On Tuesday, it’s hot enough to melt steel. The southland swelters as the air hangs heavy and humid. Miles of concrete sidewalks morph into radiators as the talking heads warn everyone to stay inside. I’m driving under the shadow of a freeway bridge still under construction. Cal Trans constantly has new roadwork snaking through the city that resembles the handiwork of Satan. The rebar on the freeways bend and warp with their skeletal outlines dripping to the ground as if begging for mercy.
Kinsley insisted I come over after I finished with my classes. I spent all afternoon replaying every moment of yesterday’s fiasco on a heart-wrenching loop. How could that beautiful boy—that beautiful man—leave out a rather significant detail? It’s not like we weren’t tied to the waist. He had plenty of opportunities to let me in on his billion-dollar secret. We had a few midnight runs to the grocery store, those countless early morning walks where we held hands and talked about our favorite foods as if they were our children. One night, well past sunset, I jumped on his back, and he carried me to the water—made love to me while we attempted to body surf.
A white pickup swerves in my lane, and I lay on my horn, shaking all thoughts of that body-surfing bastard out of my mind in the process.
Lincoln and Kinsley share a house in Pacific Palisades overlooking the ocean. My father gifted it to my sister for her birthday, and she begged Lincoln to move in because she couldn’t stand the thought of living alone. I never could figure out why she didn’t have one of her lush-buddies take up residency instead, but after spending time with her “friends” at her New Year’s Eve party last year, it was obvious Kinsley has none that qualify as the real deal. When you have that much money backing your name, all you have are users, abusers lining up with their hand out. Ford bounces through my mind. He probably thought if he told me the truth, I’d be another open palm in his face. Just the thought makes me shake with anger. I don’t want anything from him—with the exception of his company.
I pull up to the house and spot Aspen’s car out front. I cringe a little at the sight of the oversized white SUV with its blinged-out gold emblems. The douche-mobile. Not that my sister is a douche. She’s pretty sweet and a badass artist to boot. If I had a Sophie’s Choice moment between Aspen and Kinsley, I wouldn’t know who to choose. In truth, it’s Aspen’s husband, Henry, who’s the douche. Henry O’Tool, better known as Henry the Tool. I’ll never understand what she sees in him or how in the hell they ended up on the matrimonial side of the legal system. He treats her like dirt. Swear to God, he probably smacks her around when the doors are closed. Thank goodness they haven’t procreated. With her uterus barren, I still see hope for Aspen. On three different occasions, I’ve seriously thought of kidnapping her and hiding her in my dorm.
Claire swims through my mind as I step out onto the quiet Palisades’ street. I wish she could be here with me—with us. Her death is still a fresh bruise over my heart that has never really healed. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for all this living. It should have been me in that watery grave. My mother always said life could slice you to ribbons and leave you to bleed out before you ever notice the sting. While other people doled out daily affirmations, my mother dispensed warnings that bordered on threats as if they were vitamins. Claire took them in stride, but, to me, they were like acid poured over open wounds. I’ve been trying to claw my way out of my skin for as long as I can remember. The world and its razor-sharp danger always feels just a slice away from ripping me open. My sister was the good twin, and I her wicked shadow—identical in every other way. The dark days had come just like my mother promised. The Grim Reaper showed up on our doorstep, his rotten breath choking us out, his elongated shadow chasing us at every turn. And now Claire is gone, and I’m standing in front of Kinsley’s latest birthday present.
I run up the steps of the two-story clapboard mansion Kinsley and Lincoln call their cozy hideaway. I roll my eyes at the irony. The door is unlocked, so I let myself in, shouting hello over and over again in the event Lincoln decides to go sniper on me. They’ve complained of a rash of break-ins in the area, and who could blame the damn thieves when the residents refuse to lock their doors?
“We’re out here!” Kins waves from the balcony, and I head out as the Pacific demands my attention with its marble-blue expanse. The salty haze blurs the landscape just enough to make it feel like an impressionistic dream. If I squint and look up the coast, I can see the pier I ran that tired old horse to on my birthday. I sit with my back to Shipwrecks. No use in nursing a memory that should be burned and flushed down the toilet.
Ford bounces through my mind like one of those annoying rubber balls you get from a vending machine—obnoxiously unstoppable. I should never have left that party with him. It’s as if the sky was trying to stop me that night—or maybe it was Claire. I’ve waited so long for some supernatural communication, and here she painted the sky in blood as a warning, and I was too stupid to heed it.
“Earth to Stevie.” Aspen gives me a brief hug. Her honeyed perfume lingers in her wake. “You okay?” Her crystalline green eyes search my features for signs of life. She has the same dark hair as mine, long, wavy—and according to social network billionaires—chestnut.
“I’m great.”
Lincoln hands me a mimosa, and I tilt it in his direction. He knows I don’t drink, but he never lets me refuse champagne. I drank with Ford but then I wasn’t exactly in my right mind while I was with him. Ford gave me a contact high all on his own.
“It’s just a hit.” He tips his mirrored aviators down a notch and winks. Lincoln and Kinsley are flawless in feature and frame—both blondes with cerulean blue eyes, perfect white teeth that have never been subjected to years of painful orthodontia. Their mother, Daphne Worthington of the House of Shire, had the misfortune to slum with my father over three decades ago. She was the wife in question that my father cheated on when he created an entire bevy of out-of-wedlock children—Claire, Aspen, and myself included.
“Okay, so let’s do this.” Kinsley calls our father and sets her phone on speaker so we can all partake.
“Hans Lionheart.” Dad’s European accent comes in strong. “Hallu?”
“Daddy!” Kinsley screams as if a rock star just drifted over the balcony. “Okay, you know how I gave up everything to really dig into acting?” She pans our faces as the elation bubbles through her. I’ll have to ask her later to fill me in on what everything entails. I know for a fact she considers herself down and out in Pacific Palisades with nothing but our father’s American Express Black Card to comfort her. “Well, I’ve finally landed my dream role! I’m Carmen O’Neil on The Fortune of Tomorrow!”
We erupt in a riot of cheers. I was hoping her news had to do with something other than overpriced baubles. I’m proud of her. The last time she hosted a celebratory event like this, she was lauding her haul from Tiffany’s after outfitting her springtime accessories.
“That’s great, dear.” He rumbles low and baritone. Just hearing his voice you can tell he’s distinguished, well educated, that he has hundred dollar bills lining his veins and maybe his toilet paper. “I’m very proud of you.” His voice warbles with laughter, and every word feels genuine. My stomach sours with a hint of jealousy. “Is Stevie with you?”
My heart jumps. “Yes, Daddy, I’m here.” I’m quick to wrangle the phone from Kinsley. I can’t remember the last time my father mentioned me in one of these Charlie’s Angels call-ins. And I cringe that I’ve referred to him as Daddy twice in one month. Aspen averts her gaze. Her face sours like she might be sick. She’s not as needy when it comes to our father’s attention as I am, but then her mother never withheld her from him. Claire and I were the sharpest knives in my mother’s arsenal, and, by God, she used the hell out of us.
“Excellent. How was your first day at Jinx Enterprises?” His voice ends on a high note as if he were already aware. “Have you met Crawford Cannon? He’s the one responsible for the company and its magnificent success.”
A
vision of Ford’s body thrashing against mine ricochets through me. The moon bled its silver beams over our skin, washing us glacial blue. My hips still hold the memory of his fingers as they kneaded me raw.
Heat rises to my cheeks at the mention of his name. Of course, I had met him. I shook his hand, and then my vagina shook his penis.
“He was there at the meeting.” I clear my throat not daring to meet anyone’s gaze at the table. I think even Lincoln could see through me at this point.
“And what did you think of him?” Again with that upward inflection that has me on guard. Why do I get the feeling I’ve just walked into a bear trap, and soon I’ll be gnawing off my razor-riddled ankle bracelet?
“I thought he was an arrogant son of a bitch who thinks the world owes him his every wish.” I know for a fact he wished for me in his bed that night, and I was all too eager to please. That’s the problem with impossibly gorgeous men, they always seem to get what they wish for. It’s a given from birth, and then they expect more of the same, any and every beautiful woman, the harder she is to get, the more delicious the challenge. I think I proved just the right challenge that night. But poor Crawford Cannon will never see what I’m about to do next.
My father belts out a charming resonate laugh. “That’s always been your gift, Stevie. You have the ability to read people. You get that from me. I’ve always said you were the shrewd one. If anyone can infiltrate that snot kid it’s you.”
I give a smile of satisfaction at no one in particular as we hang up. I’ve yet to hear my father sing my praises the way he has this afternoon. It’s as if he inflated me with the exact brand of helium I needed to float off into that happy place that daughters experience when their father’s esteem them. Only, my jolt of bliss will have to last me another twenty-three years at the rate my father dispenses his adulation.
“Crawford Cannon?” Kinsley gags when she says it. “He’s done the socialite circuit at least a dozen times.”
My face heats with color. Of course, Kinsley has heard of him. She’s knows everyone in L.A. with a net worth of a small country.
“What does that mean?’ Aspen leans in, asking the question for me, but I think I know.
Lincoln taps his fingers over the stone table. “It means he prefers quantity over quality ass.”
Kinsley swats him. They look like they could be twins. “You’re just jealous because Iona Fallinas is in that number. Don’t worry Linc, anyone whose bank account can rival the treasury has fallen in that canyon between her legs. You’ll get yours as soon as Daddy bites the big one. I’m sure your inheritance will be enough to cover her expenses for a night or two.”
I avert my eyes at their ridiculous bantering.
“Carter says hi.” I turn to Aspen while Lincoln and Kinsley go at it.
Aspen’s face turns ashen as if I just told her a nuke was set to land in her lap.
“You remember Carter, don’t you?” It comes out like a taunt without meaning to. I specifically told her—begged her not to marry Henry the Horrible. They had only dated briefly before the surprise wedding, so I wondered if she was knocked up, but thankfully she wasn’t. In that small window I got to see firsthand how he ignores her, how he underappreciates the fact she caters to his every whim, and how he had the nerve to call her art childlike. I told her he would treat her like crap, and in the end I was right, but they’re still married. I also told her they’d be divorced within two years, and we’re just three months out from my prediction being null and void.
“Yes, I remember Carter.” Her eyes drift toward the ocean, but she’s looking past the powdered sand, past the horizon, right back into high school where they clung to each other like thieves. She claimed they never moved past the friendship phase of their relationship, but she told me a countless number of times she wanted to. The way he looked at her, you could tell he wanted it, too.
“He was your soul mate.” I sigh as Ford thumps over my heart like a stamp in my passport.
“Stevie.” She shakes her head. “Look, I gotta go.” She gets up before I can stop her. “I’m meeting Henry for lunch. I’ll see you all later.” She pulls Lincoln and Kinsley into a double hug before bolting out the door.
“Aspen, wait! I didn’t mean it like that,” I shout. “I swear, I love you.” I let the words trail in the wind and glare at the ocean. It’s a known fact that when I’m miserable, I purposefully hack down those I love until they’re emulating the exact same emotion. They say misery loves company, but I want all 7 billion people on the planet to roar out in grief with me.
“Relax.” Kinsley rocks into my shoulder. “She knows you’re a bitch.” She blinks a smile. “Now spill.” She slaps her hand over mine as Lincoln leans in for the dirt.
“The sky was bleeding,” I start in and don’t let up until that final moment in his pretentious boardroom.
“Sorry to hear it.” Lincoln flicks his head toward the sun. “But—it sounds like you already have an in.”
“That’s right.” Kinsley unfurls her fingers as if revealing a game plan etched over her palm. “He wants you, Stevie. He wants you in the worst way because you’ve just let him know that he can’t have you. Everything you need to pull this off is right at your fingertips. But first, you just need to stop being yourself.” Her chin dips as she downshifts with the insult.
“Try to be nice.” Linc shrugs as if it were a given.
Kinsley leans in hard. “Be the opposite of you.”
“He’s already met me. Every last part.” I didn’t hold back my razor sharp tongue at Shipwrecks. I don’t see the point of holding back now.
“Even better.” Kinsley elbows me in the rib. “He’ll see you’ve come around. You’ve sipped the Cannon Kool-Aid, and now you’re willing to give up who you are to cater to his little dick.”
His spare appendage was elbow to wrist, but I keep that info close to the vagina in the event I hamper my brother with an unnecessary inadequacy. I shift my eyes to the cool Pacific, bluish-gray as Ford’s cold, steely eyes. Only they weren’t so cold when he was looking at me, his body riding over mine, those throaty groans that have been playing nonstop, all seemed anything but icy. They felt genuine. I would have bet my soul to the devil they were.
Lincoln lifts his drink. “To shrinking Crawford Cannon’s ego to the size of his little dick.”
“To the new owners of Jinx.” Kinsley raises her brows just as high as her champagne.
We drink to Ford and the idea of reducing both his man parts and his company to nothing.
Sadly, I really do want them both.
It’s quickly becoming evident that Evelyn Perkins is a well-seasoned witch with her long tar dipped hair, her lips drawn in one long slit like a scab that sits over her face. Her blacks nails are freshly polished as she strums them over the desk like something akin to a waterboarding ritual. I imagine myself plucking them out with my teeth as the hint of a satisfied smile blooms over my face.
“You’re going to fetch my coffee.” She smiles from across her shiny desk as Bella and I pretend to shake in our stilettos. Actually Bella has whittled down her wardrobe to a pair of Vans and blue jeans because, as she bluntly put it, she likes to keep up with the flow of traffic. But I’m holding strong to my corporate fashion faux pas. If I’m going to end up with Crawford Cannon’s penis in one hand and his company in the other I’ve got a lot of miles to cover with my miracle bra. Evelyn here is smartly dressed herself, and it makes me wonder if we share a common goal.
“Areola, you fetch first.” That scab expands as she cracks a smile.
My eyes widen with disdain for this woman. It’s the third time she’s referred to Bella as a nipple. If I were Bella, I would happily poison her double mocha latte.
Belle shoots me a look, and her lips twitch like she might cry. I nod for her to go because I have my own assault tactics to engage in. Little Miss Bitch will never see me coming. It’s probably best there are no witnesses. I try to shoo Bella with my eyes, but she’s stub
bornly glued herself to her seat.
“No.” Bella shakes her head at me as if I’m the one she’s protesting. “We’re not here to fetch your coffee. We’re interns”—Bella’s face strains as she says the word—“we’re competent. Collegiate trained. We’re supposed to be coming up with cool innovations you’ll probably steal and claim as your own.”
Geez. I sear a glance at the ceiling. Doesn’t she know anything about strategy? It’s clear I’ll have to draw a roadmap on how to deal with power bitches like Evilyn here. You don’t show your hand to the enemy, everyone knows that.
Evelyn clears her throat. If I were Bella, I’d be prepared to duck because she’s within hocking distance.
“I don’t normally do interns.” She cuts me a look that says die or I’ll bury you alive. “That’s Crawford’s job.”
She knows! She knows. My heart thumps erratic because a tiny part of me feels as if my imaginary boyfriend just sold me out to the devil.
“I’ll tell you what.” She looks from me to Bella, and her lips give a weak attempt at a smile. “You show up every day like good little girls, and, not only will I let you look over my shoulder—I am the Director of Creative Planning—but I’ll give you both a glowing report when the time comes. No long nights, no big project in which I steal your innovative ideas.” She says that last part with air quotes. “Of course, I wouldn’t tell a soul or else your classmates will claw your eyes out in hopes to take your place.”
“We’ll need the highest marks.” Bella stiffens her spine, straight as an arrow, as if she actually believes she’s negotiating with the little Satan.
“And they’re yours.” She juts her chin at Belle like a threat. “Get down to the Java Chip and ask for the Evelyn.” Her black eyes glint with pride. “They know me there.”
Bella trots out, and I’m half tempted to trot along with her.
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