Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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I whipped around at the mention of my name, startled by the abrupt voice.
Pause. How did she manage to sneak up on me when I was watching her the whole time? But I guess that didn't matter as much as the fact that she was right there, and I had to say something to keep from looking as dumbfounded as I was inside.
"Hey...," I responded tentatively, unsure of how she felt about my sudden presence. "Look, I know you're probably... oww, hey! Violet... cut it out!"
As soon as I opened my mouth, she picked up a folder lying on the ground, rolled it up, and began whacking me with it, not stopping despite my protests.
Since words were useless here, I snatched a poster board from a nearby booth and shielded myself from her vicious attacks, simultaneously trying to yank the folder from her hands.
This went on for a few seconds before we began receiving curious looks from those around us, which was, truthfully, understandable. It wasn't everyday that you saw two grown adults fighting like children in the middle of a flipping design convention.
After a few tries, I finally knocked the folder out of her hands. She crossed her arms and gave me a once-over, as I scanned my surroundings, growing deeply conscious of the stares directed our way.
"You complete nutcase," Violet stated, her chest rising and falling slightly, though no real warmth reached her eyes. "What the hell were you thinking showing up here, you psycho?"
"Well, that's a whole story in itself," I began, lowering the poster board sheepishly. I decided to ignore her insults and just say what I had to.
"And one probably best explained in a less... public forum?" I gestured vaguely at the surrounding attendees.
Violet's gaze flickered around the room before settling back on me, sharp and assessing.
"Fine, follow me." She didn't spare me a second glance, turning on her heel towards a pair of double doors.
We navigated the thinning clusters of people, an almost palpable frost in the air between us. The silence wasn't comfortable; an unmistakable bridge forming between us by the years that had passed without a word.
The room she'd led me to was marked as an "Exhibitor's Lounge," its simple, grey font matching the sterile interior of the room. I sat down on one of the large, white couches, right opposite Violet, watching as she moved with a detached air, crossing her arms and legs as she took her seat.
"Why are you here?"
Her tone was clipped, but I could sense a hint of genuine interest.
I hesitated.
"It's personal, actually. I was in the area for an assignment and thought I'd see you."
