by Gemma Weir
Assessing her for a long moment I nod. “Okay, give me five minutes to get dressed.”
Without saying a word, she rushes from my room and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my lips. Crueligan is embarrassed, how fucking adorable, the evil one goes shy at the sight of a dick. Less than five minutes later I stroll out of my room and into the dimly lit living room of the hotel suite. Carrigan is waiting for me, sat primly on one of the sofa’s wearing the dress she wore yesterday when she, Arlo, and Tally ran from their crazy parents’ house.
“I’m ready, where do you want to go?” I ask, my voice low.
“Anywhere we won’t be overheard,” she says meekly, swallowing thickly as she gracefully rises from the sofa and takes a step toward the door.
“We can go to my boat, the crew won’t be there,” I suggest, not really wanting her in my personal space but unsure where else we can go that will guarantee privacy.
“Okay,” she nods, placing a piece of paper on the coffee table before leading the way out of the room.
Stopping at the coffee table I pick up the note she just left and scan the contents. Placing it back down, I follow her out of the suite, staring at her perfect fucking ass swaying with each step she takes in her stupidly high heels. “How the fuck do you walk in those stilts?”
“Practice,” she snaps back, her tone full of snark and vitriol.
“Stop,” I demand and she freezes. “Turn the fuck around and look at me.”
My dick twitches when she immediately turns all the way around on those stupid heels until she’s facing me.
“What?” she asks, her tone bored as if I’m wasting her time.
“Let’s get one thing straight here, Priss. I am not one of your little fucking minions. If you want me to help you, then you need to start speaking to me with some respect. I have never been disrespectful to you and I expect the same in return.”
Her lips part as shock flashes across her face. Has no one ever called her on her holier-than-thou attitude before? “I’m…” she stutters. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay then, let’s go,” I say, walking past her and toward the elevator.
“That’s it?” she asks, her voice unsure.
“That’s it. I told you that I wasn’t happy with you, I explained why and you apologized. So let’s go.” I press the elevator call button and a second later the doors slide open. Gesturing for her to go ahead, I watch as she walks forward, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “Do you need to get some clothes?”
“Everything I own is at my house and I don’t plan to go back there, so until the stores open I’m stuck with this,” she says, gesturing to her tight fitted dress, “or the pajama’s Tallulah lent me.”
“You kind of look like you’re doing the walk of shame, wearing that this time of the morning.” I say with a smirk.
Her eyes widen comically large. “I do not.”
“Priss, you’re in a tight dress and hooker heels at,” I look at my watch, “almost five-thirty in the morning, you look like you’re getting home from a hook up.”
Bringing both hands up to cover her face she shakes her head slowly. “Great,” she says, the word muffled.
“We’ll stop and find you something more casual to wear, don’t worry about it,” I say, not hiding the laughter in my voice.
“Where are we going to find a store open at this time in the morning?” she groans, separating her hands enough that I can hear her words.
“Easy, there’s a twenty-four-hour mall near the financial district, we’ll go there first, pick you up something to wear and grab some food, then go to the marina to talk.”
The elevator dings to tell us we’ve arrived in the lobby and I reach over and pry her hands free from her face. “Come on, let’s go get my car from the valet,” I say, keeping hold of one of her hands as I tow her along behind me.
Five minutes later we’re inside my Mercedes cruising along the quiet early morning streets of New York, in surprisingly comfortable silence. I don’t really know Carrigan beyond the fact that she’s set to inherit a fortune. I’ve never spent more than a couple of minutes alone with her before now. My family is rich but apparently not old money enough to have made it onto her great-grandfather’s wish list, so she’s never been forced on me the way she has with Arlo.
Until recently I’d considered her to be a heartless, evil bitch and despite her behavior in the last few weeks, I’ve haven’t seen anything that’s really changed my opinion of her. For years she’s helped her parents hide and enslave Tally, forcing her to give up her own identity so she could pretend to be Carrigan and get her through high school with that all important GPA.
I get that in the world we live in money is important, but fucking hell we’re all loaded. My family own an island for fuck’s sake. No one ever even goes there, but in the realms of the rich and uber rich owning your own island is a serious boasting point. If we were all poor, I think I could maybe understand the Archibald’s single-minded pursuit of this inheritance and Carrigan’s willingness to be completely controlled by a dead man’s rules. But we’re not poor, and for me that’s what makes her behavior inexcusable.
Tally is convinced that Carrigan is as much a pawn in their parents’ game as she was, but given everything her sister has done in the last few years I think this is all just wishful thinking on her part. She wants her sister to be redeemable and I can understand that, but I don’t think she should overlook everything Carrigan’s done so easily.
Glancing at the girl beside me, I try to see what Tally sees. I try to consider that just like they manipulated Tally with guilt, they manipulated Carrigan too. I suppose it could be true. The girl’s parents are definitely twisted enough to do it. Hell, they tried to drug Arlo so Carrigan could have sex with him and try to get pregnant, all while they recorded it so they could blackmail him if it didn’t work.
“Why did you do it?” I ask her, unable to keep the question in any longer.
“What?”
“Why did you fuck Tally over like that? She’s your twin sister.”
When she doesn’t speak I look over to her, she’s staring straight ahead, her jaw firm, lips pursed. “Priss I asked you a question.”
“Why do you keep calling me Priss?” she demands, swinging her face in my direction. “I have a name.”
“I know what your name is, Carrigan,” I say, enunciating her name sarcastically. “But I think Priss suits you better.”
“You’re a dick,” she hisses, turning back to look out the windscreen again.
“I may be a dick, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
She sighs and the sound is pained. “It doesn’t matter why I did it, I know what you all think of me.”
“Just be honest,” I snap.
“Fine,” she hisses. “When it all started, I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. I was fourteen and terrified of screwing up and losing my family billions of dollars. When I realized that maybe we weren’t being fair to Tallulah I was too far into it to turn back. My parents were so sure that it was the right thing to do, that we all had our roles to play and that, that was hers. I guess I had no idea how bad things had gotten or maybe I just didn’t want to see until the day they attacked her.” Her voice cracks on the last words.
Glancing at her again, I’m shocked to see her hurriedly wiping away a tear from her cheek. I didn’t realize she was capable of feeling bad. Honestly, from the moment Tally dragged her out of that party, drunk off her ass, I thought she was just doing this to save her own skin, but maybe there’s more to it than just that.
“So all this, trying to break the will, it’s for her?”
I feel her turn to look at me, so I risk another glance away from the road. Her eyes are downcast, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “I’d make myself sound better if I said yes wouldn’t I?” she asks.
“Not if it’s a lie,” I say simply.
“Part of it is because of what they did to her, but mostly
it’s to save myself,” she admits quietly, and that honesty, even though it’s ugly, impresses me.
“It’s okay to look after yourself, to be selfish,” I find myself saying, even though I don’t necessarily think it’s true, at least not all the time.
“Maybe, for some people, but when selfish is one of your defining characteristics I’m not sure it’s so acceptable,” she says, laughing dryly.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask, finding that I genuinely want to know her answer.
“Selfish, stupid, vain, weak minded, yeah pretty much,” she says soberly.
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“So just selfish, vain, and weak minded then,” she scoffs.
“I think we all have the capacity to be all of those things, it’s our choices that define us. Maybe what you’re doing for your sister now is your chance to be different. Tally think’s you’re as much a victim in all of this as she is.”
“She’s wrong,” Carrigan says, cutting me off. “I might not have understood what I was doing in the beginning, but in the last couple of years I was fully complicit, I knew what I was doing. I’m not innocent, and I’m not a victim.”
With her words we both fall silent and stay that way until we reach the mall and I pull into the underground parking lot. “Come on, let’s go and get you something to wear,” I say, killing the engine and opening my car door.
Rounding the car, I find Carrigan sitting primly in the front seat waiting for someone to open her door and I can’t help but smile at the difference between her and her sister. Tally would open the door, even if you wanted to do it for her, that’s just the type of girl she is. Maybe it’s because she’s been hiding for the last few years, that she’s forgotten that’s she’s an indulged rich girl, but Carrigan hasn’t. She’s every inch the socialite and I can’t help but want to play with her a little.
Standing beside the door I cross my arms across my chest and wait. After a minute or so she looks out the window and spots me standing there. It’s obvious I’m not planning to open her door and after a second she looks down at the handle and opens it herself.
“I wondered how long it would take you,” I drawl.
“You could have just opened it for me,” she snaps peevishly.
“I could have, but I promise you, you’re not too rich to open your own door,” I say with a smile.
Muttering beneath her breath she stomps away from me, but I don’t move.
“Priss,” I say, using the nickname I’ve given her as a demand. I’m shocked, but pleasantly surprised, to see her stop and turn toward me. Tipping my chin in the direction of her still open car door I stand impassively as she rolls her eyes; marching back over to me and slamming the door shut, still muttering what I’d guess are curses beneath her breath.
Smiling to myself I lock my car and stroll after her, enjoying the shape of her bare legs and the way her almost non-existent curves are emphasized by the dress. At first glance her and Tally are completely identical, but now I’m taking the time to really notice there’s some obvious differences between them. Tally is curvier, neither girl is fat, but Tally’s body is more natural, where Priss looks skinny. In jeans and a tank, she’d be waif like.
The longer I stare, the more dainty she looks and some instinctive urge to feed her comes over me. I’m an active person, my entire family are, but we love to eat. In fact my parents are huge foodies, they love to cook and discover new recipes. I enjoy food, all food. Healthy stuff, and the kind of food that’s running with butter and cheese that I doubt a girl like Priss has ever even tasted.
I catch up to her in a couple of strides and when we reach the automatic doors that lead into the mall I’m at her side. Considering it’s not quite six in the morning there’s plenty of people wandering between the shops and restaurants. “Food or clothes first?” I ask.
“Clothes, although most of these places don’t look like my usual style,” Priss says, her right arm wrapped across herself as she holds onto her left arm at the elbow.
“Maybe try something different,” I suggest. “Your sister mainly wears casual stuff, jeans and shorts.”
“Mom would kill me.”
“Fuck her! This isn’t about your mom. You left remember. Because your parents are fucking psycho’s, so who cares if your mom would lose her shit about you buying a pair of jeans. Hell, get a pair just because she’d hate them.”
Her eyes lift to look at me and all of her usual superior confidence is gone. In this moment she looks young and terrified.
I move without thought, pulling her to me and wrapping her in my arms while I hold her against my chest. She stiffens, not returning my hug, and somehow that only makes me want to hold her tighter. Both Priss and Tally are fucked up, but where Tally is a fighter, I’m not sure that Priss is, at least not at the minute.
Maybe Tally has been right all along, maybe Priss is just as much a victim of this money and their parents’ greed as she was. Either that or she’s just an incredibly good actress.
Reluctantly I release her and her timid eyes find mine again, only now they’re full of confusion. “Come on Priss, let’s go find you something your mom would fucking hate,” I say with a smile, reaching for her hand and entwining my fingers with hers, as I tow her toward the first shop I spot with women’s clothes in the window.
“What size do you wear?” I ask, not letting go of her hand as I weave in and out of rails, searching for jeans.
“A two.”
“Jesus,” I murmur, grabbing clothes from rails and then moving her toward the changing room. “Here, try these on,” I say, thrusting the piles of clothes into her arms.
“I can’t wear these,” she says, lifting the tiny pair of black shorts into the air.
“Sure you can, Tally has a pair smaller than that and she looks hot as fuck in them. Just try them on, I’ve never seen you in anything but school uniform and those tight dresses you seem to like so much.”
“I’m not my sister,” she spits, glaring at me.
“I am well aware of that Priss. I wasn’t suggesting you dress like her, more that as you’re fucking identical and she looks good in shorts, you would too. So stop being so fucking difficult and just go and try them,” I say, pushing her gently into the changing room and drawing the curtain.
Turning I wander the racks again, grabbing a couple of pretty summer dresses that seem more her style, in case she has a meltdown over the jean shorts, then make my way back to the changing rooms again. “How’s it going?” I ask.
“I look weird,” she says from behind the curtain.
“Come show me,” I say, swallowing the laugh that tries to break free.
Slowly the curtain pulls back and she’s standing there, the tight dress gone and in its place, skinny jeans and a pink t-shirt. “You look about twelve,” I say, chuckling at how uncomfortable she looks.
“Oh my god,” she cries, trying to draw the curtain back.
I reach out and stop her. “The jeans look good on you, but the top is far too third grade.” Rooting through the pile of clothes I’m holding, I pull out a fitted white cami top, similar to one I’ve seen Tally wear in the past. “Try this one instead.”
“This is so humiliating, I have a closet full of couture, why are we buying off the rack?” she moans, pulling the curtain closed. “I still look weird,” she announces a couple of minutes later as she opens the curtain with a flourish.
“You look hot,” I say, eyeing the way the floaty fabric of the shirt clings to her tits and how tiny her waist is in the jeans. It’s so small I think I could wrap my hands around her and my thumbs would touch.
She turns to look at herself in the mirror, her brow wrinkling with distaste. “I think the last time I wore jeans I really was twelve.”
“Tally wears jeans.”
“Never out in public, Mom says they’re the clothes of the working class.”
“Priss, your mom is a bitch,” I say coldly, hating that Vanessa A
rchibald ever had a chance to damage both of her daughters so much.
Priss’s laugh is high and sweet. “She really is. I look weird but just out of spite I’m buying the jeans because she’d be appalled to see me wearing them. Can we get some sneakers too, and a sweatshirt? Oh and I need a hairband, I want to tie my hair up.”
A smile spreads across my lips as I take in her moment of rebellion. It looks good on her, it softens her edges a little and makes me forget, at least for a moment, that she’s not as innocent as she looks.
In the end we leave the mall with Priss wearing tiny jean shorts, a white tank, pink converse, and a white baggy hooded sweater, with the jeans and top she tried in a bag dangling from her fingers.
Out of the sexy dresses and six-inch heels, Priss looks younger, sweeter, and sad. There’s an innate melancholy in her eyes that I don’t think I’ve ever seen in someone our age before. When Arlo backed Tally into a corner she came out swinging, throwing barbs with her words and making sure that we all knew how pissed she was. But Carrigan doesn’t seem to have that fire. I can sense something beneath the perfect exterior, but it’s so stifled that I’m not sure it would emerge even if she was really pushed to the edge.
The Archibald’s really have done a number on this pair. It makes me wonder if Tally had been the eldest twin how she would have reacted to her parents’ manipulations? Would she have let them treat her like a cash cow, or would she have rebelled before it dissolved to threats and violence?
The moment we get into my car, all of Priss’s spite driven rebellion dissolves and she becomes quiet and withdrawn. There doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fight in her right now. I shouldn’t care, Carrigan isn’t my friend or my problem, but there’s something about seeing a glimpse of fire and then watching it be doused that’s affected me. I’m not sure if it’s sympathy I’m feeling but I need to be careful. Carrigan Archibald has spent years playing men, toying with them, flirting with them, and generally doing whatever her evil bitch of a mother taught her to do to snag her a husband. She’s not above manipulation to get what she wants.