Secret Heir (Dynasty #1)
M.J. Prince
1
Today my life is going to change.
I tell myself that every day. Sometimes, it’s the only way that I can keep myself sane, the only way to get through the shit show that is the life of Jazmine Woodson—my life.
But today—today, it feels like it’s actually true. There’s something different about today, something in the wind. A whisper of premonition in the sea breeze that’s currently whipping mercilessly against my cheeks.
I instantly shoot the ridiculous thought down. A whisper of premonition in the breeze? Something in the wind? God, I’m really starting to lose it.
But it isn’t the first time. This isn’t the first time that I’ve felt … something. Because all my life, I’ve felt like there’s something just dancing on the edge of my consciousness, waiting in the wings, just beyond my grasp. Sometimes I feel like I can almost grasp it, but it slips away again, like a dream that you can never remember after you wake up.
Then there are those times of quiet when I feel like I can almost sense the pounding of the waves crashing against the shore, as if it’s the pounding of my own heart or when I’m looking up at the sky at night and I can almost feel the glow of the stars or the moon pulsing above me. In those times of quiet, it almost feels like they’re a part of me, watching me, waiting for me.
In those times, I feel like if I just reach out, I’d be able to hold the moon itself in my hand—of course, I never let myself do that, because that would make me certifiably insane and as messed up as my life is, I’d like to think that at seventeen, I have a way to go before I lose my mind entirely.
So, just as I always do, I sweep the crazy feelings out of my mind. I busy myself with packing away my sketch book and pastels, dusting off the sand from my worn jeans as I stand and look out at the achingly familiar scene.
Rockford Cape. It’s been one year since I’ve been back here and it feels too long. The four-hour bus ride from foster home number ten and the price of a roundtrip bus ticket, means that coming here is no easy feat but I never let a year go by without coming back to this place. I’ve lived in ten different towns, ten different foster homes since I was seven. A different foster home each year, to be precise, but this place is the only real home I’ve ever had.
The place where mom and I lived before she died. Before the car accident that took everything from me. Before the world became this lonely place with me wandering lost through it. Because that’s how I feel most days—lost.
On this day ten years ago, in this town, my life changed forever and on this one day each year, I come back to this place. I visit my mom’s grave and sit on this beach for hours, losing myself in my sketchbook. Capturing the blue-green waves crashing against the sandy shoreline, the silhouettes of the lifeguard outposts dotted along the coast, the rickety pier jutting out onto the water with the multi-colored lights of the equally rickety amusement park reflecting off the water.
I can still remember coming here with my mom most evenings, and for the few hours each year that I spend here, I can almost imagine that the last ten years were nothing but a bad dream. In a life that is full of temporary places and faceless people, this place is the only anchor that I have.
After one last look, I turn away from the past and make my way back to the bus station. To the bus that will take me back to Brockton, to foster home number ten in the little backwater town that is my present.
I make it back just in time to start my evening shift at Rodeo Ricky’s. Not a Rodeo as the name suggests, but a diner with a difference—an undoubtedly seedy difference. The first few shifts had left me feeling ashamed and dirty. But then I shut those feelings out. I’m good at that.
Still, as I stand in front of the rusted staff bathroom mirror and slip on my uniform, consisting only of a pair of hot pants and a bra, I can’t help but feel a bitter stab of disappointment at what I see.
Get it together, I tell myself.
I need this job and I’m not exactly spoiled for choice in a small town like Brockton. The job pays well and the tips are even better. I’m saving for my future—in less than a year, I’ll be out of the foster system, out on my own. I’m hoping to get a scholarship to art school, but if that fails, then I’ll have to pay my own way. I’m providing for myself and that is nothing to be ashamed of.
I let out a long breath and stride into the dimly lit diner with renewed determination.
Tonight’s especially busy—the diner is packed with the usual seedy patrons, leering at the scantily clad waitresses sauntering between the tables, myself included. I paint on the smile that gets me the most tips and head to my first table of the night. Not that I need the smile to get the tips—I’m not vain by any measure, but I know I’ve inherited my mom’s looks. Long, jet black hair falling like a silken waterfall down my back, delicate features, full lips and perfectly arched brows. My body is my mom’s, too—slim, yet curved in all the right places.
But it’s my eyes that set us apart. No one has my eyes—it isn’t a good thing either, because most days I wish that I didn’t have these eyes.
As I approach my first table for the night, I’m reminded of exactly why. People usually give me two looks and as if on cue, the middle aged, balding man seated at the table in front of me gives me those exact two looks that I’ve grown so used to.
The first is appreciative and the second startled, once he sees my eyes. Wide and doe-like, they almost seem innocent, although the color is anything but. Uncanny is probably the closest word to describe the startling coloring—the vivid violet with smoky silver rings. Even the thick black lashes can’t shield my freakish eyes.
I’d say that the eyes probably belong to my father, but I wouldn’t know—I’ve never met the bastard who abandoned my mom and me before I was even born and my mom never talked about him. I don’t care, the asshole may as well be dead. I hope that he is, at least then I won’t have to think about the fact that he’s out there somewhere being a father to another daughter while I’m rotting in this hell hole without one.
The man in front of me gets past that initial shock pretty quickly, though, as he takes in the abundance of bare skin on display. Dirtbag.
“Ready to order?” I ask, ignoring the urge to wince at the sound of my own false tones.
The man leers at me, as if I’m the meal and not the triple cheeseburger, chilli cheese fries and pitcher of beer that he’s ordering. I feel like ripping his eyeballs out and feeding them to him. But instead, I grit my teeth and flash a well-rehearsed smile, playing out an equally well-rehearsed routine. I’m a good actress.