The Beauty Beneath

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have the most amazing family and friends (including those I got to know through the book world) backing me up, and the best fans and readers…ever!

Thank you to some of the most important people in my life: my loving husband, my encouraging parents, my muse sister (special shout out to her because she is practically my co-writer), my supportive in-laws, and my entire family!

Thank you to some truly spectacular people without whom I wouldn’t know where to even begin: my editor, Jenny Sims (Editing for Indies); my cover creator, Rebecca Marie (The Full Wrap); my promo gals at Saints and Sinners Book Blog; my formatter, Jenna Dixon, my beta readers/support system/people I’m lucky enough to call friends (whose feedback is truly valuable and promotion is unbelievable – very grateful to all of you!): Catherine Gray, Suleika Santana, Janett Gomez, Monica Perez, Rebecca Bennett, Sheri Hursh, Heather Cicio, Elaine Hudson York, Jennifer Hagen, Shelly Wygant, Carrie Sutton, Erin McFarland, Jettie Woodruff, Jen Wildner, Ivette Pacheco, Nikki Reeves, Tiffany West, Jennifer Raygoza & all the ladies at RBWB Author Group & my gals at DC’s Diamonds. I’m sorry if I missed anyone!

Big thanks to all the blogs and the people behind them that support Indie Authors, especially all the ones that have helped me along the way. There are so many, and you all know who you are!

And a special thank you to all the readers out there. I wouldn’t continue doing this if it weren’t for you!

DEDICATION

Every day, I wish I had another day with you, Babulya.

Deda, we miss you always.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Epilogue

Social Media Links

Other Works by DC Renee

Prologue

The Ugly Duckling. A childhood story most people know. But just in case, it’s the story of a literally ugly duckling, somewhat outcast by her siblings, which turns into a beautiful swan later in life. A tale meant to play on a child’s subconscious and teach them that no matter how awkward they feel now, they’ll grow to be something better when they’re older.

I didn’t have that problem, though. I was a beautiful child. I had silky golden hair that my mother used to brush for what seemed like hours. I had big, bright, baby blue eyes that seemed to shine like a prism catching the light. I had adorable chubby cheeks until I grew out of them and slowly started to morph into a very nice looking young lady. I was meant to be vain. I was meant to grow up, appreciate my looks, and use them to get my way. But sometimes, your destiny can change. Sometimes, you stop seeing the beauty in the world. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter anymore because all you can see are the ugly parts of life. Sometimes, you stop seeing the beauty in you. Sometimes, you think you don’t deserve the beauty in the world.

For me, I stopped believing in beauty when I was twelve.

One single moment took away everything I loved.

One single moment shaped me into the person I am today.

One single moment showed me that tragedy took a physical manifestation.

One single moment had me truly understanding emotional pain.

One single moment announced that pretty pictures, fun occasions, and happy memories didn’t make a damn bit of difference when it came to loss.

One single moment turned my mother’s light laughter into tears that I thought would never end.

One single moment turned my father into the hero who saved my life.

And one single moment was all it took for him to lose his.

Guilt is a very funny emotion. Not so much the emotion itself but, rather, what it makes people do. I’ve seen people have anxiety attacks because of guilt, lie because of guilt, lose sleep because of it, and a whole slew of other actions. Guilt transformed me from a beautiful swan to an ugly duckling. If he couldn’t appreciate all the world had to offer, then neither would I. I didn’t deserve it. But to understand why I carried the guilt, you need to know the circumstances.

Twelve years old is just old enough to think you know everything there is to know, to think you’re smarter than your parents are, and to think that you’re cool enough not to want to hang out with them.

So when my dad wanted to spend some time with me, I balked at him.

Come on, Emmie, we have to hurry, or we’ll be late, he had said as he stared back over his shoulder at me. I remembered thinking he was so odd. I also hated that he called me Emmie. I thought twelve was too old for childish nicknames.

My name’s Emerson, I shot back. And I don’t want to go. I want to go to the movies with my friends, I whined.

Emmie, he scolded. I have plans for us today, just the two of us, and we have to go.

What about Mom? I asked.

Just some father-daughter bonding time, he said with a weak smile. I had been daddy’s little girl when I was younger, but when I hit junior high, I didn’t want anything to do with either of my parents. Then I looked at him and saw his anxiety and the way his smile seemed so forced, and I found it in my heart to take pity on him.

Ugh, I yelled and threw my hands up. Feeling pity and truly wanting to go were still two different things. I’d go with him, but it didn’t mean I wanted to. Okay, fine, give me a minute.

We don’t have a minute, he said and grabbed my hand. You look beautiful, Emmie, like you always do. Now, let’s go please so we’re not late. He started pulling me out the door.

Fine, fine. Geez, I’m coming, I spoke as we walked out of the house. Where are we going? I asked.

It’s a surprise. He smiled as he led me down the driveway and onto the sidewalk.

Are we walking there? I asked.

Emmie, stop with the questions, will you? I didn’t want to stop with the questions. I wanted to know what was going on, why everything seemed so weird, and why my dad was being so protective and secretive. And I especially wanted him to stop calling me Emmie.

My name is Emerson! I yelled.

Okay, okay, no reason to raise your voice at me.

No! I yelled. This is stupid. I don’t want to go to some stupid museum or whatever you think is a fun time. I don’t want to walk anywhere. I want to go home, change, and go out with my friends. Why can’t you be a normal dad and just let me be? I continued screaming.

My car’s just right around the corner, Emmie.

I’m not a child, I spat as I tried to pull my arm out of his grip. I’m not Emmie, I said as I yanked and yanked. My name is Emerson, I said as I finally got my hand free, but the force of the pull had me stumbling backward.

I registered what I had done just as I looked up and saw the shock on my father’s face, saw the way his mouth slowly formed the word, No, like someone had decided to freeze frame his face. I saw him move toward me as if watching each split second had somehow turned into a minute. I heard him yell, Emmie, one last time as he pushed me out of the way.

That was the last word I would ever hear from his mouth. Not a minute before, we had been arguing about it, but I would have given up everything, and I mean everything, to hear him say it again. I’d go with him anywhere he desired and would spend all the father-daughter bonding time he would ever want just to have one more second with him.

I wouldn’t have argued with him about my stupid nickname. I wouldn’t have yanked my hand from his. I wouldn’t have fallen into the street moments before the car appeared. I wouldn’t have watched his face take on a fear like I’ve never seen. I wouldn’t have had him push me out of the way only for the car to strike him. I wouldn’t have heard the tires screech or the crushing sound of his body as it impacted the car. I wouldn’t have seen the blood. God, there was so much. I wouldn’t have felt angry with the world, angry with myself, angry with my father. I wouldn’t have felt utterly helpless. I wouldn’t have felt the excruciating pain of losing my father, watching him slip away and knowing it was all my fault.

It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay, my mom repeated as we rocked together. I’m just glad you’re all right.

I wasn’t. And I’d never be truly all right ever again.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see the pretty girl my father adored. I saw a monster, a murderer. I might not have killed my father, but I was responsible for his death. I didn’t deserve to be beautiful. I deserved to be as ugly on the outside as I was on the inside.

As I said, guilt is a very funny emotion. My guilt made me ugly.

One

Emerson

For the first few months after my father died, my mother grieved as I did. She moped around the house, cried when I was around, and even when I wasn’t, as if her puffy and red-rimmed eyes didn’t give her away. But the thing she did the most was watch over me, especially after my transformation.

When I first walked out of my room looking different, my mother gasped, covered her mouth with her hand, and cried harder than she had after my father died.

What did you do to yourself? she asked.

Nothing, I stated. I hadn’t really done anything too crazy. I had just changed my appearance, but it was deeper than that. I had changed my way of thinking. No longer did I want to be Daddy’s precious, darling, beautiful little girl. No longer did I think I could be that person.

But your hair, she cried.

It’s just hair. I shrugged. She spent several days trying to convince me to go back to my former self, but that’s just it. That was my former self. I was no longer that girl.

I think I stopped grieving, at least externally, that day. I took all my pent-up emotions—all my pain and all my guilt, especially my guilt—and externalized it all on my body. I’ve been that way ever since.

What exactly was my transformation? I’ve perfected it over the years, but it consists of the following—clothes so baggy you’d never, and I mean never, see the body underneath. I don’t care about fashion either, so most of the time, whatever I have on is just something I found in a thrift shop or similar store. I wear no makeup to enhance my features except for my eyes. But the makeup around my eyes is so thick, so black, that I look more like a raccoon than a human. My bright blue eyes lost most of their shine the day I watched my father die, but now, I hide them behind bulky glasses, the kind people used to wear in the eighties. I don’t need them, the lenses aren’t prescription, but whereas some glasses make a woman look sexy, like in a secretary kind of way, these hide half my face. And the last thing I wear is a wig. I actually have several, and I switch them out occasionally, but they are all pretty hideous and definitely not complementary in the least. I could have chopped off my hair or dyed it, and in fact, I did at first. But that was the one thing I missed, the one part of my vanity I couldn’t get rid of, so when my hair grew back and the color faded, I didn’t have it in me to cut it again. So hidden under the wigs I never took off were long, luscious blond locks, but no one would ever see them again except me.

I didn’t resemble the pretty angel I was as a child, and I didn’t care. In fact, I loved that. Why? Because I deserved that. I wasn’t an angel anymore, not after I’d murdered my father. I was an ugly devil. And the outside world should see me as such.

To say my mom was worried about me ever since my transformation was an understatement. She nagged me all throughout school and then when I went to college. Now that I was living on my own, she stopped by every morning. Her excuse was that she wouldn’t see me otherwise. But she’d stopped by plenty of times while I was still getting ready, just out of the shower, pre-ugly. She didn’t have to say it, but I knew she was trying to catch glimpses of the daughter she thought she lost. Sometimes, she’d talk to me through the bathroom door or comment while I got dressed, always trying to make me wear something more flattering. On rare occasions, she didn’t say anything. She’d just stare at me, the worry and pain flittering across her features. At those times, I felt bad for her, felt bad for what my choices were doing to her. I swear I’d even heard her mumbling one time that she lost me when I was twelve. She was right. But it was what it was.

At least, she’d brought me coffee. Thank God for the small favors in life.

Em, sweetie, what are you doing with your life?

Working, I told her as I did every day.

That’s not what I mean, she huffed. Where are your friends?

I don’t need friends.

Bullshit. She raised her hands. Everyone needs someone to talk to.

I talk to people every day, I pointed out.

Not strangers, Em. Real people who can listen to your problems.

I don’t have problems, and besides, I talk to you. I didn’t really talk to her if I had any issues, not that I had issues. That was the benefit of not having people close to you. It meant you didn’t have any drama.

I love you, I do, and I always try to be there for you, but you really need other people in your life.

I— I started to protest, but she cut me off.

And what about a boyfriend?

Mom … I tried to stop her.

No, Em. You’re beautiful, even in this getup, she said as she waved her hand up and down to gesture at my clothes. You think you’re hiding, honey, but you’re really just drawing more attention to yourself.

Yeah, the bad kind, and I’m okay with that.

If anyone were to look closely, they’d see the beauty beneath.

But no one looks close enough.

Then stop hiding it! she screamed.

Mom, I’m fine, really. I’m happy with myself.

Are you? Are you really?

Yes, I am.

Then why aren’t you comfortable in your own skin?

Because I was born in the wrong skin.

Stop. Stop this. It wasn’t your fault, she started, and just like always, I put up a hand to stop her. Okay, okay, she responded defensively. But I’m worried about you. I love you. You need to live, honey. I mean really live, not just exist.

I’m living, I said. Look around. I’m twenty-four, I have an education, a good paying job, and I have my own place. How many other people my age could say that?

If you ask other people your age, I’m sure they’d rather be out partying or doing whatever it is twenty-four-year-olds do instead of sitting at home alone telling their moms that at least they had their own place.

Seriously, Mom, we do this every morning. What do you think is going to change?

They say if you knock long enough, someone will open the door. Well, this is me knocking. I’m just waiting for you to open the door.

Then keep waiting.

At least you didn’t tell me to stop knocking, she mumbled. I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I loved my mom, even as annoying as she was. What are you going to do about Jacqueline’s wedding?

Shit. I had forgotten about that. Jacqueline was my cousin, and although I didn’t have many friends, I did let some people in—to an extent—and my cousin was one of them. I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t miss her wedding. I hadn’t had to attend any parties that required me to look any different than how I did now, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.

I told her you would be coming with a guest, my mom tacked on.

What?!? I screeched. Why would you do that?

Because if you won’t get out and meet someone, then I’ll force it on you.

Call her and tell her you made a mistake.

Not a chance.

Then I will.

I told her not to let you cancel. She agreed. She even offered to set you up with someone if you don’t find a date by then.

She’s going to waste her money on a seat, I retorted.

Then don’t let her.

I won’t get along with anyone you set me up with.

Then find someone yourself.

Mom! I screamed her name because I didn’t have a better response.

Oh, look at the time. Have to run and so do you. Love you. She kissed me and scurried out before I could even come up with a response.

Shit, I said out loud to the empty room. Just … shit. That summed it all up. And on top of that, I was officially screwed.

Two

Carter

Oh man, that girl was a piece of fucking work, my buddy Lance said beside me at the bar. My buddies and I had gathered at our usual spot for after-work drinks. As usual, we ended up talking about work, and when we’d complained fully enough about our co-workers and work-related drama, we’d switched to girls.

Lance was currently telling us about his last fuck buddy.

I mean you should have seen her. Stacked in all the right places, she was a fucking model.

More like a stripper, Dan chimed in since he had seen her. He and Lance had picked up cousins a few weeks before. Dan had one night with his match, but Lance had been seeing Kimmy something-or-other for about three weeks. Apparently, she flipped out on him two nights ago, and now, he was done with her.

Same shit, Lance retorted before continuing. But she did give head like one. He smiled cockily.

You’d know—Erick laughed—since you have to pay women to sleep with you.

Yeah, yeah, fuck you very much too, Lance said as he flipped him off. So where was I? Okay, so check this. We’re having fun, having a good time, and everything’s going great. She knows the score, right? Just sex. No strings. And then, Monday, I get home, and she’s in my apartment naked on my couch. At first, I’m like ‘Hell, yeah,’ until I realized I never gave her a key. How the fuck did she get in? So I asked, and she said she told the super that she was my girlfriend and wanted to surprise me, had to flirt a bit, whatever. So I’m like, ‘Okay, whatever. I like the surprise, so fine.’ So we start doing our thing, but when we move to the bedroom, there’s a fucking pink comforter on my bed. Then I look around, and my room is full of her shit. She’d practically moved in.

I cracked up. I couldn’t help it, but so did Dan, Erick, and Lance too.

Fuck, that’s awesome, Dan said.

Oh, yeah? asked Lance. What’s so fucking awesome about it?

Because you got stuck with the crazy cousin.

Hardy-har, Lance said.

So what’d you do? Erick asked.

I told her she was fucking nuts if she thought she was moving her shit into my place.

No, Lance, tell me you didn’t, I finally spoke.

Yeah, and that’s why she’s a piece of fucking work. She went nuts on me, started yelling and throwing shit, grabbed her clothes, and stormed out, one heel on, one heel off. Shit, I should have taken pictures. She probably gave old Mrs. Batters a heart attack, he said of his nosy elderly neighbor.

You sure know how to pick them. I chuckled.

Like you haven’t had your share of crazy, Dan tossed back.

Sure—I shrugged—crazy for my body.

Sorry, that was so funny, I forgot to laugh, Erick said.

Clever guy, I retorted. Aw, is little Erick jealous that I can pretty much get with any girl and do the friends-with-benefits thing, and she won’t go psycho on me?

You’ve never had a screaming match with a chick or gotten your tires slashed after you fucked her for a few weeks and then dropped her? Dan asked incredulously.

Wouldn’t I have told you about it? I replied smugly.

Maybe you vetted them properly, Lance threw back.

"Maybe I did, but that’s not necessary. I can pick up any chick I want, have them begging for me,