Novellus Rome

Part One

Dear Readers,
I'm writing an ongoing fiction story based on a plot idea that my brother wrote before he left. I want to prove to him that I can get 100 votes before he finishes boot camp. It's also a pretty great story. Thank you so much for checking it out. There's going to be lots of excitement, crazy characters, romance, adventure, comedy, unexpected plot twists, and on-edge situations. If you like what you read, leave me a vote...or, if you have any feedback, drop it in the comments box.  There'll be more coming soon.
H a v e   A   N i c e   D a y ! :)
Enjoy! Yours Truly,
Clarisssea

PART ONE

"Atlanta," Natasha said, "you have to move on from this." Thoughtlessly balancing her milkshake on the banister, Natasha caught her orange hair and twisted a rubber band around it. Then she tossed her head and clicked the heel of her classy shoe against the wall, gluing both of her unbelievably blue eyes onto Atlanta's silver-gray ones. "For Thor's sake—you need something fresh to think about." Natasha was dancing in her seat a little to the faraway murmur of 'Zip-A-Doo-Dee-Dah'; the low rumbling roll of Louis Armstrong's timeless jazz brought on a relaxed pleasure that the young-adult redhead had yet to match. In contrast, Atlanta was sitting across from her friend with the expression of a rock in the dead of winter—completely unmoving, utterly still. "You aren't ever going to have any fun," Natasha continued effortlessly, "until you let yourself enjoy things."
Atlanta's eyes flashed suddenly. She leaned forward. "I used to enjoy things," she said, "dang—I used to enjoy everything, before Fly killed my brother. Jake knew how to enjoy things and I just followed him around like the classic little sister. I used to enjoy things. Jake knew how." Atlanta slammed both hands flat on the table . "Fly ruined my life, so I have to end his." She kept her eyes fixed on Natasha's in a wordless challenge.
Natasha, not to be outdone, didn't so much as blink. She reached for her milkshake, keeping her gaze steady, but she misjudged the distance and the back of her hand hit the cold plastic cup. There was a pleasant rumble and a quick swish as the drink became airborne, followed by a satisfying splat down below and a voice exclaiming "Aw, shucks!" Neither Atlanta nor Natasha broke eye contact—neither would surrender for a few tense minutes.
"Alright, Lanta," Natasha said finally, "suit yourself." She looked away, flipping her high ponytail. "I'm going out tonight, but of course you aren't coming. You've got a vendetta."
"That would be a nice name for a pet parrot," Atlanta said. "Vendetta would."
"Hm, I'll keep that in mind for when I get a parrot—which—for the record—I'm never getting a parrot, because I despise them," Natasha said curtly. "I wonder if that guy is okay, the one the milkshake splattered on."
"Watch out," Atlanta said conclusively, "Natasha, I think you'll be on the receiving end of somebody else's vendetta. Also—how is it even humanly possible to dislike parrots?"
"Har, har," said Natasha. She stood up gracefully, lifted her hand to waved her fingers, and marched off with the heels of her shoes clicking sassily on the floor and her head held high like a proud peacock. Atlanta watched her go with a slow sigh. "She'll be back," she muttered to herself. "Natasha always comes back." Atlanta stood up and dusted herself off. She picked up her milkshake and headed in the opposite direction that Natasha had gone, in the opposite style. Atlanta's converse were silent on the sleek floor, her sweatshirt hood was pulled up over her blond hair, and she kept her head inconspicuously low.
Which happened to be her downfall because inconspicuous was exactly what Conrad was looking for as he was bounding around the mall like a demigod on a time-sensitive mission. He ran headlong into Atlanta like a hyperactive bullet, sending her milkshake flying just as Natasha's had before it.
"Good grief," Conrad said, steadying the dumbfounded Atlanta before stepping back, "it's a bad day to be a milkshake." Atlanta, still slightly stunned, took a deep breath as she took in the sight of the dashingly handsome offender. "Is it possible not to like parrots?" Atlanta asked in the spur of the moment while the passed souls of the inventors of pick-up lines clapped sarcastically. "No," Conrad said, "I don't think so, why?"
"I just—found out my friend doesn't like parrots," Atlanta said slowly, "I don't really know what to do with myself now." She pushed back her sweatshirt hood and shook her head to clear her brain. "Sorry—it's a weird day."
"You're telling me," Conrad agreed, pulling one hand through his hair, "sheesh. I almost got hit by a bus."
"I did get hit by a bus," Atlanta mentioned, looking at him.
"Well," Conrad said lightly, extending his hand, "this bus's name is Conrad."
"Lanta," Atlanta said, shaking his hand and feeling the sparks of charm through his fingers.
Conrad scratched his head. "Well—it's nice to meet you, but I'd better go. You don't happen to work for the CIA, do you?" Atlanta shook her head, not sure if he was joking. "Do you?," she asked. "Pffff," Conrad coughed, "me? No...hell no."
"Hmmm." Atlanta pulled her hood back on. "Peace out, homie," she said, flashing the hang-loose symbol and turning around like a chill salsa-dancer. She walked loosely away, feeling Conrad's eyes on her back until she melted into a crowd of credit-happy pre-holiday shoppers.
With Natasha at some unknown location and The Conrad Experience behind her, Atlanta had nothing to do but go back to the hotel and change into her lazy clothes and watch TV and wish that Jake were around to laugh at the empty, cliche on-screen plots that somehow managed to wipe the mind of any and all rational thoughts. She got a seltzer water out of the hotel fridge, orange vanilla flavor, and sat on the fuzzy carpet in front of the flatscreen, allowing her brain to be slowly transformed to sloppy oatmeal. There was a blue pen laying lonely on the floor, and Atlanta picked it up and clicked it a few times as her mind wandered. Then the tip of the pen met the wooden edge of the coffee table, and her hand etched the words without any hesitation.
Jake Peyton is my brother, and I would kill anybody who hurt him.
Fly Lincoln killed Jake Peyton.
Therefore, I will kill Fly Lincoln.
It's just logic.
When Atlanta read the words she had written, she couldn't remember putting them there. But she knew that they were true. She reached down to her side, feeling to make sure the knife was still there, still ready for the moment when she would have the chance to drive it into Fly Lincoln's cold, hard heart just as he had done to her brother. She wondered if she would have the guts to twist—the drive to make him suffer. But the sight of blood made her insides quiver. It would have to be quick, painless—or she would never have the nerve.
Atlanta's eyes flashed up from the words on the coffee table. She got to her feet and grabbed her black leather jacket. Her fiery gaze tore through the hotel room door. "I need a gun," she said to the door handle as she pulled out her hotel card and opened the door into the hallway. She stepped out and walked with conviction half way to the elevator, and then paused briefly to glance down at her baggy sweatpants and sock feet. "Dang," she said, "I forgot my shoes."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Reader,
Did you like what you read here today? Drop a vote! :)
Thanks,
Clarisssea