Warning: Strong language, content, mentions of child abuse. Nothing that anyone who's ever flipped past Law & Order: SVU couldn't handle.
Changes made: I've gone back and edited all the early chapters, cleaning up grammar and the like. Only one major change was made: No more baby sister for Michael. Only Cordelia.
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Six;
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Another day had passed, though they all seem to blur into one, like Hell Week when Kristen was trying out for the soccer team last year. Soccer season was almost over now and the Sirens chance of getting anywhere near quarter-finals was slim to none. Seriously slim, like Massie if she only ate Slimfast chocolate shakes and baby carrots.
Kristen Gregory, dark blond hair combed neatly, clasped her hands and rested them on her denim-clad jeans.
Counselling. Family counselling. It was about as fun as it sounded and right now, Dr. Humphrey was listing off, in that condescending tone of his, all the reasons why the marriage of Kristen's parents was doomed from the start.
He began with Kristen's mom. The easier target.
The doctor, with his receding hairline and tweed suit, repeated the never-before-told story of how Kristen's maternal grandfather was a drunk. A mean, abusive drunk. Who hit his wife, touched his daughter. Until he killed himself in a drunk driving accident and next to no one bothered to come to his funeral. From there, things went downhill. Kristen's maternal grandmother dove headfirst into the Mormon religion and never let Kristen's mom out of the house.
When Dr. Humphrey was done telling that story, peeling off the Band-Aids and opening old wounds, his grey eyes flickered and his face twisted into something like a smirk.
Bigot, Kristen sneered to herself. Her hands were shaking and the elegant silver bracelet Massie gave her was making too much noise. Kristen wanted to shush the goddamned thing, wanted to rip it off her wrist and fling it at the family counsellor's mostly-bald head. Instead of that, disgracing the Gregory name further, Kristen resigned herself to merely quaking in fear.
The towheaded thirteen-year-old (Her birthday fell on the first week of September; lovely.) could barely stand to listen when that pompous Humphrey began ticking off, on his sausage-esque fingers, the pains and agony of Mr. Gregory. So, she covered her ears with her broad, athlete's shoulders, and prayed that the pink diamond studs (a gift from Massie, circa last March) didn't get caught on her brand new striped green-and-white American Eagle sweater.
It isn't until Humphrey cleared his throat and some sort of sloshing sound followed, that Kristen's eyes, deep as the Atlantic and blue as the Pacific, snapped open.
Kristen could barely feel her mother's delicate fingers - thin and long, like the pianist she once was - grace her shoulder through the cable-knit of her sweater. She could, however, feel her father's hand digging into her opposite shoulder. Clutching onto it, like he was afraid she would fly away and never come back. Kristen gave him a look from under her pale lashes, as if to say, 'I'll always come back.'
That was when he, Kristen's father, stood up. Too tall for the small room, too proud for free familial counselling. He grabbed his daughter's left hand, taking a moment to marvel how she could still wrap all her fingers around his thumb, and placed his other hand on the small of his wife's back.
"We're leaving," he intoned, daring Dr. Humphrey to say anything else. To criticise another moment. To point out more flaws. He didn't, merely opened and closed his mouth like a freshwater bass.
"Idiot," Mr. Gregory mumbled, still holding on to his family with both hands and all his heart.
"Idiot," Kristen agreed, nodding her head and tucking a fallen piece of straight hair behind her ear with her free hand.
"Don't say that!" Mrs. Gregory gasped, clucking her tongue.
Mr. Gregory gave his daughter a 'Don't mind your mother' smile. Kristen giggled, adding a little bit of spring into her step. She ran free of her parents' hold, but stopped when she reached the dirty Dodge Caravan that the Gregorys used to use as their 'we don't show off our wealth' car. Now it was their only car.
--
The way Dylan couldn't stop thinking about him was driving her crazy. She wasn't some heartbroken television starlet, spilling her heart to InTouch or Seventeen. She was twelve-going-on-thirteen, the daughter of The Daily Grind's hair dye-loving, Botox-aided hostess, one of four children, with a side of heartbreak. Dylan knew that, five out of five times, Cam Fisher would pick Claire over her. He'd pick Massie over her. Alicia over her. Hell, he'd probably pick Kristen effing Gregory over her, and no one even really liked the girl.
In his eyes, she was trash. Well-dressed trash.
Dylan smoothed out the extra long, pre-faded, off-white Karen Zambos Vintage Couture tank she wore underneath this year's Octavian Country Day School sweater. It was an eggplant purple and - not surprisingly - as flattering as a potato sack. She loved it.
"What's wrong, Pickle Pie?" Merilee questioned, all arching eyebrows and hands-on-hips. Merilee Marvil was quite the imposing figure. She was barely 5'6 and fit into a size two like nobody's business, but it was her hidden intelligence and roundhouse kick that gave her that extra air of Sarah Connor, 'Don't mess with me, or I will eff you up' style.
"Well, the economy's crashing." The too-tall-for-her-age redhead smirked into her Frosted Flakes, pointedly ignoring her mother's look of exasperation. "Although," Dylan continued, looking up from the grinning tiger on the cereal box back to her mother, "by the look of that outfit, you've done your share for our country's recession today."
Merilee, to affronted to say anything, plopped down beside her daughter at the regal, vintage table that sat twelve. Merilee's dinner parties were epic.
"Hon-"
"HEY, MAMA!" Clementine Marvil, four, tumbled down the winding staircase, reminiscent of an episode of Gossip Girl or an Edith Wharton novel, perhaps.
Clem was largely considered to be the most gorgeous celebrity child this side of California. She had light brown eyes that took up half her face and dark auburn hair that looked red in a certain slant of light. Clem's blunt bangs made her eyes look even bigger and darker.
"Hiya, Ceecee." Merilee beamed at her daughter, scooping up the lanky child into her lap. Clementine blinked at Dylan, as if to show off her naturally long eyelashes. She stuck out her pink tongue.
Dylan rolled her green eyes.
"Anyways," Merilee said, "what's wrong with my Dyl Pickles?" She lightly ticked the underbelly of Clem, who merely shook it off by reaching for a handful of Dylan's dry cereal. Girl was as ticklish as someone laid out on the coroner's table.
"Nothing, I said."
The eldest Marvil shook her head sagely, playing with Clem's messy, slept-in braids. "Ah. Boy troubles. Tell Mother, she's been through it all."
Dylan blinked at her mother. For a second, she actually considered spilling the beans about kissing Cam. Then, she fell off the fluffy, purple cloud she'd been on. This was Merilee Marvil. She wouldn't know good advice if it smacked her in the face whilst watching a Dawson's Creek rerun.
The middle child in the Marvil family walked away from the dining room, leaving her mother and little sister reeling in her wake. Dylan knew that, within nanoseconds, the French au pair would scurry up the stairs and clean up. Maybe Merilee would make a little joke about 'those teenagers.' Maybe, she wouldn't. Either way, Victoire would have no idea what she was going on about.
--
"A little to the left."
"Hair! Makeup!"
"No, no... Wait! Stop! Just like that!"
Even though Katy Perry was blaring through an iDock, the Cheetos were stale, and the outfit she was wearing was a little bit clothes and a whole lot skin, Alicia was having the time of her life.
Alicia was modelling for Abercrombie & Fitch's winter catalogue. If all went well, some of the many pictures she'd taken would be front and centre when half of BOCD opened their mail in a few months. Currently, she was wearing a pair of ninety-dollar jeans. They were the slimmest fit on the market and damn sexy. Alicia was also clad in a strapless bra that perfectly matched her skin tone. With the right camera flash and a pinch of Photoshop, she looked topless. How did Josh like her now?
That was when he came in.
Alicia's breath caught her in throat and she was sure the photographer, a woman in her forties with Cruella DeVil hair, swore at the expression of her face just then.
He was glorious.
And, no, he wasn't Josh Hotz, her neglectful boyfriend.
He was a whole breed unto himself. The traditional A&F guy, to be sure. Tall, six feet at least, lanky, piercing blue eyes, and curly blond hair that just went past his ears. He was fiiiine.
And he was coming towards her.
She couldn't help notice his ensemble, either. Jeans, whiskered, tailored, and light wash. He was shirtless. Awe-inspiring abs and all. When he caught her gaze, he returned it with a big smile and a sexy wink.
Oh, forgive me father, for what I'm about to do...
The photographer, frustrated as hell, stopped snapping and momentarily gave directions to some random, all-black-wearing P.A.'s who were toiling around, doing nothing. They took final sips of their vanilla lattes and then took off running.
Their set was beautiful. A grassy knoll with willow trees in the background. Alicia had taken some photos in a must-have lace dress, on a Thoroughbred horse. Massie would die at the sight of this place. Luckily, Mass had returned her frantic texts and calls. Alicia had invited her to the set and the Alpha had graciously accepted. Right now, Mass was probably off finding cute boys to flirt with. Too bad Alicia had found the hottest HART in the entire state!
"I'm Hayden," he introduced, taking her hand in his. "How do I not know you?"
"I'm Alicia."
"Well, Alicia, it looks like we're going to have some fun."
That was when Cruella pulled Alicia and Hayden together, using elaborate hand gestures and muttering to herself about "electric chemistry."
Fun, indeed.