you with me.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“Violet, it is.”
“Mikey, it’s not,” she responds stubbornly.
I study her for a couple of minutes, and I can see her mind is made up. I release a breath, kind of regretting my next steps, but not enough to keep from following through.
“I truly was hoping that we could have handled our relationship the easy way, Violet.”
“We don’t have a relationship,” she replies, and I smile at her, because she truly has no idea of the plans I have for her.
She will soon, however.
“I wonder how the admissions committee would view the fact that one of the students here works as a stripper.” I see the shock on her face and for half of a second, I feel like an asshole. I push that away, however, because in the end, I want Violet and I’ll do whatever I need to do to make that happen. “Most of the students here would probably enjoy that juicy bit of gossip, too,” I add for good measure.
“You wouldn’t,” she snarls under her breath.
“Try me. Now, I’ll be here to pick you up after practice. If you’re finished first, you wait for me. Got it?”
“I hate you,” she replies, and I can hear the sentiment echoing in her words.
“I can live with that,” I tell her, and I lean down and kiss her forehead. Her body is completely stiff and full of anger, but I ignore that and walk off. After about five steps, I duck down when in my peripheral vision, I see a book come hurtling past my head. I watch Violet’s textbook crash onto the floor and then turn my gaze back toward her.
“You need to have better aim than that, baby. Don’t worry. I can teach you. Soon, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
“Fuck off,” she huffs, and even through her anger, I can see just a tiny dose of fear shining in her eyes. That’s good. I want her to be afraid of me. I can use that fear to my advantage. Violet is too headstrong. I’m going to need all the help I can get.
14
Violet
“Here ya go, Rooster,” I murmur softly, bending down to give the old man a sandwich. He’s older than Methuselah, smells horrible, and has a ratty, long winter coat and scarf on that he wears all the time with a beaten-up top hat. The kind like Fred Astaire wore in his movies. His skin is a faded, almost dull black and his dark eyes are gloomy; they hold secrets I’m not sure I’ll ever understand, but kind of wish I knew.
He’s also the first friend I made here in Black Mountain and probably my only true one. He sits up and reaches out for the sandwich with his fingerless gloves. At one time, those gloves were probably stylish, but with colder weather moving in, I wish they were warmer. I’m going to take money out of my next round of tips and try to buy him a few things. It will be tricky because Rooster doesn’t want handouts.
“My girl always thinking of an old man. Thank you, Angel.”
I smile. Unlike when Mike does it, I don’t mind it when Rooster calls me that. He called me that the first night we met. I saw him huddled near the garbage bin of the building where I rent an apartment. He has what he calls a house made of old tin, cardboard, and newspapers. I gave him a blanket and a pillow – or rather, tried to. That’s when I learned Rooster doesn’t take handouts. He refused to take them. So, I had to get creative…
“I took you up on your suggestion,” I tell him, sliding down onto the concrete sidewalk beside him. Then I take the small packet in my pocket that I pilfered from the school cafeteria when I got Rooster’s sandwich. I unfold the plastic wrap and put it on the ground. Rooster’s pet comes clucking out of the box that Rooster calls home, and instantly begins pecking on the crumbled cornbread I put down. Rooster apparently got his name because of his pet, which is an actual rooster. Two roosters would get confusing, but it’s not a problem, because the pet rooster has a name.
“Gladys does love cornbread,” Rooster says around his sandwich, and I fight the urge to giggle at the name.
“You do know Gladys is a boy chicken, right?” I ask, although Rooster and I have had this conversation before.
“He’s mean, like my