Read Online Bad Girl by Night by Lacey Alexander - Free Book Online
Authors: Lacey Alexander
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legs parted as far as humanly possible for them. Remembering the heat in Jake’s blue eyes when he seemed to almost look through her—and the way he’d pinned her to the bed, and then a little later rammed forcefully into her from behind. She let out a breath, glad her T-shirt was loose, since her breasts felt a little achy now and her nipples would surely be visible through anything tighter, even through her bra.
It was actually almost a relief when the ten o’clock hour rolled around and she walked to the door to turn the Open sign toward the window. It was a Tuesday, one of the quieter days of the week during summer, but still, already a few cars were starting to park along the curb outside.
Turnbridge was a rare small town these days. No Walmart or outlet mall had cropped up to lure customers away from smaller businesses, so Main Street remained adorned with a drugstore, hardware store, bank, and more. At the same time, however, Turnbridge was known for its crafts and antiques. Just across the street from her stood a specialty yarn and bead shop in a circa 1920 building, a homemade toy store occupied the old Five and Dime up the block, and Debbie Cleary, Tiffany’s mom, had opened a successful scrapbooking store in a small house around the corner on Maple. Farther up Main, storefronts gave way to old Victorian homes, and many of those had also been turned into antiques shops or craft stores, Dana’s girlhood home among them. Dana’s mother still lived upstairs, but she’d transformed the ground floor into a friendly store, each room filled with wonderful old pieces of furniture, candlesticks, frames, and collectibles.
Carly’s shop didn’t get as much foot traffic as many of the stores did. Although she created smaller pieces—bread boxes, keepsake boxes, trays, checkerboards—most of her offerings were large, pricy items like tables, chairs, and bookshelves that didn’t draw in as many casual shoppers from the sidewalk. But that suited her fine. At the end of the day, she still made enough to keep the business running, and even had a healthy savings account for lean years. So it wasn’t as if turning the lock on the door and opening the shop today meant a barrage of customers rushing in—it meant only that she was no longer officially alone in her private world. And most days, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but today, maybe it was.
At noon, another ritual—she stepped in the back room and made a call to Schubert’s up the street. A small, family-friendly restaurant during the day, more of a pub at night, the place served simple fare like burgers and sandwiches. Carly got her lunch there almost every day until winter came, when she started “hibernating” a little more, preferring to go upstairs and grab something from the fridge. Otherwise, she liked the opportunity to get out, take a walk, breathe some fresh air.
“Schubert’s,” answered Frank Schubert himself, a friendly fifty-something man she’d known her whole life.
“Hi, it’s Carly, calling in my lunch order.”
“Ham and swiss on white, light mayo?” he asked.
She even tended to order the same thing every day. “You got it.” But she didn’t mind if that seemed boring. For her, such rituals were a way of giving her life structure, keeping everything in order.
“Ready in five,” he said, and she told him she’d be there soon.
After flipping around a CLOSED FOR LUNCH, BE BACK SOON sign in the window, she locked the front door and began her journey up the street. It was hot out—in the eighties—with a bright sun beating down from a clear blue sky. A soft breeze kept the day pleasant, however, and as Carly took her daily stroll up the sidewalk, she saw Beth Anne wave from the bakery window, where she was probably preparing for a lunch break herself. Then Mrs. Castellini, a friend of her mother’s, beeped and waved as her big old Buick rolled past. Shoppers dotted Main Street—a few of them heading into the Bear
It was actually almost a relief when the ten o’clock hour rolled around and she walked to the door to turn the Open sign toward the window. It was a Tuesday, one of the quieter days of the week during summer, but still, already a few cars were starting to park along the curb outside.
Turnbridge was a rare small town these days. No Walmart or outlet mall had cropped up to lure customers away from smaller businesses, so Main Street remained adorned with a drugstore, hardware store, bank, and more. At the same time, however, Turnbridge was known for its crafts and antiques. Just across the street from her stood a specialty yarn and bead shop in a circa 1920 building, a homemade toy store occupied the old Five and Dime up the block, and Debbie Cleary, Tiffany’s mom, had opened a successful scrapbooking store in a small house around the corner on Maple. Farther up Main, storefronts gave way to old Victorian homes, and many of those had also been turned into antiques shops or craft stores, Dana’s girlhood home among them. Dana’s mother still lived upstairs, but she’d transformed the ground floor into a friendly store, each room filled with wonderful old pieces of furniture, candlesticks, frames, and collectibles.
Carly’s shop didn’t get as much foot traffic as many of the stores did. Although she created smaller pieces—bread boxes, keepsake boxes, trays, checkerboards—most of her offerings were large, pricy items like tables, chairs, and bookshelves that didn’t draw in as many casual shoppers from the sidewalk. But that suited her fine. At the end of the day, she still made enough to keep the business running, and even had a healthy savings account for lean years. So it wasn’t as if turning the lock on the door and opening the shop today meant a barrage of customers rushing in—it meant only that she was no longer officially alone in her private world. And most days, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but today, maybe it was.
At noon, another ritual—she stepped in the back room and made a call to Schubert’s up the street. A small, family-friendly restaurant during the day, more of a pub at night, the place served simple fare like burgers and sandwiches. Carly got her lunch there almost every day until winter came, when she started “hibernating” a little more, preferring to go upstairs and grab something from the fridge. Otherwise, she liked the opportunity to get out, take a walk, breathe some fresh air.
“Schubert’s,” answered Frank Schubert himself, a friendly fifty-something man she’d known her whole life.
“Hi, it’s Carly, calling in my lunch order.”
“Ham and swiss on white, light mayo?” he asked.
She even tended to order the same thing every day. “You got it.” But she didn’t mind if that seemed boring. For her, such rituals were a way of giving her life structure, keeping everything in order.
“Ready in five,” he said, and she told him she’d be there soon.
After flipping around a CLOSED FOR LUNCH, BE BACK SOON sign in the window, she locked the front door and began her journey up the street. It was hot out—in the eighties—with a bright sun beating down from a clear blue sky. A soft breeze kept the day pleasant, however, and as Carly took her daily stroll up the sidewalk, she saw Beth Anne wave from the bakery window, where she was probably preparing for a lunch break herself. Then Mrs. Castellini, a friend of her mother’s, beeped and waved as her big old Buick rolled past. Shoppers dotted Main Street—a few of them heading into the Bear
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