A Blue Moon

By Bee Smith

Charlotte has a split personality, but she doesn't know it. Her mother knows it, and her mother is afraid of Bella. Bella takes care of problems and lately she's been killing them. Both women lead separate lives until an incident at work, that puts them on the run. Bella abducts Charlotte's only friend Vincent to keep Charlotte from freaking out on the road. Now Charlotte has to learn how to take control before disappearing forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bee Smith
• Release date: Nov 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310008955

Bee Smith

Bee Smith lives in The High Nevada desert 60 miles east of Reno on 5 acres of Russian Olive trees and rabbit brush. She enjoys gardening, hiking, biking and is currently at war with the gophers that insist on coming up in her raised beds. She has one husband, three children and four grandchildren and loves them all.She never sleeps with her feet sticking out of the covers or looks into mirrors with out the lights on. Actually, she avoids looking in the mirror with the lights on too. After a two year spell in Oregon, daily sunlight is a must and if it is overcast the sun lamp will be brought out of the closet.Bee enjoys comments on her face book page. Please, please leave me a review.

Book preview

A Blue Moon

By: Bee Smith

Copyright 2015

Bee Smith

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art http://www.selfpubbookcovers.com/Shardel

Contents

Chapter one: Who’s That Girl?

Chapter two: Bella

Chapter three: Charlotte & Vincent

Chapter four: Change Is In The Air

Chapter five: Road Trip

Chapter six: A New Purpose

Chapter seven: Charlotte

Chapter eight: Retaliation

Chapter nine: Get Back On The Road

Chapter ten: Walmart

Chapter eleven: To Kill Or Not To Kill

About The Author

Short Story Extra: Second Chances

Chapter 1 Who’s that Girl?

Charlotte is walking down the hallway, for yet another cup of coffee. The coffee is never for herself, but two of her fellow workers.

It is pathetic, yet here she is walking to the coffee room with two empty coffee cups in her hand, neither one being for herself.

Later tonight, Charlotte will get in her deep metallic blue convertible ford Mustang, and drive home, minding the speed limit; to a small drab apartment she shares with her mother.

Her Mother! What a drag.

Her mother is a fat, negative old biddy, who claims she can't keep a job because of her knees.

But she sure can drink up the Carlos Rossi.

Carlo Rossi, Burgundy, baby!

Charlotte never complains about buying her mother two gallons of C. R.

every week, just as she never complains about cooking all the meals, cleaning the apartment and paying all the bills; just as she never complains about getting coffee for her coworkers.

What I wouldn’t give to see her tell the old hag to keep to her room instead of dominating the living room and TV.

But no, Charlotte would rather retreat to her bedroom and read.

Her mother calls her a bookworm and/or a spinster; depending on how much she thinks she can get away with or how much C. R. she’s been drinking.

Charlotte is now back from the coffee room.

Quietly and with a pleasant smile, she presents each of her coworkers, Fran and Barbara, with their coffees.

Both women say thanks, in a casual manner, not bothering to look up from their work and make eye contact.

Just like everyone else they take Charlotte for granted.

And Charlotte, happy to be unnoticed, quietly goes back to her desk.

Watching Charlotte makes me nauseas.

It's no wonder she doesn't eat much. Her mother is right; Charlotte is nothing more than a spinster bookworm.

Most of the time watching Charlotte is a past time I avoid, but today feels different.

I'm restless and for some reason she has caught my interest today.

After work Charlotte gets into her hot little Mustang that she never dresses to match.

She turns the radio on to some sort of PBS talking head show.

Ugh! As usual in the summer, Las Vegas is under construction and so is Charlotte's route home.

Being a creature of habit, Charlotte refuses to take an alternate route, even though it would save at least 30 minutes of driving time.

I couldn't stand to waste the horse power of that car going 10 to 15 miles per hour in bumper to bumper traffic.

Of course, those 30 minutes of extra time would be spent with her nasty mother in her nasty drab apartment, so I can understand Charlotte's obstinacy in this one thing.

The route home is lined with orange pylons and dotted with signs saying work zone.

The signs are bobbing up and down like punching clowns in the dry desert wind and dust and dirt is being blown up towards the car from the nearby torn up lane.

The flying grit threatens to pit the windows and metallic blue paint of the mustang and Charlotte’s hands tighten around the steering wheel.

The talking head on PBS moans monotonously on about weed control and I'm thinking that I'll die of boredom when it’s our time to die, especially if Charlotte is in charge.

When suddenly, Charlotte surprises me and runs over a pylon.

The car veered sharply to the left, nailing an orange pylon.

Charlotte is looking intently at the road but glancing back at the pylon in her side mirror.

I'm positive she intentionally hit that pylon! I swear, I noticed the faint beginning of a smile turn up the left corner of her mouth.

Go Charlotte! I wonder if she could really get a spine of her own one day.

Arriving home, Charlotte is greeted by her mother, Benita.

Benita used to smoke two packs a day before being diagnosed with COPD.

She traded smoking for eating and was now starting to slide past pleasingly plump; if there ever was ever anything pleasant about her.

By Greeting, I mean that she just yells over her shoulder towards the entry where Charlotte has walked in.

Benita is watching TV and doesn't even look at Charlotte.

What're we havin' for dinner? Always the charmer, Benita’s gravelly voice sounds like a morose teenager with bronchitis.

But equally annoying is Charlotte answering Benita in her sickly sweet, patient voice, "Chicken, mother.

Chicken and salad.

Remember, I told you this morning."

I don't know why we can't have something fried or have some pizza once in a while. Benita mutters quietly, more to herself than to Charlotte.

Charlotte pleasantly ignores the comment and disappears into her room as is her usual routine.

The best thing about their drab little apartment is that they each have their own full baths.

After signing the lease Charlotte had un-customarily shown her authority by taking the master suite with a master bath and walk in closet, while appointing her mother the other room on the other side of the apartment.

Her mother's room was a decent size and she had the hall way bathroom to herself.

Benita never had to share the bathroom, as they never had company and Charlotte did pay all of the bills.

Never the less, it had been a seed of discontent for Benita.

A seed she liked to water every now and then.

Charlotte kept her room locked when she was gone to work, because her mother was a snoop and because her room was the one place she felt that she had complete control over her life.

In here, she could breathe and feel no limitations; which meant for Charlotte that she could read her boring little books and keep away from her mother.

Carefully and with much deliberation, Charlotte takes off her clothes examining them for stains.

She then hangs the practical dark brown polyester skirt and jacket in her closet.

From another hanger she pulls off a pale blue, terry sweat suit and lays it out carefully on her bed, smoothing out wrinkles and checking for stains again.

Heaven forbid anything should show a bit of wear and I roll my eyes.

Charlotte hangs most of her boring bland practical clothing in the closet; she only uses her dresser drawers for panties, socks and sweaters, hanging even the t-shirts.

But there is a forgotten corner in her closet where I have a few hot dresses with equally hot shoes squirreled away.

But boring, cautious little Charlotte never even glances at them.

Wearing only her bra and panties Charlotte goes into the bathroom to wash her face.

She wears a minimal amount of makeup: Mascara, blush and a very sheer lipstick that may as well be Chap Stick for all the color it adds to her lips.

Charlotte brushes her sandy blond hair up into a pony tail.

Then she applies make up remover, gently smoothing it over her lightly freckled skin and then rinses with water.

She follows up with a mild face soap, toning her face with witch hazel and then applying moisturizer.

She carefully dabs the moisturizer around the delicate skin of her hazel eyes.

Charlotte might be the dullest mouse around but she takes very good care of her skin and body and for which I am grateful, because I see her body as very alluring, which is quite the opposite of how she sees herself.

Charlotte with her face clean and shiny stands back to appraise her body in the mirror.

She sees a mousy, and homely twenty-six-year-old spinster.

She shrugs her shoulders and sighs before turning away from the mirror and heads back to the bedroom to put on the sweat suit, so neatly laid out on her bed.

In a healthy, realistic light, Charlotte is quite attractive.

Her hazel eyes, though not a sparkly flashy color are wide and almond shaped, giving her face a slightly exotic appeal.

Add a little eyeliner and the right eye shadow and those eyes become fabulously seductive.

Her lips are wide and shapely, and with a deep shade of lipstick they absolutely rock.

She is slim with smallish but round full breasts, her legs are long, below a well-defined waist and a small but well lifted derriere.

Charlotte looking in the mirror at herself sees only the homely spinster and goes into the bedroom to put on her figure hiding sweat suit, which matches the rest of her bland figure hiding wardrobe.

With her sweats on, charlotte carefully surveys the room, making sure nothing is out of order.

Then she takes a deep breath exhaling with relief; leaving the room so she can fix dinner for her mother and herself.

The kitchen is a small u-shaped area, without much counter space.

There is a small table with seating for two just outside the u-shaped opening of the kitchen which sits next to an eastern facing window looking out onto the balcony entrance of their second floor apartment.

The blinds are always kept shut, not only for privacy, but to keep the cooling costs down.

The dining table was rarely used as her mother preferred her meals in the living room with her buddy, the television.

Charlotte doesn’t mind not having much space in the kitchen because it keeps her mother from harassing her while she cooks.

Benita’s knees won’t allow her to stand in the narrow opening of the kitchen for long anyway.

Well, her knees and the Carlo Rossi.

When Charlotte opens the refrigerator she sees two pre-cooked chicken breasts with a bag of readymade salad and her heart quickens a bit as she eyes the chicken breasts.

She doesn’t remember buying pre-cooked breasts or salad in a bag and as I’m laughing at her discomfort Charlotte releases yet another long sigh.

Without much choice she decides to slice the chicken breasts and serve them cold alongside the salad.

She slices tomatoes, cucumbers and then grates a bit of cheese on top.

The dinner is so easy that Charlotte, feeling some of her usual stupid guilt decides to make her mother some garlic bread as a treat.

With that done she loads a tray with their plates, napkins, some silverware and a non-alcoholic drink for herself and heads into the living room.

Her mother has the TV turned up loud, which means she is pretty well into her bottle of C.

R.

The couch faces the TV with its back to the kitchen and as Charlotte approaches she can see that her mother is watching one of those Law and Order shows that are her favorites.

This episode appears to be about a rape victim.

There is a young woman scratched and bruised with her arms clutched tightly around herself.

A female detective sits solemnly nearby; patiently waiting for the girl to start talking instead of crying.

As Charlotte comes around the couch Benita's head jerks up towards her, and upon seeing her daughter she grabs the nearby TV tray, and pulls it up to her lap.

It's about time, I'm starving here! she says in her most gracious voice.

Ha!

Charlotte doesn’t say a word or show any negativity to the harridan; she just goes about moving her mother's plate to the tray she had so greedily pulled in front of her.

Charlotte places a folded napkin and silverware next to the plate, and then Charlotte takes her mother's glass of C.

R.

from the coffee table and sets it neatly onto her tray as well.

In a futile effort to make pleasant conversation Charlotte tells her mother that she has made her some cheesy garlic bread.

Much to her dismay her mother already has a hunk of it in her mouth, chewing away and staring at the TV.

Mmmhmm, Chomp, chomp, chomp.

Turning quickly away from the sight of her mother masticating the garlic bread into a gummy mess, Charlotte sits down on the far side of the couch; but not before a few crumbs fly free and fall onto the couch beside Benita.

Charlotte notices that the female detective is now trying to convince the young girl that her testimony will help put the horrible beast who raped her, in jail for a long time.

Charlotte's stomach is turning and she focus’ her attention on her plate, breathing deeply to calm herself.

Her stomach is leaping and there is a battering of what feels like fists within