001: The White Queen Cometh
Oct 15, 2016 15:02:47 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Oct 15, 2016 15:02:47 GMT -5
11-29-99
Dearest Lukey:
You were right.
Daddy told me I could come home whenever I want to, but I saw that look in your eyes. You didn't want me to go cuz you knew he was gonna fade away without me there to keep him smiling. Maybe he hasn't told you yet why he's always so tired and if that's the case it really ain't my place to overstep. He'll tell you when the time is right and I hope you'll understand why I had to keep it to myself for as long as I did.
New York is the absolute worst place in the world. The people here are rude and mean and... I gotta tell you the truth. There wasn't no acceptance letter to Juilliard. I had cousin Deke make that up on the computer for me cuz he's good at that sorta thing but you know that show we used to watch when we were little? Fame. I figured there had to be more places like that in a big city like this and you know when someone gives me a shot, I work my hardest to... well you know how I am. I don't have to remind you how pigheaded I was when I got it in my head to take the tiara from that stupid little bitch Billie-Jo Armstrong for the Summer Princess pageant.
New York was supposed to be some magical kingdom, with Macy's and Bloomingdale's and Times Square. Instead it's been... scary. I don't mean no Halloween haunted house at Kook's Korners laugh but it's kinda creepy... I mean drugged up muggers in back alleys but I gave the man my money so he wouldn't kill me.
When it boils right down, there's always an impulse for a girl to run home to her daddy but we both know I ain't the kind to admit failure, least of all after only two months but last night my car broke down and today I got fired from my waitressing job because I was short with a customer.
I just spent my last dollar on a cup of coffee and I got two more days to figure out how I'm gonna come up with the other three hundred I need to make rent. Please help me Lukey. You're the only one I got now and I can't go home a disgrace. I can't cuz going home means I gotta to stop dreaming and I'm not ready.......
LOCATION: East Village, NYC
DATE/TIME: November 29, 1999 || 4:57PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Her hand shook as she lowered the cup back to the table, and some of the ice cold, burnt-tasting coffee splashed over her fingers, startling her. She set down the pen, and with an expression of revulsion, grabbed a handful of the crispy napkins from the dispenser, blotting it before it reached the letter she was trying to write. She wiped her hand and the dribbles of coffee that had fallen down on the page.
If she hadn't looked so tired, she may have been prettier but the ghost reflected in the window looked like hell - her wavy blond hair hung in lank strands, escaping the messy ponytail holder and she had armpit stains on the white babydoll tee she'd been wearing under the blouse they'd taken back when they'd fired her. She needed a shower. She needed money. She needed a new job. Maybe if she hung out here long enough, they'd take pity and hire her on as window dressing.
She blinked back the tears and saw the freezing rain as it slowly streaked down the glass. All the colors outside blurred together, people and umbrellas and yellow taxis all one swirly kaleidoscope. Yesterday she'd seen snow for the first time, at least the kind that stuck to the ground for more than a few seconds but by the time her shift at the diner ended, all that remained was a greasy sheen of slush in the gutters. Just another disappointment, and they came as quick as New York minutes.
Against her will, her hands went to the zipper pocket on the front of her pack, and she turned away from the view, not seeing the man standing across the street in the doorway of another business, watching her in the glass. Sighing, she withdrew the photograph, creased and worn with age. In it a tow-headed little girl sat on a barrel-chested man's knee, gap-toothed grin radiant as she stared into the camera. She almost didn't recognize herself in the photo. She looked happy, and so did the man whose arms were wrapped around her. Her daddy, Colton Fancher, the oil magnate.
"Goddamn it," she muttered, and her finger traced the contours of his face. She hadn't seen him in six months and she missed him so much. Tears splashed on the tabletop, falling silently, mimicking the rain beyond the window and then an enormous slice of cherry pie slid into her field of vision, a large hand with scarred knuckles grasping the edge of the white plate.
She looked up, slowly, and what she saw dried the tears on her cheeks. A dark haired man stood there with a crooked smile on his lips. His leather jacket was wet, carrying the scent of damp leather to her nostrils, where it mixed with the enticing aroma of the warm pie. He shrugged out of the jacket, draping it over the back of the booth to dry. His arms were decorated in tattoos, and the black t-shirt he wore strained against his chest as he slid into the booth, eyes fastened on her.
"Hey there, doll," he said softly, "you don't mind me being honest, but you look like you could use a piece of pie."
"I... do?" She managed between shaky breaths.
"Damn straight. Everything's better when you have pie." He stabbed the fork into the crust, breaking off a piece and bringing it up to his mouth. He chewed it slowly, eyes drifting closed as he savored the taste. "Now that's some good pie. Try some, darlin'."
She brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, looking up at him, actually seeing him for the first time. He was ruggedly handsome, his features hard as though carved from granite. The smile softened his face, along with the twinkle in his deep blue eyes, and the dab of cherry at the corner of his mouth. "I can't afford it," she replied, pushing the plate towards the handsome stranger even as her stomach growled in protest.
The man's smile faltered, the fork clattering against his plate as he dropped it before pushing the plate back towards the sad girl. "It's already paid for," he muttered, punctuating the words with a sigh. "Misery loves pie, believe me."
A hint of a smile curved her lips as she picked up the fork, listlessly spearing a cherry.
"Heh, I know what you're thinking. This guy doesn't know shit from shinola, as my father used to say. I assure you that's not true. If there's anything I know, it's sitting alone in a place like this and wishing you weren't alone. What's wrong? Tell me... or if you want, you can tell the pie. I find cherry to be the least judgmental of all the pastries. Just watch what you say to those pecan and raisin varieties..."
Laughter burst from between her lips, surprising them both. She giggled like a schoolgirl, one hand pressed against her lips. After a moment, she looked back up at the man who was idly finishing off the rest of his pie. "Thanks," she said with a shy smile, "you're probably the first nice person I've met in New York City."
"Probably because I'm not from around here." He set down the fork, licking the crumbs from his lips before extending a hand across the table. "Name's Jackson... and you are?"
"Shirlea." She said, ignoring his outstretched hand, letting her eyes fall back to the tabletop, and the battered photograph resting beside the sugar dispenser.
"Pretty name, for a pretty girl." He shrugged, using the ignored hand to extricate his pack of smokes from his back pocket.
She sighed, one finger tracing over the photo.
"You're not from around here, are you?" He murmured, pausing to light the cigarette clamped between his lips. "Your accent, it's a bit too twangy for these parts. Texas, right?"
"Yeah." She said with a sad smile. "Was born and raised in Flower Mound."
Jackson whistled low. "Long way from home... what brings you here?"
She took a deep breath, her eyes still fixed on the picture. "Well... I came here to follow my dreams." She lifted her chin defiantly, glaring at him with those ice blue eyes as though he would scoff at her.
"'Dream as if you'll live forever'..." he said, that infuriating half-smirk still on his lips.
"What?" She blinked, confused, "are you makin' fun of me?"
"Nope." Jackson took a drag off the cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. "I'm a big fan of followin' dreams. What was yours?"
"I wanna be a dancer." Shirlea confessed, a blush coloring her cheeks.
That smirk widened as Jackson looked her over, one dark brow quirked. She was skinny enough, that's for sure. Pretty enough, too. "Fair enough. What's stopping you?"
"The Joffrey Ballet School," she whispered reverently, her eyes lighting up. "That's where... I need to be. But they're too... they said I'm not good enough."
He laughed at her. Throwing his head back and everything. Fuming with anger, Shirlea shot to her feet, and stormed away from the table, leaving him, and her bag behind - a fact she didn't realize until after she stepped out into the icy downpour.
She turned around, and abruptly collided with something solid - his chest. Her hand pushed against damp cotton; he was out here in just his shirt sleeves. The freezing rain spilled down on them both as she stared into his face. He held her bag in one hand, but she made no move to take it from him.
"Come work for me." He said it so abruptly that she didn't register the words.
"What?"
"I have a club in Chicago." He shrugged, taking her hand and pulling her back inside the diner. "It's a nice place, I treat my girls good. A face like yours, and you'll be a star in no time."
She shivered violently, already soaked to the skin so that he could see the flower-patterned bra she had on underneath. She folded her arms over her chest, looking absolutely childish.
"You're eighteen, right?" His next words surprised her as she nodded woodenly. He walked away from her, back to the booth to get his coat. Returning to her side, he draped it over her shoulders and she was immediately enveloped in the scent of tobacco, wet leather and some expensive cologne that smelled amazing. "Won't even make you audition. You've got the job."
"What?"
"Come dance for me, beautiful. The pay's great and I'll make you a star."
10-13-15
Dearest Lukey:
So, here's a big ol' slice of irony pie for you. I got back into wrestling. Maybe I didn't tell you that before but you really can't hold that omission against me when you were dealing with that gold-digging slut you married. I'm sorry things went south on you there. I'm sorry I had to meddle in that, but I know firsthand that she's not the best person for you. I used to hang out with Jase and Jerry Armstrong, remember? I was there when she was married to Jase and I watched what she used to do.
Enough about that. I'm sending you a ticket for the Carnage Wrestling event in Baltimore. I want you to come watch me compete because the man I'm facing is named Jackson and you best believe I'm gonna rain down all the hell on his head that I never could against dear ol' Sugar Daddy Bradley. I want my brother back.
With Daddy gone, it's just me and you Lukey and I miss the way things used to be.
You can come stay with me for a while. I found a nice place here in Baltimore. I think this time it's going to work out and don't worry, I'm still attending my NA meetings and keeping clean. I'm being good, Mr. Sponsor, even though you're not really checking up on me the way you should. It's okay. I've been forging your signature on the documents and sending them back from your old gmail account. If you still remember the password, you can take over on that too. Mrs. Fisher thinks I'm doing well, considering how bad I was fucked up before.
I found a letter I never sent you back in 1999. I'm going to include that so you can get a little laugh about how I almost begged you for help then. And maybe if it hadn't been for cherry pie and a fresh cup of coffee and that leather jacket and those tattoos and those beautiful eyes of his, I might have come home and Daddy might still be with us.
It don't do much good to dwell on that though, does it? What's done is done as Daddy always used to say. Now we gotta lie in the bed... but I wish you were in it with me. That's all. So please... call me. Or text. Or email. Or write back.
I miss you so much Lukey.
Let me know either way, okay?
Love always,
Shirlea-Lynn
Dearest Lukey:
You were right.
Daddy told me I could come home whenever I want to, but I saw that look in your eyes. You didn't want me to go cuz you knew he was gonna fade away without me there to keep him smiling. Maybe he hasn't told you yet why he's always so tired and if that's the case it really ain't my place to overstep. He'll tell you when the time is right and I hope you'll understand why I had to keep it to myself for as long as I did.
New York is the absolute worst place in the world. The people here are rude and mean and... I gotta tell you the truth. There wasn't no acceptance letter to Juilliard. I had cousin Deke make that up on the computer for me cuz he's good at that sorta thing but you know that show we used to watch when we were little? Fame. I figured there had to be more places like that in a big city like this and you know when someone gives me a shot, I work my hardest to... well you know how I am. I don't have to remind you how pigheaded I was when I got it in my head to take the tiara from that stupid little bitch Billie-Jo Armstrong for the Summer Princess pageant.
New York was supposed to be some magical kingdom, with Macy's and Bloomingdale's and Times Square. Instead it's been... scary. I don't mean no Halloween haunted house at Kook's Korners laugh but it's kinda creepy... I mean drugged up muggers in back alleys but I gave the man my money so he wouldn't kill me.
When it boils right down, there's always an impulse for a girl to run home to her daddy but we both know I ain't the kind to admit failure, least of all after only two months but last night my car broke down and today I got fired from my waitressing job because I was short with a customer.
I just spent my last dollar on a cup of coffee and I got two more days to figure out how I'm gonna come up with the other three hundred I need to make rent. Please help me Lukey. You're the only one I got now and I can't go home a disgrace. I can't cuz going home means I gotta to stop dreaming and I'm not ready.......
❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅
LOCATION: East Village, NYC
DATE/TIME: November 29, 1999 || 4:57PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Her hand shook as she lowered the cup back to the table, and some of the ice cold, burnt-tasting coffee splashed over her fingers, startling her. She set down the pen, and with an expression of revulsion, grabbed a handful of the crispy napkins from the dispenser, blotting it before it reached the letter she was trying to write. She wiped her hand and the dribbles of coffee that had fallen down on the page.
If she hadn't looked so tired, she may have been prettier but the ghost reflected in the window looked like hell - her wavy blond hair hung in lank strands, escaping the messy ponytail holder and she had armpit stains on the white babydoll tee she'd been wearing under the blouse they'd taken back when they'd fired her. She needed a shower. She needed money. She needed a new job. Maybe if she hung out here long enough, they'd take pity and hire her on as window dressing.
She blinked back the tears and saw the freezing rain as it slowly streaked down the glass. All the colors outside blurred together, people and umbrellas and yellow taxis all one swirly kaleidoscope. Yesterday she'd seen snow for the first time, at least the kind that stuck to the ground for more than a few seconds but by the time her shift at the diner ended, all that remained was a greasy sheen of slush in the gutters. Just another disappointment, and they came as quick as New York minutes.
Against her will, her hands went to the zipper pocket on the front of her pack, and she turned away from the view, not seeing the man standing across the street in the doorway of another business, watching her in the glass. Sighing, she withdrew the photograph, creased and worn with age. In it a tow-headed little girl sat on a barrel-chested man's knee, gap-toothed grin radiant as she stared into the camera. She almost didn't recognize herself in the photo. She looked happy, and so did the man whose arms were wrapped around her. Her daddy, Colton Fancher, the oil magnate.
"Goddamn it," she muttered, and her finger traced the contours of his face. She hadn't seen him in six months and she missed him so much. Tears splashed on the tabletop, falling silently, mimicking the rain beyond the window and then an enormous slice of cherry pie slid into her field of vision, a large hand with scarred knuckles grasping the edge of the white plate.
She looked up, slowly, and what she saw dried the tears on her cheeks. A dark haired man stood there with a crooked smile on his lips. His leather jacket was wet, carrying the scent of damp leather to her nostrils, where it mixed with the enticing aroma of the warm pie. He shrugged out of the jacket, draping it over the back of the booth to dry. His arms were decorated in tattoos, and the black t-shirt he wore strained against his chest as he slid into the booth, eyes fastened on her.
"Hey there, doll," he said softly, "you don't mind me being honest, but you look like you could use a piece of pie."
"I... do?" She managed between shaky breaths.
"Damn straight. Everything's better when you have pie." He stabbed the fork into the crust, breaking off a piece and bringing it up to his mouth. He chewed it slowly, eyes drifting closed as he savored the taste. "Now that's some good pie. Try some, darlin'."
She brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, looking up at him, actually seeing him for the first time. He was ruggedly handsome, his features hard as though carved from granite. The smile softened his face, along with the twinkle in his deep blue eyes, and the dab of cherry at the corner of his mouth. "I can't afford it," she replied, pushing the plate towards the handsome stranger even as her stomach growled in protest.
The man's smile faltered, the fork clattering against his plate as he dropped it before pushing the plate back towards the sad girl. "It's already paid for," he muttered, punctuating the words with a sigh. "Misery loves pie, believe me."
A hint of a smile curved her lips as she picked up the fork, listlessly spearing a cherry.
"Heh, I know what you're thinking. This guy doesn't know shit from shinola, as my father used to say. I assure you that's not true. If there's anything I know, it's sitting alone in a place like this and wishing you weren't alone. What's wrong? Tell me... or if you want, you can tell the pie. I find cherry to be the least judgmental of all the pastries. Just watch what you say to those pecan and raisin varieties..."
Laughter burst from between her lips, surprising them both. She giggled like a schoolgirl, one hand pressed against her lips. After a moment, she looked back up at the man who was idly finishing off the rest of his pie. "Thanks," she said with a shy smile, "you're probably the first nice person I've met in New York City."
"Probably because I'm not from around here." He set down the fork, licking the crumbs from his lips before extending a hand across the table. "Name's Jackson... and you are?"
"Shirlea." She said, ignoring his outstretched hand, letting her eyes fall back to the tabletop, and the battered photograph resting beside the sugar dispenser.
"Pretty name, for a pretty girl." He shrugged, using the ignored hand to extricate his pack of smokes from his back pocket.
She sighed, one finger tracing over the photo.
"You're not from around here, are you?" He murmured, pausing to light the cigarette clamped between his lips. "Your accent, it's a bit too twangy for these parts. Texas, right?"
"Yeah." She said with a sad smile. "Was born and raised in Flower Mound."
Jackson whistled low. "Long way from home... what brings you here?"
She took a deep breath, her eyes still fixed on the picture. "Well... I came here to follow my dreams." She lifted her chin defiantly, glaring at him with those ice blue eyes as though he would scoff at her.
"'Dream as if you'll live forever'..." he said, that infuriating half-smirk still on his lips.
"What?" She blinked, confused, "are you makin' fun of me?"
"Nope." Jackson took a drag off the cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. "I'm a big fan of followin' dreams. What was yours?"
"I wanna be a dancer." Shirlea confessed, a blush coloring her cheeks.
That smirk widened as Jackson looked her over, one dark brow quirked. She was skinny enough, that's for sure. Pretty enough, too. "Fair enough. What's stopping you?"
"The Joffrey Ballet School," she whispered reverently, her eyes lighting up. "That's where... I need to be. But they're too... they said I'm not good enough."
He laughed at her. Throwing his head back and everything. Fuming with anger, Shirlea shot to her feet, and stormed away from the table, leaving him, and her bag behind - a fact she didn't realize until after she stepped out into the icy downpour.
She turned around, and abruptly collided with something solid - his chest. Her hand pushed against damp cotton; he was out here in just his shirt sleeves. The freezing rain spilled down on them both as she stared into his face. He held her bag in one hand, but she made no move to take it from him.
"Come work for me." He said it so abruptly that she didn't register the words.
"What?"
"I have a club in Chicago." He shrugged, taking her hand and pulling her back inside the diner. "It's a nice place, I treat my girls good. A face like yours, and you'll be a star in no time."
She shivered violently, already soaked to the skin so that he could see the flower-patterned bra she had on underneath. She folded her arms over her chest, looking absolutely childish.
"You're eighteen, right?" His next words surprised her as she nodded woodenly. He walked away from her, back to the booth to get his coat. Returning to her side, he draped it over her shoulders and she was immediately enveloped in the scent of tobacco, wet leather and some expensive cologne that smelled amazing. "Won't even make you audition. You've got the job."
"What?"
"Come dance for me, beautiful. The pay's great and I'll make you a star."
❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅
10-13-15
Dearest Lukey:
So, here's a big ol' slice of irony pie for you. I got back into wrestling. Maybe I didn't tell you that before but you really can't hold that omission against me when you were dealing with that gold-digging slut you married. I'm sorry things went south on you there. I'm sorry I had to meddle in that, but I know firsthand that she's not the best person for you. I used to hang out with Jase and Jerry Armstrong, remember? I was there when she was married to Jase and I watched what she used to do.
Enough about that. I'm sending you a ticket for the Carnage Wrestling event in Baltimore. I want you to come watch me compete because the man I'm facing is named Jackson and you best believe I'm gonna rain down all the hell on his head that I never could against dear ol' Sugar Daddy Bradley. I want my brother back.
With Daddy gone, it's just me and you Lukey and I miss the way things used to be.
You can come stay with me for a while. I found a nice place here in Baltimore. I think this time it's going to work out and don't worry, I'm still attending my NA meetings and keeping clean. I'm being good, Mr. Sponsor, even though you're not really checking up on me the way you should. It's okay. I've been forging your signature on the documents and sending them back from your old gmail account. If you still remember the password, you can take over on that too. Mrs. Fisher thinks I'm doing well, considering how bad I was fucked up before.
I found a letter I never sent you back in 1999. I'm going to include that so you can get a little laugh about how I almost begged you for help then. And maybe if it hadn't been for cherry pie and a fresh cup of coffee and that leather jacket and those tattoos and those beautiful eyes of his, I might have come home and Daddy might still be with us.
It don't do much good to dwell on that though, does it? What's done is done as Daddy always used to say. Now we gotta lie in the bed... but I wish you were in it with me. That's all. So please... call me. Or text. Or email. Or write back.
I miss you so much Lukey.
Let me know either way, okay?
Love always,
Shirlea-Lynn
