Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1) By Jacqueline Abrahams
Acknowledgements
It started as a simple task on a small bucket list, a seemingly unachievable dream. But like all dreams, all they need are wings to fly. Wings and people who believe unequivocally that you can do it. I’d like to thank my husband and two beautiful girls who allowed me to enter my writing zone and ignore the dishes and dirty clothes. Even though this was not a “kid friendly” novel and both my daughters can’t read it for a long while, their excitement at mum’s achievement was unfailing. To my husband who refused to beta read, but did in the end, when he proof read every naughty scene in here! Thanks for that! To all my awesome beta readers, who took the time to read, critique and encourage, especially Kurstie. I hope you know your copious text messages were just the motivation I needed to keep my ass planted at my computer. To Kyla Stein, of Missed Period Editing for Indies, whose advice and services were invaluable at a time where nerves threatened to get the better of me. Absolutely love your work! An angel made me do this, and thank you to Sharon for passing on the message. Your support was awesome at those points where I needed them most. To my babysitters aka parents. They say when you give someone time you are giving them the most important thing you can. So thank you for the time you gave me to write. And finally to the universal forces that had my back. I feel truly blessed.
An angel made me do it…
Chapter 1
Maia
The soaked tarmac feels like jagged rocks pressing into the soles of my feet. The hard raindrops that pelt against my head and skin feel like an endless assault of needles. The torrential weather impairs my view of the road ahead, but somehow I know it’s long, and seemingly never ending. My thin t-shirt and gym pants do nothing to protect me from the torrents. The wind howls like a spirit, floating through the pitch black of the night. I should be scared, not only from the raging storm that I am amidst, but also because I am alone; but that’s precisely why I feel so strangely safe: because I am by myself. A voice, distant yet so clear, repeats my name. “Maia!” It begins as a far off whisper but it becomes closer and louder with each call. The voice is my mother’s; it’s one I would instantly recognize at any pitch. I turn slowly, blinking the rain away from my eyes. Her hand is outstretched to me, and at first I resist the urge to run towards her. I don’t want to go back. I want to escape into the pitch black ahead, except that I can’t leave her out in the cold, wet and alone. I reluctantly turn and walk towards the sound of her voice. My heart sinks as I realize that to go back to her, I have to return home.
* * *
The sunlight filters through my dorm room window. I squint, adjusting my eyes to the bright glare. It’s a typical Providence spring morning. I know I’m late because my roommate’s bed is empty, made to hotel standards with impossibly perfect corners. “Shit,” I mutter to myself and fling my legs over the side of the bed. That dream, that damn dream. It haunts my subconscious and screws up my days. I dream it so often that I casually refer to its aftereffects as my dream hangover. When I wake up, I feel like I’ve been slamming back tequila shots all night. The time on my alarm clock reads 9.30am, which means that I am half an hour late for Comparative Literature. Still, I decide against rushing, since there’s only thirty minutes left of the lecture anyway, and make my way to the bathroom at the end of the hallway.
My shower wakes me up sufficiently to decide against crawling back into bed and continuing the day there. Wrapping my hair in a makeshift towel turban and donning my bathrobe, my shower caddy and I make our way out of the communal bathroom. Halfway down the corridor a shout breaks me out of my daze. “Watch out!” Without thinking, I press my body against the hallway wall and my arms automatically fly up to protect my face, still clutching my caddy. My heart is racing and an all too familiar knot of anxiety has formed in my stomach. When I eventually muster the courage to open my eyes, I’m greeted by a stocky dude carrying a football. “Are you okay?” he asks with obviously feigned concern.
“Fine!” I snap. “But consider playing with your shit outdoors!” I turn on my heel and walk towards my dorm room. I soldier forward indifferently, but my hands shake uncontrollably, ever so slightly, and I swallow repeatedly to quell the nausea that my anxiety has spawned.
Clearly after my disturbed sleep last night, this day is not going to improve at all. I reach my door and strongly consider climbing back into my pajamas and reading Jane Austen until the sun comes up tomorrow. Turning the handle, I realize that I had forgotten to lock the door before my shower. Just as well, because I also forgot to take my key. “Oh shit!” I yelp as I’m greeted by the sight of an unknown male seated on my roommate, Jade’s previously crease-free bed. The male’s face is a mixture of shock and amusement, although the glare I give him should shake him out of his reverie and should send the strongest of men running for the nearest hills.
“You’re not Jade.” That’s all he says. No sorry for scaring the shit out of you or you may be curious as to why I’m in your room.
“Well obviously not,” I retort. I’m well beyond the ability to fake pleasantries today. I haven’t had my morning coffee yet. “What the hell are you doing in here, and why?” I snap.
The guy stands, and I notice the crease he leaves on Jade’s bed. Little Miss OCD is going to be slightly pissed about that, but to my surprise, before answering me he turns to spread out the offending wrinkles with his hands. He obviously knows Jade well. In the four months that Jade and I have known each other, I’ve never seen a guy on her side of the room. I’ve never actually seen a guy with her at all. This may well be her new man. As he is perfecting the bedding, my eyes can’t help but do a once over of his body. He’s tall, maybe about six foot two, with skin the color of perfectly cooked caramel, and his dark hair is cut in a neat crew cut with impeccable lines. As he angles his body to skim the bed’s edge back to its earlier neatness, I notice that his arms flex tightly under his white t-shirt. His frame is lean and athletic, and I can just make out a tattoo on his left bicep, and another of a musical note on his neck. His ass looks equally impressive in his distressed blue jeans. I’m careful to avert my eyes back to his face and resume my steely gaze before he turns back to face me.