Starless Nights (Hale Brothers Series Book 2) (18 page)

Today, I got up and went about my normal day; practice with Nate, then to class, but now . . . the rest of the day is mine.

Taking the subway over to midtown, I get off at the 42
nd
street stop, and walk up into Times Square.

It’s here that I can be no one in the midst of everyone.

Drew once mentioned how he always felt like he had to wear a mask around people to keep up the perfect appearance. Well, I wore mine but for a different reason. Who wants people to know that they mean so little to someone, that they’re used as a personal punching bag?

Getting lost in the crowds here, it’s so easy. They say that Times Square is one of the most visited places in the world, and it’s because of this that I’ve found a place where I can hide, and still be in plain sight.

In a park, at the beach, on a regular street, any of these types of places, people are relaxing and looking around to see what others are doing. I mean who hasn’t laid on the beach at some point and stared at the people walking by? But here, in this part of the city, that usually doesn’t happen.

There are always so many people here from so many different parts of the world, that people watching gives me an escape. It’s watching them look around in wonder, it’s watching them laugh, and it’s watching them be happy with friends and family. I don’t pretend that I’m someone else or that I was given a different life. These are the cards that I was dealt, but seeing that there are other ways to live . . . that gives me hope.

A billboard for HBO catches my eye and it is advertising a fight between two boxers. I know that boxing is a huge sport and a lot of people really enjoy it, but after being on the receiving end of a fist for so long, I just couldn’t do it.

Or maybe I could
. It’s this thought that frightens me on a pretty regular basis.

My mother hates snakes. She is so afraid of them, that the closer she is to one, the more she panics.

We had this one that was living under the front porch, but for some reason it would come up and sun bathe. Mom would open the front door, see the snake, and by the way she screamed you would have thought someone was trying to pry off her fingernails.

One afternoon, Matt and I had just come in from a run and there it was. Something had happened earlier that day, I don’t remember what it was, but I was in a bad mood, and seeing it made me snap. I walked into the garage, grabbed a large flat-head shovel, and then proceeded to swing the shovel as hard as I could to kill that snake.

Matt watched in horror.

Dad must have heard the noise and came outside. From behind me, I heard clapping and his laugh. The same laugh that haunts my dreams.

Every time, his laugh creeps up my spine and makes the hairs on my arms stand straight up. It’s not a normal laugh. It has this evil sinister cadence to it.

“Well well well, what do we have here?”

I turn to face him. We’ve all been taught that when he speaks, to give him our undivided attention. His face was covered in a condescending smirk and his eyes were lit up. If I believed in paranormal beings, I would say they almost look like they are glowing.

“Maybe you are my son after all . . .” He laughs again and then looks over to Matt, “but don’t worry, you aren’t.” Then he wandered back into the house.

Fear settled into the pit of my stomach and I felt like ice water had just been thrown on me. For years, I always thought to myself that I could never treat anyone the way he treats us, but what if I could? He’s right. I am his son. As much as I wanted to ignore it, the expression, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” comes to mind.

Mom decided after dad went to jail last year that she was finally going to step in and try to fix the years and years of damage that had been done. She took us to some family counselor and in a typical professional setting, this person asked questions that immediately hit to the core of me. Of course we are the stereotypical abuse family, and she was educated on how to help us move forward, but to hear her verbalize my fears as if they were an everyday normal thing, it just bothered me because to me, the things that I felt and experienced, aren’t normal.

I listened to her talk about how abused kids hardly ever grow up to be abusers themselves. It’s all just a myth that is usually created by the abuser in hopes to create fear and doubt in the child. She said that most children grow up to be kind, loving, and the best parents because they have this fierce motivation to protect those that they love.

The only person I have ever truly loved is Leila. Walking through the streets, people bump into me, but I just don’t care. Block after block, my feet keep moving. They have a one track mind and that’s to get to her. The need to see her is so overwhelming, there’s a lump in my chest that is pushing on my heart.

By the time I reach the café, the sun has dropped behind me and my reflection on the windows bounces back at me. I can’t see in to see if she is there, and I take this as a sign. A sign that I shouldn’t be seeing her, shouldn’t be thinking about her, and in general I should be remembering that everyone is moving on.

Letting out a sigh, I turn, walk away from the café, and head around the corner to my loft.

Tossing my keys on the counter, I toe off my shoes, and walk straight to the couch. Without even turning the T.V. on, I flop down on the spot where she sat and close my eyes.

I’m tired—physically and emotionally.

There’s a loud knocking on the door that wakes me up. Wandering over and peeking through the eyehole I come face to face with a messenger kid. Throwing the door open, the kid looks me over from head to toe. I get it, I’m tall, thick through the arms, chest, shoulders, and can come across as intimidating.

“Are you Beau Hale?” he asks as he swallows.

“Yes.”

“Sign here, please.” He lifts a small clipboard. I sign next to my name. He hands me an envelope and runs off.

The envelope is black with three silver letters embossed in the middle on the front, BLK.

Inside is an all-black invitation with the same silver script. It is to attend BLK’s premier show at the end of Fashion Week. The show is invitation only, and three quarters of the way down I see why I have received this—highlighting our “Rising Designer” of the year, Leila Starling.

A surge of pride fills me. She has worked so hard for this and for so long. The number of doors that will probably open for her after this will be unlimited.

Walking over to the refrigerator, I hang the invitation. I am a little surprised that she invited me but if she wants me there then I will be there. After all, I’ve never been able to tell her no.

AFTER THE ANNOUNCEMENT of the “Rising Designer,” a representative from the BLK label called and offered me the use of a vacant studio. Honestly, I had been tossing around the idea of looking for a separate place to work, and this couldn’t have come at a more opportune time.

The warehouse is located a few blocks from the school, so ideally this is perfect. Inside the warehouse, it’s broken down into individual design studios. One whole wall is made up of windows, allowing as much natural light as possible into the room.

Charlie was over the moon with the new space and immediately ran out and found a few signature pieces to complete the space and make it mine. He always thinks one step ahead and knew that eventually people would be stopping by to see what I am working on. And also, inside the studio, the models would need a place to change.

My favorite of the pieces he brought in is a chandelier. It looks vintage, Victorian, and he hung it right in the middle of the room. It’s huge and covered in crystals and mirrors. At night, the light bounces off of the ceiling, and although they are just tiny reflections, I feel like I am under the stars.

“Have I told you how much I love this space?” he says.

“Yes you have,” I giggle at Charlie as he takes in every detail of the room. “I can’t believe that they offered it to me and at such a good price too.”

“They must see something great in you . . . I’ve always said one day you’d be famous.”

“I don’t know about famous, but I’ve had a lot of fun doing this, and that’s what matters, right?”

“Absolutely. So these are your selections for the show?”

Against the inside wall of the studio, I have ten mannequins on one side of the door and ten on the other. This keeps them out of the sunlight and also gives me the ability to wander back and forth between them for any last minute changes. They should probably be zipped up tight in garment bags, but I’m a visual girl and I need them on display.

“I think so. I’ve been staring at them for the last week wondering if I should do anything more or less with them.” Walking over I finger the sheer batiste cover-up for the first model. I had spent the last three months trying to decide on the perfect embroidery that would enhance not only the figure of the person wearing it, but also the swimsuit underneath, and I couldn’t be more pleased with how it turned out.

“I think that you should leave them. They look perfect to me. The stitching and beading is exquisite, and the patterns and colors make them desirable for any body type. I mean who wouldn’t want to wear these?”

“You always know how to make me smile.” And he really does. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without him over the last year and half. Most graduate from high school and go off to college not knowing anyone, and even though I have Ali and Drew, being here in the city has always been a bit overwhelming and intimidating. I’m just so thankful for Charlie. He makes everything better.

“Show me what you plan on wearing.” Charlie walks over to one of the two oversized plush velvet purple chairs that he found and sits down.

I walk to the back, open the closet doors, and pull out a silver, strapless, knee length dress.

“So, who all have you invited?”

“No one really. Just you, Ali, and Drew.”

“I see.”

I know that he’s curious about Beau, but I can’t talk about him. Walking behind the tri-fold screen, I slip on the dress and step out. Charlie’s eyes grow soft and he smiles.

He pauses before saying, “You look stunning in that dress.”

“Thank you. Do you like the sweetheart neckline?”

“Very much, it accentuates all of your
beautiful
curves perfectly. What jewelry are going to accent it with?”

My fingers drift to my neck and run across my collarbone. Standing in front of the three way mirror, the thought of the necklace stalls me, and behind me I no longer see the studio, but I’m standing in my front doorway of my home on Anna Maria Island.