Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
But she’s not safe. Not from me, not from herself.
I grin, slow and arrogant.
Ready or not, Kayleigh.
Let’s see if you taste as good as you look.
4
WHO WAS THAT GIRL AGAIN?
Kayleigh
Morning comes as a golden glow, shimmering through the old leaded glass of the McEnroe-Cahill kitchen. Every surface lights like it’s slightly afire, but the place still smells faintly of cleaning fluid and yesterday’s roses, with an undercurrent of something less polite. I sit at the marble island in my teddy bear pajamas, knees curled up, cupping a mug of coffee like it’s the only real friend I have.
My mom glides from the back pantry, her silk robe flaring behind her in a faint wake of Chanel No. 5 and iron-willed disappointment. Her face is already done up, even though she’s still in a robe: pale matte features, hair in a torqued little bun, lips the color of a surgical incision. She is, as ever, the inverse of soft.
Across from me, Henry reads the Wall Street Journal on his phone, every so often stabbing at the screen like he wants to kill it. He’s in a golf shirt and pressed slacks, no tie today, but his hair is still shellacked into a Lego-perfect coif. My stepdad has always been more foreman than father, running even Sunday mornings like there might be a performance review.
Victoria pours her own coffee—black, no sugar, no cream, just like she taught me when I was fifteen—and then sits primly at the counter, both hands around her mug. She looks at me over the rim, eyes perfectly dry, posture ramrod straight.
She sighs. “I cannot believe that woman’s outfit.” She doesn’t mean me; she means Trevor’s date, the platinum blonde, now consigned to history as simply “that woman.” Victoria frowns, pulling her robe closer about her bony form. “Honestly, Henry, is your son dating a stripper? Is that what’s happening here? How could she show up to a family wedding dressed like that? Has she no shame?”
Henry doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’d wager that she’s definitely stripper,” he says, his voice wry, “or at maybe a lady of the night. I think that’s a real possibility.”
A giggle nearly escapes me, a quick bright bubble at the back of my throat, but I fight it down and try to keep my face neutral. The truth is, it’s nice when my stepdad and my mother gossip. They’re old, but they’re not humorless.
Victoria huffs. “She looked like a circus act. That dress—was that even a dress? I saw more of her chest than I’ve ever seen of my own.”
I’m not sure what to say to this, so I focus on the bear’s paw stitched onto my pajama sleeve and pretend I’m twelve, not twenty-one.
Henry finally looks up at his wife. “Don’t look so scandalized, Victoria,” he says. “Men use prostitutes. It’s the oldest profession on Earth, and does good business to this day.”
My mom goes sheet white.
“Your son uses prostitutes?”
Henry just shrugs. “When you’re Trevor, you do whatever you want. He’s been like that since he was fifteen. Maybe earlier.” He sets his phone facedown and leans forward, folding his hands. “Even back in high school, he charted his own path. He was captain of the debate team and varsity quarterback at the same time. A real piece of work.” Henry’s mouth twitches, the closest thing to pride he allows. “Then, top of his class at Northwestern, then law school. If I’m being honest, I can’t fault the kid. He’s made himself bulletproof.”
Victoria snorts and dabs at her lips with an imaginary napkin. “Bulletproof or not, I’d rather not have to explain to my friends why my stepson’s girlfriend was trending on Twitter last night.” She scrolls on her phone, and I catch the faintest flicker of an offending photo: Cassie’s tits, Trevor’s hand on her lower back, both of them looking like they owned the world.
My cheeks heat, not out of shame but out of something stickier and much more confusing. I can’t stop remembering the way Trevor’s hand curled around that girl’s hip as he reamed her from the back. The way, for a single hot second, he seemed to look up and lock eyes with me.
I force a swallow of coffee, burning my tongue, and say, “I’m sure she’s not a prostitute. I’m sure that’s hyperbole. Right, Henry?”
But my stepdad merely shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But you’d be surprised how much of the ‘scene’ is paid to be there—actresses, models, people who want to be seen.” He taps his knuckles on the counter. “Plus, my son isn’t in it for love. He’s never been sentimental, and he’s always been willing to pay for what he wants.” Then, softer, more to himself: “Trevor was always more interested in winning than in feeling.”
Victoria frowns, and for a moment I think she might actually say something. But she just sips her coffee, head tilted in regal judgment.