Living Violet Read Online Free
expression laid a note of contained anger. âDid you recognize the girl?â she asked.
I had no idea why I said no. Maybe I wasnât up for a police interview in the middle of the night. Maybe it was just a freaky coincidence. I just knew I needed to get home.
âSee you tomorrow.â I chucked my bag in the passenger seat.
Nadine waved and inched to her car two lanes down, struggling to break from the draw of tragedy.
As I turned to get in, that feeling returned, that electric zing on the back of my neck. Swallowing hard, I spun around and jumped.
Caleb stood behind me, staring, as if waiting for me to hand over the doughnut I inhaled earlier. I returned the look, slowly backing away until my body wedged between him and the car door. His hand reached for my face. A scream was about to break from my throat before he brushed the side of my lips with his thumb.
âYouâve got something there.â He pulled back his hand and examined the smudge of powdered sugar on his finger. âSee ya tomorrow.â He strolled up the lot to his Jeep, unfazed by the flashing lights and his chick getting wheeled off by paramedics.
Thatâs no way to treat a make-out partner, no matter how bad they kissed. If he owned any decency, he would at least follow the ambulance to the hospital. Just watching his proud swagger made my stomach roil.
For the eighteen months Iâd been on this job, at least twelve girls had hung on his arm, and there were no signs of stopping. Mr. Too-Cool-for-School was a man-whore of the highest order.
I couldnât think about it anymore. I was already late, and I didnât want to be the last one in the parking lot. Evidently, this wasnât a safe place for a girl to be alone.
3
I t was a good thing I lived five minutes from work. I was dead tired.
Warm air rushed through the window, carrying the whiff of yeast that drifted for miles. Commuters on I-64 labeled the smell as one of the many Williamsburg staples.
Most areas of Williamsburg were historical sites. Every child within the state was forced on a field trip here and shown how tobacco was made. Itâs a quiet city that reeked of beer from the local brewery and the smell of mildew from the old money that circulated through the area. It was wall-to-wall old people, the new Florida, with dozens of golf courses and country clubs. It became tradition to those who grew up here to only return when they needed somewhere quiet to die.
I lived in a pretty decent middle-class neighborhood, just off the main strip of James City County. No one could ever call us wealthy though, thatâs for sure. Our home was a two-story colonial-style house with a wraparound porch, though it had seen some better days. The white paint curled and chipped, but the tall pines bordering the yard fought to hide that fact from our neighbors. An unexpected bee infestation had slaughtered our bed of gardenias, yellow button poms, and daisies.
Gravel crunched and popped under my tires as I pulled up to my house and met a silver Lexus parked by the curb.
Whimpering, I turned off the car and gathered my stuff. I avoided this situation for a reason, and some people just didnât know when to take a hint. Mom had left the porch light on for me. As always, she worried about her baby.
Entering the house, the smell of sautéed onions and garlic hit me immediately. The aroma dragged me to the kitchen, kicking and screaming. Mom stood over the kitchen island, chopping mushrooms on the cutting board, while Dad sat on the bar stool peeling potatoes.
This was an odd pairing if I ever saw one, but my folks were anything but normal. Unlike most estranged parents, mine actually got along. They rarely argued, and if they did, it was about something stupid on my end. With that said, I couldnât shake off the feeling that this was a setup.
Momâs yellow sundress cast a glow to her fair, lightly freckled skin and revealed more than a peek of
I had no idea why I said no. Maybe I wasnât up for a police interview in the middle of the night. Maybe it was just a freaky coincidence. I just knew I needed to get home.
âSee you tomorrow.â I chucked my bag in the passenger seat.
Nadine waved and inched to her car two lanes down, struggling to break from the draw of tragedy.
As I turned to get in, that feeling returned, that electric zing on the back of my neck. Swallowing hard, I spun around and jumped.
Caleb stood behind me, staring, as if waiting for me to hand over the doughnut I inhaled earlier. I returned the look, slowly backing away until my body wedged between him and the car door. His hand reached for my face. A scream was about to break from my throat before he brushed the side of my lips with his thumb.
âYouâve got something there.â He pulled back his hand and examined the smudge of powdered sugar on his finger. âSee ya tomorrow.â He strolled up the lot to his Jeep, unfazed by the flashing lights and his chick getting wheeled off by paramedics.
Thatâs no way to treat a make-out partner, no matter how bad they kissed. If he owned any decency, he would at least follow the ambulance to the hospital. Just watching his proud swagger made my stomach roil.
For the eighteen months Iâd been on this job, at least twelve girls had hung on his arm, and there were no signs of stopping. Mr. Too-Cool-for-School was a man-whore of the highest order.
I couldnât think about it anymore. I was already late, and I didnât want to be the last one in the parking lot. Evidently, this wasnât a safe place for a girl to be alone.
3
I t was a good thing I lived five minutes from work. I was dead tired.
Warm air rushed through the window, carrying the whiff of yeast that drifted for miles. Commuters on I-64 labeled the smell as one of the many Williamsburg staples.
Most areas of Williamsburg were historical sites. Every child within the state was forced on a field trip here and shown how tobacco was made. Itâs a quiet city that reeked of beer from the local brewery and the smell of mildew from the old money that circulated through the area. It was wall-to-wall old people, the new Florida, with dozens of golf courses and country clubs. It became tradition to those who grew up here to only return when they needed somewhere quiet to die.
I lived in a pretty decent middle-class neighborhood, just off the main strip of James City County. No one could ever call us wealthy though, thatâs for sure. Our home was a two-story colonial-style house with a wraparound porch, though it had seen some better days. The white paint curled and chipped, but the tall pines bordering the yard fought to hide that fact from our neighbors. An unexpected bee infestation had slaughtered our bed of gardenias, yellow button poms, and daisies.
Gravel crunched and popped under my tires as I pulled up to my house and met a silver Lexus parked by the curb.
Whimpering, I turned off the car and gathered my stuff. I avoided this situation for a reason, and some people just didnât know when to take a hint. Mom had left the porch light on for me. As always, she worried about her baby.
Entering the house, the smell of sautéed onions and garlic hit me immediately. The aroma dragged me to the kitchen, kicking and screaming. Mom stood over the kitchen island, chopping mushrooms on the cutting board, while Dad sat on the bar stool peeling potatoes.
This was an odd pairing if I ever saw one, but my folks were anything but normal. Unlike most estranged parents, mine actually got along. They rarely argued, and if they did, it was about something stupid on my end. With that said, I couldnât shake off the feeling that this was a setup.
Momâs yellow sundress cast a glow to her fair, lightly freckled skin and revealed more than a peek of
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