Lydia Good ♥

                                    

                                          

                          
There are three kinds of people in this world.
                          
 The ones who live, the ones who wish they did, and the ones who are too lame to even imagine the world and all the possibilities it holds. My ex best friend told me one time that I was wrong, that the third group in truth is too scared, to afraid of life that they would rather run from it then embrace it.
                          
 So, pretty much, lame.
                          
 If there are three kinds of people in the world, that makes me the most important. People say this all the time, people act like this minute after minute.
                          
They are the kind of people that walk down the halls at school and don’t acknowledge anything in their path. You don’t know them, they don’t know you, but somehow you want to be them.
                          
 To be this kind of person you need two things: Looks and money. Both are equally important and if one outweighs the other, the scale could go tipping down at any minute. You see, people say money can’t buy you happiness but that’s not true.
                          
 They just aren’t buying the right things.
                          
 So, no, you don’t need friends. You don’t need family. You don’t need anything but that perfect smile and five hundred dollars in your purse.  The smile will get the taxi to stop; the money will pay for your destination.
                          
 A sad life, but a glorious one if done right.
                          
 So you can imagine my surprise when the cop pulled my arms behind my back and tightly clasped his cuffs around my wrists. Everyone in White Hills knew who my father was. If you didn’t, you weren’t from White Hills. He built this town. He ran this town. His money got people jobs and let them keep them.
                          
 Without him White Hills would be nothing but dirt and lost dreams.
                          
 “What do you think you are doing!” I seethed under my breath while trying to pull out of the cops grasp. He tightened his grip and I bit my lip to keep from crying out in pain. If this were a different night, and I wasn’t about to go to jail, I might have thought the cop was cute. Kind of young, but cute all the same.
                          
 “Speak when spoken too.” He gritted out, his hot breath brushing against my ear. I wanted to say something smartass, like caveman much? but that would of just gotten me in more trouble.
                          
 And as it was, shit was already hitting the literal fan.
                          
 "My father is so going to have your job.” I didn’t even say it with an air of confidence or like the spoiled bitch I am. I said it simply, like I was telling him that the sky is blue and the grass is green.
                          
 It was a fact more than it was a statement.
                          
 Ahead of me, a group of my so called friends were all getting talked too, flashlights shown in eyes and walkie talkies getting talked into. You would think we murdered someone by how many officers were here and how dramatic they were making everything.
                          
 It was all for show, no doubt. But, I knew a thing or two about putting on a show, and the cops in front of me weren’t doing a real bang up job on it.
                          
 The mayor, a key player in tonights events, has his chubby arms crossed over his protruding belly, his glare aimed solely on me. I give him the best smile I can, all white teeth and red lipstick, and his glare goes from cold to straight up icy.