Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (young adult books to read TXT) 📗

Tossing the evidence of his squeaky-clean dick to the side, I opened the small one. The letter head at the top was labeled with the business emblem of Thorn Tech.

I’ve got his last name and company name. We’re practically BFF fuckbuddies now.

Flower,

Proof that something damaged can still be beautiful. I’m stuck in Seattle longer than expected, but I’ll see you soon.

-A

P.S. These results should make you feel better.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood as I thought about how literal that soon could be. I dropped the note and hauled ass across the room to rip the tiny camera down.

I aimed it at my face, though I had no clue if it was upside down or sideways or whatever.

“Hey, I don’t know if you can hear this,” I started, feeling awkward but hoping I came across as firm and fierce. “But I don’t want to see you again. As long as you leave me alone, I won’t tell anyone what happened or who you are or anything. So… just stay away.” I started to move the camera before turning it back. “And no more flowers.”

Fisting the camera, I grabbed the one in the bedroom and threw them both in the garbage. I did a full sweep of the apartment for any others, but there were none.

Satisfied, I returned to the kitchen when the smell of something delicious breached my brain. Remembering the bag the delivery guy had also handed me, I cracked it open to see Mexican food.

Cheesy enchilada perfection with a side of inferno hot sauce—something I hadn’t mentioned to him.

And two huge containers of salsa.

Like the tea that morning, it was disconcerting he knew my eating habits. I was tempted to throw the food away out of spite, but it smelled so good that my stomach audibly growled.

Wasting food is wrong. And this is… it’s a nice parting gift.

With that justification, I grabbed a fork and the bag before plopping onto the couch. While I ate, my fingers seemed to move by themselves to bring up Google.

I’m just being thorough. Uh, in the name of science.

Alexander Thornton

There were plenty of articles that mentioned the different coding software he’d developed, some virtual security system he’d implemented, and some other nerdy hoopla, but they might as well have been in Latin because I couldn’t understand a word of it.

I switched to the image tab—again, strictly in the name of science—but there was nothing. Not a headshot. Not a faked spontaneous photo to accompany a press writeup. No Linked-In, Businessperson Digest, or Tech Nerd Weekly.

Not even an old Myspace page.

Huh.

Weird.

With technology being his career, I’d assumed his digital footprint would be the size of a T-Rex’s. But unless he used an alias, he was surprisingly off the radar.

Which was good.

Because that meant I wouldn’t be tempted to Google him again to see his handsome face, stubbled jaw, and overgrown hair that said he was too busy solving all the computer problems in the world to go for a cut and shave. I’d made my stance clear over the camera, and if he didn’t see it and came back, I’d make it clear in person.

I didn’t want to see him again.

Ever.

Chapter Seventeen

Control

Briar

For waking up

IT’S FINE.

No one can tell.

Leaning closer to the mirror, I parted and re-parted my hair. I had to hide it. I had to.

So focused on my ugliness, I didn’t notice her come in.

Not until she grabbed a thick chunk of hair and pulled hard. Hard enough to make pathetic tears spring to my eyes.

Hard enough to rip the hair out.

Hair I couldn’t afford to lose.

“God, you look awful,” she slurred.

“I know,” I agreed because as bitchy as she was, she was also right.

“What a waste.” I thought maybe she was talking about my formerly gleaming blond hair or my good looks or, hell, maybe even my health. She wasn’t. “All that time and money I spent on those pageants. All for nothing.”

It wasn’t my fault I was sick. It wasn’t my fault I was balding at sixteen. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t participate in the pageants she’d been forcing me into since I was a toddler. It wasn’t my fault I’d ruined her picture-perfect façade of a picture-perfect family. It wasn’t my fault her fake friends viewed her with pity instead of envy.

None of it was my fault.

That didn’t stop guilt from crushing my chest until I couldn’t breathe.

As if she smelled my weakness, she went for the kill.

Grabbing the bloat that’d developed at the side of my stomach, she tsked. “Just because you can’t do pageants anymore doesn’t mean you should let yourself go. Have some control.”

Have some control.

God, if I had a nickel for every time she’d hissed, sneered, or screeched that at me, I could’ve escaped to my own private island.

Pinching hard enough to bruise, she let me go with a small shove and sashayed from my room, leaving the wafting scent of Chanel Nº 5 and vodka in her wake.

That and pain.

So much pain.

Giving up on the impossible task of hiding the bald spot she’d just helped expand, I lifted my tee and focused on the muffin top she’d bruised.

I’d always been thin, but never thin enough for her. She was tall and lithe, like perfect Aria. I was shorter and had curves that no amount of carb cutting, calorie counting, or exercise could get rid of.

And that was before the chemo caused water retention.

I couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how much I starved myself.

She was right, I had no control. Not over my body. Not over my weight. Not over the disease that raged through me. And not over the cure that was worse than the disease.

No. Fucking. Control.

But I can have control over my hair.

Leaving my room, I didn’t bother to sneak since no one paid attention to me anyway. I went into Dad’s bathroom and grabbed his expensive straight razor, taking it back to my room to