Dancing on Strings - K. Darley (suggested reading TXT) 📗

The night was like any other, as the odd star shone bright in the dark blue sky and the vibrant yellow lights of the Newport mansion illuminated the surrounding property for hundreds of square feet.

A symphonic harmony lulled its way through the living-turned-ballroom, setting the scene for the images that looked like they came from a storybook. Feet waltzed around the room in circles. Some were black dress shoes and others diamond patent heels. But all were succinctly wealthy.

As the women laughed in high-pitched tones and talk of wall-street investors and stock-markets hung in the air, the atmosphere was that of another successful east-coast fund-raiser. Which was really just another occasion to flaunt one's self and the amount of money a particular stockbroker had invested in as of late.

It was the kind of party the young hated and the old clung to.

Past the bickering and gleaming white teeth were the expensive creams and beiges of the many large rooms of the suburban mansion. And outside, on a second story balcony on the south-side of the grandeur home, stood a dolled-up woman, leaning against the marble pillar of the upstairs veranda. She was sucking on a cigarette.

Inhaling slowly, the blonde practically moaned in her throat as the first flow of nicotine bubbled in her mouth, her first fix in over three hours – and for the petite blonde, that was torture.

Evie Calloway blew out the grey smoke in ecstasy, her made-up lashes fluttering over bright blue eyes.

The buzz from downstairs was faint and Evie felt relaxed for the first time that night. Having to shake hands and curtsy to most of the guests was sickeningly boring. To the majority, she smiled and said her greetings when her mother elbowed her to attention, but her withdrawals had kicked in but only a half hour into the event. She had excused herself from dancing with an old, greying man when she felt her fingers shaking on his shoulders. So, up to her room she fled.

The Calloway's winter home was not one of Evie's favourite places. It was too secluded. Nothing ever happened there but the parties that her parents threw. One of the only places she did enjoy being, however, was her bedroom, to which she'd already hidden several packets of cigarettes in when they'd arrived the day before.

The commotion below was drowned out as Evie started to focus on the surrounding forest, the rush she was currently feeling from the nicotine sedating her.

It was always an amazing view from her veranda; the woods were always dark, with the only illumination coming from the moon and stars. It was haunting, yet she knew that just behind the vast amount of trees lay the lake she had swam in since she was a child. More than a hundred square feet, it was bigger than any pool her parents could have installed. It served as the only entertainment Evie could get in the otherwise dead area.

In a world of her own, seconds quickly turned to minutes, and before Evie knew it, she'd been through 6 cigarettes in a half hour.

It wasn't until a bang on the door that she was aware time had passed, and she threw her 7th newly lit cigarette on the floor, stubbing it out with her heel and kicking it off the balcony.

“Relax,” the voice said. “I'm not gonna go running to mommy and daddy about your filthy habit.”

Evie's head snapped backwards and she rolled her eyes. Exhaling, she turned towards the newcomer and leant her back against the stone barrier of the balcony that she had been resting on. She harrumphed unhappily.

“Shit,” she glared down at her fallen cigarette, “I thought you were my mother.”

“I figured. Though you'd have heard me coming if I were your mother,” the newcomer said sarcastically.

Morgan Thornton casually walked into the room, making herself comfortable on the crimson canopy bed instead of joining the brunette outside. Unlike her friend, she couldn't stand smoking.

“Your mother's simply frantic.” Morgan crossed one leg over the other, proving a challenge in her short black dress. “She thinks you've ran off. Of course, she hasn't voiced these opinions, but I know a breakdown when I see one.” She laughed to herself. “Her left eye is twitching more than normal, too.”

“Well, alert the media,” Evie said sarcastically, taking a drag of yet another fresh cigarette. “My mother's turned into a fucking crackpot.”

“Not that everyone didn't already know that.”

Evie chuckled, smoke escaping in odd ripples. “True.”

Morgan ran a hand through her long mane of hair. She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside cabinet and turned again to the smoking brunette.

“Do you plan on joining the party any time soon? It's awfully boring down there without your witty narcissism.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she muttered quietly, taking her last drag and holding it as long as she could, making her voice sound strained and rough. “I'm a prime example of a perfect daughter.”

Morgan grinned, “In the public's eye.”

Evie exhaled and mashed the butt-end out under her black Gucci-wearing foot. “What I do in my own time is no one's business but my own,” she finalised.

Morgan watched her strut out of the room in her little rouge dress. The same one she'd been pining over since it was advertised in Vera Wang's fall collection. Only one was ever made and she had gotten her hands on it. Of course, it was typical that it looked stunning on her, she thought. But Evie Calloway always had, and always would get, what she wanted.

The blonde rose from the silk sheets and traipsed after her friend.

If she knew anything about Evie, it was that she had a blatant disregard for higher figures of authority. Which meant, no doubt, the rest of the night would be highly entertaining for her.

And with that notion, the cast was set for unforeseen events to unravel.

A cloudy day in late October could only mean one thing: snow. It wasn't exactly the best of news for New Yorkers, but given the state the weather had been in lately, the citizens were more than welcoming to the cool change. All, that is, but one.

A tall man was busy striding down the mid-morning streets of Manhattan. Minding his own business, he was oblivious to the blatant staring from the opposite sex as his muscles rippled beneath his grey turtle-neck sweater and dark jeans. The weather bit at his bare skin and he took a moment to stop suddenly, sneezing violently once, twice, before shaking his head and cursing the drastic drop in temperature.

However, before the dirty blonde could be on his way, the worst thing of all happened to Arthur Reynolds. He stopped, rigid, in his tracks. The sudden cold feeling on his neck was dissipating due to his body heat. He slowly and reluctantly turned his eyes skyward and groaned, his whole demure changing.

“Really?” He cursed, still glaring up at the colourless sky. “You're really going to do this to me? Today

of all days?”

He pulled the collar of his dark jacket further to his neck and trailed down the path that was slowly starting to fill up with small white specks.

“That's what you get, Arthur,” he mumbled to himself, “When you transfer to New York.”

The man continued to berate himself until he'd reached a busy little street with several stores lining his way. He passed the bright lit boutiques before turning into a café named 'Coco and Chanel's'. It was dark oak on the outside, with the white, fancy logo on top of a freshly painted beige headboard.

He entered the store and a little jingle sounded from the steel bell it hit. Most looked towards the new customer with vague interest, while others either talked animatedly between themselves or clicked away at a laptop in a corner.

Arthur glanced around for a moment, before his eyes found a brunette in a booth near the window. Her dark eyes were fixed outside at the falling snow as her head was resting in her hand.

He walked over towards the woman, his boots squelching on the cream linoleum floor.

“Is this seat taken?” His deep voice startled her, and she looked up. She smiled broadly.

“I thought the snow had scared you away,” she teased as he sat.

“Yeah, well,” he ran his hands through his hair and shook it messily, soaking the table with water and white flakes of snow. She smiled at the innocent action. “It was close. If I wasn't already half-way here I would've turned back.”

“I'm charmed,” she rolled her eyes.

He gave her a cheeky grin, dimples a contrast to the light stubble adorning his face. “What're you having?”

She sighed happily. “A hot chocolate.”

He peered over the table into her mug and sat back in his chair, catching the attention of a passing waitress with his big smile.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Can I get a hot chocolate and an espresso?”

The young waitress practically giggled to herself and nodded her head, turning on her heel and quickly wondering off to the counter.

Arthur's smile was still gracing his face as he turned back to Julia, who looked less than impressed.

“Really?”

“What?” He asked, almost insulted.

She shook her head. “You're going to have a teenage stalker one day, I assure you.”

He seemed to contemplate it, but his lips cracked into a goofy grin before he could even attempt to be serious.

“I guess it's my devilishly good looks.”

“Hah!” She snorted. “You good your looks from Dad, you pompous jerk!”

This made the man frown. “I did not. Everyone says I take after mom.”

“Everyone lies,” she quipped back almost instantly, shrugging.

He was about to retort when the young dark-haired and freckled waitress shot back. It was perhaps the quickest they'd ever been served in a café before.

“Here you go,” her voice was unsteady, and she almost squealed when Arthur's fingers brushed her own.

“Thank you,” brother and sister chimed at the same time.

The girl, whose little white name-tag read 'Linsey', glanced in a suspicious manner towards Julia. She gave Arthur one last ogling look before she scooted off to serve more customers.

Julia stared at the spot the girl had been in, a less-than-pleased look gracing her delicate features. She had always been annoyed by the way she was most likely hated as women assumed she was 'romantically linked' with her brother. She wanted