Delusive
Authors: Courtney Lane
DELUSIVE
By: courtney lane
To V, former drag-racer, perfect model of a good alpha-male, former dare devil, and my inspiration every day. I love you dearly, and I hope to (someday soon) publish the book you've been waiting for.
To Mrs. McCarthy: You never knew it, but you helped me to discover the truth about myself. I’m sorry for all I put you through due to my adolescent confusion. You were an angel when I was in a very dark place, and wherever you are, I hope the world is treating you well.
Copyright © 2015 by Courtney Lane
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
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Edited By:
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Kristen Switzer
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Proofread By:
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Annmarie Caprio-Belal
Emma Keating
Portuguese Translations Completed By: Sandra Filipe and João Faria
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Altered Images Courtesy Of: iStock Images
Cover Artist: Courtney Lane
ONE
THE MORNING SUN HEATED my cheek, pulling me awake. One eye peeped open, taking in the amber-hazed room full of unpacked moving boxes, surrounding the only thing I cared to put together last night: my bed. Moving with my father to a new home at the age of twenty-seven was a jagged pill to swallow. It became a depressing necessity I couldn’t circumvent. My biggest reservation? If the reason we were here was a success, my wait for autonomy would be lengthened.
It was easier to stomach after remembering the crime committed against someone important to me. Upon making the decision to move, my father wanted me to live with him for my protection. He wasn’t fully aware that my prime reason for agreeing was due to his protection and not mine.
As I sat up in bed, the smell of fresh ground coffee made me smile. It meant my father had finally unpacked his espresso machine, ensuring the availability of freshly ground coffee.
I checked the time, hoping I wasn’t late for the job I’d applied for online and interviewed through Skype to obtain. My new position, as a retail associate, was a far cry from the job I once held. I’d had many professions in my short working career; my last was as an office manager for a large architectural firm in New York. As much as I enjoyed my job, my duty complicated things, forcing me to resign and come to central California with my father.
The retail job seemed easy enough, and one of the women who interviewed me helped in making my decision. We got along right away, chatting as if we’d known one another for years. It was high on my list of priorities to get to know her better, and it might have been the reason I accepted the job offer in the first place.
After showering and preparing for my first day at work, I met my father downstairs.
In a daze, he stared out of the picture window in the kitchen at the lush green grass sandwiched between densely packed trees. The house was located on a golf course inside a gated community, twenty miles northwest of Santa Maria. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he said, his voice distant. “I’ll have to get a rider to tame all of that land. The broker said our water bill will be pretty high in order to keep it this way.”
We’d bounced around different areas of the country, occasionally spending a short while in international locations. No matter where we went, we hadn’t had a yard as huge as the one we currently have. “You always said you wanted a real yard.”
“I could’ve moved anywhere for that,” he countered with an almost tangible distance in his voice. The distance became cutting when he added, “If I’d had a choice in where we lived.”
I grinned at him in an effort to cheer him up. Behind his eyes was something profoundly sad. The father in front of me was very different than the one I grew up with. A tragedy transformed him into an emotionally fragile man, and at times, volatile. When he fell into his darker moods, he was liable to drift into a space only I could get him out of.
The relationship between my parents was very complicated. While my mother and father never married, my mother took several husbands in rapid succession after their break-up. For some reason or another, my parents weren’t able to stay away from each other. According to my father, they had an ongoing affair during each of my mother’s marriages; my father admitted he wasn’t proud of his adulterous practices. There were many details I couldn’t recall about their past together, and the affair counted as one of the many.
In another life, my father was the District Manager of a family-owned chain of grocery stores. He resigned to play the part of the stay-at-home father while my mother spent many weeks and weekends traveling on the road.
Their relationship ended when my mother found her first husband, a wealthy man, to help sponsor her career. My father made it clear to me that my mother was still in love with him, but stressed she preferred money, her duty, and her profession over love and her children. Although it was her first marriage, it wouldn’t be her last. No matter whom she married, she made sure her family benefited financially. On the eve of my mother’s accident, the money my mother funneled into my father’s account, unfortunately, ran out.
“I can help with the finances, Dad,” I offered.
Waking out of his daze, my father eyed me carefully. “You’re not supposed to worry about those things. It’s enough that you pay for the home health nurses.”
“I’m going to pay rent,” I protested, slightly offended that he continued to view me as a child instead of a twenty-seven-year-old adult. “I won’t live with you without contributing to more of the bills.”
“I won’t accept it,” he rebuffed my offer with a growing edge to his tone. “Not in this case. We’re protecting each other. I’m hopeful things will go better this time and we won’t be scrounging for money for long. We’ll make up for what we failed to do the first time.”
I looked at the black granite countertop in the kitchen, aching to grab the steaming cup of coffee waiting for me. If a discussion was had, a disagreement would occur, and it wasn’t how I wanted to start my first day at La Dentelle.
Noting the time, I hurriedly drank my coffee. The mall was a good thirty-minute drive away; if I didn’t leave now, I would fail to arrive on time.
My father picked up his cell phone and followed me into the foyer. “What’s your manager's name again?”
“Claudia.” Supporting myself with the wall nearest to the door, I slipped on my dark red stilettos. “Dad? Give us some slack. We’re going to be okay here.”
He raised a bushy black brow at me, and his dark brown eyes became filled with alarm. “I have a reason to worry about you. Don’t forget that.”
“Roth is in a hospital getting the care he needs.” I regretted the unfiltered statement upon seeing my father’s reaction. The color drained from his deep brown complexion.
I knew the look well. He was reliving the night we lost our home to a fire, and he nearly lost something more precious to him than the house. Roth, my ex-boyfriend, set fire to the master bedroom and nearly killed my father. I wasn’t home at the time.
Reaching down, he tentatively touched the burn scars on his muscular forearm. “He should’ve been put in jail.”
His comment usually began an argument neither of us won. We never raised our voices at one another. Instead, we’d go back and forth about whether or not my ex-boyfriend was malicious or mentally disturbed. While I placed the fault with myself, he blamed Roth’s genetics.
On my end, it was a completely loveless relationship. My inability to feel for Roth became a unique benefit. My full out rejection of his touch drove him crazy. I could never disclose my reasons to him; we weren’t together due to coincidence or fate. Roth served a purpose, and I wouldn’t cheapen my mission by giving him a part of me to help obtain an objective. I never worked that way and hoped I would never be in a situation where I had to change my personal mantra.
Roth’s erratic behavior forced me to constantly back-pedal and divert him when things became too hostile. In the midst of utilizing him for an important goal, things fell apart. My manipulation of Roth initiated a chain of events I hadn’t expected.
After all, Roth was the reason we fled here; a place my father feared coming due to the man who resided in the town. Torn between the revenge my father wanted and the safety of me, his youngest daughter, he doubted our plans. He wanted to give up after I failed the first time. He was concerned that what we’d planned to do once we came to town would prove more dangerous than anticipated, rendering an outcome worse than the disaster I created with Roth.
Optimistically, my misstep wasn’t something I would allow to become a deterrent. The brutal loss of my mother—witnessing her accident and reliving it in my mind—became my reserve fuel when I thought I’d begun to run on empty.
My father and Holden, my older sister, barely spoke to each other. Holden fiercely guarded her privacy and remained wherever her job took her. Currently, she was in Syracuse, New York. Holden married her girlfriend several months ago, and neither my father nor I received an invitation. Holden was always very vocal about her discontent; she felt our father had become overbearing after my mother’s accident. She also feared my father’s insanity would seep into my mind and take away my grip on reality. Needless to say, Holden wasn’t a part of our plans.
I couldn’t fault my sister for her opinions. My situation was, at times, tough to accept. I carried the heavy torch of my duty—the weight of the crimes committed against my family—waiting for the perfect opportunity to throw the lit torch and set fire to an empire.
Giving my father a kiss on the cheek, I opened the front door, intending to make my way to work.
“They make you dress a little too provocatively,” my father stated nervously from behind me.
Pausing with my hand on the gold handle of the mahogany front door, I flashed him a look from over my shoulder, alarmed by his statement. I looked down at what I decided to wear for the day: a skater skirt, which reached mid-thigh, and a black chiffon button-up blouse.
Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned in the archway separating the foyer from the formal dining room. “I’m sorry,” he whispered with his eyes cast down. “You’ll excuse me if I’m a little shell-shocked.” His lips trembled as he fought the urge to become a victim to his emotions. It was fruitless—large wells of moisture filled his eyes.
