Violet Ugly: A Contemporary Romance Novel (The Granite Harbor Series Book 2)

by J. Lynn Bailey

  There are two things I know for sure. One, these lips don’t belong to Merit. Two, I can’t do this with anyone else. Not anymore.

  My zipper is eased down, and I can feel her hand against me, pushing herself closer to me.

  Fumbling in the dark, I pull her hand from my dick and push her off of me. “Stop, Faynette.”

  Though I can’t see her, I know she’s standing in front of me, fucking pissed.

  There’s a drawstring light to the left of the small closet, and she pulls it on.

  She pulls her shirt open, exposing her gray lacy bra and her overflowing tits. Faynette unhooks her bra and allows her tits to fall. Quickly, she takes my hands and pushes them over her tits, against her erect nipples.

  I slowly pull away, trying not to embarrass her. “Faynette. Stop. I’m not doing this with you. Get your shirt buttoned up.” I take a deep breath, putting my hands on my hips, as she buttons her shirt back up. “Look, I’m in love with someone else.”

  I’ve never said those words out loud. In fact, I’ve never said those words. In and love were never part of my vocabulary.

  “I’ve never taken you for a man with willpower, Ryan,” she says hastily as she finishes her buttons. “I’ve never taken you for a man to be in love. A nomadic heart and good with his dick? Perhaps.” She shrugs. “A troubled childhood and a shitty life are what made you.”

  My head jerks back. “What did you say? How the hell would you know what my childhood was like?”

  Faynette crosses her arms. “Looked through your file. Look, I had to know what I was getting into before I slept with you.”

  I laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? You looked through my file?”

  “Ryan, all you’re good for is a great fucking lay. You’ll never commit. Don’t fool yourself. You’re going to live a long and lonely life, afraid to commit to anyone. Because, one day, you’ll be old. You won’t look the way you look today. You’ll drive your warden truck until you’re sixty-five. They’ll force you into retirement because you can’t seem to keep up with technology. And then you’ll think, as you sit on your porch, drinking your Ensure, I wonder what happened to Faynette.”

  As I hear this come from her mouth, I realize she doesn’t know me at all. “Well, you’ve got one thing right, Faynette. I’ll work until I’m sixty-five. But you, on the other hand? I’m not so sure. You’ve just sexually harassed me.”

  She laughs out loud, dropping her head, and then stops. “You can’t prove that. Nobody will believe you.”

  “That’s the thing about body cams. They’re so damn little that you just can’t see them.”

  Faynette’s mouth falls open.

  I turn and grab for the door handle. “The thing is, I told you no, and you kept coming at me. I wonder what the chief will think when he sees this. I’d probably start packing your things.”

  I leave Faynette in the closet as I quietly shut the door behind me. She’ll need a minute.

  Will I turn over the body cam?

  Not unless I’m told to do so.

  I don’t want to embarrass Faynette.

  But, if I’m asked, I’ll be truthful. The camera will corroborate my story.

  Thirty-Three

  Merit

  Monterey, California

  Present Day

  After leaving Dana’s office, I go straight home and to my room. The house is quiet, no signs of life, which means Abbey and Ruben most likely made up.

  I close the door to my room and walk to the large window, crossing my arms. The sun is setting over the Pacific. This is why Abbey and I picked the place years ago. Our bedrooms both face the ocean with big, spectacular windows that give us the view of the outside world that we get to visit as spectators.

  The leaking colors of deep reds and dark oranges spread across the sky, thick and rich like honey.

  Two people holding hands make their way down the beach.

  A man with a gray beard shuffles down the sidewalk.

  Seagulls call.

  A woman runs, as if trying to beat her time from the previous day.

  Tally, from Tally Man’s Florist, sweeps his front walk.

  Time moves whether I’m moving forward or not. Time moves. People go. The world keeps spinning.

  I realize I’ve been stuck. Stunted by trauma I didn’t think I had. A perception of reality I built based on false truths I told myself.

  Lie: My mom’s death hurt, but it didn’t break me.

  Truth: It did. I just didn’t allow myself to feel it until now.

  Lie: Holding my dead child in my arms was just a fact of life. Shitty things happen.

  Truth: My heart broke in two pieces that day.

  Lie: I’ll get over Ryan.

  Truth: I was and still am terrifyingly in love with him.

  The sun has reached the end of the show, but the encore performance is just as stunning. The sun has left behind the sea, traveling the same distance to another part of the world. In the sun-soaked clouds, I see the outline of an angel.

  I wonder if it’s my mom letting me know that she’s with me.

  I wonder if it’s my Destiny playing in the clouds.

  Or maybe I’m just as crazy as I seem.

  I walk toward my full-length mirror in the corner of my room, the darkness beginning to pour through my window. I see my face with enough light that’s left. The woman staring back at me is unrecognizable. I don’t know her likes, her dislikes, what she enjoys, and what she doesn’t enjoy because I don’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed something. But I do remember the way Ryan made me laugh about a month ago. I remember it in my heart. I remember the sun beating down on my shoulders in the softest way, the way my body relaxes when I’m with him. The way his smile covers half of his face and the way his dark blue eyes look back at me, asking me to give him my forever. I remember that. But I didn’t enjoy it until this moment right here. Right now.

  How many other moments have I missed?

  How many other times have I missed the pure feeling of joy because I wasn’t able to feel it?

  “How many?” I say to myself while staring into the mirror. Frustration and sadness take over my chest, and I feel as though I can’t breathe. “Breathe,” I say out loud. “Just breathe.”

  I was unaware that my heart was trying to take care of itself. Preserve itself. Protect itself.

  These words come to me. They’re not my own. Fear not of what you haven’t lived and come to what you love.

  Tears fall from my eyes, trailing down my cheeks like softly written words.

  You’ll grieve your mother. You’ll allow yourself the time.

  You’ll grieve your daughter in a way some only know.

  And then you’ll be free.

  Grief is ever-changing. Binds and moves freely through our lives until, one day, we remember something that brings the tears back. Hang on to these moments, the unfamiliar voice says.

  For Destiny, it was the way her perfect little lips formed at the close of her mouth, the way her long eyelashes rested on her cheeks. The way she looked so peaceful, though her tiny little soul was gone.

  The way my mother used to make everything okay. No matter the situation, if Mom was there, everything would be okay.

  I’ll never forget when Frankie Pullen’s body was pulled from the lake when I was seven. Frankie had sat next to me in kindergarten at Granite Harbor Elementary. His family had been ice-fishing. Frankie had fallen through. The Warden Service had spent countless hours searching for him.

  Pop took that one especially hard.

  Finally, a week later, they’d recovered his body from the lake.

  When my mom tucked me in that night, I asked her why God hadn’t saved him.

  Her answer was, “Mistakes happen. God can’t control the awfulness in the world. Things happen in life that are beyond our control, too. And, if we can accept that answer, then we can gain a little slice of peace in our lives.”

  I guess it comes down to causes and cond
itions. If I can accept this answer, then maybe I can be free.

  The image in the mirror stares back at me as I catch glimpses of our childhood, Ryan and me. Together. Moments I remember. Moments I’d rather forget. Regret. Promise. Truth. Two different people. Separated by defining moments that somehow, along the way, divided us.

  You have lost, Merit.

  You have loved.

  You’ve been broken.

  But you’ve also been put back together. Somehow, the people you love have given you words along the way that have led you to this exact moment right here.

  Seize it.

  Define it.

  Own it.

  I reach up and wipe my face, pushing the wetness back into my hair, and I use my sleeve to wipe my nose.

  When I stare back at my reflection, now, there are two of us, Young Merit and I.

  “I’ll take it from here, little Merit. I’ll love again. I’ll try. And I’ll try to bring down the walls that guard my heart. But it’s time you go, little Merit. When the tears want to come, don’t worry; I won’t fight them. I’ll allow them to fall. I’ll be okay.”

  With that, my younger version of myself smiles back, disappears. The current version of me appears, and for a moment, I see my mother. Not next to me, but in me. Her eyes, her mouth, her hands. It’s as if I can feel her in this room with me. A warm sensation comes over me, followed by a peace I’ve never known. I’m in the moment. Quiet. Calm. Fulfilled. I feel an overwhelming feeling of acceptance. That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  A tear starts down my cheek, and it’s not made of sadness, but for the first time in a long time, it’s faith. I know, without a doubt, that I’ll be all right. No matter what happens in my life, I’ll be okay.

  I turn and grab a blanket from the foot of my bed, and I curl up and go to sleep.

  When I wake up, it takes me a minute to gather my thoughts. Collect them. Store them and try to remember what I was doing last night. I haven’t slept that good in a long time. I’m refreshed. Collected. Still at peace.

  Through my big bay window, the sky is bright and blue, which tells me it’s the next day. I glance over at my bedside clock, which reads 9:52 a.m.

  I haven’t slept this late in years. Since before college, since the night Ryan and I made love. We woke up late. He and I were wrapped in each other, our bodies, our skin stuck together, like the bond we’d started as children. I remember that morning. He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to leave my body, leave it untouched. Although sore, we made love more. He touched me in ways that old lovers bend for compromise, stretching the strength of love, knowing that, in the end, all we need is one another.

  I reach for my phone just as I remember his touch against my breasts. His hands between my legs and the rhythm of his pounding heart against my chest.

  It’s Saturday morning, and I highly doubt Dana is in the office, but I call her anyway and leave a message, asking to meet with her, telling her I’ve got an idea and that I need a second opinion. Ask her if I can come in on Monday, and thank her. I hit End and ponder how quickly this all happened. After all, it’s been only two weeks since I’ve been meeting with her. But it doesn’t seem odd. It only seems right, fitting. I think everything has a way of working itself out in God’s time and that all the pieces fall together in exactly the right time that they’re supposed to.

  People are meant to meet.

  Advice is supposed to be given.

  Timing is perfect. We just need to be open to the fact that it’s not always going to be in the time frame that we want.

  So badly, I want to call Ryan. I want to tell him all the mistakes that I made. Apologize. But, most importantly, I want to love him in the way that he deserves to be loved. Show him what it’s like to love without hurt. But I’ll wait. I need to wait.

  I throw on my jogging pants, a sports bra, and a tank top. I wash my face and head to the beach. I want to get back to running, to taking care of my body.

  I walk down to the parking lot of our condominium and take a right, which leads right down to the beach.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve thrown on these shoes to do something other than work. Stretching, I touch my toes and pull at my elbows, making sure my body is warm. I take the running path that runs parallel to the water’s front, knowing my body will feel it later.

  Monterey Bay has given me a temporary home for many years. It has provided me an escape, a place to hide from issues I didn’t know I had. It’s given me a place of reprieve, but it’s never been home. Nor was San Diego. Home is where snow touches down at the beginning of December. Where the sun rises over the ocean and sets among the evergreens that surround our beautifully broken small town. Where families suffer in silence and are loved through it. A place that shuts down when locals get married and where funerals mark time. A place where memories become fixtures of feelings, both good and bad. Where the whole town gathers around during the Fall Carnival, the annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony, the Mudd Run in the springtime. A place where every single person has known you since birth.

  My breathing quickens, and I know my body will start to talk soon. But I find a rhythm with my breaths.

  I look up just in time to see a woman with gray hair, almost purple in the morning sun, and a little girl with my color hair, walking hand in hand. The little girl turns to me.

  My heart seizes, and emotion comes over me when her eyes meet mine, but my legs keep moving.

  “Destiny! Look at this seashell,” the grandmother says.

  I stop in my tracks at the mention of the girl’s name.

  When I turn to face them, I’m a bit past them, but the grandmother, this time, catches my eye. If my mother could have reached the age that she’d be today, she’d look like this woman.

  They both stand there, waving, as if it’s my mother’s way of saying, We’re okay, Merit. I’ve got Destiny until you get here.

  I wave back, and then my fingertips fall, emotion filling me with happiness, love, acceptance. After a long while of staring at each other, I watch them walk away, slowly disappearing into the haze and mist the ocean provides.

  Timing is everything. A sob chokes in my throat. My mom had to go first to be there for Destiny when she arrived in heaven.

  I’m overwhelmingly moved as I realize we get what we need when we need it if we’re open to the idea of acceptance and forgiveness.

  And then Eddie’s words come to me. “There’s a moment when you’ll know. You’ll stop runnin’.”

  Thirty-Four

  Ryan

  Hallowell, Maine

  Present Day

  It takes a lot to scare the shit out of me, but the black sedan makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention, and I notice it in my driveway before I notice the light on in the kitchen. Could be Eli, but I don’t see his truck.

  The light’s on so clearly, so whoever’s in there isn’t trying to be sneaky. I do, however, turn the Track My iPhone switch on just in case the person inside drags my body somewhere.

  I reach under my seat and pull out my handgun. I load it and crack the windows for Hero, who’s passed out in the front seat of my truck.

  I move quickly as I get out of the truck, knowing what Eli and I have done lately, working with shady people to get some answers. I send a short text to Eli.

  Me: You and the girls all right?

  He texts back.

  Eli: Eating dinner together. Yeah, what’s up?

  I push my phone back into my vest and make my way to the front door. Quietly opening the door to my house, I say, “Hello?”

  “In the kitchen,” says a woman’s voice. A voice that reflects a lifetime of cigarette smoke, a life vested in hard knocks. It can be only one person. She knows where I live. Maine is a small place.

  Somewhat relieved, I shove the gun back in my holster and come around the corner to see my mother sitting at the dining room table.

  Her face is bruised, cut, her hand bandaged.

&n
bsp; No matter if she raised me or not, disappeared and left, leaving me with a man who sided with the switch, his fist and feet to carry out discipline, no woman should ever look like this.

  “Hi.” Her voice is more hoarse than it was seconds ago.

  I walk to the counter. “What are you doing here, Mona?”

  Her eyes fill with tears as she bites her bottom lip, staring at her fingernail paint that’s chipped away like splattered paint. Her hair is wiry and two-toned, dark roots and blonde ends.

  Four times, I received calls from my mother.

  One: on my sixth birthday when she came back and wanted to be a mom again, and then she left a week later.

  Two: she tried again when I was ten and left two days later.

  Three: at sixteen when she needed money.

  Four: and the last time she called me was when I was twenty-eight. She’d landed in jail for the hundredth time.

  It wasn’t a secret to me or to Granite Harbor that my mom couldn’t lay off the powder.

  “Spare me the shit and the sob story, Mona. Why are you here?” I set my phone down on the counter with my keys.

  “It’s bad, Ryan, real bad.” She picks at her nails. “You need to get out of here. He’s after you.”

  “Who’s after me?”

  “Ronan. He wants you dead.”

  “Why?” My heart picks up pace, but as I breathe, my anger grows.

  She chokes out a sob. “Look, Ryan, you need to get out of here.”

  “No.” Confidence refines my tone. No man will ever intimidate me. I decided that at sixteen years old when Dubbs took his last swing at me. “Why would he care, Mona?”

  “I knew you’d be here, slut, once again trying to prove you’re the mom you never were.” An unfamiliar voice sounds from behind me.

  Mona starts to cry.

  “You stupid bitch,” he says to her as he comes into view.

  Ronan Fields is tall with dark brown hair that’s slicked back like a dated car salesman. Dresses like he’s a few minutes late to the party. Dresses like he doesn’t have a few minions working under him. Dresses like people would underestimate him. Chalk him up to a man who takes orders, not gives them. And maybe that’s what he wants. White polo that’s a size too small. Dark jeans.