Flash
Copyright 2018 Malorie Verdant
Editing by:
Hot Tree Editing
Cover Design:
MaeIDesign
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgord at Type A Formatting
All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, translated, distributed, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission from the publisher or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
FLASH is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, place or event is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offense to the content, as it is FICTION. This book is also intended for mature audiences, it contains adult language and sexual content. Trademarks: This book recognizes product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
FLASH
Dedication
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
FLASH PLAYLIST
Enjoy an excerpt from STARS: THE PENMORE SERIES, Book One
Prologue
One
CONNECT WITH MALORIE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For my mom,
The redhead in my life who taught me the
value of hard work, honesty and compassion.
Human life is as evanescent as the morning dew or a flash of lightning.
Samuel Butler
Who steals my purse steals trash.
William Shakespeare
COOPER
Two Years Ago
I’VE ALWAYS HATED THE WORD family.
I’ve also hated home.
Safe.
Love.
Because their definitions never reflected the truths I witnessed. Shit like betrayal, indifference, pain, and cruelty were concealed within those words. They were like fucking Trojan horses: deceptively harmless while patiently waiting to destroy everything and everyone they touched.
But I kept my opinions to myself. I listened to the cop tell me, “Look, usually we can’t release a minor into anyone but his family’s custody, because we need to think of the boy’s safety—” and then showed him the money.
Money always cut through the bullshit.
“Okay then.” The officer slipped the crisp note in his pocket before handing over the paperwork for me to sign. Since it wasn’t the first time I’d done this, nor would it be the last, I kept the pleasantries to a minimum. I signed my name, grabbed the keys I left on the counter, and gestured with my head for Jake to make a move toward the exit.
The moment we stepped out of the concrete money pit, I tried to do the sane thing. I attempted to convince Jake to stop this shit.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I muttered as we walked toward my car.
“Lay off,” he grunted before power walking ahead of me. Pissed off at the world as usual.
I watched in frustration as he swaggered like a wannabe gangsta, completely unaware that he didn’t look cool or tough. His exaggerated shoulder drop just emphasized that he was an eleven-year-old with more brashness than brains.
I watched from a distance as the little twerp climbed into the passenger seat of my fully restored Mustang and slammed the door closed. He knew that would piss me off. The car was the only gift I’d ever received in my seventeen years. Apart from my closest friends, it was the one thing I gave two shits about. I exhaled, raked a hand through my still bed-messy brown hair, and walked slowly to the driver side door.
He’s just a kid. Even if he’s trying to convince everyone and their dog that he’s the next Jesse James, he’s still one of mine.
It didn’t make me any calmer.
“You think Mitch and Doreen are going to keep watching you?” I gritted out when I climbed into the driver seat and turned to meet his sullen gray eyes. My hand rested on the keys I put in the ignition. “You think if they find out you’ve been picked up by the cops at 4:00 a.m. three times in the last two weeks that they aren't going to send you back to the group home?” I asked as I started the engine, trying to keep my voice level. “You think their lazy asses are gonna be okay with coming to pick you up from the station the next time I can’t make it? Or there’s a different cop in charge of bookings?”
“What the fuck do I care? Ain't nothing I’m not used to,” he barked before turning to glare out the car window. He watched as we traveled away from the nicest part of town with its fancy Penmore College football signs in every window and people wandering the streets in college jerseys holding fancy cups of hot coffee.
It didn’t take long before we’d passed all the manicured lawns and headed to where we belonged. The place where rubbish filled the gutters and no one cared about mowing their nature strips or buying soy lattes. Looking at us now, in our secondhand ripped jeans and grease-stained white cotton shirts, no one would know that even this neighborhood was a step up from where we came from.
“Eli still runs group,” I sighed, losing some of the anger in my voice thinking about where we came from. “I can't be there anymore. You know I had to get Lizzie out. You go back, I’m not there to protect you. Social services won’t let us take you. Not until we both turn eighteen. We also need an income that’ll support all of us.”
When he looked at me with his eyes filled with fear, I coolly reminded him, “Look, you aren’t going back. I won’t let that happen. I won’t tell Doreen or Mitch about the shit you’ve been pulling. But you need to start realizing that you’ve got a good thing going at the moment. I need you to not fuck it up. It’s only going to be a little longer before we can all live together.”
“Whatever. I don’t even care. And quit with the lectures already. I get that you think you're my boss or whatever, but you're not,” he told me before he raked his hands through his surfer blonde locks and stared out the window again, hiding his fear with false bravado. “We’re not family.”
Fuck, I hate that word.
I exhaled and softly murmured, “We all know that word means shit. You, Lizzie, Be
th, and I, we're always going to be there for one another. That's why you called me. Always there, no matter what. But listen, Jake, you need to help me. You need to stop this crap. You're only eleven. You've got a longer juvie record than birthdays, and you’ve still managed to get a pretty sweet setup. You fighting with cops, tagging buildings, and painting trains has to end. You're good. You got skills, man. Give me a month and I'll have enough put aside from working with Al to pay for some art classes. Keep you busy till we’ve got everything sorted. But you need to promise me that you’ll quit doing stupid shit that requires the cops to arrest you.”
“Like I need some pussy art classes to learn to paint fucking flowers,” Jake muttered, rolling his eyes.
“You don't want them, fine. The cash is yours either way. Do what you want with it. You can start saving for your own car and spray the shit out of that. I just need you to stop this crap you’re pulling.”
“I should’ve called Lizzie,” he whined, reminding me of how young he was.
“Dude, we’ve talked about this. We don't want her known as the girl constantly going to different police stations to bail out friends. We've got twelve months before we can talk to child services about getting Beth back. We need to finish school. They won’t even lift a finger if they think we’re a bad influence. Don't fuck this up, Jake.”
“But you've found Beth? You know where she is now?”
“Not yet. We think she might be staying in a foster house near the train tracks. We won't stop looking though.”
“You think she’ll end up back in group? Without us?”
“Let’s not think about it.”
“You’ll tell me, right? If you find her?”
“Of course. We’re in this together. How about breakfast before I have to take you back to the Walters’?”
“Bagels?”
“Fuck yeah.”
Jake inhaled his second bagel while talking excitedly about some other street kid he met in lockup. Little punk could make friends with a cockroach if he spent long enough time with it in a cell.
I think he was telling me about the kid’s facial tattoo or his pet lizard, but I wasn’t paying much attention.
I kept looking over Jake’s head, ignoring his hand gestures and staring at a fucking princess.
She was straight out of that old storybook Lizzie used to make me read to Beth, the mermaid one. The only damn kid’s book I knew back to front because it used to stop Beth from crying during her first weeks at the home. I even pretended to see the red-haired princess in every sand pit or community swimming pool to make Beth smile.
I would’ve been certain that the girl sitting in the corner was a figment of my imagination if it weren’t for the black smudges under her sparkling blue eyes and the to-go coffee cup in her delicate hand.
I was about to look away, focus on Jake’s story, when she started laughing. I wasn’t even sure I could actually hear her across the crowded coffee shop, but I felt her.
“I’m done,” Jake yelled, inches away from my face, causing me to flinch and turn toward him.
“Fuck, you’re a dick sometimes,” I told him, wiping away the spit he got on my cheek. He burst out laughing and shifted in his seat to gaze at the redhead.
“She’s hot,” he said, looking at me with an all-knowing grin plastered on his boyish face.
I rolled my eyes. “Already noted.”
“Then why aren’t we walking over there?” His eyebrows rose. “You’re not terrible-looking, even with that stupid beard you’re trying to grow. And sure, girls love blonds more, but she’s too old for me. I could maybe offer to draw her if you need an excuse? Give you a fighting chance to try and impress her. I’ll even let you buy the sketch and give it to her as a gift and shit. I’ll give you a sweet deal.”
“Okay, for the record, girls like brunettes way more than blonds. When you get old enough, you’ll be dying it every Friday night trying to look as good as me,” I chuckled. “And kid, you’re thinking about that library book again and forgetting this town ain’t Paris. No one just walks up to strangers and offers to draw them here. It’s creepy. Now here, take my keys. I’ll pay, and then we should probably take you home before Mitch and Doreen start to worry.”
“They won’t worry,” he muttered quietly before getting this far-off look in his eyes. “When I’m your age, I’m going to offer to draw every girl, and I bet it works for me every time.”
“Buddy, you do that when you’re my age and it works, I’ll buy us beers and toast to your skills,” I replied, laughing at the smile that twitched at his lips.
“Sweet,” Jake murmured before reaching for my keys. “But seriously, Coop, you aren’t even going to go over there?”
“Jake, look what her friend is wearing,” I said to him softly. “That’s a Penmore sweatshirt. Probably both college chicks. Those girls aren’t interested in guys like us.”
“Guys like us?” he parroted, his eyebrows pulling together.
“Yeah. Badass motherfuckers,” I told him, putting him in a headlock until he pulled himself out, laughing like the victor seconds before scrambling toward the café’s door and my car. I couldn’t help but grin at the fact that in his mad dash to remain victorious, he looked less like a wannabe gangsta and more like the kid I wanted him to be.
After I paid, I took one last look at the princess.
Only in a fairy tale could someone like me get to talk to someone like her. As I pushed open the door, I shook my head to rid myself of the stupid ideas filling my brain.
I knew things had seemed to be looking up recently, but my life was no fucking fairy tale.
MILLIE
Present Day
I WAS NOT GOING TO cry. He didn't deserve it.
That fuckhead with his "I can't wait to take you out" and "You choose, babe, no matter the expense, and I'll pay.” I should’ve known this was how my evening would go.
It was thirty minutes past the time he was meant to arrive and I was still sitting there alone, my perfectly painted red nails tapping faster and faster on the white tablecloth. I took one final glance at the garlic bread balls sitting in the middle of the table—which I had been so excited about tasting when he arrived—before I accepted that all I would be stomaching that evening was bitterness.
He didn’t hurt my heart. Hell no. I was not that girl anymore.
My pride, however, had taken a serious knock. It was way past the time that I should’ve left.
Leaving money on the table to cover my diet Cokes, I finally stood up, tried desperately not to wobble on my icepick heels, and headed toward the exit. I was careful not to make eye contact with anyone.
I decided that had to be the moment. It wasn’t just about a douchebag with greased black hair conning me. I needed to give dating the “I’m done.”
Trying to perfect my mascara and squeeze into controlled briefs. The hours spent shaving, plucking and concealing. It wasn’t right. I should’ve been at home eating fried chicken and wearing a kiwi face mask while I watched the latest episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians.
Dating wasn't worth the hassle.
I might’ve told myself that if I were getting my life back together, I needed to start putting myself out there again. But now I knew that was wrong. As I weaved my way through the tables, I noticed all of the girls who weren’t stood up that evening staring at their partner devotedly. Even with my head down, I couldn’t help but think it was nauseating. I didn’t need that in my life.
I never wanted to lose myself in someone else. Not again.
Granted, I hoped that everyone in the room stayed pretty oblivious, too engrossed with each other’s perfect teeth to cause me further mortification. Having carefully pinned up my red curls, my face was exposed. Anyone looking could see the furrowed brow and pursed lips. I could only imagine that my face was somewhere between a pissed-off Jim Mora at a press conference and a Britney Spears circa 2007 breakdown. With one glance, patrons would most likely see that I was piss
ed about wasting my evening—and teetering on the edge of poor choices. Their chairs would make that scratching noise against the floorboards as they pulled away from my direction.
Thankfully no matter how hard they stared at me, they wouldn’t know what a fool I’d been.
How I’d been bowled over by a pretty face.
Excited for the possibilities to come.
Too busy dreaming of a happily ever after to see the reality in front of me.
Damn, I’m an idiot.
As I slid into my cheap pickup truck, I couldn’t help but wonder if this entire evening was some sort of punishment for overlooking the fact that my beautiful epilogue had already been written.
I might not be living a fairy-tale ending. I might not have a prince charming. I might not even have someone willing to pay for a twenty-dollar steak and sit opposite a damn restaurant table from me. But I had my baby. I had a little girl, who at that very moment was probably already asleep in her cot, sucking her little thumb between her precious pink lips. I just needed to focus on ways to improve her life.
I loved the hell out of my little girl.
I did whatever was needed to ensure that she was safe, without ruining my mascara.
I didn’t need more than that.
It was dark when I unlocked the door to our dilapidated three-bedroom home. The blue light of the television illuminated the wooden coffee table and brown leather armchairs in the lounge room. The rest of the house was shrouded in darkness.
I noticed Tahnee was asleep on the couch, her thin glasses still perched on her nose. She must’ve returned home early and relieved the babysitter. She was always saving me money, always helping me out.
The embarrassment of the evening intensified.
I shouldn’t be putting her in this position anymore. I should be capable of handling things on my own by now.
I took a look at the television and saw an old episode of Outlander still playing on the screen. The show’s soundtrack seeping softly from our television’s speakers—the blending of flutes, drums, and the sound of dancing feet—soothed the sharp edges of my annoyance and self-pity.
Flash (Penmore #2) Page 1