The perfects, p.1
The Perfects, page 1
The Perfects
by Rachel Van Dyken
Copyright © 2022 RACHEL VAN DYKEN
www.RachelVanDykenAuthor.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
THE PERFECTS
Copyright © 2022 RACHEL VAN DYKEN
ISBN: 978-1-957700-10-6
Cover & Interior Design by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction
Table of Contents
Title Page
A Note On Content
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
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
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Resources
Foster + Heart
Want More RVD?
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Also By Rachel Van Dyken
A Note On Content
I know that some of you like to know if there is anything in a book that may be difficult for you to read.
Some real-life issues are discussed/portrayed within these pages.
If you would like to see what they are, please click HERE
As always, thank you for reading!
Hugs, RVD
Dedication
If I put in all the people that helped with this book, this dedication would be way too long. I’m so thankful. So thankful to the readers, other authors, my team, and just everyone who encouraged me as I wrote this. I also have a confession—I did, in fact, drink Red Bull. Wow, that felt good to confess.
Love you all <3
Part One
Chapter One
Ambrose
I hate being rich.
This is the only phrase getting repeated in my head over and over again as I stomp through the halls of my high school.
Senior year is supposed to be the time of your life; instead, I’m throwing around fake smiles, fake fist bumps, and even the random high five to people all because I’m student body president—and because my dad’s famous.
And I’m not talking like he owns a billion furniture stores or he’s a politician… no, he doesn’t have a restaurant franchise.
He just owns the town, the same town I live in, the same town named after our family, God help us, and the same town that’s been established as the safest place to live in Idaho four years running!
What an accomplishment. A round of applause, everyone!
He keeps his fucking trophies on the mantle in the living room, you know, next to the key to the city and our perfect little family photo.
Ask me if I’m smiling in it.
He comes from at least a century of a fuck-ton of money which means we’re basically untouchable and that I have to have a sorry-ass smile on my face whenever I’m out in public because the last thing I need to do is make the great McCree family look bad.
I’m pretty sure I’ve made one mistake in my whole life—I ate candy in public, and my dad got mad because my tongue got all red before a press conference.
Yeah, that was it.
That was my one mistake.
Forget smoking weed, getting drunk in public, and wanting to develop a serious addiction to anything that will help me escape. How would I even find the time at this point in my life?
Everything is perfect.
Literally everything.
Except it isn’t.
The only thing I have going for me is that everyone thinks I’m this untouchable asshole prick who sleeps in a different pair of Jordans every night just because he can.
The guys want to be me.
The girls worship me.
And I’m set for life.
Blah, blah, fucking, blah.
So, why do I want to jump off a ten-story building and see how fast the blood leaves my body every single time I have I walk into this high school?
I need to be done with it—with all of it.
God, I can’t wait until college.
At least then I can have a tiny bit of separation from the pressure of it all. I force another smile as I walk into English Lit and take my seat in the back corner next to the window, where I spend at least an hour watching birds fly around and thinking how fucking jealous I am that they’re outside and I’m inside.
At least I have lacrosse practice after this, and I’ll be allowed outside of prison.
I’m paying basically zero attention when my phone starts blowing up. I frown down at it and see a group text from some of my teammates.
Mel: Bro, you holding out on us?
Astin: I mean, seriously—how lucky are you? Fucking prince of potato town and all that.
Me: I have zero clue what you guys are talking about.
Mel: Bulllllllllshit. I just saw the article. Byron sent it over like two minutes ago.
Byron Big B has been added to the conversation.
Astin: Bro, tell him!
Byron Big B: Dude, you’re getting a new roommate! Or shall I say, princess? And I agree with the guys, bullshit you didn’t know. I mean, it’s all over the afternoon news; twitter’s blowing up with pictures of her and your parents all over town.
Me: She? Who is she? And what the hell are you talking about?
They send me a link to an article. I click on it just as one of the office aides knocks on the classroom door and lets themselves in with a note for Mr. Stick-up-his-ass, also known as my English Lit teacher—Mr. Wilder.
He frowns down at the note and then looks directly at me. “Ambrose, you’re needed in the office; grab your things.”
Part of me’s thinking day just got better, and then I think back on the group text and wonder if this walk down the hall will be more like death row than a prison escape.
My mom’s waiting for me at the school office; her eyes are blurry with unshed tears—she’s not allowed to cry in public, but I can tell she wants to.
“Mom?” I frown at her.
She stands, puts on her black Chanel sunglasses, and adjusts her all-black Lululemon outfit.
She’s wearing a ring on almost every finger, and the filler in her lips has yet to go down enough for her not to look like a Kardashian.
She’s beautiful—and I have nothing against a woman doing things to her body, have at it. I just wish that the confidence came from something other than spending money on looking like someone else.
Her dark hair is slicked back into a tight bun. “Honey, something’s happened. We need to go to the house.”
Panic seizes my chest. “Is it Dad?”
“No,” she says quickly.
“Grandpa?”
“We’ll talk in the car.” Is all she says when we leave the office. I’m a little bit shook up as we make it to the red Lambo SUV she drives around.
She still refuses to let me drive any of the sports cars to school ever since crashing my brand-new BMW last year after taking a corner too fast.
How was I supposed to know there would be a stupid rabbit out of nowhere?
We drive through Eagle and into the Boise foothills, and she still says nothing as we drive around the mountain and to the black front security gate to our house.
“Mom.” My voice cracks. “What’s going on?”
“My sister—your aunt was in an accident. She didn’t make it.” Her voice is hoarse. “As you know she couldn’t have kids and had just decided to start fostering a young girl.”
“Okay…” My mind is spinning. Is this what the guys were talking about?
“Anyway…” She sniffles and pulls around the driveway. “If we don’t take her in—she goes back into the system, and she’s lived a very rough life, you don’t have any siblings.”
I’m stunned stupid. What the hell? “Charity,” I say. “We’re doing charity so Dad looks good. Why am I not s urprised?”
She cuts the engine. “You know how much I loved my sister.”
“You saw her twice a year.” I point out. “Last time you fought over which plastic surgeon was better, and she threw wine in your face.”
“She wasn’t herself.” Mom looks away. “Your dad pulled a few strings, and we were able to cut through some red tape and take her in.”
“Does the long-lost princess have a name?” I sneer like the asshole I am.
Mom grabs her purse and checks her lipstick. “Mary-Belle.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course it is.”
“Be nice.” Mom snaps. “She’s a little… overwhelmed.”
I look over at my three-story mansion with its seven waterfalls, strategically parked sports cars, and brick driveway and shake my head. “No. Shit.”
Chapter Two
Mary-Belle
I’m petrified I’m going to break something.
I knew when Sarah took me in that she had money, and quite honestly, I didn’t care at the time because I was so done carrying around a black trash bag from house to house and getting leered at by some of the men I was forced to live with.
Some were great.
But I always had my guard up, you just never know, and after one bad experience, you tend to brace yourself for another and another until all you have are shields up like a damn Star Trek episode while the Klingons go full phasers
I may also be a huge Trekkie with zero shame, but the example still works.
I’m holding a brand-new iPhone in my right hand, staring down at it and trying not to look up all the news stories they warned would come out about me.
I’m the shiny new charity case.
With her shiny new phone.
And I get to go to a shiny new private school on top of that—starting tomorrow—with what I can only imagine has some of the most stuck-up people on the planet attending.
People who don’t know what it’s like to starve.
Or what it’s like to sleep with the lights on, just in case.
I twirl my long blonde braid to keep my other hand occupied and take a deep breath as Mr. McCree paces in front of me on his phone.
I hear phrases like. “Money is no object. Get it done. I want it delivered now.” And then he’s covering up the phone and asking if I like pink.
I almost laugh but shrug instead.
My foster mom is dead, and I’m sitting with a black trash bag at my feet. And he wants to know if I like pink.
Can’t I just say a bed would be nice, maybe a pillow so I can scream into it and then cry?
I keep a polite smile on my face as he talks. And freeze up when the front door opens and footsteps sound.
I don’t know why but the hairs on the back of my arms stand on end as the smell of expensive cologne wafts by me.
He salutes his dad before going to the immaculate kitchen, grabbing a water, and looking toward me.
I find a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that he chokes a bit as we make eye contact.
And his eyes are—beautiful.
A glassy dark blue that seems to almost reflect my exact same panic. His hair color is a shade of amber and gold that makes him look like the prince he is, and of course, it’s shaved high up on the sides with potentially perfect man bun execution if he wanted.
He looks like a younger version of David Beckham.
He’s wearing a black and white school uniform with a crown crest on the jacket, and his tie is tugged almost completely off like he was nervously pulling it the entire drive to the house.
I don’t even realize Mr. McCree is off the phone until he clears his throat and says, “Ambrose, meet Mary-Belle, or Belle for short.”
Ambrose’s eyes narrow as he licks his full lips and leans against the counter. “Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it?”
Oh okay, so he is an asshole.
Good to know.
His dad points his cell at Ambrose. “No attitude.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I thought that at least in my own home, I didn’t have to worry about cameras.” He shoves away from the white countertop and makes his way toward me. “Better strap in, Belle, because as of right now, you’re not allowed to have feelings out in public and apparently not even in here.”
“Ambrose!” He gets close to him. A muscle ticks in Ambrose’s sculpted jaw. “I’ll tell you what,” Mr. McCree’s smile is conniving as he crosses his arms. “I’ll let you drive her to school in the Aston Martin—in fact, consider it yours.”
“Drive her to school,” he repeats. “To my school?”
“Yeah.” His dad grins. “Who else is gonna show her the ropes? Your mom’s on the phone enrolling her as we speak, which reminds me, the house is big, she needs a tour.”
I open my mouth to say no when Ambrose holds out his hand to me and winks. “How’s it feel to know you’re worth a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar car?”
My cheeks heat.
I don’t reach for his hand, but I do stand. Shame fills me as I reach for my black trash bag, and my hands squeeze tight around it. I don’t need to look down to know that I only have a few personal things in the bag, including one pair of brand-new white converse that my old guardian had just gotten me.
We were supposed to go shopping the day she died in the car crash, but when I first came to her house, she had a cute sundress and shoes waiting for me as a surprise.
I didn’t mean to, but I burst into tears which then encouraged her that we needed a shopping spree right away.
And just like that, one of my shields sort of dropped, only to come straight back up again as Ambrose stared me down.
“Come on.” Ambrose jerks the bag out of my hand and starts stomping away.
I have no choice but to follow him down the ginormous hallways of the first floor. It’s like something a celebrity would live in. I don’t even want to know how much this place costs, but I’m beginning to wonder if it’s more than even an A-list actor could afford.
Elon Musk? Of course.
Tom Hanks? Maybe not so much.
Ambrose charges ahead of me and starts pointing his free hand from left to right. “Guest rooms, primary suites, game room, theater room.” He moves swiftly up the stairs, my bag swinging next to his thick legs.
He’s clearly an athlete.
“Bathroom, second bathroom…” He stops at the top of the stairs, and I nearly ram into him. “There’s ten, just in case you get bored. Oh, and they’re themed because why not? Mom gets bored.” He smirks and then keeps walking. “My room is on the second floor with another theater room.” He turns a hard right. “Work out room is in the basement, which, since I see absolutely zero muscle on your scrawny body, I’m assuming you don’t care to see.” Another evil smirk. “My parents’ primary suite is the entire third floor, definitely don’t go up there unless you want to be scarred for life.” He shudders. “Pool house and guest house are outside, there’s an indoor sauna near the workout room, and an outdoor bar along with an indoor one on every single floor, if you want to raid it, it’s not locked, my dad fully believes in the whole drinking at home if you’re going to drink which I actually stand by since the last thing I need is to get caught partying and get kicked off the team.” He sighs and shoves a hand in his pocket. “The drugs are, however, under lock and key, especially the mushrooms.”
I let out a shocked gasp.
He bursts out laughing. “That was almost too easy. Do you really think my dad would do drugs, let alone have them in the house? Though I do hear microdosing is huge now.” He keeps walking. “My room’s to the left, more guest rooms down the hall, and…” He pulls out his phone and fires off a text.
I wait, feeling awkward as I stare at myself in one of the large mirrors in the hall next to some weird-looking statue that I’m sure cost more than my entire life.
“Fuck.” Ambrose puts his phone back in his pocket. “And apparently, because my dad enjoys torturing me, your room is right over here, across the hall.”
“Should we draw a line in chalk or something?” I joke.
He looks ready to laugh, then shrugs. “Or make a pillow fort, might be more appropriate. God knows my mom has enough throw pillows to smother everyone in Boise to death—no chalk though, fresh out of that.”
“And here I thought you’d still be playing with it. My bad.” I joke, trying to get a jab in.
He stills and locks eyes with me. “Are you going to be an annoying little problem, Belle?”
