Fake (A Pretty Pill) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Fake (A Pretty Pill, #2)

  Dedication and Thanks

  ~Prologue~

  Chapter 1: Departure

  Chapter 2: The Fallout

  Chapter 3: Memories and dust

  Chapter 4: Transition

  Chapter 5: Avila Beach

  Chapter 6: Rules for the breaking

  Chapter 7: Residential Wanderings

  Chapter 8: Dating delays

  Chapter 9: Slow and Steady

  Chapter 10: Bail

  Chapter 11: Divorce and Alimony

  Chapter 12: Scotch Bonnet

  Chapter 13: The message

  Chapter 14: Resultant Promises

  Chapter 15: Presents

  Chapter 16: Ghosts that go Bump in the Night

  ~Epilogue~

  About the Author

  Always Summer

  Fake (A Pretty Pill, #2)

  Criss Copp

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2013 by C.E. Copp

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without the express written consent of the author; with the exception of the use of short excerpts quoted in reviews of this ebook. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

  Dedication and Thanks

  Once again I want to dedicate this book to my friends and family for their support.

  I’d like to especially thank Tallowyn for his insight and reading it with me and debating over certain scenes to be sure I made them real. Absolute legend!

  I’d like to thank David for a fabulous cover. Really, you have a terrific eye for art.

  And thank you to anyone who has read one of my books thus far. You’re all truly amazing.

  ~Prologue~

  Word back at home was that Marjah was all but completely liberated from the insurgent forces back in August of 2010. I had to ask my parents where they were getting their information from at the time, because from what I could see at Camp Dwyer, there was no liberation; there wasn’t even an out and out win. There was an ongoing tussle of affairs between our guys on the ground and the Taliban, who were relentless and ruthlessly efficient. The fact that my parents were feeding off of information placed out there that would make the general population back at home more comfortable about this ongoing war, didn’t really cross my mind at the time. My parents had been completely opposed to my involvement from the beginning anyway; and because being in the military was completely beneath them; I always felt they were just having another dig at me.

  I had been months into my deployment with the Army as a fully trained specialist; 68W Medic. I had wanted in from the moment the Military spokesman came to our school on a careers day. I originally thought being an Army paramedic would be exciting, I thought it would be interesting and I would learn more about life than being cooped up with my ‘respectable’ parents in San Luis Obispo County, California. I was right; it was indeed an experience I would never receive back at home painting my nails, or shopping for dresses with my mom; or going to the Country Club all primped and pulled and made up; and trying to impress a rich doctor type, like Mom wanted me to.

  I had already successfully completed a deployment in Kandahar the year before I was attached to an infantry unit out of Camp Dwyer, so I had experience… valuable experience.

  But the fact that I saw the inside of Camp Dwyer more than I got to hump along in the back of infantry vehicles throughout the Helmind River Valley was also an indication that things were still very unstable. The infantry didn’t really like to see women on the field if it was volatile; although we were getting to see more and more action, and there were the female only platoons (albeit in their infancy) being utilized even within these hostile territories. However, I got my fair share of action.

  The day that we got blown away was a typically hot day in Helmind Province; well above 100 degrees. I was travelling with an infantry unit because they had a situation where they needed an Afghan female searched as a matter of urgency, and it was called in. There was something very suspicious about the family dynamics. They lived on the edge of Marjah, farming the meager land there. It was a 40 minute drive away from camp, and because it was urgent, we mobilized promptly.

  The boys in the company were mostly polite; I’d worked alongside many of them already, and they were sincerely protective of me. I guess they always saw danger coming, certainly they were on edge, despite the place we were heading having already been scouted and searched; and then deemed safe to approach the day before, with no devices discovered.

  But of course the guys weren’t lacking; they were rightfully wary, alert and pre-empting danger; all of them scouting and looking out for me, every step of the way. They were most certainly ‘prepared’ for an altercation.

  I remember stepping out of our vehicle. I remember Scott, a 19 year old from Tallahassee, Florida; mirroring my movements, taking possession of my protection, despite not being senior. I remember talking to him about the smell as he moved forward away from me, toward the Sergeant some distance away; yet remaining before me in a protective fashion; his eyes darting left and right as he spoke.

  I could smell burnt wood, dusty earth, and sweat; lots of sweat; but somewhere amongst those normal smells; those expected smells, I could smell the sickly sweetness. A rancid, sickly sweetness that made the back of my throat swallow instinctively. This wasn’t an unlikely smell either. Lots of death, in the heat that is summer there, brings with it such smells. But for some reason, the hairs on the back of my neck raised instinctually. I watched the Sergeant as Scott walked forward to him, I noticed that the family were uninterested in coming forward to greet us, choosing to remain in their dwelling.

  The smell was getting to me. I had the distinct feeling we were missing something here, and I knew that Scott felt the same, and that was why he had walked forward to talk to our Sergeant. They met some distance away. I watched them talk a little, but they were too far away for me to hear anything. I watched as Scott turned and gave me one of his cheeky grins, he was a handsome guy. I guess he clarified if he could shadow me, because he felt distinctly uncomfortable about this situation. It wouldn’t be the first time he appointed himself the role. I briefly watched the Sergeant about face and walk towards the dwelling.

  I went to clear my throat, and I looked down at my boots to hide the smile that was forming because Scott was beaming his stupid grin. I took a big deep breath; and then I was thrown back several feet, and slammed into the side door of the vehicle I had been travelling in. My whole body lifted for those few split seconds; which for some reason, felt like minutes. I hit the vehicle with such force; I could feel the give in the metal. That was what I recalled; that, and Scott’s body being plastered across mine; piece by fucking piece.

  *

  A clattering sound caused by the squidgy falling from my trolley onto the vinyl, brings me back to the present moment; and I’m here, at work; not in Afghanistan at all. I’m breathing hard, but I’m alive and present.

  Looking around me at the pristine hallway, I have no idea why I just recycled that memory; except to remind me that it was two years ago last month, that I woke up having survived that God awful experience that left me scarred; both physically and emotionally.

  My mom was angry at me when I returned home from Afghanistan, because of my near death experience. She felt and expressed her personal insult at the extent of my injuries; however, she also expressed her pleasure that at least my face wasn’t scarred. I guess I looked down at the right time, my helmet kind of did its job; but the scars across my stom
ach, hip and thigh are quite a sight. Let’s just say I don’t go out of my way to parade around in a bikini anymore. But I’m alive, which is more than I can say for Scott.

  I need to dismiss these thoughts; they’re unhelpful.

  Again I look around me. I’m at work; I’m currently finishing up cleaning the rail along the East Wing near room 24, and its 10:30am. The hallway is empty, because everyone is in their therapy sessions. At least they should be.

  The ‘May Sedgwick Respite Facility’, Mental Health Services division for transitional aged youth, where I work; is not to be confused with their Detox and Recovery centre, located on the same ten acre property, but on a different front. Both of them are expensive privately run facilities; the clientele are rich, or have amazing health insurance. I certainly wouldn’t be able to come here if I was currently in the market for it. But the restrictions between the two centres towards visitation and security are significantly different. This section may look nice, but it’s a prison nonetheless.

  I sigh, momentarily allowing my hand to drift across my stomach where my clothing hides my contractured skin. I have reached the door for room 24. There is a new patient in room 24, but he’ll be attending his counseling session; a mandatory first day experience for all new patients. I know it’s a young man rather than a woman, because I was given his name when I got to work this morning. Mr. Tayte… Mr. Silas Tayte. I don’t know anything else about him or his condition, however, to be here in this facility he must come from money, and he must be getting better because this is the beginning stage of his transitional return to everyday life.

  I offer a small, timid knock on the door; merely habit since as I said, he won’t be in here; and I push my trolley through the door. There’s nobody inside the room, just a rumpled bed and some clothing on the floor, since he came in last night. I keep the door open, since I’m not allowed to be alone with any patients in their bedroom unless the door is open; and despite the fact that I am alone, I don’t like to break myself of the habit of keeping things transparent. The door to the ensuite is at an angle to the room, so I don’t see in there at first, it is only when I walk forward to go and open the windows that I discover a figure present in the corner of my eye.

  I’m a little edgy these days, so the fact that there is someone in my peripheral vision has me instantaneously on alert; so I swing around to face the anomaly.

  And there he is. Mr. Silas Tayte himself, standing in front of the fixed, unbreakable acrylic mirror. His back is to me and he is wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. He’s very tall, lean and muscular. His shortish hair is dripping wet, as are his back and shoulders. He’s hunched over the basin, a soft keening cry escaping him. His whole body appears to be trembling, and I can’t help but notice his massive tattoo over his right shoulder and down his right arm in a half sleeve. It is mechanical, as in robotic. The flesh looks torn over the underlying image, and it’s a masterpiece.

  I cannot believe that he is standing here instead of in therapy to begin with, and it makes me a little annoyed; however, his obvious distress is pulling at me, tearing at my heart. I forgot I even had one till right now.

  He looks up into the mirror and I notice his eyes; his piercing green eyes, which are staring back at me.

  I live in a bubble. I live in a bubble that allows me to bounce from one situation to another relatively unscathed. The world beyond my bubble is a whole lot of white noise. The bubble is what keeps my fractured existence intact. It holds me together and gently allows me to navigate through life, cushioning my travel through the rough traffic.

  This young man hasn’t bothered to say anything to me yet, and still he’s saying so much with his expression, I feel like he’s screaming at me. He’s stunningly handsome; I’d have to be dead not to notice that. His face is well proportioned, with a strong nose, generous lips and a well defined jawline. He has some growth on his jawline – slightly scruffy and sexy as all hell. But his beautiful eyes; an amazing and unusual color of green – scream at me in fear. His expression relays the fact that someone has stolen the sun from his sky. I can’t help the way that makes me feel. I don’t get to feel anymore; my feelings have been shut away in the dark recesses of my soul for the past two years. But he is making me feel something positive and negative all at once. And then, just like that and without a sound; without a whispered word or a fraction of movement, this young man has glided through the boundaries of my bubble, merged inside beyond my line of demarcation, the barrier I have constructed around me; and forced me to care.

  Inexplicably, a complete but beautiful stranger has been engulfed within my fractured world, and even more incredible is the fact that I want him there.

  I am flooded with the experience that is his presence.

  I am shocked that he has managed to do this at all, like magic.

  I am considering my options and planning my damage control. I just need to leave. I just need to back up and leave and then it will all be okay again.

  And then he speaks.

  “Help me.” he groans softly; and despite every alarm that tells me to leave, to go and get assistance if he requires it, I don’t. I move as though possessed towards him, intent on helping; that magical connection drawing me further in.

  He can’t be more than 20 years old because the facility only caters from people aged between 18 and 21. Once you turn 21, you have to go into the adult facility.

  I’m 25 now, so I have at least five years on him, so any attraction to him must be of a caring nature. I can’t understand how it is that I even care; how he has made me instantaneously care.

  I put the duster down and walk towards him, and then he turns around.

  He is even more stunning now that I can see him up close and face to face.

  It’s insane seeing him almost naked before me. His tapered torso is the stuff of dreams. He must work hard to have this kind of definition; that is obvious, and the result has me momentarily stunned and attempting not to look like I’m flustered – which of course I am.

  He holds his hands out.

  The knuckles are bleeding; all of them. I hadn’t noticed them before because he had them in the basin.

  I quickly look around to see what he could’ve hurt them on and I notice the wall in the shower and the splattering of blood. He obviously punched the walls in there until he broke through the skin.

  “I’m not a nurse. I should go and get help.” I reason.

  “No, please. They’ll send me back; I just couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.” he pleads.

  “I…” I begin, but his eyes are boring into mine, begging me to help him without revealing him to the other staff. I take his strong but bleeding hands in mine and turn them over –“I used to be a medic.” I sigh, “I’ll go and get some dressings and help clean you up. You won’t be able to hide the dressings though.” I explain.

  “I’ll wear a jumper.”

  “A what?” I ask confused. And I notice now that his accent is different.

  “A sweater.” he explains.

  “It’s still warm out; it will look a little suspicious.”

  “I don’t care, as long as it keeps me from going back to hospital.” he argues.

  I nod and I let go of his hands; instantly lamenting their loss, and criticizing myself for not being careful about exposing myself to a stranger’s blood. I reach around him and quickly wash my hands. It’s an opportunity to focus – yet I find myself unwilling to just walk away. Instead I realize that he’s standing close, encroaching on my personal space, and I can smell him, and I like the way he smells.

  “Okay, I’ll be back shortly.” I offer, wiping my hands on my jeans and stepping away from him.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Isi.”

  “Izzy? That’s your name? It must be short for something else.” he says with a slight mocking tone. I can’t believe he can switch from being so forlorn to nonchalant so quickly, so I look up into his eyes only to see that he hasn�
��t switched at all; he’s just trying to cope with his darkness. I offer a smile.

  “Isi… not Izzy. The sound is an ‘s’, not a ‘zz’ sound. It’s short for Isobelle.”

  “Isobelle.” he repeats softly, looking at me deeply in the eyes and claiming wholeheartedly the spot within me he just moments ago created.

  “Isobelle Mulligan.” I give him my full name, trying not to sound breathless.

  “Help me, please Isobelle.”

  “Okay Mr. Tayte; I’ll be right back. Just place your knuckles under cold water till I return.”

  “Silas; my name is Silas.” he explains. “Please call me Silas.”

  “Well, Silas; call me Isi, and I’ll go and get you some first aid.”

  Chapter 1: Departure

  SILAS.

  “I’m going to miss you; I’m going to miss you so much.” I explain to Shae, standing next to her near the departure lounge in Terminal 3. I lean into her, smelling her hair and pulling her to me once again, embracing her from behind.

  She’s not been herself lately, and I have a sick feeling in my stomach that she’s calling an end to our relationship. However she hasn’t said that she is and we made love last night so perhaps it’s just nerves that I’m feeling this way; nerves over her leaving me for an extensive period of time. And paranoia; perhaps I’m experiencing an unhealthy dose of paranoia.

  “I have to return in order to gain my student visa.” she grumbles.

  “I know, I know. I just wish the stupid thing wasn’t so complicated.” I moan, pulling her into me tightly.

  Shae sighs. Shae sighs a lot lately. She also spends an inordinate amount of time on the phone with her parents, sometimes shouting down the line with them. Shae has never before now been one to raise her voice or become agitated, but she appears to be edgy lately. I know it has something to do with me being a little more relaxed with my medications, since I don’t have Jade breathing down my neck to get me to have them all the time. Shae has expressed concern over it, but I feel fine. I feel really good actually. I still have my pills, though probably only about 70% of the time. But I think I’ve found a good medium. With Shae alongside me, I just don’t feel as fractured as I used to.