Welcome to the States, Good Girl (J and S sequel to Bad Boy's Broken Cinderella)

As We Read to Each Other Dark Stories of the North

              As We Read to Each Other Dark Stories of the North

Savannah's P.O.V.

It was eight at night and I was in a frightful mood as I angrily painted the walls in my kitchen red.

My terrible mood was the result of both John and the plumber never showing up.

Deciding that I had better things to do, I had began on the walls in my kitchen. I was wearing sweatpants rolled up to my knees, an old t-shirt, and my hair was up in a messy bun in an attempt to keep my hair out of my face as I worked. My clothes and parts of my skin had been painted on in red, and I looked like I was either bleeding to death or had a ketchup bottle blow up on me.

I was almost done with the last coat of paint when the doorbell rang. It ran through my head that it was either 1: The plumber, or 2: John. I was angry beyond belief with both of them, but only one of them was I allowed to actually yell at.

Brushing my hair out of my face, I stomped to the front door, my feet bare.

Upon whipping the door open, I found on the other side John. He was leaning against the door frame and smoking a cigarette.

“Good evening Savannah,” he said with a smirk. His smirk grew wider as he looked my paint covered form over and said, “It looks like you’ve been having fun.”

Scowling, I snagged the cigarette out of his hand, almost burning myself in the process. Gagging on the stench, I marched over to the sink and tossed the cigarette in, dousing it and it’s putrid scent with water.

“Come in before I lock you out,” I spat back at him. “What have I told you about touching my stuff,” John said testily, but nonetheless stepped in and took off his shoes.

“Trust me John, no one wants to touch anything of yours.”

“There are a number of girls I know who would beg to differ.”

Wrinkling my nose, I snapped, “Anyways, why are you so damn late?”

He walked into the kitchen and examined the room. My muscles clenched as I expected him to say something about the state of my house, but he remained silent about it and chose to say instead, “I told you I would come by when I felt like it.”

“And what on earth could you possibly have been doing all afternoon.”

“I was busy doing…stuff.”

With a snort, I shot back, “More like somebody.”

He didn’t show any response as he simply looked at me, not giving me any insight into whether I was right or wrong.

With a heavy sigh I said, “Let’s just go up to my room.”

“Wow Savannah. And just a few minutes ago you were just saying no one wanted to touch anything of mine. You were quite obviously hiding your true feelings.”

“I meant to work on our project you perverted prick.”

Stomping, I made my way across the floor and over to the stairs, barely remembering to avoid stepping in the paint tray.

Once we were both up in my room I strode across the rough, uneven flooring and grabbed my backpack.

Looking around my room, I had the impulse to run my hand through my hair in selfconciousness.

Not only did I look like a mess, but so did my house. Even my own bedroom looked rather dingy with its ghastly, unsanded hardwood floor and the dull gray walls. The only spots of color were my own belongings here and there around the room.