Bookish Princess Read online

  “It’s over, Bella. It never even started. Take your pity and stay the fuck away from me. You’re too late.”

  I should tell him to shut up or kiss him to stop the spite pouring from his seductive mouth, but instead; I take one last look at his menacing gaze and run.

  Past his parents who plead with me to stop, past the hospital entrance and I don’t stop until I reach my car and lock myself inside. Hot tears fall as I speed onto the highway, toward who the fuck knows where, and they don’t stop until I reach the beach.

  It isn’t my chosen destination. I just somehow wound up here. Getting out of the car, I smash the door shut and yank off my sparkly Manalo Blahnik sandals and pace forward onto the golden sand. My hair is loose and blows wildly in the wind. I don’t attempt to stop it; I need to feel something real.

  I walk until I can’t see the car anymore, and the waves lap over my toes. The water feels cool, as it isn’t a particularly warm day, but it sobers me. My thoughts are overwhelming. Wiping fresh tears from my face on the cuff of my pink Kenzo sweater, I smudge mascara all over the cuff and don’t care one bit. Stupid designer jumper.

  Glancing behind me, I cast my eyes over the dazzling Camelot University and in all its gloriously carved stone; I don’t see a single ounce of beauty.

  Taking out my phone, I open up my trusted writing app, and slam a bunch of new words into the keyboard. With trembling fingers and not a single doubt in my mind, I create a new poem. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been inspired to do so, but they do say emotions breed creativity so here goes nothing;

  Loving others can never be done

  If loving yourself isn’t priority number one

  Put self-love above all

  Without it, all other love will fall

  When you are beautiful as can be

  Why would you choose not to be free?

  Loving yourself is the hardest thing

  But focus on all the happiness it will bring

  When you look inside rather than out

  You will find what you need, without a doubt

  Stop looking to others for what you need

  You already have the strength to succeed

  Take pride every day in who you are

  It’s you that got you this far

  Easier said than done, I know

  But self-love is the only way to go. B.B (Age 20)

  That’s it.

  I am finally done pretending.

  I drop my sandals to the ground and cover them over with sand until they disappear completely.

  Imogen Thomas is no more.

  I make my way back to the car, barefoot and not giving a shit. Let someone else find them and walk in the footprints of Imogen Thomas.

  It’s time Bella Buckland finds her place in this world.

  Because Hunter.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hunter

  They came and went. My parents. Pete. A couple of friends. All of them drifting in and out of my room, willing me to come down and spend some time with them. All I’ve wanted to do since leaving the hospital is go back to my bachelor pad, yet here I am, like a teenager cooped up at my parent’s place.

  Let’s be honest, even if they stop fussing and let me go back home, I can’t. Won’t. The habitat I’d created and filled with all my beloved boxing memorabilia had brought me so much happiness and hope. Now, it only reminds me of everything I’ve lost.

  Because fucking Bella.

  Okay, don’t hate me. I know it’s not entirely my ex’s fault, but she’s certainly no angel.

  Ex.

  Ex what?

  Ex-enemy?

  Ex-frenemy?

  Ex-nothing?

  How am I cut up about losing her if she’s nothing to me in the first place? I toss open my sketch book and shade in her hairline on the new portrait I drew of her. The image of her face the last time I saw her is branded across my soul. Her gorgeous brown eyes studying mine, her tiny rosebud lips about to tell me something. Maybe even that she loves me.

  I’ve wanted her love for so long and been so goddamn desperate for it, I would have accepted it in any form. But not like that. Back there at the hospital, even if she gave it to me, I wasn’t stupid enough to realize it would have been for all the wrong reasons.

  I run a hand through my hair in frustration and let out a sigh. If there is any hope left for my woman to finally be with me, like she belongs; then it has to be of her own free will. That’s why I haven’t contacted her. Not even to say sorry for the way I spoke to her.

  Zilch. Zip.

  If she wants to fight for us, then that’s up to her, and as expected; so far, I haven’t heard a peep.

  I close the sketch pad when I hear someone coming upstairs. Guessing it’s my dad, I call out from the safety of my bed where I’ve been wallowing in my own self-pity for almost a week.

  “Not in the mood.”

  A few moments later, he bursts through the door regardless. Nice to know I’m listened to.

  “Mood or not, Bella’s brother is here to see you and I’m not turning a kid who’s wheeled himself here to see your mopey-ass, away.”

  “Romeo is here? Downstairs?”

  “That’s right. So, get your ass out of bed and go show him some respect. Who knows? Maybe you can show yourself some while you’re at it.” He finishes with an eye roll just to make the point.

  “Jesus, what’s rattled your cage?” I ask, putting one foot on the floor and dragging my bad leg around to meet it.

  “You, son. Shutting yourself away like this… it’s not right.” His voice is full of despair.

  I’ve never stopped to think about what anyone else thought about my situation; I just assumed they all agreed I was a worthless piece of shit who gave away his shot at the big time for a chick.

  “You see those two things right there?” He motions toward my legs. “As far as I can see, they’re still in full working order, yet you’re acting like you’ve had ‘em both friggin’ amputated. That kid down there has to wheel himself around for the rest of his life. Get some fuckin’ perspective and suck it up, Hunter. It was one fight; it doesn’t have to be define the rest of your career. You think Tyson never got an injury? Or Mayweather? You see them quittin’ at the first hurdle?”

  He isn’t asking for an answer, so I don’t give him one, and we stare each other down in silence, giving us both a chance to digest his words.

  He shakes his head and walks away as though giving up on me, but based on what he just said, the family clearly still thinks I have a fighting chance. Pun intended.

  I take the stairs slowly and carefully, still unable to bear any real weight on my injured leg. The pain is excruciating, but the wound itself is knitting together well, according to my Mom who has cleaned it for me every day with her special concoction of garlic, aloe, and fuck knows what else. It leaves me smelling like cat vomit but works, so I don’t care.

  Romeo waits for me in the living room, and Mom has miraculously managed to clear everyone out so we could talk man to man without the usual carnage my siblings created, interfering.

  “Romeo, you didn’t have to come. How’s it going?”

  “I didn’t come for small talk, H. I came because I had to.” Straight to the point like always. His approach makes me smile because, despite their constant bickering, the two of them are so alike. Stubborn to the core.

  “Bella is in trouble,” he announces, his dark eyes hooded and full of concern.

  “No change there then,” I joke. It goes down like a lead balloon, so I quickly follow it up with, “What kind of trouble?”

  “She’s been seeing some guy. Goes by the name of Addy.”

  Fuck. My. Life. Why does it always seem to come back to this guy? What the hell is his problem? I hadn’t even pressed charges and he was still coming for me.

  “Do you know him?”

  “You could say that.”

  “He’s dangerous, H. Bella has it bad for him. She went to a party ov
er at his place and… shit. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I need you to understand the size of the problem. I think she slept with him.”

  She seemed sure she hadn’t, but that didn’t rule it out. The picture of her, naked in his bed, flashes in my mind like a horror scene I can’t stop watching. The thought of her ‘having it bad for him’ cuts deeper and worse than the knife he jabbed into my fucking thigh and my need to destroy multiplies by ten. Thousand.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “She’s my little sister, H. I’m not going to watch her screw her life up and throw everything away for a guy who’s not worth it. Plus, I set this up.” He flips his phone around to show me a Facebook profile and my eyes land on the tiny image of Bella in the top corner.

  “What the fuck is that? Did you hack your sister’s account?”

  “Not so much hacked as duplicated.”

  “Shit, she’s not going to like this,” I run my hands through my hair and lock my fingers together at the back of my neck.

  “She’s not going to know. I had to get control of the situation, somehow. You know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he shrugs.

  “Have you been speaking to lover boy on this?”

  “A few times. Not for a while now as I get the feelin’ she broke things off with him in person, from his last message. I was going to delete the account but thought it wouldn’t do any harm to monitor the situation.”

  “What makes you think he’s such bad news?” I ask, rubbing my five-day-old stubble.

  “I had him followed.” He shrugs like it’s totally understandable, and it puts an impish smile on both our faces. A shared understanding of the world we live in.

  We aren’t lawless bastards, we have morals, but we handle our business in our own way. In my opinion, the world would be a much better place if everyone lived by our rules. Nobody fucks with us, and we don’t fuck with anyone. If they do, it’s up to us to deal with it, whichever way we saw fit. I haven’t quite figured out what that means for Grilled Cheese yet, but I’m working on it.

  “What did you find out? You get anything on him?”

  “He’s a coke head looking to make his name in football. He’s planning on using Bella to get there. It’s her dad he’s interested in.”

  “Figured as much,” I mumble.

  “You did? What do you have on this guy?”

  “Plenty, believe me.” I don’t want to share that Addy is the same piece of shit that stabbed me, Romeo would retaliate. I’m not about to put my girl’s brother at risk for my shit. I can handle myself and will when the times right, and she’s not my girl, for fuck’s sake.

  “You know what my sister can be like once she’s got an idea in her head. She’s off and away with the fairies. It leaves vulnerable. She had my back when I wound up in this thing.” He slides a hand over the wheels on either side of his chair. “I promised I’d have hers but there’s not much I can do stuck in this thing. That’s why I need you to go after him, H. Warn him off. Do whatever it takes but make it clear he’s to stay away from Bella. She says she’s done with him but I want to make sure she’s being honest with me and herself. I don’t want him going after her again, getting’ in her head.”

  “Okay,” I say, easily. It’s a no brainer. I get to protect my gi—Bella and take out the shit who stabbed me at the same time.

  I’m a loose cannon with nothing to lose, but I need to box clever—again, pun intended—and wait for the right time to give the fucker what’s coming to him while making sure there are no repercussions on my community.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bella

  I’m still writing in the Labyrinth long after it closed, hidden away in the back corner. The lavish library might be elaborately decorated, but I am still just the same girl who had lay on the scatter cushions of the public library floor and got lost in a fictional world of adventure, time after time. The only difference is that now I am the one writing the stories, and it feels so magical to put my words onto paper.

  I type line after line of endless poetry, that all makes perfect sense since I made my decision to break free of my hidden identity, and tell the world I am here. The words flow like a river at the mouth of the ocean. Its current so powerful no human could stop it.

  The place is eerily silent, with only the dim evening mood lighting enabling me to see. My hidey hole allows me a window-view of Camelot’s neatly landscaped gardens surrounding the buildings, every tree pruned and trimmed to within an inch of its life as if the gardener had done everything in their power to make the trees look as little like living things as possible.

  It doesn’t surprise me. The professors apply the same sentiment to their pupils. At least, it feels like that to me. Except for Mr. Mculloch. He has been nothing but supportive of my writing dreams, ever since he interviewed me for the course three years ago.

  I seriously hope what I am about to do doesn’t make him think any less of me. I dare to dream that maybe it’ll earn me his respect.

  The security guard walks past me, passing me a subtle nod. We share a mutual understanding. He lets me stay here and finish up after hours, so long as I don’t cause any trouble and keep quiet about it.

  Hitting print, I wait for the sound of the printer engine to start up and stare out at the hint of sunrise on the horizon. A new day dawns, and with it, comes change that terrifies and excites me at the same time.

  Once no less than one hundred copies of my work are printed, I pack up my laptop, pencil case, and notepad. Collecting the pages from the printer, I staple them together until they’re all are neatly separated and pause to stare at the pile in sweet satisfaction.

  Gypsy at Camelot.

  A Collection of Poems by Bella Buckland.

  It’s so much more than a core assignment. It’s a legacy I hope to leave behind for current students to learn from and for anyone else trapped here in a world of smoke and mirrors to relate to and know they are not alone.

  Smiling, I drop a copy on each table of the Labyrinth where I know students will soon be sitting to complete silent studies and coursework essays. Exiting into the hall, it’s eerily empty and long. I quietly enter each and every study room, dropping a copy of my work onto the desk, where I know the gossips and rebels will get a hold of it in a short few hours.

  By the time I’m done, there’s not a space at CamU where students gather that doesn’t have a copy of my poems waiting to be discovered. My body tingles in anticipation, but I feel bizarrely calm as I walk back to my dorm and pack my belongings. Harlow sleeps blissfully unaware of my moment of insanity, or genius, depending on how you look at it.

  I’m intelligent enough to know I can’t stay here now. There will almost certainly be uproar amongst the aristocrats. I’d not only been able to come here under a false identity, but I’d studied alongside them and was set to graduate the same way they were.

  Like it or not, I’m almost one of them and not a single soul had suspected it proving the exact point of my poetry collection. We are all human in the end. One life was no more important or valuable than another’s. It took two years of coming here for me to learn that. Hopefully, after sharing my poems, it will take others much less.

  Folding my designer clothes up into neat little squares, I pack them all into my suitcase and take down the pictures of Harlow and I that I’d taken and collected since being here. My one regret in all this is that I’ll never get a chance to explain to her, and she’d only ever know me as Imogen Thomas.

  It’s surprising how much crap you accumulate over the space of two years, and it takes forever to squeeze it all into my case. When I’m done, I carefully try to zip it up without making too much noise so as not to wake my sleeping friend.

  Too late. She rolls over wide-eyed and fuzzy-haired with a horrified expression on her face.

  “Tell me I’m dreaming,” she groans out.

  “You’re dreaming.” I smile.

  “Nice try.
What the fuck is this?” She sits up and jabs a pointed finger in the air toward my packed case.

  “Here, you should probably read this when you’re more awake. It explains everything.”

  Shit. I didn’t prepare for this. I had been so quiet and careful; how had I woke her up? What am I supposed to say, by the way I’m actually a Gypsy and everything you know about me is a lie?

  She skims the first page of my poems before slamming it down on the bed. “I don’t want to read something; I want you to tell me why half our room is packed up and you look like you’re about to run out on me. Were you going to leave without even saying goodbye? Fucking hell, Imogen, this is absolute poppycock.”

  The word made us both giggle, and I collapse on the end of her bed. There is no denying her background, just as much as I can’t hide mine any longer. “Sorry,” I mumble, sheepishly. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t know where to start.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re an English major. You know full well how to structure a story, so how about you start at the beginning and end with where you were about to run off to.” She’s as upset as she is shocked.

  I have no choice but to tell her everything. All the ugly truths of my past, my dad who didn’t want to know me because he was so ashamed of my culture. My gypsy upbringing and Catholic beliefs. My situation with Hunter. My worries about what might have happened with Addy that night after she disappeared.

  Everything spills out of me like word soup, and by the end of it, her arms are wrapped tightly around me and we both cry uncontrollably. When she finally pulls away to say something, she looks furious and scrunches up her forehead.

  “I can’t believe you left a pair of Manolo Blanik’s on the beach!” She shoves me in the ribs. “You know I’m going to have to go and pick them up, right?” She falls apart laughing, and my own giggles follow closely behind.