Try again, p.1
Try Again, page 1
Try Again
Haley Pierce
Published by Haley Pierce, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
TRY AGAIN
First edition. November 19, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Haley Pierce.
Written by Haley Pierce.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
PREVIEW OF “UNSPOILED: VIRGIN AND BAD BOY BOXSET”
STALK ME HERE!
Chapter One
Ana
What a bunch of pretentious idiots.
I’m standing in the lobby of the Seaborne Country Club, and I’ve never seen anything so gross. All these people, with their fancy cars and expensive duds, trying to outdo each other. I’m surprised they don’t whip out their checkbooks and compare bank accounts.
And they’re all scowling at me.
As if I’m an insect that somehow infiltrated their lofty walls.
In my mind, I hear the song: One of these things is not like the others.
I scan the gleaming chandeliers, the outer walls made of windows that are designed to let the gorgeous seascape in, the photos of various pretty scenes from around town, and wonder how long I have until they toss me out with the rest of the trash.
Then I look down at my ratty tennis dress. I don’t play tennis, not by a long shot. But I got this dress on sale at WalMart on the mainland about eight years ago, which was, coincidentally, when I stopped growing height-wise. Now it’s a lot tighter over my breasts and a little worse for wear, but it does the trick, meaning, it covers all the body parts that need to be covered. My sneakers are dirty—bordering on too dirty, but I figure they’ve got at least another year in them.
Well, that's what I thought. Until I came here and realized I’m the only speck of dirt in the place.
I wait for one of the staff at the front desk to take pity on me and ask me if I need help. They don’t. They ignore me, probably waiting for me to realize my mistake and hightail it over to the public beach up north in Slumside, the place where most of the Virginia coastline’s riff-raff is now successfully contained.
Finally, I approach a woman with a smart blonde bob and a business suit. A business suit at the beach? What a horror. She has a gold placard on her chest that says GLADYS. Busy with something I can’t see on the podium in front of her, she holds up a finger when I open my mouth.
I wait patiently, as a little girl who can’t be more than four just walks by me wearing real diamond studs and a sneer that says she already knows she’s better than me.
She’s come too close. Her mother sweeps in and snatches her away, giving me a glare as if I was trying to woo the little girl into my white van with a puppy. Geez, lady, I didn’t even talk to her!
Finally, Gladys, the lady behind the podium, looks up. She frowns. “The public beach is two miles North. Follow Ocean Ave until you see the signs for Wayside,” she drones in a monotone.
Yes, I know that. I was born in Seaborne. Bred in Seaborne. Seaborne, actually, used to be a blue-collar town, and quiet little enclave where the working-class could have their teensy slice of beach. That is, until about thirty years ago, when the chemical plant downtown closed down. Then, the rich found it, and started buying up the little bungalows only to tear them down and build hulking monstrosities. Each one is bigger and higher than the next, all competing for that view of the pristine Virginia coastline.
The Seaborne Country Club has occupied the southern end of Seaborne’s stretch of beach since I can remember, but I’ve never actually been here.
With good reason, I’m realizing. Why roll out the welcome mat? I’m probably frightening all the billionaire-types away. “Actually, I’m—”
“You’re too late if you’re looking for a summer job. All those positions were filled in May.”
God forbid. If I worked here, I’d probably have to wear a suit, like her. I bet even the lifeguards wear suits. I’d rather die.
“I, um, actually,” I mutter, twisting my hands in front of me, something I always do when I’m nervous. “I’m looking for the dining room.”
She raises an eyebrow and checks behind the podium again, for what, I don’t know. Her voice drips condescension. “Are you a member here, sweetie?”
I shake my head. “I’m looking for my brother. Trent Bellamy.”
“Bellamy?” she asks loudly, checking behind the podium.
I feel heads behind me, turning. I look and see a face from the past, glaring at me. Sandra Brighton, my biggest tormentor, all through my younger years.
Oh, god.
She’s sitting in this little area of the lobby that’s made to look like a living room, with spindly, uncomfortable-looking sofas atop a plush oriental rug, surrounding a giant fireplace. She has two robotically well-behaved children at her lap and looks like she just stepped off a Better Homes magazine cover.
Her father was my mother’s most frequent client.
“Anastasia?” she asks in sing-song. “Anastasia Bellamy?”
She’s up now, walking toward me. I’m cornered, thinking of how she drowned my one and only Barbie in the second-grade toilets when I was seven. She had to have been . . . what, nine? But already she’d been showing signs of a pathological sadist. Then, in high school, she went and slept with Dalton, only to totally break his heart when he asked her to his prom. Dalton absolutely adored her, even so, her and her tiny waist and big boobs and lush blonde curls.
I hate her.
Still, after all these years. “Hi, Sandra,” I say, voice stiff.
“Oh, my gosh, I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been hiding yourself? What are you doing here?” She looks around, maybe for the security she expects will come and escort me out. Her eyes scan my dress. “You’re sure looking . . . uh, nice.”
Sure I am.
She knew about my mother. In fact, she was the one who broke it to my entire sixth grade class when I didn’t even really know what a prostitute was. I wasn’t exactly popular before then, since I didn’t have the latest toys or fashion, but that pretty much sealed my fate as outcast.
It wasn’t until freshman year when I found out that her father and my mother were “acquainted”. Very well acquainted, in fact. I can still remember the way he leered at me when I’d gotten up in the middle of the night to fetch a glass of water. He’d been smoking a cigarette on the back stoop. He came in, his eyes scraping over my nipples pressing through my thin tank top, and whispered, “Are you as horny a slut as your momma?”
I got the feeling if I’d said yes, he would’ve fucked me, right there. I was fourteen, for god’s sake. For all their outward perfection, the Brightons are a whole family of people who are not-quite-right in the head.
Not that the rest of this town is much better.
I’d never told a soul about that night. Turned out, I didn’t have to. The honorable Mr. Samuel Brighton, Esquire and my mother were arrested three weeks later on the mainland, in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen, for having sex in public. Since he was Attorney General of the State of Virginia, news travelled fast.
A great example of how money doesn’t buy happiness. These people may look like they have it all, but I call foul on that fake, perfect smile of hers. “It’s great to see you. You’re looking great.”
She looks down at herself. “Oh, this old thing?” Her dress probably just came off a mannequin somewhere. “I’m dying for a shopping spree in New York but I can’t seem to break the kids’ schedules! Swim lessons, fencing, soccer, you name it! Rawley and Genevieve really excel in their activities.”
I look over at the kids. They can’t be more than five years old. The boy is sucking his thumb. They are both blonde catalog models, the girl with ringlets, the boy in a bow tie. “They’re cute,” I say.
And . . . that’s where the conversation ends.
I’ve done a good job of avoiding her in this little town, just sticking to my regular routine. I don’t really want to tell her why I’m here, because it’ll open a can of worms. I could ask her about what she’s been up to, about her kids, or her rich husband, Seaborne High School’s biggest asshole, Rick Taunton, but . . . I don’t care. Not in the least.
I start to turn back to the lady at the podium when she says, “Are you working here this summer?”
“No.” I stiffen and say, “I’m here for lunch.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” She leans forward as if imparting a great secret to me, but her voice is just as loud, if not louder when she says, “You know you have to be a member here for that?”
I nod. “I’m meeting a member.”
Her eyes widen. Don’t ask who, don’t ask who, don’t ask who.
“Who?”
I force a smile. “My brother.”
Her jaw drops. “Your . . . you mean Trent?”
Yeah. Did I have any othe r brothers, dumbass? I nod.
“Oh! He’s back?” She scans the lobby. I don’t know if she thinks he’s hiding under the sofa. “And he must have recently become a member?”
I nod. Unfortunately.
“So he’s doing well for himself. We’re all so very proud of him,” she gushes. “I follow the stories about the famous Bellamy-Ward duo in the newspaper.”
Right, you weren’t so very proud when you were treating him like a piece of garbage all through grade school. In fact, I think the exact words you painted in nail polish on his locker were Die, Gutter Punk, Die.
“Is his business partner here, too, do you know?” she asks casually.
Of course she’d ask about him.
“No. He’s still back in California, I guess.” I check my phone. I’m ten minutes early for the reservation. “I’ve got to go. I’m late for—“
“Where is he? You know I always thought a lot about your brother. I’d love to say—“
“Ladies.”
I exhale. Great timing as always, Trent.
I turn to my brother. All six-foot five of him. I haven’t seen him in three years, and even then, it was for just a short stint after he finished his MBA. By then, KillBuzz Guitars was already growing into a mega-billion-dollar operation. Since getting his Master’s, he’s been in southern California, adding to his empire. He’s gotten rid of the shaggy blonde hair. That lanky form has filled out, and he’s become more of a man. And . . . what’s with the suit?
Oh, god. Has he become one of them?
“Trent!” Sandra exclaims, giving him a hug. “It’s so great to see you back here. We were just talking about you.”
Trent raises his eyebrows comically. “All good things, I’m sure.”
I just stare, mouth agog, as they continue to converse like old friends. He speaks so confidently. Does he not remember the night they set our garbage cans on fire? And the way the girls treated him— like he were good for a roll in the hay, or to get them high, but not for a serious relationship? The good girls always went for the bad boys, when they weren’t keeping up appearances with their Ivy League boyfriends. He was always a second-class citizen to them.
I want to smack him.
Then Sandra says, “Well, you and Rick should play a few rounds of golf this summer. Rick’s a big guitar aficionado himself. Has two of yours. He’d love to get back in touch.”
My stomach roils. Trent nods. “Sure. Tell him to give me a call.”
They hug again, and she gives him, of all things, two air kisses, one on each cheek.
Ugh.
“Great seeing you, Anastasia!” she says, taking the chubby hands of her children and walking off.
Doesn’t matter how mad I am at Trent right now. The second I’m alone with him we hug each other tightly.
“I missed you so much,” I whisper in his ear, tears spilling from my eyes. “You’re . . . you’re so amazing looking!”
“Aw. Sis.” When we separate, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a linen handkerchief, which he hands to me. I’m a crier. I can’t help it. It’s expected I’ll get weepy for mostly any situation, but . . . a linen handkerchief? My brother was never so fancy. He once wore the same ratty Metallica T-shirt all summer long.
When I finish wiping my eyes, I swipe at his perfect lapels. They’re splattered with my tears. “Oh, gosh. I went and got you all messy.”
He waves it away. “Fuck that. Dribble snot all over me, girl. That’s what dry cleaners are for.”
“Dry cleaners?” I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t even know what an iron was until a few years ago.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t let this suit fool you. Two hours from now we’re hitting the waves. Hope you got your surfboard ready.”
I grin. There’s the old Trent I know and love. “Yes! Got yours, too.”
“I brought a new one with me,” he says proudly. “All the way from SoCal.”
“What? Why? You loved your old one.”
Or at least, I thought he did. But I guess he has more expensive tastes now, judging from the fact that we’re eating at this place instead of sharing McNuggets.
He looks at the woman behind the podium. “Hello, Grace,” he says.
She nods, giving him a warm smile. “Mr. Bellamy.”
He motions me down a long, glass-walled hallway, flanked with conference rooms with tables and gilded chandeliers. I stumble after him, gawking too much, and nearly smack into his back when he stops at the restaurant in the back of the clubhouse. “Hello Donovan,” he says. He’s been back . . . what? A day? How does he know all these people? “I have a reservation for three today.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Three?” I ask, stiffening.
Wait. He can’t possibly mean . . .
I whirl around. Then he says it. The name that can make every single pore on my body stand at attention.
“Dalton Ward’s joining us. You remember him?”
I swallow. Do I remember him? If ever a person can be tattooed on my psyche, it’s Dalton. Funny, I’d always been so obsessed with Trent’s best friend and business partner that I thought I’d just automatically sense when he crossed the state line into Virginia again. “What . .. what is he doing here?”
“Same thing I am. Lunch.” He looks at the woman in the suit and says, “Our number three is always late. You can show us to our table.”
The man nods, plucking the menus from the counter and motioning for us to follow. He leads us to a white-clothed table and pulls out a chair for me. Meanwhile, I’m thinking of Dalton. Dalton. Smolderingly sexy, the heavy looks he’d give me through a thick, shaggy curtain of inky hair were enough to make my entire teenage life worthwhile.
God. I’m twenty-three now. I’m not a little girl. I should be able to think of Dalton Ward, see him, have a civil meal with him, without getting my panties in a wad. Chill, Ana. Just chill.
As I sit, I behold a glorious view of white sand, giving way to the ocean. Huh. I’ve seen this ocean every day of my life, but from here, it’s different. It looks like a picture postcard, almost too pristine. I prefer the natural beauty of the Cove so much more.
The man drops a starched white napkin and an open menu into my lap. “Okay. Lunch. But I don’t know what you’re doing here here. On the east coast. You never told me. When you told me you were coming, I just thought you were visiting. But then . . . why did you join the country club? Are you moving back?”
He looks up from his menu and grins. “Yep.”
“You are?” I nearly jump from my seat. “Really?”
He nods.
“Oh, god. This is the best news ever,” I squeal, jumping on the cushioned chair like a three year old. I clap my hands. “You’re not joking?”
“Nope.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Relax. Was it really that bad without me?”
“You have no idea,” I sigh, relief washing over me. And just like that, the tears come back. Just a few. But Trent notices. He reaches out a hand to me.
“Hey, Ana. Take it easy.”
I don’t blame him for leaving me, but when he did, I was left utterly alone. For the past ten years, since he left, it’s been the same old thing. Total isolation. That was when my mother died. At that point, we found out she’d kept a life-insurance policy. We ended up with fifty-thousand dollars, most of which we put into Trent’s schooling, and her shack on Seaborne Cove. When Trent’s business started turning a profit, he started asking if I needed money, but I told him no. I don’t want his charity. I’ve been stretching dollars to make it last, and have even taken to painting portraits of the rich to make ends meet. But I have never, ever fit into this community. I’m the blackest sheep of Seaborne, the riffraff they all wish would just move away.
I find myself crying even more, tears scattering over my cheeks, and the linen handkerchief comes out again. I cry until it’s a sopping mess, as Trent watches, a half uncomfortable, half endearing smile on his face. “Geez, Ana,” he says. “I’m sorry. I thought you were happy.”
“I am. I’m good,” I say, blowing my nose so loudly that people at the tables nearby turn to look at me, frowning. “I mean. I have the cottage. I have my art. You know I was always a loner. I just really missed having family around, you know?”
He nods. “Yeah. Well, now you’ll have the two of us.”
