Chapter 32 Dramatic? Me?
Dramatic? Me?
JESSICA
Seven Years Ago
Sixes yanks on my hair as she works through one of the knots with a brush. “You really need to start conditioning your hair,” she grumbles. “Or brush it daily, at least.”
“I do,” I groan.
Emily snorts from her sitting position on my bed, still reading the shifters magazine she brought with her. “Sure, you do, except for the last three days or so now.”
I don’t answer her. She’s right. I don’t think I even showered or brushed my teeth, and I barely ate. I cried and moped around my bedroom. The lab results felt like a blow to my heart, and I processed it after my absolute failure of an interview.
What sealed the deal of my self-imposed travesty was the letter Anders delivered that night. My rejection letter. I expected it, but the reality hit me so hard. It became the last straw. I waffled between angry tears and heartbreaking ones. He didn’t even give me a day.
This morning, Sixes and Emily reached their limit. They literally picked me up by the arms and threw me in the shower, clothes and all. They instructed I was not allowed out until I used soap.
Emily slaps the magazine closed and throws it over the couch. It slides along my coffee table and lands on the floor.
“She’s not going to pick it up,” Sixes whispers, making me laugh. She shuffles up on her knees and raises her arms triumphantly in the air, shaking her fists to the ceiling. “Finally, some life. She’s alive! She’s alive!”
“Dramatic,” I huff.
Her mouth drops open in surprise, and she points to her chest. “Dramatic? Me? Says the girl who went down the self-destruction spiral after receiving some bad news.”
I look to Sixes’s reflection in my vanity mirror, and she rolls her eyes. I swivel around to face her and fold my arms. “That’s not fair!”
“Hear me out. Yes, it sucks. You may never shift, and I get that you maybe wanted a child of your own one day. I don’t see why anyone would want one, but hey, to each their own. I’m just saying…” Emily throws her arms out from her sides.
“So not helping,” Sixes chortles, waving the brush back and forth in her hand.
“Fine. That’s just my personal opinion. The point is it’s not the end of the world.
I know it feels like it right now, but you have so many things going for you.
” She ticks them off on her fingers. “You’re still a badass.
You have magic. You have an amazing career as a songwriter, and so many of us here love you no matter what.
You’re seventeen. Destroying your life, giving up because of one shitty thing, will just make you miserable, regretful, and spiteful.
So help me, if you turn into a replica of Elaine Powers, I will kick your sorry, miserable ass every day. ”
“Just when I thought you were doing so well.” Sixes sighs and turns to face me. “Anyway, we gave you time to grieve. Now it’s time for you to pull yourself together and figure out what you want to do.”
“What is there to do? My life just continues, as is.”
Emily and Sixes exchange a look.
Emily runs her hand through her black hair, flipping it over her shoulder. “Think harder, like future harder. Think about things we talked about earlier in the week when you were excited about potentially entering the recruit program.”
“That’s done, guys. I received my rejection letter. You both were here when Joe brought it to my room.”
Sixes palms her forehead, leans forward, and shakes me by the shoulders.
“Thank you!” Emily fists her hands in front of her. “I wanted to slap her.”
“Emily and I have known Anders our entire lives. He’s a hardass, but he’s not an asshole. That rejection letter is an invitation.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t meet the qualifications to become a recruit,” I explain in exasperation.
Emily plops down on the bed. Both of them cross their arms and glare at me. Emily opens her mouth, but Sixes raises a hand to shush her.
Why the hell would a letter of rejection be an invitation? I think about my interview.
Then, stop acting like a victim and fight, dammit!
I remember the last thing I said to him before I received the rejection letter.
I know you want me to fight. But just because I don’t fight the same as you doesn’t mean I’m not fighting. Right now, I don’t have the tools to know how to fight this.
“He’s giving me a tool,” I whisper.
Emily whoops and punches the air.
Sixes smile brightens. “So what the hell are you going to do about it?”
I swivel around to face my vanity mirror and study my reflection for several heartbeats.
I trace the scar on my face. My long hair hangs in a tangled mess over my shoulder.
I turn my head from side to side. For a time, I forgot what I looked like, forgot the anguish and despair I felt when I saw the wounds on my back, forgot how gaunt and thin I once was.
I used to fall apart when I saw the broken and crooked teeth.
I was so broken physically, and yet I pushed through it all. Until Boris. He attacked me, nearly raped me, and destroyed everything I fought so hard to overcome.
Luke’s attack.
Marcus and Elaine’s bullying.
I rummage through a drawer for a pair of scissors. I hold out a strand of my hair and shear it off a couple of inches from my scalp.
“Oh my Gods, no!” Emily shouts, and Sixes gasps. But I ignore them.
Liam leaving without a word. Snip.
The lab results. Snip.
Shadow’s worried expression as he watched me fall apart during the interview. Snip.
I cut strand after strand as I recall every horrible memory. I don’t stop until every last strand is gone. Examining the uneven, butchered mess, I lean closer.
My lashes are much longer and more feminine than when my vision first returned.
The thought of cutting my lashes makes me cringe.
I open a different drawer and retrieve my first pair of glasses—the ones so large, they covered half my face.
My vision blurs when I put them on, but I see exactly what I need to in my mind.
I survived. And I will get into the recruit program.
I pound on Anders’s office door. When he doesn’t answer, I pound again. I close my eyes and feel for him through our mind link. Of course, he’s in his office. I verify that he’s alone.
I’m not leaving!
Like a steel door, he shuts me out of his mind.
Fine! You want me to fight? Then, I will fight.
I yank on the door handle. It’s locked. I take three steps back and envision myself eviscerating his door with my magic. I force that vision past the barrier he set around his mind, pushing and pushing until I break through it.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” he roars, reinforcing his mental barrier.
I wait a beat, hearing only silence behind the door. He’s calling my bluff. I raise my hands and take a deep breath. Flickers of electricity dance across my palms. Wind brushes against my clothes, and I blow a hole through the door, slamming it open with the force of wind.
I stomp into his office. I don’t wait for him to stand or acknowledge me. His icy glare follows my every move until I stop in front of his desk, hands fisted at my sides.
“I do not accept your rejection letter. Every year, you recruit twenty to thirty potential guards. For each group, you accept a minimum of five non-transitioned recruits. In the last group of recruits, you made an exception and recruited seven. This new group coming in, there are four. Over the years, some of those recruits didn’t transition until the second year of the program.
One of those recruits from nine years ago didn’t transition until almost two weeks before graduation, and yet he passed everything but the shifter course.
I will not let you use the fact that I can’t shift as a reason to reject my application. ”
“You’re going to pay for that door. Now, get out,” he sneers.
I tilt my chin and return his icy glare.
“No. I don’t care if you hand over an acceptance letter.
I will show up to orientation. You can ignore me or drag me out on my ass.
I will show up every day to train with those recruits, whether you like it or not.
I don’t need a ring. I don’t need a title. I just want to train with them.”
He leans back in his seat and crosses his arm over his chest. “Why? So you can pave the way for other females and shiftless recruits? I heard it all before. Unless you have something different to say, get the hell out of my office and find someone to fix my damn door.”
Electrical currents run up my spine and pulse under my skin.
I take a steadying breath to rein in my anger and my magic.
I spin on my heels. I rip off my hat and glasses, tossing them to the floor.
I rip my shirt off next and unravel the bindings over my breasts.
Standing there in nothing more than a bralette and baggy jeans, I expose the ropey scars down my back.
“This!” I shout over my shoulder. “This is why I want to be a guard! You said to stop playing the role of a victim. This is me fighting back the only way I know how, by learning how to protect myself!” I cover my chest with my arms and turn to face him.
His eyes widen, like he finally sees me for the first time.
“I need you to train me so the next time I kill some undeserving psychopath serial killer, I keep my eyes open!”