The Good Girl

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

The Good Girl: Copyright © 2014 by Lily White and Dawn Robertson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or electronic form or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Dedication:

The Good Girl is dedicated to:

The dreamers and the supporters

The people who, day in and day out, continue to support every book or project with which we are a part

Stephanie from Stephanie’s Book Reports for introducing us

Our families for dealing with the voices that haunt us

Our angels for guiding us through the dark hours

The naysayers for watching us kick ass and take names; continuing to do what we love.

To the readers for being amazing.

We love you all.

Chapter One

~ Eleni ~

I always wished I could be Peter Pan. I didn’t want to grow up and live with all the shitty responsibilities of adulthood; but yet, there I was: Twenty-four years old and on my own. I looked around my tiny, rent-controlled studio apartment - vivid colors covering each of the four walls, only broken up by the paintings and photographs I’d taken over the years.

It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

My head was pounding because I didn’t wear a hangover well at all. Blinking my eyes open, I looked around the room making sure I didn’t bring anyone home with me the night before. The coast looked clear, thankfully, and the black pants and corset I wore bartending were still in place.

How drunk must I have been to actually fall asleep in that shit?

Stretching my arms out, I realized that my body ached. I pushed up from the bed, stumbling to the mirror and making the mistake of looking at my reflection. My hair was matted from the abundant amount of hairspray I’d used for work and my makeup was smeared all over my face.

The alarm on my iPhone sang The Ballad of a Lonely Man by Mike Ness, reminding me that I had an hour until I would be stuck in class for the rest of the day. 

Shit.

The only thing I wanted to do was roll over and go back to bed so that I could sleep this shit off.

American Lit, Sociology, and Clinical Therapy would pack my day when I just wanted to be painting or working on my clinical rotation. Grad school was nothing like the fuckin’ movies, that was for damn sure. There was nothing like a bunch of alcoholics working through withdrawal by drawing with fuckin’ Crayola markers or coloring within the lines to send me straight into a depression. But, I preferred to be on my side of the therapy table than theirs. It would have been easy for me to fall into their seat, drooling on myself, looking thirty years older than I already was.

Someone once told me that every student who goes into programs for psychology or therapy are there to diagnose themselves and every time I woke up in my shithole of an apartment and had to pat myself down to make sure I didn’t do anything too fucked up the night before, I believed it. I had a drinking problem, I liked to stay numb; but going to class, learning how to treat the addiction in others that I have in myself – that made me believe that I was at least one step ahead of the crowd and that I might not fuck my life up as bad as the people who raised me.

Maybe my parents would have benefited from some good ol’ art therapy instead of wasting away their lives with a needle in their arm. I shook my head, pushing aside the thoughts about the people who brought me into this world. ‘Parents’ would be too loose of a term to use when describing those deadbeat wastes of space.

Cranking on the water in the shower to the hottest setting it will go, I noticed how the old pipes in this shitty brownstone took ages to warm up; but it was affordable - thanks to my late grandmother. Although, I could have done without the pink tub.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Picking it up, I saw Molly’s name flash across the screen. She was my best friend – my only friend - that I’d known my entire life. She was the ying to my yang, the peanut butter to my jelly, the June to my Johnny. I used to hide at her house any chance I could get – at least until my parents would find me, and drag me back home.

“Yo, bitch.” I answered, and Molly sassed me right back.

“Hey cunt, we still on for tomorrow?”

Of course we were. The New York City Tattoo Convention was something I’d been looking forward to for months. I took the entire weekend off from bartending at Club Red just so I could fully enjoy myself at the event. I didn’t want to have to rush away early just to dress like a whore and sling drinks to the desperate men that would hit on me before stumbling their asses out the door when I turned them down.

“You bet, love bug. Gotta run, the water just got hot.”

She laughed at me knowing I had about 10 good minutes of hot water before it turned ice cold once again.

“See ya tonight, I’m gonna come by Red for a couple drinks with Asher.”

I said my goodbye and tried to scrub the rancid hangover from my body. Feeling like I was hit by a truck and then backed over again, I quickly realized that I needed to learn a little thing called ‘moderation’; although, when you have addict parents, you are only one step away from their fate.

I wondered about them while I washed my body. What did they want to do with their lives before drugs became their first priority? Did they love each other? Or did they only stay together because I came into the picture?

I don’t know much about them because they died when I was only eight and that was when I was packed up and shipped to Greenwich Village New York City to live with my grandmother because ‘Grams’, my mom’s foster mom, was really the only person willing to claim me.

Grams died when I was a teenager. Refusing to go into a foster home when she died, I slipped the system and have been on my own ever since.

* * *

“You know, you really shouldn’t drink while you’re working,” Molly harassed me while I threw back the shot of Jameson thoughtfully purchased for me by the guy at the end of the bar. I shrugged my shoulders and savored the burn of the amber liquid. My favorite by far - it always helped me to forget.

“Don’t give a shit. As long as the customers buy it for me, I can drink it – at least according to Boss-man.” Of course Brent, the owner of Club Red, would probably have had an absolute shit fit if he saw how fucked up I get nine times out of ten.

“Elle, seriously. You worry me sometimes,” Molly leaned over the bar and tried to grab my hand like we are about to have some kind of heart-to-heart in the middle of an old Rockabilly club that smelled like piss. I brushed her off, not feeling like sharing my feelings or openly lamenting my future position as resident alcoholic bartender in this dump Brent called a business.

“Molly, I’m fine. Seriously.” I was pretty sure I’d just slurred that out.

Maybe I wasn’t fine; but, whatever. I’d made it that far in life as a functioning part of society - I didn’t need anyone telling me I was a fuck up. Especially not a life size Barbie doll that was made up entirely of bleach and plastic.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved Molly to death, but she was everything I refused to be – and not in a good way. Sure, I could tie on a bottle, but Molly was on a crash course for the STD pharmaceutical line – stripping for a living and taking most of her customers home for a bonus ride most nights.

“Whatev’s Elle, I’m outta here. Take a fuckin’ cab tonight.”

Molly turned and walked out of the bar while I flipped her off. She didn’t see it, obviously, because she had her back to me. I hated it when she started on me about the shit I did – especially when she was right next to me as poster child for dysfunctional.

I’d convinced myself that I had it all under control and that there was no way I was ever going to end up like my parents.

After finishing up my shift at the bar, I was determined to call it an early night. In the morning Molly and I would dominate the tattoo convention - something I looked forward to every damn year. It was me in my element. The people, the art - watching the tattoo artists claim their newest victim and work on the most beautiful pieces hoping to win some kind of prize.

It was the only highlight of my year.

* * *

My hands ran over the bar, lazily rubbing a dirty towel to clean up the many spilled drinks on the counter. From the corner of my eye, the two full sleeves of tattoos caught my attention. His black, slicked-back hair was the second thing I noticed – I always found it hard to resist a brunette man. Looking a little longer, I noticed he was older with the beginnings of grey hair peeking through his perfectly trimmed sideburns. After stepping up to the bar, he ordered a Guinness from Danielle – the 40 something year old drink slinger that had arrived to replace me. We locked eyes and the deal was sealed.

Feeling somewhat loose thanks to the rounds customers had provided me over the evening, I decided not to deny myself that ride that the handsome stranger looked like he could provide. I pressed my red lips together and made my way to the other end of the bar where he sat alone.

“Can I get ya anything?” I knew he’d already been served by the full beer pressed to his thin lips, but I didn’t care. I wanted to feel those lips all over my damn body.

“Your number, babe,” he replied without missing a beat and with a smirk that spoke of nothing but bad things. Pressing the bottle of beer up to his lips, he winked.

“How about we just skip the numbers and you meet me after my shift.” I cut to the point. There was no need leading him on, thinking there would be anything more than just sex. I didn’t do more than sex. I didn’t do relationships or actual feelings. They just weren’t my thing.

I can honestly say that, throughout my entire life, I’d never found myself having any kind of feelings for another person.

Sure, I loved my Grandma; but it was the kind of love forced on a person at a young age. A love we weren’t willing to deny if that’s what we saw fit. It was the kind that was born and bred into us. Did I cry when she died? No. After thinking about it, I didn’t think I was capable of that type of emotion. Better off that way, right? That’s what I always figured.

For the next couple of hours, he lingered - watching me from afar while he played pool and had a couple more beers. He was just how I liked them: drunk enough to be fun and sober enough to be able to actually get it up. Cheryl, the other bartender, kicked the lights on and announced last call, allowing me to make my way to the bathroom for the first time since I’d arrived. Shit had been crazy and I was desperate to for something to relieve the anxiety of a busy night.

I closed the stall and took care of business. The door opened and closed a couple times and I listened to the heels clicking across the floor and the toilets flushing. It was all the typical shit you hear in a dirty ass bar bathroom. After opening the stall, I turned to wash my hands when I noticed the silver fox standing against the closed bathroom door. Excitement coursed through my veins when I realized he wanted to get the party started early.

“I figured I’d save you some time, babe,” he said as he took a couple steps in my direction before pushing me into the handicapped stall. The second the door latched, we pulled at our clothing as if our lives depended on it - both muffling the moans of the other with our mouths. His rough hand pushed up my skirt and ripped the tiny thong clean off my body. I didn’t realize it, but his other hand had already freed his hard cock. 

Shit.

His hands grabbed my ass and pushed me up against the dirty wall. My legs wrapped around his waist, and without any warning, he slammed inside of me. I let out a scream and savored every fucking thrust. He filled me perfectly, and in that moment, he was everything I needed.