Imperative Fate by Paige Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

Anne laughed again, mumbling euphorically, thinking me a great jester and tilting her head to the side. As my friend rested upon the window, she dazzled in the fierce illumination of sunset, the descending rays lighting up her yellow hair like a torch; dying flecks spilled through the loops of her bows and exploded on the metallic clips. For just a while, it seemed she harnessed the light.
    She turned back to me and asked, “Dahlia, don’t you have any fantasies?”
    I strained to view her ethereal quality in the radiance, at times wanting to slap her for it. “Yes of course, but what’s t—”
    “Well, desert them. They’re no good. They give you things as nasty as doubt and worry and ambition. That’s your problem. Fantasies, overthinking.”
    I huffed. “Ellie Anne, you’re going to make me lose it one day. Asking me to turn off nature, getting me to pick apart your babble. No wonder your daddy’s gone all the time! You’re a riddler, an absolute loon! It must take some time to recover.”
    Proud as a politico, Ellie Anne swung her head. She couldn’t shield that sequin smile. “Dahli, you’re the one about to bust over a sleep-over! Gosh! Here, let me give you the run-down with a healthy dose of reality: First, you’re NOT your daddy, your Anny, so stop sweating it! Being his soldier for one evening is more than he could’ve done by himself, by default.
    “Second, I like you and that’s all that matters. Daddy will take that into consideration well enough. Third, if he doesn’t like Anny, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll still see you; your father will still have the same shot at winning his dream, as perverse of a dream as it is.” She twirled around the pine planks in boredom, in her polka dot socks, ruffling the crinoline of her petticoat. So simple-minded, so rational.
    Perfect legs, perfect legs, I found myself saying when she did that, the tips of her knee-highs on display, their itchy lace mouths brushing against the other like Hydrangeas in a windy field. A little faster that childish dance and I would’ve caught glimpse of her panties.
                  “Anyway,” she sighed, taking to her tippy toes, “if you must know, if you haven’t assumed, Daddy’s a classic gentleman.” She raised her arms above her head and connected them like a music box dancer, elongating her already lanky form. “That may mean you have to adjust your tongue. Poor grammar, chopped words, and slang offend him. I notice you play with your hair in between bites; none of that.”
                  Pinpointing my flaws on demand as she goose-stepped, Ellie painted my face like a clown. “Sure, I can cut that out,” I assured, struck narrowly in the ego.
                  “You know, obviously, when Daddy comes home I want to know about him, not what happened around him, but I’ll take reign and steer the conversation. You just nod and look desperate ’til you have somethin’ nice and wonky to contribute, okay?”
                  Her marionette doll, I nodded like my strings were tugged.
    She hugged me and said everything would be fine, her hot, moist little sentiments caressing my ears and taming my disposition.
                  Telepathic, I suppose, she got the door before her father got the chance to knock. “Father!” she cheered, divulging her wingspan, putting her breadth at his disposal, mug as alive as I’ve ever seen it.
    Straightaway, Mr. Moss accosted her, more doting than I anticipated. “Ellie,” he cooed softly as a nightingale, head atop the hair busheled in his hands. His eyes flickered on me, ten feet behind, a second that allowed me to see where she got that powerful green. “Sweetheart, I’d forgotten you’d mentioned company, a testament to this faulty memory,” he said.
    Pulling on the midsection of his fine, green dress shirt, Ellie replied, “Meet Dahlia Connors, daughter of Anthony Connors. He was man of the hour