Live for You

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 back. 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.”