The Destiny of Violet and Luke(8)

I lie soundless in the grass, feeling twenty times better than I did in the garage. I feel content in a dark hole of numbness; a place where I can feel okay being the child that no one wants. The child that probably would have been better off dying with her parents, instead of being left alive and alone.





Chapter 1



Violet



(Freshman year of college)


I’ve got my fake smile plastered on my face and no one in the crowd of people surrounding me can tell if it’s real or not. None of them really give a shit either, just like I don’t. I’m only here, pretending to be a ray of sunshine, for three reasons: (1) I owe Preston, my last foster parent I had before I turned eighteen, big time, because he gave me a home when no one else would; and (2) because I need the money; and (3) I love the rush of knowing that at any moment I could get busted so much—so much that it’s become addicting, like an alcoholic craves booze.

“You want a shot?” the guy—I think his name is Jason or Jessie or some other J name—calls out over the bubbly song beating through the speakers. He raises an empty glass in front of my face, his gray eyes glazed over with intoxication and stupidity, which are pretty much one and the same.

I shake my head, my faux smile dazzling on my face. I wear it almost like a necklace, shiny and making me look pretty when I’m out in public, then when I go home I can take it off and toss it aside. “No thanks.”

“You sure?” he questions, then slants his head back and guzzles the rest of his beer. A trail drizzles from his mouth down to his navy blue polo shirt.

I’m about to say Yes, I’m sure, but then stop and nod, knowing it’s always good to blend in. It makes me look less sketchy and people less edgy and more trusting. “Yeah, why the hell not.” I aim to say it lightly even though I loathe the fiery taste of hard alcohol. I rarely drink it, but not just because of the taste. It’s what I do when it’s in my system, how my angry, erratic, self-destructing alter ego comes out, that makes it necessary that I stay sober. At least when I’m sober, I have control over the reckless things that I do, but when I’m drunk it’s a whole other ballgame, one I don’t feel like playing tonight. I already have a barely touched beer in my hand and have no plans on finishing it.

Jessie or Jason smiles this big, goofy, very unflattering smile. “Fuck yeah!” he practically shouts, like we’re celebrating and I want to roll my eyes. He lifts his hand for me to high-five and I slam my palm against it with a frustrated inner sigh, even though it’s a good sign because it means he’s veering toward becoming an incoherent, drunk idiot.

It’s always the same routine. Get them drunk and then I can get more money. It’s what Preston taught me to do and what I do pretty much every weekend now, hitting up the parties around the nearby towns. Never in the town I go to college in, though. That would be too risky and way too easy to get noticed according to Preston.

I’m wearing a tight black dress that shows off what little curves I have, along with my leather jacket, and thigh-high lace-up boots. My curly black hair that’s streaked red hangs down my back, hiding the dragon tattoo and two small stars on the back of my neck, each star drawn to represent the people who have loved me in life. I usually wear my hair down because guys always seem to like to run their fingers through it, like they get their kicks and giggles from the softness. Personally, I have no opinion about it, although a lot of girls seem to gush over guys playing with their hair. Let them touch it if they want, just as long as I get paid at the end of this charade.

J, as I’m going to call him because I honestly can’t remember his name, pours two shots of tequila, spilling some on the countertop. When he hands it to me I slam it back without so much as flinching, filling up my mouth with the disgusting drink, then I quickly move my beer up to my lips, pretending to chase the shot with it, when really I spit the tequila into the bottle. I smile as I move the bottle away from my mouth and set the empty shot glass down on the counter. Preston would be so proud of me right now, since he taught me that little trick as a way to stay sober when everyone else is getting drunk to avoid mistakes with the deal. And I’m glad, because mistakes with Preston never go over well.

“Another?” J asks, pointing a finger at the glass.

I decide it’s time to move on from shots and on to taking care of business. I dazzle him with my best plastic smile as I set my beer down on the counter. I stained my lips a bright red before I left and my dress is low-cut enough to show a sliver of my cleavage, created by a push-up bra. It’s all a distraction, a costume to keep them focused on something else besides the deal. Distractions equal mistakes.