You know the fucking drill." I sigh irately—one, for calling Sebastian twenty times already only to be led to voicemail, and two, for the voicemail's existence in the first place. I make a mental note to tell him to change it whenever he feels comfortable with talking to me again. "Hey, Sebastian. It's me again. I know for a fact you're ignoring me." I play with a stray piece on my button up shirt and sigh. "I don't blame you. I don't know how many times I'll have to apologize for you to forgive me, but I think we should talk first before that happens. Call me back." I hang up and vow not to call him back. It's already 9:00PM, and I've been blowing up his phone since he left the conferen
It's my fault for thinking this wouldn't happen. Usually I would admit to my own fault with a hint of uncertainty, using words such as "I guess" or "I suppose." I won't use them this time; this is my fault. Point. Blank. Period. I went this long, letting the lie accumulate into something that it never would have been if I were just honest in the first place. In my defense, I thought Sebastian wouldn't open up to me if he knew I was paid a very large sum to be with him. Is that a valid argument? I hope so; it's the only one I have. That, and the fact that my feelings have changed drastically during this month with his company. Garrett strides into the conference room with an ulterior motive set deep into his dark blue eyes. Everyone is puzzled; I'm not. I know exactly why he's he
**I had never been a victim of "the morning after" until now.You know—leaving the location that you had sex at with a mixture of guilt and pleasure in your system, wearing the same clothes as the night before, holding your head down, that sort of thing.After getting dressed in the clothes I wore the day before, Sebastian walks me out of his house to his driveway. Despite holding my head down, the bright sun still burns my eyes.Even the sun is judging me.I haven't turned on my phone since last night. It's both a blessing and a curse; I hate being so disconnected, yet it is nice to detach once in a while. Plus, Sebastian would roll his eyes if I turned on my phon
This chapter is 18+. Reader's discretion is advised.**Song of the Chapter -I Miss Youby Adele (Playable in the Media Section)**All I'm going to say is, I hope my mother doesn't read this chapter any time soon.**I guess I can start this off by saying that I've seen the tattoo on Sebastian that he was talking about. It isn't as glorious as seeing Sebastian's ass itself, but it's nice to have a little comic relief once in a whi
**I've never been at such odds with my wardrobe.My clothes gaze back at me, taunting me with the fact that no matter what outfit I pick, one will always be better than the other, and because of this, I will be prompted to start all over again and choose a new selection.It's currently a warm Monday afternoon, and I have two hours to get ready and make it over to Sebastian's house for dinner. Beverly Hills isn't too far of a drive from where I live, but I'm certain that indecisiveness will be the reason for my tardiness, not traffic.Pedro trots into my room with his chew toy between his teeth, only to jump on my bed to devour it."Pedro!" I yell at him. "Down!"
** SEBASTIAN "Bro, look over there." Trevor slaps my shoulder, bringing my attention—and the attention of Franklin and Chris—to a table behind us at the restaurant we're at—The Cabana on Melrose. The four women sitting there gives us smiles that say, "If you let me, I'll gladly blow you in the back." Don't get me wrong—they're hot. All four of them. But my mind is a little preoccupied on other things. "You eyeing the redhead?" Franklin asks me. I didn't even realize the girl was a redhead; that's how much I don't care. "Um...nah, not really. Not my type." My friends stare at me like I have five heads. Trevor downs his drink and narrows his eyes. "Hold up, hold up. Four hot chicks are staring our way—four that youknowyou can score all at once, and you're looking like your dog just died. What's up, man?" "Nothing's up." Lies. "I've just got a lot