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)
I let the words hang between us.
Then, before I can stop myself, I sweep my hand across the table. The wine glass nearest me rockets off the edge, shattering against the far wall, crimson spreading down the white like a wound.
Kayleigh flinches back in her chair. Her hands go to her mouth. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I lean in, knuckles white on the table, voice flat as stone.
“Tell me the truth. Are you afraid of me?”
She shakes her head, fast, but tears brim in her eyes. “No, I’m not—Trevor, I’m not scared of you. But he won’t stop. He keeps saying he can help. He thinks I’m your sex slave or something.” She laughs again, a sick little sound. “Like some kind of tabloid story, where you brainwash girls and keep them chained up as your sex toys.”
I stand there, vibrating, every muscle strung tight. I want to punch a hole in the fucking wall, or go find Evan and pound his teeth in, but I don’t. I breathe, slow and even. I pick up the fallen chair and set it upright.
Kayleigh’s still shaking. Her lips are pressed together, the line of her jaw rigid.
“So what did you say?”
“I told him no, of course you’re not doing that. I’m here of my own free will! But it’s not just him. Angela’s been texting too. My old manager from The Fig Leaf. She saw my wrist when I quit. The mark from the cuff. She asked if I was okay, if you were hurting me. I told her no, but I don’t think she believes me because she keeps mentioning that her husband is an ER doctor who sees intimate partner violence at his job all the time.”
I stare at her. The broken glass glints on the floor, the wine bleeding into the cracks.
“Well they’re wrong,” I grind out. “What a bunch of fucking idiots.”
Kayleigh doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then she looks up, voice suddenly hard. “Are they idiots though? Are they wrong? I don’t think you’re physically striking me. But there are other types of violence.”
The question stops me cold. What the fuck?
She stands, slowly, pushing her chair back so it shrieks across the floor. She faces me, chin up, eyes blazing.
“Like I said, Trevor, are they wrong? Am I your sex slave? Your fuck doll on command? A thing you keep in a closet, take out when you want to slake your lust? I quit my job for you. I run your errands, I wear what you want, I eat what you like. I let you fuck me however you want, whenever you want. But you never take me out as your girlfriend. When we do go out, you introduce me as your assistant, or your stepsister. Never as Kayleigh McEnroe, my girlfriend. It’s almost like I don’t have a name. So what’s the difference between what I am and what they think I am?”
Her voice breaks on the last word. She swipes at her cheek, furious.
For a long moment, neither of us says a word.
When I speak, it’s with the last shreds of my self-control. “You’re not a prisoner. I offered to help you get a new job, if you recall. You said you didn’t want one. You’re the one who wanted to stay here, within these walls, and live a luxurious life.”
She laughs, brittle. “Because you said you’d be jealous if I had a boss who took up my time.”
“That was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she says, voice sharp as glass. “It was the one time you told the truth.”
I feel something inside me crack, hairline but real.
I turn away, walk to the window. The city is blinding in the dark, the river a slick black wound down the center. I put both hands in my pockets and breathe. When I speak again, it’s different—a hollow in the voice, a clean wound.
“You’re right,” I say in a quiet voice. “I don’t want you to have a job, not really. I enjoy having you here, tending to my needs, and yes, I do fuck you whenever I want. There’s truth to that. But there’s also another reason I don’t introduce you as my girlfriend,” I say, not looking at her.
She’s silent behind me.
“What is it? Is it because we’re stepsiblings? That shit is old, Trevor, and everyone knows we’re not biologically related.”
I say, “Yes, because of that, but it’s more than that. It’s because of Aleatha.”
There’s a silence. Then, “Who is Aleatha?”
I keep my eyes on the city.
“My first stepsister,” I say. “Before you and your mom, my father married a woman named Supriya, back when I was in high school. She had a daughter, Aleatha, who was about my age. She was… hard to describe. Not like other girls. Smarter than me, but also fucked up in ways I couldn’t see until later. We were close. I mean, close close. More than step-siblings.”