Bulletproof (Healer) (7 page)

             
On the top of the suitcase I sit the book with the edge of the letter peeking outwards and I feel like it’s a secret between only Maurice and I. I knew I was right about vampires. Their danger lures me in. The possibility that there’s something out there that I’m not resistant to. But it’s more than that. I am bonded to these creatures because of a sense of rejection from society. I don’t belong because I can never be hurt and they don’t belong because all they can cause is hurt. Or that’s what people think.

             
Gabe appears at the doorway, “You know her dad will have a huge search party out looking for her. Her face will be all over the news.” 

             
This was true. Dad would make finding me his number one priority. I am glad I had steered away from watching television during our stay in case I caught a glimpse of the news to find that I was a headlining story. 

             
“What are we going to do?” Rose asks. 

             
“We’ll just have to make me look… not like myself,” I say softly. 

             
Unsurprisingly, in her attic Rose has a small collection of costume wigs. I can’t help but giggle at the candy pink afros, electric blue Mohawks and I wonder what use these ever had to Rose. Eventually we all agree on the chestnut brown bob. Once on it falls no further than my chin. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The sleek hair is a glossy frame of my heart shaped face. I have never considered being a brunette but after seeing how the darkness of it sets off the blueness of my eyes; I decide that one day in the future I will dye my hair this colour. 

             
The wig irritates my scalp and I keep itching at it. Rose laughs. Gabe is taking his job as stylist much more seriously, “Stop preening yourself like that. It’ll only draw attention to yourself.” 

             
Rose tells Gabe to leave the girls alone while she paints my face delicately using materials from her huge case of make ups. I admire the many palettes of shimmering gold and silver, neon pinks and oranges, sinister reds and blacks. At home I have one nude lipstick and a mascara that goes all stodgy and thick on my eyelashes. 

             
Once Rose is finished my face looks entirely different. She has filled in my blonde eyebrows with a dark brown pencil, they are bold and fierce and make me look angry. My pale blue eyes are ignited with heavy smoky shadows. My skin is good anyway so she didn’t need to put on much foundation or powder. She has dusted my cheeks with a soft pink blusher that makes me think of my glowing, sunburnt face on a hot Summers day except my face is void of the tiny brown freckles that usually accompany it. On my lips Rose slicked a thin layer of peach gloss; the only understated part of my face. I am in awe of the face I see in the mirror. She looks like the airbrushes models in magazines but sickened when I realise that the plastic face staring back is in fact me.

             
“The only trouble is now the passport we have for you is a little less believable,” she says, showing me the fake passport Maurice sent in his package. 

             
I finger the burgundy leather booklet, “How did they do this? Will it really work? Won’t people notice?”

             
“Maurice has a lot of connections in high places, Cassie,” Rose smiles, applying a dash of nude make up on my face to conceal the small brown mole situated beneath my left eye. 

             
Looking at the fine work on my fake passport, I shudder at the idea that one man can get and do anything he wants. There is something eerie about the concept of nothing being out of reach to me when everything I’ve ever wanted has been so ungraspable. Until now.

             
“Will it be a problem?” I ask, staring at the identification photo which is my most recent school photograph. The limp blonde waves, the bare and simple face, the indescribably aching look registering in my eyes. The girl in the mirror doesn’t resemble this girl on paper.  

             
“No,” Rose shakes her head. “Nothing is a problem for you.” Then she laughs and calls me by my new name: Melissa Curele. She even explains to me that it is an anagram of my own name. Not very sneaky, in her opinion, if we are running from the law but amusing nonetheless. I try to imagine living my life under the name Melissa. Somehow it is fitting of the girl with the sophisticated bob and excessive eye make up but it doesn’t match up with the pale faced Miracle Girl from a small town in the west of Scotland. That’s Cassie. 

             
Rose decides to pick me a different outfit for travelling in because my simplistic approach to fashion will be more recognisable to people searching for me. If dad was describing me he would talk about my sandy hair, my vivid blue eyes and my nondescript choice in clothes. The search party would have their eyes peeled for an Arian with a plain tee and ill fitting denim jeans on. If it wasn’t for the fact that my soft jowls, cushiony lips and clumsy demeanour were still in tact I don’t think my dad would even recognise me walking through the airport.

             
After some experimenting, Rose picks a silk shirt, the same colour as the handful of dried apricots I’d eaten with my cereal this morning, and it glimmers when I move and the streaming light from outside hits it. She adds a tight leather skirt which sticks to my thick thighs when I walk and a pair of heels. I’ve never walked in high heels before and I try to convince Rose it isn’t a good idea as I stumble across the bedroom. I have enough trouble staying out of danger without adding six wobbly inches to it. But Rose is persistent that these black stilettos are the perfect touch to my transformation. 

             
“You look fantastic,” she says, looking proud of her creation.

             
“I look like a hooker,” I say, twirling around and watching the light bounce off the glass chandelier on to my shiny blouse. 

             
When I trundle down the stairs with my heavy case, Gabe is pacing back and forth in the hallway. “Come on,” he grabs my bag from my hand and packs it into his car which is parked in the driveway. Rose is following behind me and is telling him off for being so rude to me. He shrugs and I can’t help but notice how breathtaking he looks as he leans against the smooth, polished surface of his car. It’s a ostentatious black sports car and I presume it is a gift from Maurice. Something Gabe resented. But as dazzling as the car is, it is the boy who steals the show. 

             
Today he is wearing his black hair slicked back, like a glamorous movie star from the nineteen-fifties, so I can see the clean lines of his jaw, nose and cheekbones. He has his leather jacket on again even though the weather hasn’t been this pleasant for months. He wears it over lightweight charcoal shirt and black jeans. As usual everything about his body language is building a stony barrier between us.

             
After three days in a house with Rose and Gabe I am no further in discovering what lies beneath Gabe’s bad boy image. While Rose has bloomed and opened up like her namesake in Spring. She talked fondly of the places she has visited and how the opportunities working for a vampire like Maurice has brought her. I have learned about her older brother who was is disabled and needs full time care and since her parents are both dead it is Rose’s job to care for him and it is only through her job with Maurice that she can afford the best care in the country. The way she spoke tenderly of her brother makes me think of dad who gave up his life to put me first. But Gabe. Gabe is a mystery. As rigid and unbreakable as his clenched fists. 

             
Rose is still lecturing him when my mind breaks from my daydream and into reality. “And remember,” she fiddles with the collar of his shirt and I am envious of how good they look together. “Be nice.”

             
“I’m always nice,” he grins. Their faces are at such close proximity now that I could have sworn they were going to kiss. A sight that would be sure to make me squirm. 

             
But Rose just laughs, pats his chest gently and turns to me. She gives me a tight hug and we exchange goodbyes. “I’ll see you in Paris later one today,” she says and there are tears in her voice. She laughs, “Look at me, getting emotional and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

             
“You are truly pathetic, Rosie,” Gabe says, opening my door and ushering me into the passenger seat without actually touching me. I’ve noticed Gabe has an aversion to touching me. No matter how close he gets to me, he is careful never to bump into me or graze hands. Whenever we do we catch eyes and it feels unnatural. 

             
Gabe kisses Rose on the cheek. Showing me a glimpse of the real gentleman that I am waiting to come out around me. The car starts and we are waving goodbye to Rose who looks sad but radiant in a floating floral dress that blends with this delightful Spring day.

             
“Women,” Gabe rolls his eyes. “So emotional.”

             
“I resent that,” I say folding my arms across my chest. “I haven’t cried once since you kidnapped me from my hometown and I lost all contact with my family.”

             
“Sorry about that,” he says in a pitiless voice. Come on and break, I scream silently, you’re going to have to eventually.