TURNING VIOLET

an outer banks story

by -spacecadet

CHAPTER ONE: GOOD MORNING KILDARE COUNTY

Violet's heartbeat thudded in her skull like the low notes of a bass guitar.

She pried her face off of the damp, itchy surface of the couch she had crashed on, wrinkling her nose at the stale odor that was coming off of the fabric. She brought a hand to her eyes, peering between the slates of her fingers as she studied her surroundings, forcing her hungover eyes to focus through the bright light streaming in through the window.

She reached for her phone, seeing that it was long past dead. She somewhat remembered showing up at a house party the night before, but she'd been crossed long before her arrival.

Her boyfriend had been there ... hadn't he? Glimpses of the previous night flashed through her brain — shots of overpriced tequila followed by a wedge of lime, lines of coke off of a sticky beer pong table, hits of a stranger's bubblegum-flavored vape.

She stood off of the couch, noticing that the floor was covered in cigarette butts and crumpled plastic cups. A small trash can sat next to an unfamiliar girl who was passed out, snoring loudly with her nose pressed up against its plastic surface.

Violet stumbled through the unfamiliar house, glad at least that she'd left her shoes on, as there would have been no telling where she'd left them otherwise. She found a pair of someone else's Ray Bans abandoned on a side table, and shoved them over her bloodshot blue eyes as she staggered out the front door, and into the morning sun.

She groaned and keeled over, immediately retching as the light hit her eyes. She straightened her body, forcing herself to look around at the yard in front of her. Based on the Porsche in the driveway and the immaculate yard work, she was somewhere on Figure Eight, the wealthy part of Kildare Island.

Good.

That meant she was close to home.

She wandered down the road, finally coming across some houses that looked familiar. Her mouth was extremely dry, and between her hungover state and the North Carolina heat, she felt like she could drink the entire Atlantic Ocean. She kept walking until she recognized the tall, iron fence that surrounded her own home.

She slipped through the gate and walked up the long driveway that led to the Olivier family home. Her father's Porsche was nowhere to be seen, and neither was her mother's G-Wagon. That was a good sign.

She trudged up the asphalt, where she punched in the security code on the garage door so she could be let inside. Her car sat untouched next to three empty spots, for her parents and brother respectively. She couldn't remember the last time she'd driven her little BMW, the one she'd begged her father for in high school. She was rarely sober enough to drive, so it stayed parked most days.

She entered the home through the connecting garage door, kicking off her dirty shoes in the mud room. If Natalia, their maid, was home, maybe Violet could avoid her by taking the back stairs. She loved Natalia like family, but the woman wasn't one to keep it a secret when Violet came home hungover.

Violet made it upstairs uninterrupted, where she filled her tub for a bath and soaked in bubbles for a solid hour. She scrubbed each fleck of dirt from her skin, rubbing off the grease and lingering makeup and whiffs of stale cigarette smoke before draining the tub and wrapping her dark hair in a towel. She studied herself in the mirror, seeing the way her eyes sagged under dark circles and her limbs hung as if there wasn't enough muscle or fat to hold the bones in place.

She could only look in the foggy bathroom mirror for a few seconds before her head started to throb again, so she turned off the lights and headed to her bedroom, where she wrapped herself in a bathrobe and slid her feet into slippers before plopping down on her bed.

Her stomach let out a guttural growl, and even though she was partially nauseous, Violet realized she was absolutely starving. She couldn't recall the last point at which she'd eaten, so she forced herself off of her bed and located the stolen, or borrowed, Ray Bans, slipping them over her blue eyes before heading back downstairs.

She opened the fridge, seeing that there was a fresh carton of orange juice on the shelf, and next to it, a bottle of her mother's favorite champagne. It was probably for her mother's brunch friends, but at that moment, Violet didn't care. It was exactly what she wanted.

She pulled a glass out of the cabinet and popped the top off the champagne bottle, filling her glass almost to the top. She topped off the glass with the juice, then took a seat on one of the stools at the island.

There was a note on the kitchen island, perfectly written in her mother's fine cursive.

Vi —

Grocery delivery coming at two. Use this money as a tip.

— Mom

Violet lifted her sore eyeballs to the clock on the stove, seeing that it was indeed almost two. She groaned and stuffed the wad of cash into the pocket of her robe. She shuffled her slippered feet to the patio door, where she could see her family's boat, the Baroness, docked.

Her family often had groceries delivered from the mainland, because her mother, Marcia, considered the stuff on the island to be subpar. Violet opened the patio door and headed down the dock, the sun still blinding behind the Ray Bans.

She plopped herself down on the dock, the wooden boards hot on her bare behind. If her mother saw her out there in nothing more than her bathrobe, she'd have tore Violet a new one. Thankfully, Marcia wasn't home.

She heard the soft sounds of a boat approaching through the marsh so she stood, dusting off her butt and smoothing out the robe. A man her father's age ran the grocery service, and the last thing she wanted to do was flash the poor guy.

The boat slowed to a stop at the Olivier pier, and Violet spotted the words "Heyward Seafood" on the side of it. The man behind the wheel, however, wasn't old man Heyward. It was his son.

"Delivery for Marcia Olivier?" He called out in a deep voice, holding up two bags that were heavy with food.

"That's us," Violet replied, waving him over. He grabbed the rest of the bags and followed Violet up to the house, where she plopped herself at the breakfast counter with a mimosa as he brought in the rest of the food.

He came in with the last of the items, and Violet noticed his forehead was covered in sweat. She'd only been outside a few moments, but she could tell the heat and humidity were running rampant.

"Do you want a mimosa?" Violet asked, swirling the drink in her glass.

A look of confusion crossed the boy's face as his eyes drifted to her glass. His mouth fell open and he stuttered for a few moments before composing himself. "I'm not twenty one."

Violet scoffed. "Neither am I."

"I ... I don't think I'm supposed to drink with customers," he said.

"Suit yourself," she said, grabbing the bottle of champagne and topping off her own glass, which was already half empty. "Can I at least, I dunno, get you some orange juice? It's hot out there."

The boy eyed the orange juice carton and nodded, sighing as he took a seat beside her at the island. "That would be nice, thank you."

Violet pried herself off of her stool and grabbed another champagne flute, filling it with orange juice. "Here."

"Thank you, Miss."

Violet scoffed. "Good Lord, don't call me 'Miss.'"

"Sorry," he grumbled, looking down at his hands.

She laughed. "Well, don't apologize."

"So —" he stopped again, looking to her silently, unsure what to say.

She smirked. "My name is Violet. Violet Olivier."

"I know who you are," he replied.

"Oh?" Violet said, bemused.

He began to stutter again. "Well, I ... I mean, everyone knows who you are. I ... my friends and I saw you and your band play at a party last summer."

"You saw us play?" A smirk danced across Violet's face. "Really? What did you think?"

"You were good," he replied. His face flushed. "You all were."

She smiled. "Thanks."

Violet, and two of her friends, had formed a band in high school. With Violet as the front woman, they called it Turning Violet. She sang and played guitar, and the remaining bandmates made up the drums, bass, and another guitar.

"So, you're Heyward's son then?" Violet asked. "I know you know who I am, but I have to admit, I have no idea who you are."

He ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. "Yeah, I'm his son. My name is Pope."

"Pope," Violet repeated, adjusting her sunglasses so she could study his face unfiltered. "You know, Pope, we're having a concert on the beach tonight. Three dollar cover, but free beer, 'til it runs out, of course. You should come. Bring your friends."

He looked away, seemingly embarrassed again. "I, umm ... yeah. I'll ask them. Thank you."

She smiled. "Thanks for the groceries."

"Thanks for the orange juice," he replied, draining the last bit before standing.

"Oh, your tip money," Violet said, slipping the Ray Bans over her still bloodshot eyes. She grabbed the bills, neatly laid out in a binder clip, crumbling them as she did so. "Here."

"Thank you, Miss — er, Violet."

Violet smiled. "You're welcome, Pope."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ author's note ✫・゜・。.

and that's chapter one! this book has been a long time coming. i wasn't sure if i would ever actually publish it, but after watching season three of OBX, i guess i was re-inspired! 

violet is kind of a hot mess, if you haven't determined that already. she's definitely one of the more frustrating characters i've written in a long time.

anyway, hope you enjoyed chapter one, and thank you for reading! let me know what you thought! 

xx,

madi