Thinly veiled, p.1
Thinly Veiled, page 1
Thinly Veiled
Eliza Modiste
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product 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.
Copyright © 2023 by Eliza Modiste
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Book Cover Design by Mitxeran
www.elizamodiste.com
Chapter One
Escape. It was always a word that daunted me, but I supposed that was because it’s more of a relative term than anything. For some, it meant feet pounding against pavement. Running. Gasping for breath. A pulse that rattled one’s ribcage from within as they prayed for release from a hellscape that was unknown to others. For many, it meant a far-off land where they could bury their toes in the sand as they listened to waves crashing against a shore in the distance.
For me, escape had brought me to Salem, Virginia.
There was no rhyme or reason to the choice of the town itself. Once my mind was willing to accept the idea that I desperately needed to relocate, I had eyeballed a radius from my hometown of Ogden, North Carolina and scoped out the potential locations with a pen, paper, and a very, very poorly drawn map. Salem, for whatever reason, called to me. Perhaps it was because it was so far across state lines that I could deem myself as unfindable…or, rather, invisible. Perhaps it was because I could break free from the coastal air that I was so accustomed to and breathing in the cold of the Appalachia’s sounded invigorating. Or, perhaps, it just sounded…right.
I didn’t know, really. All that was known was that we were here, and the constraints that used to consistently bind my chest like a vice had loosened to the point that I was able to take a deep breath and sigh as I took in the sight before me.
The space was nice enough. The floors were a light cherry wood, though they weren’t visible at the moment as they were obscured by the mass amount of boxes that we had yet to unpack. Countertops in the kitchen were a pristine white, spanning across a small island and cabinets edging the wall. I dragged my tired legs past the kitchen, bypassing the rectangular dining table that was holding too many boxes to count, and walked straight to the living area to rest our last box on the coffee table. Spent, I sank onto our grey couch which I considered to be remarkably plush for its age. My phone, which had at some point been haphazardly tossed onto the chair adjacent to me, dinged with a text message. Before I could even pick it up to respond, my best friend-turned-roommate, Zoey Sheffield, snatched it away from me.
I mumbled, “Fuck, you’re fast for how small you are.”
Zoey stretched all five feet of her height upward as she crossed her arms and tucked my phone by her waist in a defensive maneuver. Her emerald eyes narrowed at me as she tilted her short, blonde pixie cut to the side in a way that conveyed, ‘I’ll beg your pardon?’ I chuckled under my breath—she wasn’t always this predictable, but this was par for the course with Zoey. Back in high school when I tried nicknaming her Tink, I had quickly realized that she’s a bit sensitive about her height.
“And you have a dirty fucking mouth,” she retorted.
Oh, the irony.
“You know, Claire,” Zoey continued, “you don’t have to respond to every text. It’s just going to rile you up. And sitting on your ass eating an entire carton of ice cream again isn’t a great idea.”
She had a point. Even though Zoey was still holding my cell, I knew with about ninety-nine percent certainty that it was my ex-boyfriend, Colton Langdon—and the ice cream moment that Zoey referred to was not quite as cliché as it seemed. I wasn’t a girl in pain, mourning an unreciprocated love. I was the one who ended it, after all. Our relationship had been, if I had to sum it up in a word, tolerable. Or, perhaps, necessary. I cared for Colton as a person, of course—I’m not a monster by any means, but when I decided that we needed to part ways, the process of doing so was difficult. Difficult in the fact that Colton and I had a relationship of mutual convenience. We could have called it love if we wanted to, and we actually did for quite a while. But I don’t think I even knew what love was—and neither did Colton, but the point was that he was having trouble letting me go. And to say the least, he hadn’t taken too kindly to the fact that Zoey and I decided to up and move to Virginia.
Though the move in my mind was necessary, to describe it as hasty would be, well, apt. I remembered how vividly his icy blue eyes bored into mine when I told him.
“Virginia? Really, Claire? Virginia? What are you expecting to find there? How are you going to get by?”
I continued calmly packing my clothes into boxes.
“First of all,” I replied, “you know I’ve been saving money for a while. I can use that while I try to find work. Besides that, I don’t really know what I’ll find...a new life?”
His gaze softened.
“Babe—” he said the word with a gentle caress of my hand.
I yanked it away.
“Don’t Babe me!” I didn’t mean to yell. It just automatically came out that way. I assumed that this was how it felt to be truly at the end of one’s rope. It felt like fire ran through my veins, boiling my blood until my entire being was ready to spill over. I breathed in quickly once, and then out. “Just stop, okay? We were barely even a couple!”
“Bare—barely even a couple? For an entire year? Really?”
His face contorted in a way that made me wonder if he really did care about me, but I decided that it was best for my sanity to cut that thought short. That point was neither here nor there—I didn’t need to try to delve into whether or not my now ex-boyfriend harbored any love for me at all.
“You tried to use me, Colt.” I paused for a moment before rephrasing, “Actually—you did use me. Multiple times.”
I held up a frilly pink blouse in front of my face and shriveled up my nose at the sight of it, tossing it into a Goodwill pile that I had been steadily adding to. ‘New clothes, new start, new me’ played like a mantra in my mind. Was it a cliché? Yes, yes it was. Did I care? It made me feel better about picking up my shit show of a life, so no. In fact, I couldn’t find it in me to give a single fuck about clichés in this moment.
Colt murmured, “I liked that shirt.”
I snorted. “Like that matters.”
He quietly noted, “It made you look innocent.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Bringing me full circle to the—” I held up my hands to use my fingers as quotation marks, “—using me for my innocent looks thing.”
“Which. I. Apologized. For,” he argued. “I’m fucking sorry, Claire, okay?!” I allowed myself to glance at him, feeling exhausted by his one-hundredth half-assed apology. He huffed out a short breath and looked back at me with an air of desperation. “We can do so much more,” he started. “This is—this is just the beginning—”
“That’s exactly the point,” I interjected, holding up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want…” I hesitated, gesturing between us vaguely in a circular motion. “I don’t want this.”
His face fell. His arms hung limply at his sides and I damn near almost backtracked, but I reminded myself of the type of man that he is and steadied my resolve. I squared my shoulders and faced him fully, steeling myself for my next words.
“You were a manipulative shit, Colt.”
His eyebrows raised, his buzzed head bobbed up and down, and I questioned if I stunned him into silence. His shocked face did little to deter me from my original mission, though—which was getting the hell out of dodge. If anything, it spurred me on further as I thought back to what he had dragged me through. I had been Colton’s doormat for a year, and any time I had the inkling to better myself—to start anew—to not follow him on every path, especially the damning ones—he would guilt me. It was all, ‘Oh baby, I love you,’ and playing with my easily deceived heart until I would come around and do whatever he asked. Honestly, it felt like everything we had been through was eating at my soul. All of it deprived me of my own individuality, not to mention the massive amounts of danger he put me in on a daily basis. If I didn’t leave now while I still had the motivation to do so, I would fall right back into it all. I let out a slow breath and picked up a dark pair of jeans, folding them gently and placing them into my suitcase.
“I need distance,” I told him plainly. “I need a new life.”
His light blue eyes searched my face, holding a trace of astonishment.
“And you think you can achieve that?”
His tone degraded me as if I was no better than staying in the life that we had. He didn’t mean that, though—I knew he didn’t. He just wanted me here. The thought made me close my eyes tightly, clenching a fist so hard that I felt my nails make deep indentations into my palm. As I let my hand relax, I turned my gaze back to Colton.
I shook my head and said, “This conversation’s over, Colt.”
“Claire—”
“Get the fuck out and let me pack!”
“Claire!” Zoey broke me out of my reverie, snapping her delicate fingers in front of my face. “Seriously. Stop thinking about it…about him.” She knew me too well. Handing back my phone, she stated, “It’s not worth it.”
I agreed with her, really, I did. It was just a little too difficult to stop obsessing sometimes. I exhaled, blowing a strawberry-blonde strand of hair away from my face.
“I know,” I replied. “Thanks.”
Zoey looked over at me with her all-too-knowing gaze.
“Come on,” she goaded me, grabbing my hand to pull me up and toward the door. In my exhausted haze, I followed her, placing one foot in front of the other blindly as she continued, “There’s a dive-looking bar a block away. Let’s go out!” She practically jumped up with excitement, her eyes glowing.
I groaned, throwing my head back and slouching my shoulders as I pulled my hand out of hers.
“Zoey,” I whined. “I’m tired. This place is a wreck. My mattress doesn’t even have sheets on it.” I mumbled to myself, “Oh no, did I even pack sheets?”
She sighed audibly. “If you didn’t, I have an extra set—and I know you’re tired. I am too, but we’re here!” She flashed a wide smile at me. If she was tired, she didn’t look it in the least. “Let’s go walk down the street, take a breath, and toast a gigantic fuck you to your past!” As she spoke the last few words, she flipped the bird with both of her hands and wiggled them in my direction.
I broke and let out a small giggle. “Fine,” I said sarcastically, “twist my arm, will ya.”
“Okay, come on, let’s go then,” she announced quickly, taking the few steps to the exit and placing one of her tiny hands on the doorknob.
I exclaimed, “Good God, woman, wait a minute!”
I scanned her from head to toe. I didn’t know how, but she looked remarkably put together for having been stuck in a car and then moving boxes with me all day. There may have been a hair or two out of place on her blonde head, but she somehow was pulling it off with ease. I also wasn’t sure exactly when, but at some point, she had changed out of her ratty moving attire and into black jeans and a tight red t-shirt.
“Let me at least try to look decent.” I held up my hand, spreading my fingers. “Give me five minutes, okay?”
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. “Fine. Five minutes. Only five.”
I all but sprinted to the bathroom, for I knew that her gentle threat was one that was very, very real. If I didn’t hurry, I’d be dragged out of here by my hair with mascara on only one eye. I took a brief moment to look in the mirror. Wide, blue eyes looked back at me. The smattering of freckles that were on my nose and cheeks were a feature that I’d grown to love. My light red hair that I also typically adored, however, looked like a bird’s nest sitting on my head.
“Oh, dear lord,” I muttered, pulling my hair down and running a brush through it hastily. I finished putting on a little makeup and threw on a tighter fitting shirt rather than the old hoodie I was wearing all day when I heard Zoey call for me from the hallway.
“Time’s up, bitch! Don’t make me come in there!”
I slipped on my converse and walked into the hallway. She eyed me up and down.
“You’ll do. Now let’s go! I’m dying of thirst over here!”
The air was crisp as we walked down the street. Trees lined both sides of the pathway, our feet crunching through their fallen orange and yellow leaves that littered the cobblestone sidewalk. Fall was definitely upon us. The chill in the air was just starting to make the goosebumps rise along my arms when we halted our steps to take in the entrance that we approached. A wooden sign hung above our heads that simply read, ‘Henry’s.’ The weathered letters were probably once a vibrant red but had faded over time to a lighter, sun-bleached pink.
I looked down at Zoey. “Is this it?”
She nodded emphatically. “Yup. Close and convenient, right?”
I hummed in agreement. The walk was short. Probably too short. The type of short that made me idly wonder if I was going to be at this establishment far too often. I was just beginning to think that we should have found an apartment that was further away from a local watering hole—for my liver’s sake, at the very least—when I was pushing the door open. Zoey followed me, and just as I heard a bell chime above us, I found myself standing stock-still.
There was little that was extraordinary about the bar. It was dimly lit and small—approximately ten chairs sat at the counter and five tables were against the wall with additional seating. An older man sat on a stool furthest from the door we walked through, silently enjoying what looked to be whiskey, and a handful of other patrons were scattered amongst the tables. The countertop of the bar ran perpendicular to the entrance that we walked through, the backsplash of the wall behind it ordained with shelving that held various liquors that were lit up with a light yellowish glow. Aside from the signs and posters illuminated with a neon light, the walls were covered with wood paneling. It wasn’t the appearance of the bar that caught my eye, though. It was the bartender.
He had light brown hair, cut short on the sides and left a little longer on top. My eyes traced over his slim nose to his stubble-covered face. The dark facial hair failed to obscure his jawline which was, to say the least, angular. It could have been etched with a pencil, ruler, and a protractor—though I was unsure if protractors were available to those who were responsible for drawing the Greek Gods. Either way, the man before us looked to be a portrait of one come to life.
Zoey ran smack into me, waking me to the reality of my standing and gawking at the gorgeous man behind the counter, and she grumbled, “What are you do—oh.”
I shook my head quickly. “Nothing—”
“Oh, he does not look like nothing,” she returned. “In fact, he looks like something—something you would enjoy very much.” I protested wordlessly, and she held up a hand to stop my incoherent stammering. She rhetorically asked, “Sit at the bar, yes?” and began to lead the way, slinking into a seat and beckoning me to follow her.
I sat next to her, easing into my stool and trying not to blush at the man who I was ogling. Steel grey eyes met mine and a smirk appeared on his lips as he greeted us.
“Well, hello red,” he drawled. “Blondie.”
I chortled a bit at his lame greeting and asked him playfully, “Are we characters in a western?”
Amused, his smile widened, and he quipped, “No, but I can pretend, right?”
I returned his toothy grin.
“Whatever gets you through the day, erm—” I hesitated, waiting for him to introduce himself.
“Luke.” He stuck his hand out for me to shake. “Ah, Turner. Luke Turner.”
“Claire Branson.” I grasped his hand, cocking my head to the side in mild surprise as I realized how smooth it was. He turned to Zoey, shaking her hand as well as she introduced herself, and I couldn’t stop myself from remarking, “You have really soft hands.”
He shrugged. “Self-care is important. What’ll it be, ladies?”
“Vodka soda,” I replied.
“No sugar, no calories, no flavor, no fun,” Zoey stated with a grimace before adding, “Appletini, please.”
“Says the girl who gets hangovers from hell, sure,” I told her.
Luke’s eyebrows raised as he let out a chuckle and went about to prepare our drinks. He stayed well within earshot, scooping ice into a martini shaker.
“You know what they say about soft hands,” Zoey joked, bringing up my prior comment as she looked at me with a side-eye that I knew far too well.
I twisted in my seat to look at her, held up an index finger in warning, and muttered, “If you say something about penises, I swear to God.”
I noticed Luke’s shoulders shake gently with a laugh at my retort, but he said nothing.
Zoey’s gaze shot skyward. “I would never.”
I chuckled. “Hoe.”
“I was just saying that they use a lot of lotion,” she replied. Her perfectly manicured brows bobbled up and down as Luke slid a martini glass filled with bright green liquid her way.
I glanced at him apologetically. “You can ignore her, really.”
He reached for a lowball glass under the counter and set it in front of me, preparing my drink as he spoke mockingly, “Oh, she’s not wrong, I use loads of lotion.” His grey eyes danced with humor as he added, “Has nothing to do with my penis, but thanks for trying to defend it for me.”
I felt my face flush a bit from his comment and cast my eyes downward as he pushed the glass toward me. He ambled his way to the other end of the bar to check on the man whose whiskey glass had since been drained and I shook my head, hoping that my hair shielded my reddening face as I peeked at him. Zoey elbowed me in the ribs and I redirected my attention to her, picking up my drink in the process and taking a large sip.
