West Coast

Chapter 1: Introduction

We all know the classic story of "good girl meets bad boy", or "city girl goes farmland jam". But this is my story. Yes, there's love and, yes, there's betrayal. But in my story? There's a lot more than a change in scenery. My life is about to turn upside down, and if only I knew it was coming.

We go through our lives and almost never look ahead. Even if we think we're intuitive about our futures, we're still stuck in the moment. It's not good enough to think about where we want to be in 5 years- what we want to happen, when really? We should be worrying more about what could be lying in front of us. 

Often times after people experience a traumatic event- a robbery, a murder, a war- they start to see their life in a different way. For me, it didn't necessarily take any blood to open my eyes, but I know how to spell disaster.  

My name is Amalia. I'm 16 years old, and my father just died. It was a hunting accident. He shot at the bear, the bear fought back. I've lived in the backwoods of Loyola, Georgia my entire life. As of right now, I'm on a train to my mother's house in Beverly Hills. 

When 90210 comes to mind, all I can picture are spoiled rich kids with Lexus cars and crazy mothers who dress like they're the same age as their teenage daughters. Television has carved an image of drunken parties on yachts and behind the school drug deals into my head.

Will I fit in there? Probably not. I mean, how could I? The kids at my old school thought an after school activity meant shooting beer cans off of fences or smoking weed in the field. Our school was never big on academics, most of us would just end up running family owned businesses in town. And the fact that my mother was so rich never changed anything. 

I had a boyfriend a few months ago, and a bunch more before that. Don't get me wrong, just because I'm a country girl doesn't mean I wear overalls or camouflage. I know how to wear my hair, but I don't need to pay a hundred dollars to get it that way. I'm capable of wearing makeup, and it's not like I'm a virgin.

The train screeches to a stop and I grab my duffle bag from the rack above my head. I lug it out into the terminal and look for my mother's face. When I don't see her anywhere, I begin to panic. But just then, I see a tall, polished man in a three-piece suit holding a sign labeled MISS HEMMING in bold letters.

"I'll take your bags, Miss." The man asks, extending his hand to take my things.

I smile kindly. "No it's okay, I got it." I hull it further onto my shoulder and follow after the suited man all the way out front to, of course, a white limousine. He pulls the door open for me and a drop my bag onto the curb before slipping inside. The man tosses my stuff gently into the back and then retreats back to the driver's seat. 

Looking around my sweet ride, I see a miniature fridge, crystal wine glasses, and a flat-screen TV. Inside the fridge, I found about twelve different types of alcohol and other specialty drinks I've never heard of. My eyelids begin to feel heavy and the change in time sets in. 

It sort of bothers me that my mother didn't bother to show up at the train station. Then again, she would probably never set foot in one unless it was a matter of life and death. As long as I can remember, my mother was never one for being sentimental. She only really came around once or twice a year. For one, she was mad that I chose to live with my father in the divorce. And she also couldn't stand the trees and cabins in my hometown. 

I let myself doze off for a moment and before I know it, the driver is shaking me awake. "We're here." He smiles softly at me. 

"Thank you." I mumble, stepping into the bright sun. I have to shield my eyes while I fish my sunglasses out of my purse. 

"Amalia, Darling!" Mother calls to me from the patio. She holds a champagne flute in her fingers and her legs are crossed delicately on the plush lawn chair. Next to her lie a magnificent swimming pool and the pool deck is tiled in the finest of stone, with a single table by the back door to the house.

Well, I guess it's more of a mansion. Pristine roofing, fresh paneled shutters. The house is clearly too much space for just one person, and there has to be at least twelve bedrooms alone. I half expect the limo driver to speed back down the driveway and out of the estate, but instead, it plants itself right into the stunning 5-car garage. 

"Hey, Mom." I fake a smile of my own as she gives me a one-armed hug, still balancing her glass in her other hand.

"Come inside, Dear. I'll show you to your suite!" She beckons me. 

"Suite?" I gasp and nods slightly, ushering me inside the house. 

The wrought iron gates were overwhelming enough, but the foyer was lined with antique statues and white marble busts of people who are dead now. Corinthian style wall fixtures give off blinding fluorescent light down the corridor. If you added together only the tiling on the floor, it would probably cost more than our entire house and furnishings back home. 

When she said 'suite', she meant it. Behind the big oak door, there is what looks to be about four other rooms, including a full sized bathroom, king sized bed, two televisions, three couches, and a small table. 

"Do you like it?" Mother asks me. I don't know what to say. This one space is nicer than any hotel room I've ever stayed in. 

"It'll take some getting used to." And that's an understatement. 

(I HAVE A PINTEREST PAGE JUST FOR THIS BOOK, I'LL LINK IT IN THE COMMENTS. YOU CAN LOOK AT MY CONCEPT ART AND GET TO KNOW THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR FACES.)