Counting Stars

By Jordan Deen

Love is a luxury for the weak.

At least that's what Madison Nottingfield’s father always said.

Coming from a long line of old southern money, Madison has come to accept the uncomfortable job of helping her father in his pursuit of wealth and social status. But by the time she turns seventeen, she’s grown weary of being her father’s favorite way to gain power and prestige.

After being nominated to one of the few debutante positions in her affluent country club, Madison thinks her life’s about to hit easy street. If she can learn to stand on her own two feet, she wouldn't need to succumb to her father's whims. For once, she can do what she’s always dreamed of doing; she can’t wait to move forward with her secret plans of ditching her ballet slippers to sing at the year-end talent show—the most important event of the entire year.
All of Madison’s hard work seems to be falling in to place, until her conniving parents make a demand...

So unthinkable

So life-shattering

So vile

...it almost completely stops Madison in her tracks. Would their plans for her future kill the one thing she desperately desires?
Refusing her parents’ request would mean losing everything... family, friends, and her pedigree. But, giving in would mean turning her back on the only thing she’s ever truly wanted.

**This is a stand alone novel. Contains some language and adult situations**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Deen
• Release date: Apr 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310888267

Jordan Deen

Jordan Deen is a Young Adult and New Adult Fiction writer from a small suburb of East St. Louis, Illinois. Her novels are a mixture of urban fantasy, paranormal and edgy contemporary. In her free time, she loves to read, bake, attend concerts, travel and play with her two-legged and four-legged sons. She is known for her love of quirky clothes, multi-colored hair and has a fondness for tattoos, high heels and cupcakes. In addition, she is a tech junkie that can be found most mornings and early afternoons on her tablet talking to folks on Facebook and Twitter about books, current events and music.Her debut novel, 'The Crescent' was a 2010 Reader's Favorite Award Winner. Her third novel, 'Breaking Lauren' was a Texas Book Association Finalist in 2013.

Book preview

COUNTING STARS

Copyright 2016

SMASHWORDS EDITION

© 2016 Jordan Deen

All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permissions from the author, except using small quotes for book review quotations. All characters and storylines are the property of the author. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover Design: Katheryn Kiden of Double K Designs

Formatted by: Wendi Temporado of Ready, Set, Edit

For my father.

You will be missed, always.

Love is a luxury for the weak…

All southern Debutantes understand that—at some point—their parents will pimp them out for personal gain. I’m not talking about the $100 per hour type of pimping—of course not, well, not technically, at least. No, I’m talking about the type of pimping that will lead to family status or professional gains like: "Hey, the Mayor’s son needs an escort to the Sergeant’s Ball…" or Bryant from the country club needs someone to go to the Black and White Gentleman’s Ball with his son. My parents? Well, they are the King and Queen of arrangements leading to financial gain. 

Being the ever-so-proper daughter, I started escorting boys from Daddy’s country club, work, or polo team to garden parties, graduations, and balls every time someone needed a stand- in girlfriend. Even before I was nominated to become a Debutante, I was going to events year-round. Shoes, make-up, hair, knowing when to talk at an event—and when to stand there like arm candy—are now my specialty. 

But today’s special request? 

Daddy’s gone way outer limits with his expectations—that’s for sure. I’m no miracle worker, after all.

Are you even listening to your father? Mom tosses her pruning shears down and slides off her gardening gloves. Sometimes I envy her garden full of prized roses and the upkeep she gives them--that level of care is reserved only for non-two-legged living things. She smoothes back her champagne-colored hair under the large pink sunbonnet she bought for the cover shoot of Southern Homes Magazine. Her roses are definitely award-winning, even though her attitude isn’t. You will sit there and pay attention. This is our future. Your father has worked too hard for everything to be thrown out the window like this. We are old southern money—Daddy didn’t work for a dime of anything we have, although his investments doubled and tripled when he overhauled a few of his companies and hired a new financial planner. Definitely one of the smartest moves he’s ever made—although for the one smart decision he has made, there are at least a dozen bad ones that followed; including the one smacking me in the face today.

I resist saying what I really feel—Daddy should’ve thought about our future before he climbed behind the wheel of his Mercedes SLK500 and drove home drunk from the Boar’s Club. Ironically, that was the same night his car mysteriously disappeared and sixteen-year-old Lori McDaniel was run off the road by a drunk driver. Coincidence? I don’t think so, but I’d never say it out loud. In fact, our community has become experts at sweeping this kind of indiscretion under the rug—this time wouldn’t be any different. Some money, a few bribes… and nothing will come of it; it didn’t even make the evening news or the morning paper. It’s like nothing ever happened—at least for us.

Lori’s still in the hospital recovering thanks to an anonymous benefactor paying the little reject's hospital bills. The only thing odder than her is the whacked out wanna-be she calls a brother. The in-crowd, i.e. my clique calls him Micky-D because of a lame rap he did during the eighth grade talent contest; of course he got booed off stage. He is creeptastic to the tenth power. Between the two of them, Heacock Valley is definitely overextended in the freak department.

He’s not even human. I play with the crystal rim on the glass of my sweet tea. Two weeks ago when Daddy’s car disappeared and a new Jaguar replaced it, I thought nothing of it. Daddy’s always been sort of an impulse shopper, but now, it makes sense. His car didn’t disappear—it was wrecked, and the only reason Lori is getting the five-star treatment at Heacock General is because Dad and Mom are footing the bill. Figures. Dad never could hold his liquor, or stop when he’s had enough. Escorting never bothered me before, but this time it’s out of the question. It isn’t happening. No way.

I refuse.

You know better than to talk back to me, young lady, Dad chides. He goes to the mahogany bar in the corner of his study to pour more bourbon into his crystal tumbler. His favorite afternoon activity has always been playing digital golf on the big screen and pounding back the sauce. Sure, I don’t like Lori, but getting left for dead by a drunk driver? So not cool. The sinking feeling I get thinking it was my dear old dad that did it to her? Sucks even worse.

It’s just one event. Mom crosses the room showing her best pageant gait and stoically claims the arm of the chair my father sits in. Sure, it’s one event, but it’s the event. The one I’ve been preparing for all year. The one I’ve worked my ass off to win. The one I was going to use to show I’m more than arm candy. More than a pretty face. More than a future trophy wife.

I already have my routine together. I barely make eye contact with my father, knowing he’s giving me the most disapproving look ever. Good daughters don’t talk back to their fathers. Good daughters don’t hide the fact they’re taking singing lessons in private or that ballet classes have extended into hip-hop classes. Good daughters don’t disagree—they smile (careful to show all of their dentally enhanced white teeth) and nod in agreement. A good girl always says Yes, Daddy without questioning. I’m a good daughter--usually. Today is an exception.

What’ll it take this time, Princess? he finally offers in his best I’ll pay you if I have to voice. 

I don’t want anything. Besides, no one would believe that Micky-D and I are friends. Never in a million years. He’s not even part of my species. Everyone would see right through that.

What are you vying for this time? A new pearl necklace? A pair of diamond earrings? A new nose? I know you can’t be bored of your car already; you just got it. My car. My convertible BMW. What did I have to do for it? Escort his less-than-desirable golfing buddy’s son to his sweet sixteen party. It would’ve crushed my reputation—luckily, dork-boy lives one county over and only one of my friends knew I let the little perv feel me up. Tisha—she’s the keeper of all my secrets. 

Every. Last. One. 

But, Micky-D? 

This isn’t something even she’d understand. Hell, I don’t even understand it.

My car’s perfect. I’m not trying to be ungrateful. I’m just saying this will never work. Purebreds don’t run with the mutts.

My, my. I didn’t realize I raised such a callous child. Mom stands from the chair and crosses the room. I watch her trace the long delicate lines of her willowy arms down to her hands. I check to see which ring she’s wearing today. The last time I mouthed off, I got her five-carat, blue diamond, cocktail ring straight to my cheek. It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would’ve, but if she’s wearing the ten-carat canary yellow one, I’m doomed. 

Luckily, when her hand connects with my face, there’s no ring; I guess she didn’t want to mess them up while gardening. Again, mercies only granted to the flowers. I know she didn’t think twice about wearing a ring before she swung before.

Now, she continues, "you will befriend the McDaniel boy. You will ask him to participate with you in the West Hills Club Legacy Show. Do I make myself clear?"

Like Lenox Crystal, I say, rubbing my cheek gently with the palm of my hand. I’ve been slapped enough to know this time would leave a mark, and tomorrow, I’ll have to put darker foundation on to cover it. Micky-D and me. BFF’s. My friends will never believe it. 

Can’t you just do this one simple task? I work hard to make sure you never have to work a day in your life. I pay for ballet, etiquette classes, riding classes, and all those pageants—all so you’ll have a future in the manner of which you’ve become accustomed. Do you think this is going to be too hard for you? Should I have put you in acting classes, as well? Dad laughs a true gentleman’s laugh—not really a laugh, more like a scoff. 

No, I think I can pretend to like him. I mean, I am a Nottingfield. I learned from the best. I look directly at my mother, wondering if her arm is long enough to get me from where she perched on the desk. May I be excused now? I need to rework my dance routine to include a toad.

Daddy barely glances in my direction over his glass of liquid therapy. My mother, already onto the next subject, doesn’t acknowledge my question or my departure. I hightail it from the room, up the curved entry staircase, down the hallway to the east wing, and into my Tiffany-inspired room. I don’t spare the door and slam it shut; it’s not like my parents will hear the little tantrum anyway. But the blue bunting hanging over my door tangles across my face, temporarily blinding me in frilliness. Next year, this décor has to go. I can’t be in college and justify Tiffany-blue bows, ribbons, curtains, and bunting hanging from everything.  Then again, if things go my way, I won’t be here much longer.

I fling myself onto my bed and slump into my down comforter, not bothering to remove my shoes. This is the worst case scenario. Best case? Toad-boy won’t think this is so cool either. I mean, seriously, who the hell would want their dad to blackmail someone just to get into a snooty people, legacy-only club? Enough is enough. Toady and I will have a long talk, I’ll pay him off, and that will be the end of it; no muss, no fuss, and no talk of our lives ever intersecting. He can go get high or do whatever he’s into, and I can get on with my plans for the WCL Show. Our friendship will end with a little greenback, maybe a casual wave in the hallway to show the world I know he exists, or maybe I’ll say hey to him in the lunch line. This can’t be all that bad. There’s no way he’d go through with this hair-brained idea. He has to have some kind of standards. Or… maybe he doesn’t—but whatever. It doesn’t mean I can’t hope he’s not a total low-life like his father. Or, hopefully he’s worse than his father and he’ll just take the money and run. 

Yes. Money, or should I say Daddy’s money, is my one true friend… especially when I’m backed against the wall like this and have absolutely no other choice in the matter.

Hey, Nelda! How are you? I ask my ballet-turned-voice-turned-hip-hop coach when I arrive fifteen minutes late for my lesson at the country club. I’ve been with her for eight years and didn’t know she even sang until I caught her after ballet one night. Ever since, I’ve been almost obsessed with it.

Good Morning, Maddie. She calls me the nickname my parents hate. Madison—my given name—was my grandmother’s maiden name and part of my legacy. At least, that’s what Mother always says. 

Are you ready for today? Nelda asks and turns on the classical music. Today we have to stay inside the lines. The rugby club is on the field, including one very important person: Liam Ellison. Yeah. the Liam Ellison. Or, technically, William Markus Ellison, IV. 

Liam’s family is even older money than mine. He’s the most eligible bachelor in all of Heacock Valley, and next year, he’ll be up at Harvard working on getting his law degree. Southern lawyers are my weakness—the suits, the smarts, the confidence, the cockiness... Fingers crossed our families can negotiate his attendance as my marshal to the Boar’s Club Ball next month. The ball is the culmination of the years’ festivities including carnivals, hunts, fashion shows, date auctions, and dinner parties. The year always concludes with the talent show and then the debutante ball at the Boar’s Club. Of course, the ball leads way into the summer after parties—the largest being at Liam’s this year. His parents have made sure of that, and I have a V.I.P. invitation courtesy of my mother. At least she’s done one thing right. Now, if only she could guarantee I’d be Liam’s escort, but she’s not that good. I think she’s slowly losing her touch.

With a black leotard on my body and pink tights adorning my legs, I spin my golden hair into a high bun, twist several bobby pins into place, and head to the long ballet barre near the window. The grassy field of Heacock’s most exclusive polo field is perfectly framed by the large, barely noticeable glass. The boys, uh, men run by the window—Liam securely at the head of the pack—their rugby uniforms draping their forms perfectly. Their club has practiced here for decades, and I’m sure I’m not the first southern belle to listen to Mozart with this amazing view striding by.   

Eyes on the barre, Maddie. Nelda clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth; it sounds like a clam snapping shut, and I smile. She knows Liam is the only boy I could ever have a crush on. I’ve escorted so much I’ve learned never to get attached to anyone, but Liam’s a different story—he’s the first boy since elementary school I’ve swooned over. He’s never needed any help getting a date, and I feel pretty lame relying on my parents to get me one with him. But, he’s a catch, and I’m willing to sacrifice a little pride to have my first real relationship. Sure, I’ve dated guys, but all of those started off as a favor to someone’s son, brother, or cousin and all pretty much expected something from me. It’d be nice to have someone want the real me, for once.

Focus. Nelda sneaks up from behind me and ruins my form. Although, my turn out went to hell when the herd stopped to rip their shirts off. They always play skins against shirts and Liam—of course—is always a skin. Liam will be there later, she chides, and by her tone I can tell her patience is growing thin. I turn my attention to my toes and try not to think of Liam’s perfectly-sculpted abs.

For the next hour, I pirouetted and plied until my thighs felt like they’d been replaced by mashed potatoes—the really lumpy, useless kind. Nelda made sure I could feel the burn for my absentmindedness on my form. 

When I can concentrate on something other than trying to walk, I realize Liam has claimed his usual spot on one of the heavy, white benches lining the field. He’s relaxing in the brilliant sun that only South Carolina skies could produce drinking from his Gatorade bottle. Perfect beads of sweat sparkle in the little wells below his pecs. My eyes roam the length of his body wondering what it would feel like to run my hand down his slip n’ slide inspired frame; most of the time I curse the humidity, but today isn’t one of those times.

I think that’s enough for today, Nelda finally says when she notices I’m doing more daydreaming than toe pointing. Can you fit in an extra session this weekend so we can practice your song? Your song. I haven’t practiced lately, and the idea of singing at the show terrifies me. A beautiful, classically trained ballerina is what everyone is expecting—it’s what I’ve done every other year. Sometimes it’s hard to think outside the box… especially when the box is being paid for by unforgiving parents. Singers never win, Momma always says. Besides, the Carter girls have cornered the market on singing in every event—school related or otherwise. 

This weekend is hard. How about after school next week?

Maddie-bear, she calls me my childhood nickname, reminding me of easier times when she could cheer me up with snicker doodles and sweet tea, why do you doubt yourself? You have a wonderful voice.

I know, I say, but it’s a lie. I don’t know; it’s hard when you’ve been spoon-fed your talents and hobbies your whole life.

I know you better than that. She pulls out mats for her evening prima princess classes; a room full of six-year-old ballerinas in training isn’t my idea of a great evening, so I quickly start shoving things into my duffle bag. You need to learn you’re more than your circumstances.  I turn to hug her quickly in silent acknowledgment. For being a talent instructor, she’s always intuitive right at the most inconvenient moments.  

My application for Harvard was rejected; Daddy doesn’t know yet. Although, it doesn’t really matter. College isn’t at the top of his list; marrying me off is, and the older the money I marry into, the better. Daddy sees every choice as a business decision. Everything is black