Delilah: The Making of Red (Nova #2.5)(2)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

It’s like watching a play and my mom is center stage, the spotlights are all on her. Her eyes meet the guy’s from across the room. Lust fills their expressions. I can almost visualize my mom growing vines of poison ivy on her body that slide across the floor and tie around his legs and arms, binding him to her.

He stares at her like she’s the most amazing, beautiful woman in the world, the way I wish a guy would look at me, just once. “You ready to give me round two, babe?” he asks, forcing an overly large mouthful of bacon down his throat.

I scrunch my nose. This is not going to go well. My mother doesn’t like losing control. Doesn’t like giving anything to men, only taking.

My mom ties the belt around the robe and closes it up. “Actually, I was thinking about taking you home. I’ve got to go into work early, and unless you want to take the bus back to the bar to pick up your car, you’re going to have to leave with me.”

You’d think from what she just said she’d be done with him, but she’s not. It’s a routine for her. A seductress routine, full of toxic kisses and mind manipulation. She stands up straight and she’s wearing heels, so her legs look really long as she struts over to the table and traces her finger across the back of the guy’s neck. I catch him shudder. She leans down and whispers something in his ear, then she pulls away, but not before she snatches hold of his tie. His eyes widen as she guides him up, and then he lets her lead him into the bedroom like a dog.

Seconds later I hear the door shut and then music turns on. She always turns music on, either because she likes to listen to it while she has sex or she doesn’t want me to hear what’s going on. “Leather and Lace” by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley flows down the hallway.

The song continues to play as I finish off my breakfast, then put my dishes away and dance my way back to my room, singing the lyrics under my breath, pretending for a moment that I’m center stage.

I change out of my pajamas and get ready for school. Jeans and a T-shirt are my normal attire. A ponytail is my go-to hairdo. Add a little gloss and eyeliner and I’m good to go. It’s not like I’d benefit from trying any harder. Guys don’t notice me even when I try. Like the one and only time I wore a bikini to the town pool. I was thirteen and still filling out a little bit, but still I thought it’d be nice if a few guys looked in my direction. But Sandy Manderlin, the lifeguard, was wearing her bikini that day, and let’s just say that she could give Pamela Anderson a run for her money.

I felt stupid for even trying and severely inadequate, especially when Tommy Linford told me that I didn’t need to wear a bikini at all—that Band-Aids would have sufficed. I retorted with a simple remark about him needing to stuff socks in his swim shorts just to make it seem like he had something there.

He flipped me off and I went home crying. And burned the bikini.

After I get dressed, I slip my Converse sneakers on then throw my pointe shoes and leotard into my backpack because I have dance class after school. The instructor’s not the best, not like the instructor over in Fairview who’s actually been part of a company and danced on stage in New York City. But she’s cheap and it’s all my mom can afford. And even getting her to pay for classes, took a lot of persuading and promises to clean the house.

After I get my dance and school stuff, I head outside. It’s a bright day, the sun beaming in the sky, birds chirping. It’s a scene straight out of Sleeping Beauty, except for the forest is a bunch of low-income houses and the animals are crackheads, prostitutes, and poor unfortunate souls who’ve either had crap luck throughout their life, made bad choices, or, like me and my mom, gotten divorced and lost half of their household income because some deadbeat father won’t pay child support.

Still, I pretend I’m Sleeping Beauty because it makes the walk to school easier, and by the time I’ve reached the end of the driveway I’m twirling along with my arms out in front in my “in first” position as I sing “Beautiful Day” by U2.

Halfway to the street, I swear I feel someone watching me, but shrug it off because no one ever notices me.

I’m in midturn when I hear someone say, “Well, aren’t you just a bunch of rainbows and sunshine.” The sound of the male voice causes me to trip over my next turn. I stumble and fall forward, slamming my elbow against the chain-link fence bordering the side of the driveway.

“Motherfucker,” I curse in a very unladylike tone as I rub my scraped elbow

“I’m sorry,” the male voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

My eyes lift to the house next door, and I find the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen standing near the fence with grease on his hands and forehead, looking at me. He’s got dark brown hair that’s shaved short, and he’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans hanging on his hips and brown work boots. He’s also shirtless and his chest is cut with lean muscles and there’s a series of tattoos on his side that look like tribal art.

Tattoos that I’m staring at.

And he notices me staring too.

I blush, staring down at the sidewalk as I take a few steps back, squirming under his penetrating gaze. “You didn’t scare me,” I lie. “I’m just a klutz.”

“You’re not a klutz at all,” he says, and the sound of his deep voice sends vibrations through my body. “I was actually enjoying watching you dance.”

I glance up at him, shocked to find he’s still looking at me with so much intensity it’s hard to breathe. I search my mind for something to say, but my throat feels very dry.

“In fact, you’re probably the complete opposite of a klutz,” he continues, looking at me in a way that I’ve always dreamed a guy would look at me—like I’m not invisible or insignificant. Like I exist.

“What’s your name?” he asks, slanting forward toward the fence and resting his elbows on top of it.

“Delilah Peirce,” I tell him, shifting my backpack high on my shoulder. “What’s yours?”

“Dylan Sanderson.” He nods at my single-story stucco house that still has Christmas lights on it even though it’s May. “You live there?”

I nod. “Yeah, with my mom.”

“Aw.” He arches his brows. “So that blond woman I saw earlier coming out to get the paper off the steps is your… sister.”

I frown, feeling my invisibility surfacing again, the lights around me dimming, no longer center stage. “No, she’s my mom.”