Page 1 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Chapter 1

LONDYN

I'M A WALLFLOWER.

Like a random landscape photo of a meadow on a motel wall, I'm completely forgettable. When someone passes by that photo, they never stop to actually look. They never absorb the colors or the way sun rays pierce each frail flower petal, making them bleed light.

That's how it should be. No one is meant to study that motel photo like it's fine art; it's only purpose is to fill a bare white wall and make guests feel better about the shitty little room they're stuck in for the night. That's it. And it serves its purpose well.

I'm an insignificant image no one remembers.

I prefer it that way.

And I've done a very good job of blending into the background these past six years. I even moved to a huge city where I'm a speck of dust. Slowly, I'm starting to feel okay again.

Okay is good. Being invisible is working for me.

So…

Why thehellis that man staring at me from across this coffee shop like I'm the Mona Lisa?

His eyes darted to my direction the moment I walked in. Golden hair, strong jaw. Definitely a leading man. The way he's sitting—so at ease as he reclines in a metal chair—makes it look like he owns the place.

I hate attractive men.

Some of the most handsome men do the worst crimes because they know they can get away with it.

I try to ignore the stranger's gaze as I wait in line for my double-shot espresso. I'm sure I'm mistaken adn he's staring at something else. Maybe he's staring out the window. Or at the woman behind me; she's pretty. Besides, I'm in public. It's morning in Lower Manhattan, so every inch of sidewalk is stuffed with people in business attire rushing to work. Thiscoffee shop is packed. There's usually a police officer across the street this time of day, chatting with buddies.

Tons of people would hear me scream if that unnerving, attractive man tried to grab me.

My gaze wanders as I try to calm my pulse.

Nothing bad has happened.

I'm okay.

There are plenty of people here drinking sugary lattes and choking down dry scones. This is my favorite coffee shop because it's always busy. It's always filled with the aroma of coffee, laughter, and plenty of local artwork to distract strangers from noticing each other. It usually takes forever to get my coffee, but long lines are fine as long as I'm safe.

I'm safe.

Crowds are safe.

My eyes scan a neon pink and yellow painting of a dog on the wall, then I look at the exit closest to me. The shop is on a corner, so it has two exits, but the second one is behind the unnerving stranger. The one closest to me is about six feet away, perfect for a quick escape.

I bounce on my toes. I can feel the man's eyes tracking my body, so I glance over. He doesn't react, only stares, his square features looking angelic.

God, what is his problem?

My heart thumps faster, and I look away. I adjust my gray t-shirt, glancing down at myself. I'm not wearing anything sexy because I no longer dress that way. It's only plain, baggy shirts and jeans for me. Ponytails. Sneakers. No makeup. Plain and unnoticeable.

My hair is brown nowadays and I even wear big, ugly black glasses, so I shouldn't be recognizable. It's been six years since I was in the spotlight; people's attention spans are so short I doubt that man is staring because he actually recognizes me.

The man's green eyes are intense and heavy, though, like the electrically-charged air right before the director yells, "Action!" It feels like any second the clapboard will cut through the noise of this place, and the man will spring to life, playing his part.

I reach into my purse, letting my fingers trace my small taser first before gripping the can of mace.

Is this a mace or a taser situation?

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