Doll Face (Baby Doll #3) Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Heidi Acosta

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording. Or otherwise) without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners. Information on other titles can be found www.Heidacosta.com.

  Editor Melissa Ringsted

  Cover Artist Regina Wamba, www.reginawamba.com

  Formatting Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgment

  Other Books

  Crack! “Crazy ass bitch!”

  I tighten my grip on the crowbar in my hand and take another swing. The hard, liberating metal in my hand makes contact with the glass window, instantly shattering it. For a moment I’m shocked that I actually had the nerve to do it; adrenaline courses through my veins, giving me the courage to go further. I let out a shrill laugh as I make my way over to the front of the car and introduce the crowbar to the headlights. Headlights meet crowbar; crowbar meet headlights. So why have I—a seemingly normal girl—fallen under the veil of temporary insanity? Let me rewind to a few hours ago when everything I knew changed forever.

  Ditching a road trip with a group of my sorority sisters to the Florida Keys for the summer break was not something I was planning, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter. My mother’s assistant called me that morning with one simple request from my mother. So I reverted back to childhood, told my sisters that my grandmother died, even though Meme was alive and tan in the same state they were headed to. The truth was I didn’t know why my mother wanted me home, but I would find out soon enough. I watched in despair as my sisters piled into Becca’s new convertible and peeled out of the student parking lot without a care in the world. They were headed to sand, sun, margaritas, and hot shirtless guys while I was headed to hell.

  During the four hour drive back home I could feel my anxiety climb with each passing hour. The thought of seeing my mother left my hands clammy, and my stomach clenching. It was like a storm building until it pushed at every wall that I had built trying to find a way out. I focused on my breathing the whole way, but by the time I pulled into my hometown of Phenix City it sounded like I was about to give birth, and that baby was going to be in the form of a panic attack. Unfortunately, unlike my mother, I didn’t have tiny blue pills to make it go away. Anxiety or not, I didn’t have a choice—when my mother made a request there was no denying her unless I wanted to wake the dragon, and trust me hell would be a happier place than dealing with my mother’s rage.

  Phenix, Alabama a place I much rather not be. It should have been burnt to the ground during the Civil War, but like most small, southern towns they refused to go down without a fight. God, they couldn’t even spell the damn name right. You’d think that somewhere someone would have said let’s fix our town’s name, but no, so Phenix City it is. Why my parents would choose to live here still remains a mystery. Of course, I have my own theory. If you live in a place where your neighbors are as equally wealthy or wealthier than you, there is no one to look down your nose at. But if you live in a small town where ninety-seven percent of the town is either dirt poor or barely maintaining a middle-class salary, then there are many to look down upon, and my mother’s favorite hobby was to look down on others. It’s the reason I went to public school and not private so that the population knew exactly where the Blooms stood—above them. It’s also one of the reasons I went to a private school four hours away and not the nearby community college like most of my high school graduating class. If it were up to me, I would have ended up in Alaska as far away as possible, but my father insisted that I went to his college, his legacy. God knows my sister couldn’t attend there with her grades, so it was up to me to continue his legacy.

  I stop off at the Dragon Fly café, the only place in this shitty little town to get a shitty cup of coffee. Phenix City must be the only town in America that does not have a Starbucks—another reason for me to hate this place. They chase out any Corporate America company that tries to break ground on the precious soil with shotguns, coon dogs, and confederate flags flying high and proud in the back of their raised pickup trucks. To add insult to my injury, the Dragon Fly had run out of coffee! Who the hell runs out of coffee? I was already running late and knew I would have hell to pay, but I didn’t realize just how much hell I would be paying.

  When I got to the house I called to Maria, the new maid my mother hired before I left for school, but she is nowhere to be found. I hope I didn’t get summoned here during my summer break to sit through hours of interviews for new help. For some reason my mother feels I should be there to learn how to hire proper help for when I hire my own. It is torturous sitting there watching my mother rip apart her victim’s, women who need a job; they leave the interview bare and scared. My mother has a way of leaving wounds that develop scar tissue so thick and ugly; you are afraid no matter how many layers of clothes or makeup you wear they are still visible for the world to see.

  I’m late, and no maid to answer the door is a sign from my mother for me, that I would be sorry. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to change my outfit, which I’m sure will offend my mother that I had to attend lunch with the dragon woman in my travel attire. I’m already in trouble, what is one more thing?

  I find my mother sitting on the garden terrace. A cold chill travels down my spine when she glances me over with a look of disdain on her face; it is a look that I should be used to, but still leaves me uncomfortable in my own skin.

  “You look well fed,” she says without as much as a hello.

  Gritting my teeth, I smooth back my hair, making sure that not one strand is out of place, and try to smile at her. What’s the point? She herself never smiles. It causes wrinkles. Why it matters I don’t know; she goes every three months for injections of Botox. Wrinkles wouldn’t dare appear on her perfect face.

  Taking a sip of her drink is another tell-tale sign I’m in trouble. It’s early, so she’s drinking the light stuff before moving on to brandy. “You are late,” she states in a monotone voice.

  Why hello, Mother
. My drive? Oh, it was fantastic, and school is going wonderfully.

  “I’m so sorry, Mother. The traffic is horrendous leaving Atlanta.” Sitting down, I spread my napkin over my lap as she swirls the ice against her glass, another habit of hers I hate. I cringe each time the ice hits the glass. For someone so worried about appearance she has a lot of annoying habits. She stares at me not speaking, just looking, silently judging, until I’m fidgeting under her scrutiny. I wipe my clammy hands on the front of my shorts and glance around the table for anything to keep me busy. Something to stuff my mouth, so we don’t have to have a meaningless, soul-crushing conversation.

  But the table is empty; my mother’s fine lunch china from Italy is nowhere to be seen.

  Shit. It was obvious I was in deep shit, and I’m not even sure what I did. Surely being late for her lunch did not deserve this. As I look around the table, things quickly go from bad to worse. There are no appetizers, or mimosas, a Bloody Mary, none of the usual table staples. I grip the hard metal of the chair under me before speaking. “I’m famished. Where is Maria?” I glance back at the house. Maybe my mother has a point about it being hard to get good help.

  “She is not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I suppose she went home.” The tone of my mother’s voice makes my throat go dry, and my palms begin to sweat again.

  Please tell me she didn’t kill her.

  “What about that new chef?” My voice comes out broken.

  “How am I supposed to know? Perhaps out with the gardener looking for new employment?” she says coolly, taking another sip.

  Suddenly, another thought races through my mind.

  “Where is Dad?” She killed him, too. That’s why she brought me here and is so calm. She sent home the help and killed my father, and now expects me to help dispose of the body. His lifeless body is probably in the house, or maybe she drowned him in the pool. Because now that I look around, I realize that the usual daily activities of the Bloom household are not carrying on. There is no ground maintenance working to perfect the manicured lawn, or flowers being planted. No one at my mother’s beck and call.

  “He is gone. If you had come on time, you would have been here to see the whole thing.” She sighs like it’s so trying for her to have a conversation with someone as ignorant as me.

  “Mom, what are you talking about? Where did Dad go?” I ask calmly, hoping he didn’t run off with his sectary … again.

  “On his way to prison, I suppose.” She flicks at a piece of pollen that lands on her shoulder.

  Okay, this is a punishment from my mother; she is punishing me for being late. Ha, ha, very funny.

  “Mom, that’s not funny. Where is Dad really?” I lean toward her, which seems to offend her.

  “Katie, please.” She holds up her hand, and I sit back in my chair. “You are so dramatic.”

  It is times like this I wish my big sister, Rylee, was around. She’s the only one in the family brave enough to get in the ring with my mother. I’m already feeling tired and defeated, but I need to know what happened to my father.

  “Mother, please,” I beg.

  She sighs. “Your father has been embezzling money from the company. God, Katie, don't look so shocked. He has been doing it for years now. How do you think he is paying for that fancy private school you attend? Which, by the way, we can no longer afford.”

  My mother continues to talk, but I cannot hear her. Her mouth moves up and down like a fish out of the water, but I’m the one who cannot breathe. I cannot attend school, I have devoted my whole entire high school career into getting into that school, nights in studying, taking the SAT’s twice, weekends volunteering at the nursing home. God, I didn’t want to feed toothless old bird’s apple sauce and all for what? So that it can be ripped away from me.

  “Mom, what are you talking about? Dad would never.” I’m shaking all over now, despite the hot sun beating down on us.

  “Well, here is some news for you … your perfect father, the one you looked up to, is a criminal. He ruined my life. I could stand the cheating and lonely nights. I could even deal with where the money came from. However, we had a deal—I wouldn’t ask questions, as long as I could live the lifestyle I was comfortable with, and now look at what he did.” She takes another sip of her drink.

  I hear what she is saying, but I’m still stuck on no longer being able to attend school. “What about school? They can’t make me leave. There has to be away I can stay.” I look at her for help, but she offers none.

  “Katie, can you try not to be so selfish at a time like this? Try to think of me, and what I’m going through.” My mother rubs at her temples, a sign that one of her “headaches” is coming on. How will she pay for her fancy medicine now? It looks like she is going to be taking Advil like the rest of the world.

  “I will get a job, loans, whatever. I cannot leave school.”

  My mother puts her Jackie-O sunglasses on. “And how do you suppose that is going to work? You walk into a bank with your good surname,” she snorts. She actually snorts—Mrs. Prim and proper snorts. And that’s how I know the world is really ending … when my mother throws etiquette to the wind, we are all fucked!

  “We have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises, so I suggest you take what you want.” She holds up a hand, dismissing me as she stands up to leave.

  “And where will you go?” I shout, desperate for her not to abandon me.

  “I called your Aunt Jean in Florida. I’m going to stay with her until things settle down.” She waves me off.

  “Mom? What am I supposed to do?” I ask. I can no longer breathe; my chest constricts squeezing the air right from my lungs, strangling me. The garden spins as I grip onto the chair under me that no longer belongs to us, but the bank.

  “Katie, can you try not to be so selfish?” My mother takes out a metal pillbox from her purse and swallows two tiny blue pills without water. Despite me wanting to scream at her and shake her, instead, I apologize to her. She grasps at her pearls around her neck. “My car will be here shortly to take me.”

  “Let me come with you,” I say, my voice cracking almost begging.

  “Please, Katie,” she scolds.

  Of course, my mother is leaving, why would she stay and try to save our family? I feel like I’m eight years old again watching her board a plane to Paris when she needed a break from the tiresome job of being a mother and a wife. I knew then that I could not rely on her. Rylee never understood; she would cry and scream, gripping at the gate that separated us, calling out to her. She never once turned around for her, never came back to comfort her and tell her she would be back in a week or two. Our nanny had to pry Rylee from the gate screaming and crying. My mother came back thirty days later refreshed and tanned. I hated her then.

  “What about Rylee? What will she do?” I choke.

  “If your sister would answer the phone maybe I would be able to inform her of the tragedy that has befallen me. I blame your father; he spoiled you and your sister rotten. Insisting that you not go away to boarding school. Maybe if you did you wouldn’t be so dependent on me.” Her words sting like a slap across the face.

  “Yes, Mom, it is Dad’s fault that Rylee and I turned out the way we did.” Venom drips off the words.

  She turns and starts to walk away from me, her heels clicking on the stone walkway.

  “What about my things?” I ask before she gets to the garden gate.

  “There is a box left in the room, but everything else of value was seized,” she reports.

  “Oh, and they are taking your car now.” And with that, she disappears.

  I stand paralyzed for a moment as everything my mother just said sinks in. This has to be a bad dream, at any moment I’m going to wake up and be in a hotel in Key West. When I realize that I’m not going to wake up and that this nightmare is my reality, I race out of the garden and watch the taillights of my mother’s car disappear down the driveway.

  Come ba
ck, come back. She can’t just leave. Not when I need her, not when my sister and father need her. The taillights don’t blink once with hesitation; they just keep going. It’s not until a hand is placed on my shoulder that I look away and up into the blurry face of a man I have never seen before. His brow is furrowed like he is worried about something, but I’m not sure what he has to be worried about. Oh me, that’s right, I must look panicked. I’m not even breathing. I suck in a long breath and release it before the world snaps back into focus. I can now hear what he is saying to me; he’s asking if I would like to sit down. However, I don’t move. I just stare at him, not moving, not speaking, I’m not even sure if I’m awake. It’s like I stepped out of my body and am watching my life crumble around me.

  “Maybe you should put your head between your legs. You look like you might pass out.” He says. I focus in on his chest and read his name tag. ‘Nash’ is embroidered on his right breast in white letters. Nash, that’s a strange name. A horrible noise catches my attention, and I look past him toward the grinding noise. A man in a matching navy blue jumper is attaching chains under my car.

  When I understand this is the man taking my car, I look up at the perpetrator. He has a dark, buzzed-head and sharp dark features; his eyes are the color of steel, gray almost silver. A thin white scar runs down one of his brows where a silver stud sits in it. He has on a navy jumpsuit that is unbuttoned to his belt, showing off a white tank top under it. His right arm is covered in a sleeve of colorful ink patterns. The legs of his pants are tucked into tan work boots that are tied loosely. He would almost be sexy if it was not for the fact his friend was loading up my car onto a flatbed truck.

  “Put her down,” I choke out.

  “Excuse me?” He looks confused but makes no attempt to stop his friend.

  “I said to put my fucking car back on the ground,” I scream. I feel wild and out of control.

  Now he gets it. The concern that was on his face is wiped away, and now it’s full of amusement. He takes his hand off my shoulder and rubs at the stubble on his chin, an irritating smirk playing on his mouth.