Violet Addiction Read online

  KIRSTY DALLAS

  Copyright © 2014 Kirsty Dallas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  While writing this book I broke out in a sweat on the odd occasion. Not an ugly man sweat with saturated pits, but a delicate perspiration on my brow. One day I even kicked my toe on the corner of my desk and it bled, causing me to cry (just a little). I wrote this book and literally gave it my very own BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS, so don’t steal it... Quote it if you wish, tell your friends about it, create shit-hot trailers and teasers (I love those), just please, DON’T STEAL IT!!

  Cover Image

  Photographer—L G Abraham

  Graphics Designer

  Graphics Covered

  Dress

  One Night Stand

  Cosmetic Artist

  Angela Prothero

  Editing and Formatting

  Ami Johnson

  “Violet Addiction”

  Written by Beau Maynard and Kirsty Dallas

  Performed by Beau Maynard

  For those who have fought and won, and especially those that are still fighting.

  Somebody once said we never know what is enough until we know what’s more than enough.

  —Billie Holiday

  I’ve always craved things that destroy me; things that make me forget the worthlessness that fills my veins. In the end, the poisons I consumed in an effort to feel numb killed me. Some have described death as a bright light, a peaceful acceptance, as their soul is drawn to another world so humbling it fills you with a love unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There was no bright light in my death though, but perhaps I wasn’t destined for the angelic beauty of heaven. No, my short lived life had been played out with so much sin and excess that there would no doubt be a special cage in hell with my name on it. In my death, I felt and saw nothing. No warmth, no cold, no light, no darkness, just nothing.

  As I lay on the stiff white sheets of an unknown hospital bed, the past several days of my unconscious existence were no more than a foggy swirl of dreams and distant voices. I now longed for that empty void of death. He hadn’t been here when I awoke. He was always with me when I woke from a bender that would put most celebrities to shame. He always made sure I was safe and protected. He was always beside me, ready to carefully palm my shame and self-loathing into his gentle hands and bring me back from the brink of darkness. This time was different though; this time I was alone when I awoke. He was gone, and I felt the weight of his loss like a missing limb. Cain, the light to my darkness, the poetic music that was a constant feature to my days and nights, but that music was now silenced. I shouldn’t have been surprised; I had always known that his perfection was too beautiful for my world. I had long ago reconciled myself to the belief that Cain Everett would be nothing more than a moment of love and warmth that would eventually escape my darkness. Part of me was grateful that he had finally found the good sense to leave. Another part of me was broken, irrevocably and agonizingly broken.

  My eyes fluttered closed, trapping the tears beneath the darkness of my eyelids as I recalled the first time I had ever seen Cain, or more like heard him.

  Cain possessed a gift unlike any other. His hands were crafted by angels, created for the ebony and ivory keys of a piano. The beauty that fell from his fingertips was breathtaking. The day I met Cain I was drawn to the sweet sound of Pachelbel’s “Canon In D Major”, mind you, I had no idea what it was called at the time. Harmony and joy echoed through the empty school theater, the fluent sounds filling me with an awe and wonder that drew me forward from the shadows I had sunk into as I listened to him play. As if lured forward by the Pied Piper himself, not even a thick wall as wide as the oceans or as tall as the skies could have prevented me from reaching him. Finally I stood right behind him, close enough to reach out a hand and feel the warmth of his lean body. I didn’t though. I couldn’t. I had fallen into an immovable trance, captured by this boy and his precious musical gift. When the music ended on one lone, soft note, the boy turned around to face me, as if unsurprised by my presence. I opened my mouth to say something, but my mouth was an empty cavern; no words left my lips. In an attempt to gather some sort of composure, I closed my mouth and stood a little taller, my shoulders pushed back, and my chin lifted defiantly. The corner of this musical boy’s mouth tipped into a small smile, and I noticed his beauty. His intelligent, soulful eyes were a cool blue, his cheek bones were high, and his bottom lip was slightly fuller than the top one. His hair hung long enough to drop into his eyes, and as he watched me, he raised a hand to push the wispy dark blonde locks aside. No words were exchanged; we simply watched each other with wary curiosity, as if our souls had been drawn to this moment and were peacefully becoming acquainted.

  After a long moment, the boy finally spoke. “If I had known playing this piano would make a beauty like you appear, I would have done so long before now.”

  I should have rolled my eyes and snorted at this teenage boy’s softly spoken seduction, but truth be told, his words were a smooth caress to my heart, and I wanted nothing more than for him to continue talking. He leaned back against the piano, his eyes raking over my body shamelessly. His gaze wasn’t exactly filled with the usual male desire other boys looked at me with, I could see the interest there, but this boy was looking at me as if I was something more than an attractive blonde haired girl. He seemed genuinely intrigued by my presence.

  “I’m Cain Everett,” he murmured with a small smile. Cain seemed like a strong and unusual name; it suited him perfectly.

  “Violet Trivoli,” I answered in a whisper.

  “Violet,” he spoke, as if testing the sound of my name off his lips. “Pretty,” he purred.

  I dragged my eyes from his far too intense gaze and took in the grand piano behind him. It was used for school productions, and I had only ever heard Mrs. Whitlock, the school’s history teacher, play it. As far as I was aware, it was off limits to students.

  “Do you play?” Cain asked.

  I shook my head as I took a few tentative steps past him and reached out to touch the smooth, cool surface. It was such a beautiful instrument that could create such a beautiful sound. I loved the piano even though I could not play.

  “No, but I like to sing,” I found myself saying. When I realized what I had said, my eyes widened with horror. I had only ever sung in the shower or in the privacy of my bedroom. I wasn’t even sure if I was any good; I just knew I loved to do it. Cain’s smile was blinding, filled with an excitement that had me immediately nervous. He turned on the bench, facing the piano’s keys.

  “What do you like to sing?” he asked.

  I chewed on my bottom lip, anxiously caught between wanting to tell him and wanting to run and hide.

  “I like Ella Fitzgerald,” I finally blurted out. Cain seemed a little surprised with my answer.

  “Do you know “Dream A Little Dream Of Me”?”

  I nodded. I knew everything by Ella, word for word. I listened to her repeatedly in the quiet seclusion of my bedroom, singing along with the jazz great, every word from every song until I knew them all by heart.

  Cain’s fingers settled on the keys. “Sing for me.”
/>   I froze, my heart thumping so hard it was almost painful.

  “No one else is here, Violet. It’s just you and me. Anyway, I showed you mine; now it’s your turn to show me yours.” His eyes danced with mischief.

  “I might suck,” I blurted out.

  Cain smiled. “And you might not. But in the end, who cares?”

  His words, though casual and without malice, broke my heart. I had long ago accepted that in my world, there were few who cared. Besides my dad, there wasn’t really another soul who appeared to care about me. I glanced nervously around the room, noticing the gaping loneliness the empty theater carried. There was no one there to see or hear me. And why should I care what one lone, strange boy would think? I gave Cain a short nod and licked my lips as he began to play the familiar tune. I took one deep breath and exhaled, blowing my nerves out into the air, leaving only a mild fluttering in my stomach. Then, I sang. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see Cain’s reaction. If he laughed, I would be mortified, but somehow I knew that even if he wanted to, he probably wouldn’t. At first glance, he didn’t seem like the other boys in school who snickered and teased mercilessly, without care or thought for the person on the receiving end of their jibes. Cain carried a peaceful charm that suggested he not only had manners, but a brain as well.

  As always when I sang, I pictured myself standing under the spotlight on a stage in a long elegant dress, my long blonde hair swept up into a sophisticated style, my hands tenderly caressing the microphone before me, a piano at my side my only accompaniment. The audience was cloaked in darkness; the only people that existed were me and the musician by my side. I forgot all about my pitiful existence: my drug addicted mother, my dad who buried his heartache in the bottom of a liquor bottle, and the squalor and poverty we lived in due to my mother’s endless cycle of addiction. I sang away the sorrow of an empty life and imagined myself having it all. Beautiful clothes, an elegant home, money…love. When I finished, I opened my eyes to see Cain standing, astonishment etched into his handsome features. Again we were captured in a silence that spoke louder than any words.

  “That was incredible,” he finally whispered. “You’re incredible.” No one had ever used those words to describe me; I was ordinary and poor.

  I shrugged awkwardly. “I’m just a girl who likes to sing,” I muttered. Cain’s head tilted to one side, the corner of his mouth tilting into a confident smile as he considered me.

  “And I’m just a guy who likes to play the piano.” He reached forward and grabbed my hand, tugging me gently out of the school theater.

  “Where are we going?” I asked a little nervously. It was the first time a boy had ever held my hand. At sixteen, I had most definitely noticed boys, but I had no interest in entangling myself romantically with one. It was not through lack of interest. With long blonde hair, a slim build, generous breasts, and dark green eyes, my body and looks drew many interested gazes. Coming from a home like mine though, you tend to protect your pitiful existence. So I turned myself into a closed book that no boy dared to open. They called me frigid, they called me crazy, they called me poor, but as long as they never called me theirs, I would be okay.

  “We’re going to be late for class. I’m walking you to yours.” Cain glanced over his shoulder at me and winked, making my heart skip a beat. “After that, who knows? They say the sky is the limit, but you and me together, baby, maybe we’ll reach the fucking heavens.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but from that moment on, I learned to never doubt Cain Everett.

  Ten Years Later

  “Cain, where are my shoes?” I shouted, shoving clothes aside in an effort to locate my crystal strapped lavender heels. “This place is a fucking mess,” I whispered under my breath as I hauled my heavy suitcase off the floor and onto the bed.

  “Perhaps if you tried putting your clothes away in the closet you might find some kind of order and maybe your shoes in there,” Cain said with amusement in his voice. He strolled into my room and began picking clothes up off the floor, throwing them onto the bed in a halfhearted attempt to help me find my all-important shoes.

  I had plenty of other shoes to choose from, but I wanted this particular pair for tonight, and when Violet wanted something, Violet got it. Yes, I was stubborn, arrogant, and spoiled, but after growing up in the bowels of hell, I figured I deserved it. I glanced at Cain, and my breath caught. As always, he was incredibly handsome, almost beautiful in a masculine way. He wore a suit, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He hated wearing suits but the intimate bar we were playing in tonight was very exclusive and demanded a certain appearance. Cain’s shoulder length hair was pulled back in an almost messy bun—or bro-knot as he preferred to call it—the wispy strands that had fallen loose pushed back behind his ears. His face held a light scruff of hair as he hadn’t shaved in the last week. Thankfully, his incredible good looks allowed him to get away with the lack of grooming. Cain was tall, his shoulders wide. I always felt he had the body of an athlete, a swimmer perhaps, but the only sport Cain ever indulged in was jogging and the occasional work out in hotel gyms.

  From under the bed, he pulled out a pair of elegant lavender shoes, his long fingers that most definitely did not belong to that of an athlete, holding the crystal straps.

  “My lady,” he crooned.

  I almost screamed in delight as I snatched them from his hand, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. Kisses like this were familiar where Cain and I were concerned. Kisses to cheeks, foreheads, hands, and on a few occasions, necks, were allowable. Kisses to the lips were another story. In the twelve years we had been friends, we had never once crossed that line. We both wanted to; it was there in the thick layer of sexual tension that constantly cloaked us. I, however, refused to share my pitiful gene pool with someone as perfect as Cain. I would never taint him with the horror of who I was. I was nothing, whereas Cain was everything. I don’t know when I had accepted the notion that I was as meaningless and worthless as a speck of dust on the wind, but if you hear it often enough, you tend to eventually believe it. And when such words came from the mouth of your very own mother, you have no choice but to accept them. Cain knew the entire sordid truth that was my pathetic excuse for a family. I had tried in vain to keep it a secret, but Cain was one determined soul. And once he had decided he wanted to know me, the real me, including the shameful truth of my home life, he was like a bull out of the gate, charging right into the ring and through the front door of my childhood house. There, he was confronted with a nightmare, a tale written into the walls, floor, and furniture of my home; a tale of poverty, destruction and addiction. Cain had seen my family at its best and at its worst. When Cain had taken my hand and dragged me from the school theater that day, he had never let go. Eventually we had surpassed the clumsy moments of teenage affection for each other, we had moved past the adult wants and needs, and settled into a friendship that was treasured beyond the demand for intimacy.

  I slipped on my shoes and fastened the little buckle behind my heel. As I stood and smoothed out the cool satin of my dress that fell over my body like a sheet of glossy water, Cain admired me in the form of a long look, from head to toe and back again. He didn’t bother to hide the satisfaction over what he saw.

  “You clean up all right,” he said with a wink, stepping into my body. “Tie me up, baby.” He lifted his head and I grabbed his tie, twisting and tucking it under his collar. When I was finished, I ran my hands down his strong arms and stepped away.

  “Alright, handsome, let’s go show these pretentious elitist snobs of Macy’s what jazz is really about,” I said with a smile. Cain took my hand and led me from the hotel room. We always shared a room, though we always had separate bedrooms to afford us some privacy. The only rule in place, we didn’t bring our conquests home. If I needed the indulgence of a man’s company for the evening, I went back to his place and vice versa. Even with our casual need for tender moments with other people, it didn’t stop Cain and me from showing affection for on
e another. Holding hands, chaste kisses, and harmless flirting were commonplace and a part of who we were; it felt wrong not to touch. As we stepped onto the elevator, Cain pressed the button that would take us to the ground floor. I checked myself in the mirrors that surrounded us, parting my red lips to make sure I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth. My bright violet hair had become an image synonymous with my onstage presence. It was striking in such a way that it turned heads, both male and female. I liked the attention. Once upon a time I had tried to hide from the judging eyes of others, but now, I adored it, thrived off it. Tonight I had left my hair out in a tumble of perfect purple twists and curls, hanging to my waist. My dress was also lavender, skin tight, and backless. I looked every bit the violet temptress I portrayed on the stage. As much as I revered the attention my looks and voice received, when the door to mine and Cain’s room closed with us safely behind it, the persona was left outside. It was then I slipped into the comfort of worn jeans and a t-shirt. My hair would end up in a messy twist at the back of my neck, my face free of makeup. Only then, behind that closed door did I truly feel myself, and I hated it. That girl was trash; she was shy, pitiful, tragic, and lacked confidence. It was those moments I struggled with and quite often numbed with a few lines of coke and a bottle of whiskey. Drugs were my safe place. In the soaring heavens of intoxicated bliss, my feelings and emotions were masked behind the illusion of happiness and invulnerability. It had been two nights since the lady of vice had filled my veins in the form of a quickly snorted line in the semi-privacy of a hotel toilet stall. Our sound technician, Loui, had scored me a gram of powder from one of the hotel’s valets. In an attempt to hide the drug use from Cain, I opted for a public restroom in the hotel rather than in the privacy of our own room. Cain knew I partook in drugs; he was often the one scooping me up at the end of the night and tucking me safely into bed. He didn’t like it though—he hated it—but had long ago given up on lectures and silent attempts to draw some form of guilt out of me. Instead, he watched me warily, making sure I never pushed too far or partied too hard. Out of respect for Cain, I never indulged in front of him and even tried to keep it somewhat of a secret. I was delusional to think Cain wouldn’t notice my discreet moments of use. He always noticed. My chemical induced high was proof enough, and by now Cain knew it well. Still, he held his tongue and always tucked me into bed when I finally crashed back down to earth.