The Destiny of Violet & Luke (The Coincidence, #3)

I probably would have just let him fire me but then Greyson walks in. He’s wearing his bartending outfit, a white shirt and black pants, and has a glass in his hand. “Hey, Benny, cut her some slack. She’s having a bad day.”


“I don’t give a damn if she’s having a bad day,” he replies, lifting a lid off a stainless-steel pot. “She dropped the f-bomb in my restaurant. There’s kids out there for crying out loud.”

“Yeah, but the guy grabbed her ass,” Greyson lies, glancing at me quickly. “You have to cut her some slack. That’s sexual harassment.”

Benny peers up from the pot as he reaches over to grab a large spoon from the stainless-steel shelf. “Is that true Violet?”

I shrug, knowing I should put more effort into this, but there is too much heaviness in my chest to care. All I seem to care about is the damn red stains on his apron. “I guess so.”

“You guess so or no?” he questions, stirring the boiling water.

Greyson presses me with a look like What are doing? I just gave you an easy out.

I sigh exhaustedly, forcing myself to put effort into it, because I need my job. “Yeah, he grabbed my ass… Sorry I dropped the f-bomb.”

Benny puffs a frustrated breath and points the dripping spoon at me. “Next time come tell me before you go throwing inappropriate words around. Understand?”

“Okay.”

He frowns, his forehead wrinkling, but he lets me go, telling me to take the next few days off, and get my shit together. I summon deep breaths as I nod and then grab my change of clothes from my shelf and head out back to get some fresh air. I’m going to have to lose a week’s pay. I’m fuming, not at myself, but at reporter guy. I storm out the door and into the back parking lot where employees park. The sky is still gray with storm clouds, but the rain has reduced to a drizzle, and the buildings around the restaurant light up the block.

I clamp my jaw as I stride toward the middle of the muddy parking lot, my clothes clutched in my hands. Suddenly I ball my hands into fist and scream through gritted teeth: “Fuck him! Fuck!” I thought I’d gotten rid of reporters a long time ago. This one has to be here because the police are reopening the case.

Suddenly, I hear the crunch of gravel as someone approaches me. “Are you okay?” Greyson asks with concern.

I remain motionless. “I’m fine. It’s just a week off work. I should be grateful he didn’t fire me.” I want to say thank you because he helped me, but I’m not even sure how or where to start.

“Not about that.” He pauses behind me and I can hear him breathing. “I mean about what that guy said to you.”

I stab my nails deeper into my palms. I should hit him. I should have hit the reporter. I need to hit something. I need to get this shaking, razor-sharp, painful feeling out of me. “I’m. Fine.”

Greyson moves beside me and my muscles tighten. He’s walking into a mess he shouldn’t be walking into because I’m seriously thinking about hitting him, just so I can do something to get this slashing feel inside me to stop.

He hands me a glass filled with a red tinted liquid. “It’ll calm you down.”

I eyeball the glass warily, feeling the anger simmer. “What is it?”

“Vodka and cranberry.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I didn’t put that much vodka in it.” He continues to hold the glass out with a sympathetic smile on his face.

I snatch the glass from him and spill some on my shoe. I take a few gulps, feeling the burn of alcohol mix with the uneasy burn inside me. I’m adding fuel to the fire. I know this. And I should just dump it out on the ground and walk away.

Instead, I chug the rest of the drink down and then give the empty glass back to Greyson. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He takes the glass and rotates it between his hands. “I get off work in like thirty minutes… you could wait around… come hang out in the bar and we could catch a bus back to the apartment together.”

“Isn’t Seth coming to pick you up?”

“Nah, Luke and he have a party going on at the apartment and I’m sure they’re both too wasted to drive.”

I turn my head and look at him, wondering just how much he heard. Did he hear that my parents were murdered? That I found them. Is there another person in my life now that knows about my messed up past? “How much did you hear?”

“Some, but I promise my lips are sealed,” he says without missing a beat

Is he for real? I stand there quietly, trying to figure it out, but I can barely understand myself let alone someone else. “Okay, I’ll stick around I guess.”

His smile expands. “Okay, get changed and come sit at the bar. I’ll get you another drink.”

I probably should have argued with him, told him that I’m not a nice person when I’m drunk, that my reckless energy magnifies. But instead I nod and follow him back into the restaurant, knowing exactly what I am walking into and not caring.





Chapter 14



Luke



I’m a lucky son of a bitch. I really am, but only because I own my own luck, create it, cheat it. I’ve been gambling for almost a week and a half straight and I’m up to twelve hundred bucks. I probably should stop, but it’s hard once I get riding a winning streak. When I sit down at the table, I control almost everything and I realize how much I’ve missed it.

Violet hasn’t been talking to me much, spending half her time at work and the rest in her room. I try to let her be because it’s clear that’s what she wants but I’m starting to wonder if what she wants and what she needs are entirely different things I can understand to a certain extent wanting to be by myself, but she’s completely secluded herself from everyone, always alone. I’ve tried a few times to make conversation with her, just to have her back in my life and hear the sound of her voice, but she only gives me one-word responses.

I’m still sleeping on the couch, but it’s getting uncomfortable and I haven’t even unpacked my boxes yet, simply because she always has the door locked. I want to barge in there and claim my territory, but then I picture the look on her face when she opened the door after I found out about her parents and I stop myself, shut down my aggravation, reminding myself that it’s not about me and what I want.

For the last week, I’ve been on the phone with my mother every other day. I was ignoring her calls, but after the thirty-something messages cramming my voicemail, I finally started picking up. She’s in one of her moods, where she thinks someone’s after her—a neighbor, the mailman, the police. She did this a lot when I first went to college, calling me to tell me I needed to come home to protect her. She’d toned it down over the past few months, but I think when I told her I wasn’t going home for the summer, she decided to start up again. I’ve been doing my best not to ram my fist into something, reminding myself that I have a place of my own and I can do whatever I want. But every time I hear her voice it reminds me of the past, then the nightmares start up, and more anger floods me.