The Perfect 1 Read online

  The Perfect 1

  by

  Cory Cyr

  The Perfect 1 Copyright © 2017 CORY CYR

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by: Cory Cyr 2017

  Cover design by: Robin Harper 2017 © Wicked by Design

  Front Cover Photograph: Vincent Chine Photography

  Cover Model: Raphael Tosi

  Back Cover/Photography: ©Deposit Photo

  Edited by: Cassie McCown

  Formatting: Sharon Kay of Amber Leaf Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Contents:

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Dusty Summerford. Friend, cheerleader, confidant, and personal assistant. Her constant encouragement and support keep me writing. Thank you for believing in me when I needed it most.

  Beauty is not in the face;

  Beauty is a light in the heart.

  ~Kahlil Gibran~

  Chapter 1

  Jensyn

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  I pierced Dr. Bass with a look that should have probably turned him to stone. How many times would I have to repeat the “incident?” He was lucky I was still here. I might be his patient, but I was losing tolerance for his constant barrage of repeat questions. He had no idea my self-control was on edge, ready to snap. I’d give him props, though; he’d lasted longer than the seven before him.

  Oh yeah, I forgot this was fucking therapy and I was here to discuss my feelings. What if I didn’t want to? What if the only remaining emotions I possessed were bitterness, self-loathing, and despair? I supposed I should add hatred to the mix. Because regardless of how much time had passed, I still hated everyone, including him. And myself. I wished I had died. The emotional pain was worse than anything I had physically endured. Thirteen years and, regardless of the visible scars on my face, it was those you couldn’t see that reeked with failure.

  I’d been seeing this particular shrink for ten months now. It wasn’t so much I opposed him, but his technique made every session seem like fucking monologue déjà vu. How was regurgitating those memories for sixty minutes, twice weekly going to change shit? Why couldn’t he just ply me with drugs like his predecessors? The others before him never cared about developing warm, fuzzy feelings. All they wanted was five hundred dollars an hour, a few minutes of chitchat, and to hand me a few prescriptions. A pill to stabilize my mood, one for anxiety, and another for sleep.

  So what made this man so unique? Why all this touchy-feely crap? Because frankly, there wasn’t any amount of reflection or “Kumbaya” hand holding that was ever going to change squat. It had been years. And although he’d outlasted the others, his constant attempts at intervention and all the questions grated on my nerves. I might be OCD in many things, but that didn’t mean I wanted to forever rehash the worst memories of my life.

  My hand instinctively went to my face. The scars were blatant. Deep souvenirs of facial tissue that had once been flawless and beautiful, now marred with the remnants of healed cuts, tears, and sutures. From a distance, they weren’t obvious, but close, I supposed it was quite shocking. After so many plastic surgeries, this was as good as it got. I knew where every single imperfection was by heart. My fingertips could trace each one with careful precision, every crease, indentation, and pit. My face was a roadmap of the pain I’d endured and every fucked-up decision I’d made. And even though the scars were no longer painful, the remembrance gouged out my heart.

  This prick, he wanted me to remember. I prayed every day to wake up with amnesia or to find it had all been a gruesome nightmare. I lived each day attempting to forget, to shove that part of my life so deep even I couldn’t resurrect the memories. Of course, the fucking mirror always reminded me of what I’d lost. I lived twenty-four hours a day for over a decade wishing I’d done something, anything different that day. Just a single choice could have changed that twist of fate. It wouldn’t have taken much. I could have turned left instead of a right. Maybe I should have stayed longer and bitched out Rochelle for not altering that dress to my specifications. If I’d never stopped to answer the damn phone and have that quarrel with Xavier. If I’d stayed five fucking minutes longer. That’s all the time it took to decimate my life. But lucky me, I survived.

  If I had died, it would have been so different. People would have commemorated my passing. I would be entombed in a shrine. The press would air my life constantly—news specials, documentaries. I would be mourned and remembered for my beauty and grace. Not this. Not fucking this. I had no idea why God was punishing me. There were times I quit praying, jumping to the other side. I would gladly have sold my soul to the devil just to be complete again.

  “So…” Dr. Bass smiled, tapping his pencil against his thigh.

  My eyes drifted momentarily to extremely tanned, muscled legs. One of the benefits of living in Hawaii: your therapist could get away with wearing shorts and flip-flops. For a shrink, he wasn’t bad looking.

  Whoa, where did that come from? I stopped, inhaling deeply, because I knew exactly where it came from. I’d gone too many years without sexual anything. One momentary lapse in judgment and nightly self-gratification never counted as actual sex. My carnal life prior to the “incident” hadn’t been fulfilling either.

  My husband, that bastard, hadn’t touched me in months. Xavier was much too busy having affairs with men and women who weren’t even legally allowed to vote yet. I couldn’t even recall why I married him. Oh yes, my agent thought the world’s two most beautiful people should wed. And People magazine agreed. The union had been nothing but a publicity stunt. I shouldn’t have cared who he was sleeping with or that he was a grade-A asshole. But his bad behavior and lack of discretion made me look like a fool.

  All my life, everyone treated me as a less intelligent, pretty face and a sex object. So I became his fucking trophy wife. My job was to be beautiful and silent. Since I was a public figure, I had no rights regarding opinions on anything. I wasn’t even allowed to defend myself when the rags printed photographs of his trysts and prostitutes. My agent had “fixers” to hand
le the media. So on top of everything else, I was either too stupid to refute certain claims or I was too pretentious and deserved everything. I had one purpose, one job only. To take the consummate photograph. To be flawless on the runway. To be the “Perfect 10.”

  Regrettably, all perfection must come to an end. I figured maybe around forty or so, my looks would start to dwindle. I imagined going from a 10 to an 8. Some hugely famous cosmetic company or skincare line would want me as their poster child for beauty after forty. I’d never have to worry. I’d taken care of myself. My body and face were sublime. I would always be known as the world’s most stunning face, past and present.

  No matter how together I kept myself, I assumed my body would start to cave to gravity around sixty. So I’d planned for retirement. I let everyone around me assume I had no capacity for intellect, but the truth was I’d been stockpiling money for years. I was a smart and creative investor. I let men and the fashion industry pay my way, which in turn allowed me to be frugal and save. I’d always thought there would be more time. Because of how I’d been raised, I didn’t know how to be anything but beautiful. It had been that way since I’d been the cherub face on baby food jars. I’d planned out everything. Except how to live not being the “Perfect 10.”

  My final runway event came in May thirteen years ago. I was only twenty-five. My career was at its height. I was more popular than those models under the age of eighteen. And a major studio had sent me a script, offering me a movie role. I was excited because being an actress was definitely something to fall back on when I was no longer walking the runway.

  That particular day marked the end of my existence. Every single moment after, I learned how it was to be under a different kind of scrutiny, to have others judge me because I was no longer beautiful. My face was gone and so was the “Perfect 10.” In my eyes, I’d never rate anywhere on the scale again. It had taken me years to recognize the fact I would always be evaluated by a number. And it was a harsh reality check years ago when I realized I didn’t know how to be anything else.

  I let out a disgruntled sigh, leaning back and sinking into the soft European leather, closing my eyes.

  “Shards of glass. I feel each sliver as they ricochet off my face. Even though I’m wearing my sunglasses, I squeeze my eyes shut. I put up my hands to protect my face. To preserve my livelihood. I feel wetness. My body begins to shake from a sudden sensation of cold. I know I’ve been injured. My chest hurts; it’s hard to breathe… I think because of the airbag. I’m scared. Actually, I’m terrified. My glasses are torn from my face due to the impact of the windshield shattering and the steering wheel snapping upward as the car continues to roll. I try to open my eyes, but I’m not sure I want to know. There’s blood, so damn much of it. I can feel it and smell it. It’s dripping into my mouth, choking me. I start to cough as it runs down my throat. I try again to see, but everything around me is red and out of focus. I need to know. I have to know. I hear gurgled screams. They sound far away. Then I realize they’re bubbling up from my throat.”

  My body literally shook as Dr. Bass handed me a box of tissue. Even after all these years and the trauma of many surgeries, the tale still inflicted its mental image of horror.

  I had the immaculate life. I was a paragon. My face was coveted and respected by every photographer in the world. The public was enamored by me. I was their “Perfect 10.” Was being the operative word. It only took minutes for my world to implode—some son of a bitch running a red light. He wasn’t high or drunk. He was using a cell phone. My life ended because he was sexting with his girlfriend.

  Three fractured ribs, a collapsed lung, a broken arm, broken nose, dislocated eye socket, cracked jaw, six fingers shattered, and over fifty facial and oral lacerations. My face was shredded. There wasn’t a plastic surgeon on the planet that could restore that mangled flesh and make me into that it girl again.

  “I know you’ve been told this many times, but, Jensyn, you are still a stunning woman. You have a severely distorted view on perfection. The person I’m looking at has so much more to offer besides exterior beauty. Don’t allow your past to define your future.”

  I watched as he continued to scribble notes on his pad. He reached over to his desk and pulled out a drawer. “Tell me what you see,” he probed, giving me a mirror.

  I stared at the handle before flipping it over, catching my reflection in the glass. “What do I see? I’m fucking disfigured.” I paused with a shrug. “I have scars everywhere, including where they had to reattach my top lip. It’s deep. People know I’ve had work done, and not the kind that makes you look pretty. I’m a female version of Frankenstein’s monster. The only thing missing are the bolts.”

  Dr. Bass chuckled, shaking his head. “Yes, and maybe the shoes.” He started writing on his pad again, then quit, leaning toward me. “The imperfections you see are far less noticeable than you think. You’re clearly manifesting the scars to be much worse. I wish you would look deeper into that mirror and visualize the beautiful person I see.”

  It was my turn to snort. “My time has passed. I’m old and damaged.”

  “Jensyn, you’re not old. I’m close to your age and not considering retirement anytime soon. And you’re right. You are damaged, but not physically. All of this is coming from your mind and what your past makes you perceive. The accident—or as you wish to call it, the incident—has caused PTSD along with anxiety and depression. What you went through altered your conceptual skills. Let me help you find a way to get past all of it. I truly believe you’re deeper than your flesh.”

  I felt my face heat as I stood, both hands curled into fists. “Do you have any idea who I was? I wasn’t just some fly-by-night model. I was the ‘it’ girl. My appearance was my fortune. My body was my fame. I’d modeled since I was two. My face graced almost five hundred fashion magazines, including Vogue, by the time I was fifteen. I made more money than any model in history. I was idolized.”

  Dr. Bass stood also, looking down at me. He was well over six feet. Not too many men towered over me since I was quite tall myself. He pulled a pile of magazines off his desk. “As a matter of fact, I did my research when you became a patient.” He forced the periodicals into my hands. My eyes skimmed the covers. “Okay, so I’ll concede you no longer look twenty-five. But neither do I,” he spoke, squaring his shoulders.

  “I imagine it’s a little overwhelming that every single cover identifies you as the ‘Perfect 10,’” he commented as he pulled the magazines from my hands. “I think you’re attractive. I’ll bet many others would, too, but you’ve imprisoned yourself in your own insecurities and self-doubt. What all of this comes down to is this. It doesn’t matter what I say or think; it only matters how you feel. I can help you if you let me, but I can’t force you to live. That has to come from you. I have no doubt you had people in your life that cared about you, but you pushed them away. Some friends will eventually give up, but I won’t unless you do. I’ll stay until you quit.”

  I was incensed. How dare he? “You think because you dug up four or five of my magazine covers, you’re suddenly some kind of expert? That only proves my point. Look at me then and now. Before and after. You have no idea what I went through. The supermarket rags dragged me through the mud. They said I was drinking or high. They insinuated I tried to kill myself because my husband was cheating. The tabloids did nothing but attempt to blame me for my tragedy. Those bastards even published photographs of my facial reconstructions, going so far as sneaking into my ICU room and snapping shots of me right after the first surgery.

  “When I finally came home, the paparazzi hounded me day and night. My husband left me after two months, then filed for divorce. He was a douche anyway, so no great loss. My agent dropped me. My so-called friends sent get-well cards and fruit baskets, but never came to visit. Why, you ask? Because they couldn’t bear ‘seeing me like that.’ I learned to adapt to my life without all of them because I had no choice.

  “My looks were destroyed, b
ut I’d been a savvy businesswoman. While I was modeling, I saved and invested my money—lots of it. I always thought I’d need it for a rainy day. I had no idea that day was going to be a typhoon. I left Los Angeles and came here. I’d traveled the world extensively for my career. I’d been everywhere but Hawaii. This was the one place I’d never visited, and I moved here hoping for seclusion and praying for solitude. I bought an exclusive home with my personal strip of beach. I’ve hired staff with no idea of who I used to be. They take care of my household and personal needs. It’s a quiet and safe existence, and I like it. I have no desire to change my routines and ‘come out.’”

  “You do understand the difference between existence and actual living? Aside from your staff, am I the only person you see? Let me help you get past that fear.”

  “Yeah, maybe for now. And even that may change if you persist with all this repetitious bullshit,” I remarked, grinding my teeth, sitting back in the chair.

  “You do understand I’m your therapist and I’m supposed to be this way? It’s my job to get you to a happy place, even if that requires a little tough love.” He laughed.

  “Maybe I’m one of those people who doesn’t get that joyful ending. I’m not sure if I was ever truly happy. Maybe I always just settled. I think there’s a difference.” A feeling of melancholy permeated my chest with that declaration. Because it was true. It was difficult for me to admit, because honestly, I couldn’t think of an exact moment in my life when I’d been contented. “Enough about me. You, Dr. Bass, seem rather off yourself today. We both can’t be sad.” I pointed out. I’d noticed his less-than-jovial attitude.

  He sighed, sitting down, folding his hands in his lap. “I too have something going on in my life, and because it’s family, it’s more difficult. Normally, I don’t do this because I want to keep my personal and professional life separate—plus, it’s not very diplomatic—but I need assistance, and I think you and I can help each other. As I said, this isn’t something I would ever ask of a patient, but I feel very strongly this plan could greatly benefit both parties involved. That is if you say yes to what I propose.