The Read And Weep Bundle: Anonymous, Perfectly Hopeless, Run

by Holly Hood

  “I keep waiting for it to stop. And then I think how stupid that is because I would never know it.” He sighed.

  Maven concentrated on the crashing of his heart into her palm, and slowly it lessened and lessened until she fell asleep. She woke every few minutes to be sure he was still next to her, his heart beating. And then she would close her eyes again.

  Finally Henri’s heartbeats were nothing but a memory—for her or anyone.

  Henri would forever be a memory, a great memory that she would carry with her forever.

  Fall

  The crisp leaves raced across the pavement of the university. A car pulled into a parking spot coming to an effortless stop. Maven emerged from the back of her parent’s minivan, along with Nick, Maggie and her mother.

  Her dad surveyed her new college campus. Nick unhitched the uhaul’s door, sending it above his head with a rattle. “This place isn’t bad.” He looked around at all the young girl’s carrying up boxes of their own for the new school year.

  Maven rolled her eyes. “Only you, Nick.” She helped her mother carry the light boxes up the long path to the dorms.

  Maggie followed behind. She caught up with Maven pulling at the corner of a frame in the box in her sister’s hand. “What is this?”

  “A picture,” Maven insisted. “One that Henri painted. I am hanging it in my dorm.”

  “It’s nice.” Maggie drifted back behind her sister, watching her happily head inside the dorm. Something she hadn’t seen in a long time since Jake Summit dumped her. She never thought something awful like losing someone you cared about would change things so. But they did, Maven was a new person. Henri fixed her.

  ***

  Flynn dropped down by the water, pulling out his cell phone.

  How’s college? Sorority Freak. He smirked, resting the phone on his knee.

  He received a reply almost instantly.

  Nice one. It’s great, just about settled in my room.

  He looked at the water, everything motionless. A pale leaf fluttered from above and brush against his nose. He batted it away.

  Will you be around this summer?

  Maven pulled the framed painting from the box. She took a seat at her desk, running her fingers across the glass. She smiled at the memory.

  Of course. Portwood is a tradition.

  Another leaf sailed eerily from the tree brushing into Flynn’s nose. He sighed, irritated, and stood up, surveying the tree. There were no more leaves left to bother him. With that in the back of his mind he sat back down, resting his back against the trunk.

  We will have to get together and share some Henri moments. I miss him. He replied, letting out another sigh.

  Suddenly a rush of leaves swirled around him falling on his head. Flynn jumped.

  “I don’t believe in ghost, Henri,” Flynn said dryly, stuffing the phone into his pocket. “You got to do better than that if you want to convince me of such a thing.”

  Maven told Flynn she had to finish up unpacking and flipped to the video on her phone, the one of Henri. She smiled at the sound of his voice, the flicker of life in his eyes. Happy to have that one constant reminder of him, not a day went by that she didn’t revisit it. So she could drift back into the greatest moments of her life, to that brown eyed boy that made her laugh, that made her smile and happy. He had made her so happy.

  “We just made a memory…” Henri’s voice echoed into the small dorm room.

  Maven gasped as the painting Henri made her slipped off her desk and landed on the floor without breaking. She kneeled down and retrieved it, taking the hammer and nail out of her box to hang it in its rightful place on her wall, beside a picture of Henri and her from the night of the ball.

  She touched the corner of the picture frame admiring his handiwork.

  For once she looked forward to what was to come.

  “I love you, Henri.” She smiled.

  About the author

  Holly Hood is a paranormal romance writer, living in Ohio. She spends most of her time taking care of her four kids, and writing new book series. She is also the author of:

  Perfectly Hopeless

  Wingless

  Love hurts: The killing of Rose

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  Holly talks about writing and being an indie author on her blog HollyHoodblog . She would love if you came by and said hello. You can stop by her facebook, get in touch on her Twitter or send her an email:

  mailto:Winglessseries@yahoo.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual locales or events or persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Published by

  Holly Hood

  Copyright © 2012 by Holly Hood

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of Holly Hood, excepting brief quotes used in connection with reviews written specifically for a newspaper or magazine or website.

  Cover design by Holly Hood

  Cover graphics/photo by © Masson - Fotolia.com

  E-Book Edition at Amazon.com.

  Visit Holly Hood’s website at http://hollyhoodblog.blogspot.com/

  Second Edition Ebook: April 2012

  ALSO BY Holly Hood

  Ink (Volume 1)

  Perfectly Hopeless

  Love hurts: The killing of Rose (Volume 1)

  Wingless Series

  For my sister and mother

  I wouldn’t be who I am without the two of you. No joke, I think we are three amazing woman, even if we are a little crazy at times.

  RUN

  Acknowledgments

  This book has been my favorite for some time now. I enjoyed writing it. And I will forever be proud of this story. I had the time and the patience to rewrite this story and I am so glad I did. Because I feel it got what it deserved—some tlc.

  I think we all have that one person in our lives that means so much, who is selfless, who thinks about everyone else before themselves. Cheers to all the Mason’s in the world.

  Thank you to everyone who enjoys my books. I hope you enjoy this one as well. And thank you to my family for putting up with my writing obsession. I know I do it a lot.

  Birth

  I thought my parents would be proud the day I was born—they weren’t. My mother didn’t have a cute little baby shower. My father wasn’t smoking cigars with his friends celebrating my arrival. That wasn’t my life.

  I was born in the county jail. I was a bouncing baby girl. A whole six pounds with a head full of chestnut brown hair, my mother, Joy-Ann, was seventeen when I came into her life.

  She was the opposite of her name in every way.

  When you are born behind bars it’s a sad existence. Nobody cares about you. You are just another pathetic statistic.

  My mother had been serving time for shoplifting. Instead of doing great things with her life she got knocked up by my father and did all of his dirty work (which included helping him sell drugs to the local teens.)

  Leon Talbert Halstead III, he’s my father. And only minutes after my birth he was on top of a roof trying to escape the police.

  I read the article in the newspaper many times. It’s as if I was right there. A chopper circling overhead, the entire town glued to their television sets as my father makes the worst mistake of his life.

  He was twenty. He wasn’t smart; he wasn’t skilled at much of anything. He did things like committing crimes and
abusing drugs, and of course getting teenage girls pregnant.

  The newspaper said my father shouted he was never going back to jail. The police told my father that he had a baby that he didn’t have to act like such an idiot — this is the part that seared into my soul—my father, Leon Talbot Halstead III, stood there staring down at all the officials. I imagine the helicopters whipping his hair as he raised both of his middle fingers to the cops and shouted, ‘I never wanted that baby anyway, not ever!’ And then he took a flying leap off the back of the building. He thought like in the movies he could clear it in one single bound. Maybe it served him right to fall and break nearly every bone in his body and practically get mauled to death by the police dogs below.

  My father was famous for being a loser.

  A loser that wanted nothing to do with me since the day I was born.

  June 7th

  “Trust no one but yourself. That’s the best advice a woman my age could ever give you,” Aunt Wanda said, slicing the air with her cigarette. “Especially men, men only want to hurt you, hit you or keep you. Be kept by no one and make your own rules. If you want to be rich, rob a bank. If you want to be successful take it all on your own, don’t wait for it to come to you.” She took another drag, letting out a puff of smoke. “Live under the thumb of no man. Don’t let anybody decide what you’re going to do in life. It will never get you anywhere but more stupid or pregnant. Ok?” She asked, downing the can of beer wedged between us in the front seat. She took one more puff of her millionth cigarette of the day.

  She was a stupid woman, but within that stupid veneer was a lot of good advice.

  Her name was Wanda. And she hated it as much as the parents that gave it to her.

  She hated my mother (Joy-Ann) I guess you could say that was where the trip down “Hatredville” began. She felt my mother got a better name, all the looks too. She really thought she deserved everything she got. I couldn’t deny it, it seemed Aunt Wanda got the short end of the stick a lot in her life, but sometimes that’s all you could expect when you were born from trash that spawned from more trash.

  We weren’t good people. We never wanted to be. And even if we knew how, it just wasn’t instilled in our bloodline. We were from a long line of degenerates and drunks. We came from people that only knew how to scrape by and hit the road when life got tough. We didn’t wait around and try to fix it. We threw it out and took off. If you were special you could last, if you weren’t, then well, the hell with you.

  If we hated you there was going to be hell to pay. That was the reason I was with Wanda. She hated my mother with every fiber of her being. She said she would have hated me too, but I was too much of a help in doing my mother in. Aunt Wanda said sooner or later she would hate me just as much.

  “You’re too pretty. What’s a girl to do with all those looks? You need more then looks to get by. But if you got them, use them to your advantage. You’re going to break a lot of hearts, hell, you’ll want to, and if they don’t let you then break their face,” she said.

  Aunt Wanda was a looker in her day I was sure of it. I had seen many photographs, she had brilliant blue eyes and the best hair a girl could have wanted back in her time.

  She was born on the edge of the sixties where love, sex and drugs all mixed into a twisted game for everyone.

  My mother came along three years later and for some reason she took over the stage as Wanda put it. From the start Aunt Wanda hated her. And it was a goal to ultimately make my mother hurt as she never had before.

  It has been twelve years since Wanda snatched me from my house. The night my mother was banging some guy in her bedroom, I could hear the screams of pleasure through the walls of my room. I didn’t know much about sex, but I could tell she liked every minute of it. I would have put headphones on if I had any. She never cared to spoil me with anything at all. So I just hummed along to a song I heard on the way to school one day.

  My mother cared about two things: money and sex. And she learned at a very young age that you could get one with the other. So therefore she used it to her advantage, she had a lot of sex to get money. Some called it a prostitute; she called it clever with her female parts.

  So when Wanda showed up at our house threatening to burn it down, I convinced her to give up on that dumb thought and she settled on taking me with her. She said eventually my mother would see that I was worth something—like making her pockets fatter. This was her chance to stick it to her good.

  I left with Wanda. It was better than nothing. I was pretty sure we were close to eviction. I hated the thought of moving out of my only real home, so it served her right. It wasn’t about love or sadness. I honestly didn’t care that much for my mother. She didn’t do much in my life to give me a reason to care.

  Aunt Wanda slammed the old beat up Toyota into park, it whined like a beaten animal, coming to a shaky stop. She smashed her cigarette out in the ashtray, her red nails worn and dirty.

  “We’ll stay at Jon’s for the night and leave in the morning,” she said like always. This was the routine when we were low on cash. We went to one of the many guys she knew and found a way to get what we needed.

  Getting what we needed meant a couple of things. Sometimes Wanda needed to steal. Sometimes men were so pathetic all it took was something sexual. Other times it was so incredibly bad I knew we were going to hell. Those were the moments I couldn’t stomach, even if I never knew what it was to be good.

  Aunt Wanda was a master at mind games. To her it was an art. Deception was her best quality if you asked her. Anything she wanted was possible. It was hard to deny that she was right when she was doing so much wrong all the time.

  We stepped out into the damp night. A thick fog crawled all around us. We were somewhere in Georgia from what I could remember of the long drive. After a while I crawled into the backseat tuning out the old car’s moans and groans and fell asleep.

  Wanda slammed the door shut. She looked up at the old house and its one lonesome light that lit up the old window. She pulled her hair down shaking it out, it reluctantly fell, a small wave to it. The auburn cloak of hair still had life as it fell around her shoulders spilling onto her weathered tan. Her fingers crawled to her shirt pulling at the buttons until she was happy with the amount of cleavage showing.

  “Ok, grab just the one suitcase,” she said in a hurry. She made her way through the long grass to the front door. I did as I was asked, letting the suitcase drop at my side and slammed the trunk shut.

  I was hot. And all I wanted was a shower. As I headed up to the house Aunt Wanda let out a laugh as a mid-thirties man greeted her at the door, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He beckoned her in shutting the door without giving me a glance. This wasn’t out of the usual for Aunt Wanda. It was a fend for yourself kind of arrangement. Something I had grown used to.

  I gave a quick knock before going through the door into the smoke filled home. The sound of classic rock echoed the rooms, several men sat on the old furniture, beer cans scattered on the coffee table, and overflowing ashtrays.

  I dropped the suitcase next to the door. I knew my chances of escaping with my belongings were better if things turned sour. Now, I was never all that timid, but the first few minutes when I was trying to adapt to another new environment always gave me a moment of uncertainty.

  I stayed close to the door, doing my best to avoid looking at the men that were glued to an old episode of Cops. I counted the exits carefully, trying to be subtle as I took in every detail of the house I was standing in. I never knew what was going to happen next and my only way to stay ahead of things was to take it all in.

  “Kendall!” Aunt Wanda yelled.

  I followed her voice into the kitchen. She sat at the kitchen table killing a tall boy. The man that had opened the door stared at me. I immediately found the back door, one lock and a chain.

  “This is your niece? The one you were telling me about?” he asked, tossing a card down on the table. His eyes went to my c
hest. I shrank back. I knew what kind of man he was.

  “She’s barely twenty you sick bastard. Kendall, Jon says you can shower and sleep. We are going to take off.” She told me.

  I nodded, knowing full well that meant one of two things. Either Aunt Wanda was planning on getting trashed and going to steal Jon’s money. Or she was planning on sleeping with him and then stealing his money.

  I sized him up. He wasn’t much to look at. Not that tall and not that slim.

  He ran his hand across his stubble watching Wanda leave the room. His lack of shaving showed me he hadn’t cared to do it in probably a week or so. I watched his eyes dash from one part of my body to another. Normal thing creepy older men did. It was their way to get a quick fantasy under their belt when they weren’t allowed to have the real thing. I knew what was on his mind. It was the same thing on all their minds—sex.

  “There’s a towel in the closet for when you take that shower. You can sleep in my bed while were out. It’s the last door on the left.” He nodded toward the hallway.

  I didn’t reply. The less I said the better the odds he would keep away from me.

  “Jon lets go. The bars not going to be open for more than an hour,” Aunt Wanda told Jon.

  She grabbed me by the arm pulling me in for our usual conversation.

  “There are three of them in the living room. Keep on your toes. It would do you good if you checked for the usual.” She pretended to be fixing my hair so Jon didn’t grow suspicious.