Live For You
Copyright © 2013 by Marquita Valentine
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Image Copyright Coka, used under license from shutterstock.com
To T.W.
Thank you for being among the first and setting the bar so high. I’m in awe of you and your talent.
And to Matthew
Writing this book made me remember how it was when we first met. I don’t think my heart has ever stopped pounding since.
Chapter One
Cole
Lately, my life has become one endless loop of sameness. Not that I’m complaining, but sometimes, I’d like for something, anything different to happen. Something that knocks me on my ass, without getting a black eye or a loose tooth from it.
Sometimes…I just want more than the cards I’ve been dealt.
Hot pink nails drum the counter of my bar top, catching my attention. Curly brown hair shakes from side to side as she bounces to the music and hands me a plastic card. “The license is legit.”
This is not the different I had in mind.
Glancing at down, I note the name and the birthday. Two days shy of twenty-one and one minute away from full-on tantrum. “That it is.”
“Please, Cole, it’s just two little, teeny, tiny days.” Jamie Lewis bats her eyes at me, clear and innocent as the day is long, but I’m not buying it. And I sure as hell ain’t getting busted for serving a minor. In the corner of the bar sits one former Marine and current cop. Officer Ford’s already on high alert, ready to slam me or Parker.
The Brothers Trouble he likes to call us. He plants his ass on a barstool every Thursday night and eats all my cherries. It’s a great side dish to his (I shit you not) Shirley Temples.
I hate when Ford eats all the cherries, but I loathe when customers try to get me to bend the rules for them. Especially, when those rules could get my ass thrown in jail and fined thousands of dollars that I don’t have lying around at the moment. Fuck you, very much.
“Sorry, Jamie,” I say and her brow furrows. “Come back in two days and I’ll give you a drink on the house.” My offer will be as welcome as a mom walking her son to his first class on the first day of his freshman year. Only the time my mom did that to my little brother, she was drunk and high…and still half-dressed in her gentlemen’s club attire.
Parker and I were fully embarrassed.
Jamie’s mouth drops open, so wide that I can see the hot pink gum floating around inside of it. “But I told my friends you weren’t that type of bartender.”
“Then I need to work harder on my reputation.”
“Asshole.”
Flashing her a smile, I grab an empty bottle of beer and lob it in a large trashcan. “Now that’s a step in the right direction.” Yeah, that might be harsh, but this place is all Parker and I have. Uncle Max used to own it, but he got knifed in a fight. The bar went to his sister, my mother, who can’t even take care of herself.
So, Parker and I run this place. Or at least attempt to. Guess it didn’t hurt that we practically grew up here. The regulars know and trust us. Plus my brother and I can break up brawls. We like breaking up fights. Hell, there are times I like to start shit just so I can wail on a guy.
Yeah, it’s a fucked up dirty little secret of mine. Deal with it.
Jamie stomps off, taking her friends outside and leaving me with my business. Ford’s gaze finally leaves the holes he’s burnt into my head.
Finally Parker rushes in from the back, buttoning his shirt. His hair is all messy, just the way the girls around here like. Several of our customers call out to him and he smiles and waves. He’s got this ‘gee, shucks, ma’am’ type of face that the cougars love, too. They ooh and ahh over him like he’s the sweetest thing. I actually heard a woman tell him that once. Every time she stops by, she has to have Sweetie wait on her. “Sorry, had to wait for the babysitter to show up.”
“Is she asleep…sweetie?”
Parker flips me off, then begins to tie up the trash bag. “Passed out like usual, after a very special reading of the book. Again.”
How many nights in a row can a kid listen to The Princess Bride? Needing a smoke break, I hold out my hand. “Let me take it. I need some air.” There’s no smoking in any bar or restaurant in North Carolina now. So out in the freezing-my-nuts-off-night I go.
“That shit is going to kill you,” he says, relinquishing the bag.
I roll my eyes and heft the bag, dodging tables, chairs and people.
Parker is all about healthy living, making us—me only—work out with him. He even forces us to eat organic everything and has forbidden processed sugars or flour. Whatever. But he’s also the cook…so it’s either put up or shut up.
Cold November air hits me and I suck in a breath.
Thing is: Parker is smart. Full on rocket scientist smart. Only he got the short end of the opportunity and good parents stick. So he’s like me, working his ass off, helping raise his sister and hoping like hell he doesn’t fall asleep in class.
College professors seem to really frown on that. And in graduate school—they’ll kick your sleepy ass out and tell you not to come back.
Upending the bag, I hold it over the recycling bin, listening to the bottles as they crash and break inside. I drop the bag and light a cigarette, blowing out the smoke.
“Damn, that’s good,” I mutter to myself, then move to the side of the building. Gravel crunches under my boots, until I stop to lean against the brick.
Staring up at the night sky, I make a mental note of all the things I need to get done before tomorrow. Tension, sharp and strong, grips my neck and shoulders. When I was little, I would study the night sky through a telescope. My mother would point out planets, comets and marvel over God’s great design.
Then I didn’t have the heart to ask her if her God was so great, why did He let Leo, the last deadbeat that lived with us, beat up on her—until I broke his hand, that is. Or why He would let her disappear for days and Uncle Max would have to come get us? Or why—Dammit, I hate when this happens.
Dropping the butt, I grind it into the gravel with the toe of my boot and head back inside. The door bursts open, a fight spilling out. There are two guys going at each other while my brother tries to keep them apart.
“Cole,” Parker shouts. “Little help please.”
Parker doesn’t have to ask twice.
I launch myself at the guy who’s just attached himself to my brother’s back, careful not to really do damage. He spins around, glaring with fists up. He’s as big as me, wearing a long coat like he’s Neo from The Matrix.
Slicing a gaze at Parker, I check to make sure he’s okay. My brother takes a punch to the gut, then knees his opponent in the balls. The dude crumples to the ground, holding his junk and whimpering.
“Fight’s over. I’m leaving,” Long coat dude says, letting his arms fall to his sides.
Oh hell no. I need this. “Hit me,” I growl and long coat dude stares at me like I’ve suddenly started reciting poetry. “Come at me, you pansy-assed mother fu—”
My head snaps bac
k. Stars exploded behind my eyes and I blink a couple of times. “That all you got?” When the second punch connects with my jaw, I smile.
Chapter Two
Violet
There’s something very humbling about having your mug shot going viral on the Internet.
The sun shines so bright through the floor to ceiling windows, it’s light so pure and in complete contrast to how I feel inside. I slip my sunglasses back against the bridge of my nose, hiding behind the large frames, then tug the knit cap further down. If I could pull it completely over my head to obscure my face, I would.
So far no one recognizes me in Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. No one recognized me when I sat in the corner of Terminal Eleven at the Nashville airport, arms wrapped tight around my middle, either.
Over the past ten months bits and pieces of me have been chipped away, until nothing remains of the former Miss Country Music Star. Gone is the long blonde hair and fake eyelashes. My pixie cut hair is dyed purple at the ends, something Violet Lynn would have never done. I wear torn jeans and scuffed up sneakers, not because I want to dress this way, but because I have to get away.
Unnoticed.
And this look had been the first thing to spring to mind.
My grandmother waits by the curb, her old green Chevy truck idling. I hear the click of a camera and jerk my head around. When I realize it’s a family celebrating a soldier’s safe return, air wooshes from my lungs, a sort of painful rush that nearly brings me to my knees.
Almost there. My feet, no longer shuffling along, begin to move faster and faster, until I’m running. I wrench open the passenger door, jumping inside with my duffle bag and purse.
Nana smiles and nods at me, saying nothing as I put on my seatbelt. She shifts gears and we lurch into traffic, cars and taxis honking at us.
My body relaxes in small increments, gradually sinking into the leather bench seat, as we head out of town. It’s a thirty-five minute drive from Charlotte to my Nana’s house.
She turns on the radio, an old gospel song fills the interior. I take off my sunglasses and close my eyes. When her hand, skin paper thin but strong, grabs mine and squeezes, I finally allow myself to sleep.
Blessed relief.
***
It’s supper time when we arrive, the bumpy dirt road jolting me awake. My jaw aches from hours…no months of keeping it shut. Of not telling my side of the story. Of keeping everyone’s secrets. Including mine, especially mine.
“Go warsh up,” Nana says as she parks under the carport, “then come help me in the kitchen.”
My reply is automatic. “Yes, ma’am.”
We get out of the truck and I follow her inside. Nothing has changed here and for that I am thankful. I need the comfort of sameness. I need the unchanging world that my Nana lives in.
Forrestville North Carolina is the epitome of sameness, unlike where I’ve lived for the past eight years. I live right outside of Nashville, in a community that knows everyone and everything. The people who live there are constantly in flux: always changing and improving their looks, their houses and their spouses.
My parents, Kimberly and Davis Givens, are an anomaly: still happily married, with a child on the way. My mother, age forty-seven, is five months pregnant. And it’s killing me inside. I can’t…I won’t deal with the pregnancy.
Heart aching, I walk to the bathroom and close the door behind me.
Wallpaper decorated with tiny red and pink roses line the walls of the bathroom. I wash my hands in a plain white sink with white and silver knobs. The soap is handmade and scented with lavender.
I love being here. I’ve always loved being here. As a child, I told Nana a million times that I wanted to stay with her forever and be like her. I didn’t want to sing or do anything else, but sew quilts and make things for people.
“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, child. You’re liable to drop it, then where you’d be?” she would say and kiss my head. “But to tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
My reflection catches my attention. The black liner around my blue eyes is smudged. I rip the knit cap off of my head, letting it fall to the floor alongside my duffle bag. My pale blonde and dark purple hair stick straight up with static electricity. Running a hand through it makes it worse instead of better. I look like an extra for a futuristic version of Les Miserables.
Violet Lynn, named for Country Music Legend Loretta Lynn, would have cared, would have immediately repaired her makeup and fixed her hair to look perfect.
But Violet Rae Givens uses toilet paper to take care of the smudges, then tames her hair with plain ole water. For once I look my age, like a twenty year old, not some little girl playing grown-up with bright clothes and jewelry.
Violet Lynn was a costume for me. One that I gladly wore and paraded around in, until my world came crashing down.
“She’s bleeding out,” the nurse says.
A bright light shines in my eyes, blinding me, but I don’t blink. My body won’t listen.
“Stay with us,” the doctor says, but his words are slurred in my ears. I hurt everywhere. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t feel raw.
“Make it stop,” I scream, but no one can hear me.
Pots clang together and I almost jump out of my skin. Taking a deep breath, I will the memories along with the trembling away.
The scent of fried chicken wafts under the door and my stomach grumbles. Suddenly, I’m ravenous. Bending down, I shove my hat into my duffle bag, leave the bathroom with my things and head down the hall. Along the way, I toss my purse and bag on the bed in the first room on my left. My room, with its pretty yellow and blue quilt on the bed and lacy curtains on the windows. Just like always.
Nana is at the stove, frying chicken in a black iron skillet, as she sings Victory in Jesus. My love for music and singing sprang from her. Growing up, I sang every chance I got, starting at church.
She turns down the burner and begins making biscuits. “Fetch me some buttermilk from the fridge, Vi.”
You can do this, I remind myself as I open the fridge. Smile and pretend, I remind myself as I close it and grip the carton. Smile and say that everything is fine, I remind myself as Nana turns to me, her wrinkled face kind and non-judgmental. Smile and say—
“Are you fixin’ to let go of the milk anytime soon?” Nana asks, her voice teasing.
I stare at her, my mouth impersonating a fish. Words crowd my mind, then riot down to my throat. Tears, ones that I haven’t allowed to fall in months, gather. Finally, I blurt, “I dropped my basket, Nana.”
She takes me in her arms, buttermilk carton and all. “Don’t we all, child, don’t we all.”
Chapter Three
Cole
There’s nothing I love more than grocery shopping at 6:30 am on a Saturday morning, because someone forgot to buy Kelly’s favorite cereal. And we sure as shit can’t watch the Fairly Odd Parents without Tasty Chocolate Squares full of fiber getting all mushy in a bowl of milk.
Seriously, I’m thinking of getting my junk waxed next, because that would round out my morning. My jaw cracks open on a yawn and I shove my hand through my hair.
Kelly tugs on my shirt, pointing at the box with a unicorn on it. “Please, Cole, I want Uni’s cereal. Parker never buys it for me, and it’s my mostest favorite.” She makes her big brown eyes go all soft, her little lips pouting and making me cave. I’m such a sucker when it comes to her. Besides, Parker’s still at work, a bouncer for some club down in Charlotte, so he can’t bust my balls over it.
“Fine.” I knock the box into the basket I’m carrying, grab my little sister’s hand and head to the check-out line.
All but two lanes are closed, and I breeze past the one that has a chick, with short blonde hair tipped in purple, flipping through a magazine as she waits for her turn at the register. I can’t help but notice she has a nice ass. I stop, then pivot, dragging Kelly behind me.
Yeah, so sue me. I’m a guy, a
nd we notice girls’ asses while holding onto to our little sister’s hand.
Checking out the magazine she’s holding. It’s one that girls like to read by the lake, with headlines like Lynn’s Gone Country…in Japan?.
“Japan,” I hear her mutter. “Seriously?”
I glance at the cover again, and this time Three Positions to Try with Your Guy catches my attention. Hmm. Maybe I should reconsider my hasty judgment of her reading material. Her fingers move, and then I read Five Things You Should Never Order on a First Date.
Yeah, right. I roll my eyes.
“Sorry. Next time I’ll pick Busty Biker Babes,” blondie says, peering at me over the top of the magazine. All I can see is pretty blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes.
I raise my brows, then slice a glance at my sister, with a side head nod. Blondie follows, my sister waves and says, “Hi.”
The girl turns as pink as the shirt she’s wearing. She shoves the magazine back on the shelf and stammers out a, “H-hi.” Then she flicks her eyes to me. “Sorry,” she mouths. And what a mouth. All slick with gloss. Her pink tongue darts out, licking the bottom. I can’t stop staring at her lips or stop myself from thinking about all the things she could do with them.
A throat clears. I shift my stance, playing off my very bad manners with a smirk and an uptick of my chin. “S’up?” Blondie is not impressed. Hell, I’m not impressed with my high school move.
Her cute nose wrinkles, the diamond in it sparkling, as if she’s smelling something foul. Which in all likelihood could be me, since I crashed on the couch right after work and I’m still wearing the same clothes.
Awesome.
My little sister jumps up and down, twisting my arm like I’m one of her dolls. “I’m Kelly Morgan. I just turned six. This is my big brother Cole Morgan. Parker, my other big brother, is still at work.”
“Vi-Rae Givens,” she says with a smile meant to destroy any man with a thing for blondes and blue eyes—i.e. me. Dammit, I do not have time to feed this particular need of mine. Please don’t be legal. “I just turned twenty.”
Live For You (Boys of the South ~ Book 1) Page 1
