INNOCENTS (DUSTY #1)
MARY ELIZABETH
SARAH ELIZABETH
Copyright © The Elizabeths LLC
All Rights Reserved
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Cover Design: Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs
Interior Design: E.M. Tippetts Book Designs
Editor: The Polished Pen
Proofreaders: Amber L. Johnson
Karin Kempert Lawson
First Edition
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Mary’s Dedications
Sarah’s Dedication
A Dusty 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
Mary’s Acknowledgements
Sarah’s Acknowledgements
About Mary
About Sarah
Coming Soon
About the Book Designer
Books by Mary & Sarah
Dusty Series
Innocents (Dusty #1)
Delinquents (Dusty #2) - coming October 2014
Branded ( A Bad Boys Anthology) - coming August 2014
To my children, for giving me a reason to be a better person. May you always make wise choices.
To my husband, for giving me the opportunity to be whatever I want. Thank you for staying up late with me.
And to Ashley, for being the first person to know.
To trouble, with my whole heart.
“When did you get back?” I run my fingers through my mother’s willow tree, keeping my voice low and my head down. Long, green velvet leaves tickle my arms, and chills rush from the tips of my fingers through my elbows.
“Just now,” he says, walking behind me, peeking between the willows. “I came here first. I haven’t been by my house.”
I glimpse over my bare shoulder, chancing a look. Thomas’ eyes are tired and his skin is colorless. His normally short blonde-brown hair is long and dirty, curling slightly over his ears. The black jeans his legs are in and the gray tee shirt his thinner-than-usual chest is covered with are brand new.
He looks disgustingly beautiful. Perks of a sinner who has money.
“Leigh, I said I was sorry,” he apologizes, swatting at tree branches.
You always are.
“It’s not like you’re my girlfriend.”
I turn around and Thomas is closer than I anticipated. He’s almost touching me, surveying my movements with hopelessly dark, apologetic eyes and slumped shoulders. There’s a cigarette behind his left ear, and I know he carries a more disgraceful addiction in his pocket.
“You’re right,” I argue. “I’m your victim.”
“I’ll always want you,” he whispers, brushing his nose along the ridge of my jaw.
His sudden proximity is overwhelming after time apart. I don’t have a moment to adjust before he takes my hand and presses my palm against the pulse point in his neck.
“Do you feel that? Do you feel how fast it beats?”
I do.
“You make my heart flutter, princess.”
I feel it.
He’s further gone than he’s ever been, and his eyes are imperceptible black, but love’s pulse is as sure and quick under my touch as it’s always been.
This, I know.
Thomas removes my hand from his neck and kisses my knuckles. He flashes his curved smirk, turning my butterflies to pins.
“You’re high,” I whisper.
“I am.”
He smiles.
I move away from him, extending my hand to tickle the willow. “Were you with her?”
“With who, Bliss?” he asks, losing the grin.
I laugh. And not because this is funny, but because this is pathetic.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief before turning away.
Unimpressed with my built walls, I feel him studying my every move and detail trying to find his way in. It’s surreal to be able to smell him again: dank green grass and Double Mint. I’ve tried hard to forget this scent, but I used to love it on my own clothes, in my hair, all over my skin. I used to savor it.
That was before.
I close my eyes, imagining for a moment that my heart isn’t broken, that he loves me as much as I love him. I try to convince myself behind shut eyes that Thomas doesn’t continuously choose drugs over me. I play myself a fool by believing one day it will only be him and me.
“What do you think?” I cry, brushing tears away as they fall.
His silence slaughters.
“What do you want to hear?” he finally asks softly. Thomas reaches out, claiming me. “Who do you want me to be?”
Whispers of forever and outcome touch the spot below my ear with his lips. “When you turn eighteen, everything will be different, Leighlee.”
Excuses.
Like he never left.
But he did.
“You look pretty in this dress. Let me take it off and love you,” he begs, declares, and promises. “Let me be with you.”
I know he loves me. I never doubt his love. I doubt his intentions and respect. I distrust his motives and allegiance.
Love?
I smother in dictating love.
He’s loves traitor.
“My parents are home,” I say.
Thomas leans down and kisses the side of my throat, running his hand up the back of my white dress. He tugs the hair at the nape of my neck. “What did you do while I was gone?” he asks, his voice calm as tension rolls through him.
I laugh sorrowfully in his arms. “You mean, who was I with when you took off for over a month?”
Thomas groans in my ear, pulling my hair a little harder. He tightens his fingers into a fist and presses his nose to my jaw. “I swear to God.” He breathes. “I’ll kill him.”
I grip onto his arm and dig my nails into his skin. The bricks stacked higher every night he was gone, and like that, I crumble.
“No one,” I say, moving my hand underneath his chin. Forcing him to look at me, I hold Thomas by his face.
This isn’t the boy I grew up loving; this is a man who brings me along for his ride.
“Because I love you.” I refuse to allow fear into my voice. “Because I love you, nobody else will ever touch
me. Even though you are constantly touched.”
He closes his eyes, shaking his head with a small smirk. We’re still pressed near. I can feel his words on my skin. “I haven’t been with anyone.”
My heart cracks, and I hate him for this.
His eyes open, and I miss blue.
Thomas’ grip on my hair loosens, but he gathers me completely to his chest. I’m held until everything I’ve heard and felt, wondered and worried, decided and became in his absence, dissipates. He holds me until there is nothing between us but my dress and his shirt.
Love is fucked-up, but love is all there is.
Thomas flattens his right hand against the small of my back, pressing and keeping me close. He drags his nose slowly up the side of mine and kisses my top lip.
“Come with me,” he whispers.
I breathe in his words, and when I exhale my reply, it’s easy.
“Okay,” I say.
And it doesn’t feel a thing like falling.
“Walk close behind me, Bliss. We’re almost there.” Mom looks down at me, silhouetted in front of the morning sun. “You’re having a banana Popsicle for breakfast?”
“You told me to grab something.”
“Morning foods, not sugar,” she says.
I shrug, breaking a piece off with my teeth.
Mom rolls her eyes and softly squeezes my hand. “Come on. We’re going to be late on your first day.”
My brain freezes as I’m lead toward the front doors of Sam Case Elementary School. Holding the Popsicle between my lips, I push the palm of my hand against my forehead and groan in fake pain. Maybe I can get out of this.
“You’re not missing school, Leighlee,” Mom responds right away.
“Do I have to wear this name tag?” I flick the red and white “Hi, my name is” sticker on my top.
Mom’s blondish curly hair sways in the wind, and I can smell her citrus shampoo in the air.
“Yes,” she answers. “You want everyone to know who you are, right?”
My dad promised everything would be okay, but I didn’t want to move here. I miss my old school in Nevada, with my old friends and my old teacher. I miss the warm air and the sandy ground. Everything in Oregon is … grassy, but I don’t say anything. The small town and the nearby beach aren’t bad.
“Wait here. I’m going to run in and grab some paperwork.” She tries to act cool and easy. I’m Mom and Dad’s only child—their Leighlee Bliss. But they worry too much. I’ll find friends. Maybe I’ll tell everyone my dad’s a judge now. If they’re not nice to me, he’ll have them arrested.
Mom disappears behind double doors, and I’m supposed to stay put, but I can hear them—other kids. With my pink backpack high on my shoulders, I step in a puddle of water, soaking my clear jellies as I lean one hand against a tree and peek around the building at all of my new classmates.
I stand directly in front of the school’s entryway, about to be thrown into the lion’s den. And all I ate for breakfast was a banana Popsicle.
Bad choices.
“Do you think that there’s one single person in this entire town who’s not going to love you, Bliss?” Dad asked last night.
“Your new best friend is waiting to be found,” he swore.
“Yeah, right,” I grumbled.
“I’m serious, Leighlee. There’s someone in that school who was born to be your friend.”
“Just one?” I smiled.
But is one person born for another?
“Hey you, in the purple dress, move!”
I turn around and skip out of the way as a crazy person zooms past me on her skateboard, almost taking out my toes. She skids to a halt and kicks up her board before stomping in my direction.
“You almost killed me!” the girl shrieks. She closes the distance between us. “Don’t stand there anymore.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning back against the fence. “I’m sorry.”
With crystal clear blue eyes, she’s chocolate chip cookie and playtime scented, sweating and red in the face like she’s been in the sun all morning long. Fidgeting in a jean skirt, her top is brand new and pink but stretched out at the neck. Her shoes are filthy, and the right one is wrapped in duct tape. There’s a bow in her long dirty-blonde hair, but it’s there because someone told her to wear it; I can tell by her discomfort.
“I didn’t mean to almost kill you,” I say.
She tucks her board underneath her arm and tilts her head. “Are you eating a Popsicle for breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“That’s cool. I wanted to eat cake for breakfast, but Mom said no. Your mom is probably waaayyy cooler than my mom. Lucky. You’re lucky. I’m Rebecka Castor.”
She’s a capsule of energy and I can hardly keep up.
“I’m Leighlee McCloy.”
She studies my name tag with squinted eyes. “What kind of name is Leelee? Is it French or something?”
My cheeks redden. No one ever gets my name right on the first try. “It’s Leighlee. Lay-lee. It’s American.”
“Sorry I almost ran you over.” Rebecka kind of, sort of blushes. “I was going fast because my brother was being mean, and I wasn’t paying attention because my mom made me wear this…” she tugs on the end of her skirt “…and then I looked up and you were there. It was too late to slow down, and you almost died.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t almost die. I moved, remember?”
Thoughts of death dismissed, Rebecka stares at my Popsicle. “Can I have that? I mean, are you going to eat the rest of it? I mean, because it’s melting all over your fingers.”
“Okay.” I hand it over.
She smiles and one of her front teeth is chipped. “Thanks.”
I have a feeling she’s going to polish off my breakfast in one bite when a group of three boys approach us.
“Becka,” one of them says. “Give the girl her Popsicle back.”
He stops and the other two keep walking. Tall and obviously older, this boy looks a lot like Rebecka with darker hair and a bent smirk. He’s cute, I guess. I don’t know. I like his flannel.
“I gave it to her,” I say, bending my toes in my wet jellies.
“Yeah, Thomas. She gave it to me.” Rebecka eats the Popsicle in one bite, like I guessed she would. “Shut up.”
“Nice skirt, Becka,” he teases, all mischief.
Rebecka drops the Popsicle stick to the ground before she swings her skateboard at the boy’s head. Four dirty pink wheels spin and loose grip tape flaps. He dodges her playful shots at beheading, and they laugh, like it’s a game.
Once they’ve made up, it’s time for introductions. “This is my brother, Thomas,” Rebecka reveals, pointing toward the boy with the same color eyes as her. “He swears he’s cool because he’s a sixth grader, but he sucks.”
Thomas pushes her. “I’m cool.”
She scoffs, jumping back onto her skateboard. She does circles around me and Thomas.
“You’re new?” he asks, pushing his fingers though his longish hair. Light freckles sprinkle across his pointed nose. And eyebrows a shade darker than the hair on his head curve over the longest lashes and brightest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Today’s my first day,” I say with a shrug, trying to make it seem like it’s no big deal.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I point to my name tag. “Leighlee Bliss.”
I pull the tag off and crumble it in my hand. Only my family calls me Bliss.
“Leigh,” I answer again, carefully enunciating Lay like I did for his sister. “My name is Leigh.”
Thomas stares at me for a few moments. I follow his eyes as they look from the top my head, past my bony knees, to my still-soaked shoes.
“I have to go,” he replies.
“Bye,” I voice too quickly, loosening my grip on the crumpled name tag in my hand.
Thomas hesitates before he leaves. “I like the color,” he says.
I look around, trying to see what he
sees. There’s a few trees in front of the school, but they’re nothing special. I glance down at my purple romper, but I doubt it’s what he’s talking about.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Your hair.”
“Oh.” I touch my soft curls. “My mom says it’s strawberry blonde. I let her curl it for me this morning.”
He laughs easy, walking backwards slowly. “She sounds cool.”
“She is,” I answer, stuck in place. My heart beats a beat I’ve never felt before, too fast and skipping.
Boys are weird.
“Bliss,” my mom calls out for me.
I wave goodbye to Rebecka and run toward my mother. “Right here.”
Her face calms, noticeably relieved. “I got your class number. Where were you?”
I point toward the girl who almost ran me down. “Over there.”
My new maybe friend is busy skating when an older man with a walkie-talkie approaches her. He points at her skateboard, berating my new friend with his finger at her nose, shaking it as if he’s saying “no, no, no,” and “bad, bad, bad.” He has to be a teacher or proctor.
“Mom,” I say, skidding my feet on the concrete. She tries to pull me along.
“What, Leigh?” She’s flustered, more anxious about my new school than I am, which is dumb. I’m the one spending the day here, not her.
I point toward Becka, and Mom understands because flustered shifts to amusement. “Did you make a friend?”
Mom has faith in smothering and closely watching, but never shaming. She doesn’t believe in yelling, or spanking, or pointing fingers at children. My dad says it’s an outrage kids are hit at all. He won’t give details, but he’s a judge and a lawyer before that; he’s witnessed his fair share of “hit” children over the years.
My parents constantly remind me about the importance of making “good choices,” and “respecting my own body space.” That man is definitely not in his own body space. He’s being rude.
“That’s it,” Mom whispers. The bangles on her wrist jingle and sing as she rushes us over. Her skirt floats behind her, and her curly hair bounces with her steps.
“Do you mind explaining to me why you’re yelling at this little girl?” Mom releases my wrist and points a finger in the man’s face. “How do you like it, huh, huh, huh?”
Innocents Page 1
