by Ivy Fox
There are an abundance of Addisons and even Viviennes, but I’ve never met a girl like Holland. Probably because there aren’t any. I find myself always thirsty for some new insight on the girl that dwells behind her well-placed mask.
When I first saw her at the Ivory, I should have immediately realized she was hiding her true self—a frail girl who wanted nothing more than to curl into the fetal position and let the world have its way with her, but her pride and self-preservation would never have allowed it.
With time, my dislike of Vivienne has increased as much as my fascination with her daughter. But out of the appalling list of Vivienne’s attributes—the ones she has refined over the years to achieve and maintain her social status—I’m grateful she bestowed her prideful demeanor onto her daughter, even if unintentionally. All the years she tried to diminish and humiliate the girl only made Snow that much stronger. So strong that when my father tried to do the same, she was ready for the battle, and slayed him at the root.
Snow.
Yes, I watch her.
And I’m not sure if, after this is all settled, I’ll be able to stop.
“Going out again tonight, I see?” Vivienne’s crisp, sharp voice announces sternly, as she enters the hall where Holland is patiently waiting for my sister.
“I’m just accompanying Elle to a school function. I don’t see the problem in that,” Holland replies stoically, her eyes locked on the staircase instead of her mother’s disapproving glower.
“Of course you wouldn’t. Your stepfather is dying in a hospital while you prance around in tiny skirts all day, going out every Friday night doing God knows what. It just shows how ungrateful you are.”
To Vivienne’s utter satisfaction, this unfounded reprimand gets Holland’s attention, and her daughter’s pale, gray eyes finally land on her, just as she anticipated they would.
“Those short skirts you’re talking about are part of my uniform for the high school that you forced me to attend, and whenever I leave this house, it’s to go there, Mother, not some sleazy hole in the wall. What more do you expect of me?”
“What I expect from you is obedience. Something you have failed tremendously in showing me since you walked into this house. But how can I expect you to understand propriety, when you can’t even muster common decency? My husband, the man who got you into such a fine school—one you would have never been allowed to enter on your own, I might add—is on his deathbed. And my own daughter hasn’t had the courtesy of going to visit him even once. She has, however, found time in her busy schedule to attend school functions to cheer on complete strangers,” Vivienne rants, spitting out and cursing the last word.
I watch as Holland’s cheeks blush with indignation and rage. As I’ve been accustomed in witnessing, she bites her inner cheek to calm herself down before she does something stupid, like snap back at her mother and cut her down to size. The woman deserves every word Holland is thinking in that pretty, little head of hers, but not wanting to make a scene—in case my baby sister witnesses Vivienne’s abuse yet again—she maintains her silence.
My sister, for all her well grooming and manners, isn’t as patient as Holland. She’s a hothead like Ash, and if I’m being honest, like me, too. The doe-eyed girl has learned her lesson—do not give Elle a reason to blow a gasket.
Vivienne might try to play it off, but every time she goes after Holland in the presence of my sister, Elle has been quick to put Vivienne back in her place. So far she’s been subtle about it, but Vivienne should choose her words carefully around Elle. She’d kick her ass out of this house so fast that, apart from the imprint of my baby sister’s Manolo Blahniks tattooed on her behind, Vivienne wouldn’t even know what had hit her. The only reason I haven’t already thrown her out like yesterday’s trash is that I’m afraid she’d take Holland with her. It’s probably the same reason why Elle hasn’t done it, either.
“If this is how your grandmother raised you to treat family, then perhaps I should send you back to Brookhaven so she can reeducate you,” the witch warns, and with the looming threat she so callously threw at Holland, I’m the one who is on the verge of reeducating Vivienne in a way she won’t soon forget.
My mother taught me never to hit women, and although I might have intimidated the fuck out of some—Holland included—I never really had the urge to cause any of them bodily harm. The new Mrs. Grayson, however, keeps pushing my limits of restraint. If she’s not careful, she’ll snap it as easily as a brittle tree branch on a windy day.
“Do whatever you want, Mother. I don’t care. He is not my family. Just because you married him, doesn’t make him so,” Holland retorts coldly, having regained some of her cool composure back. But it quickly fades when Vivienne grabs her forearm and yanks it, making Holland take two steps toward her, just to keep her balance.
“Listen closely, you ungrateful child. I’ve worked too hard and waited too long to get here. Your lack of respect will not be permitted. You will do what I say, the minute I say it, or I swear I’ll make you wish you were never born. People are already talking about you behind your back, so that means they are talking about me behind mine. Even though I despise it, you are a reflection of me, and I will not let you tarnish my reputation—something that took me years to build—just because you are an unappreciative brat.”
“You mean, being a grade-A bitch takes work? I thought it came naturally for you,” I exclaim, exhausted with Vivienne’s underhanded manipulations of her daughter.
“Roman,” Vivienne stutters, letting go of Holland’s arm at once. “I didn’t see you there. You startled me, sweetheart.” She purrs, using that insufferable, melodic voice, thinking it will get her into my pants.
She might have insinuated to Holland that her new husband is all she’s concerned about, but nothing is farther from the truth. She couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the bastard’s health. All she’s worried about is perfectly portraying the role of a grief-stricken wife for the cameras outside these walls, milking the attention for all its worth. Meanwhile, inside the safety of our house, she dedicates her time in getting my attention.
The despicable woman continues to relentlessly harass me in her attempts to seduce her way into my bed. It’s become her favorite challenge, especially since she is still licking her wounds because I wouldn’t fuck her on her wedding day. She wants the best of both worlds—fucking the hot twenty-year-old son while the old man flushes her bank account. Little does she know that when he dies, so do her chances of seeing that money ever again. Leaving her penniless is the closest she’ll ever come to getting fucked in my house.
“Of course you didn’t see me. I’m surprised you can see anything beyond the color green—between the crisp dollar bills you keep in your Gucci bag and the envy you have for a woman that far outshines you,” I hint, throwing an exaggerated perusal over Holland’s body so she knows exactly who I’m referring to.
Although the over-the-top eye-fucking I’m doing to Holland is to piss Vivienne off, I can’t help but acknowledge how beautiful Holland looks tonight. I shouldn’t be taken so off-guard since it’s one of the first things I noticed about my brothers’ ex, but I am.
I always am.
Sad, angel eyes, hidden behind such celestial beauty.
The minute I register Holland fidgeting, shifting from one foot to the next, obviously uncomfortable with my blatant ogling, I focus a harder version of my stare on the woman standing annoyed at her side. The corner of Vivienne’s upper lip is curled in aggravation, but she quickly disguises it to the standard fake smile she’s perfected to a T.
“Am I interrupting something?” Elle’s voice questions from behind me.
“No, Elle. Just waiting for you. Are you ready?” Holland answers pleasantly, breaking the awkward silence in the room.
Holland quickly grabs her jacket from the chair’s armrest, tilting her head toward the elevator, indicating to my sister that she wants to get out of here as quickly as pos
sible. Elle’s scrutinizing glare bounces off the three of us, but she doesn’t continue to question what she interrupted.
“Where are you going?” I ask curiously.
“To the school’s swim meet. Chad’s taking us,” Elle replies absentmindedly, too preoccupied in reading the newly received text message on her phone, one that just brought a little sparkle to her whiskey eyes. “He’s already downstairs waiting,” she adds, putting her phone away.
“You got room for one more, rugrat?” This gets her undivided attention.
“Roman Grayson wants to go back to Pembroke High to cheer on a bunch of guys wearing nothing but speedos?” she teases with a cocky wink, making Holland crack a shy smile.
“Sure, why not?” I shrug as if it isn’t a big deal, but I know differently.
Since my graduation, I haven’t gone back once, mostly because its halls hold too many memories of the lies Addison fed me. They would be a constant reminder that I trusted the wrong person with the small fractures of what was left of my heart.
I had been made a fool, and going back to a place where her perfume still lingers wasn’t exactly the way I wanted to spend my time. It’s still a bitter pill to swallow, but recently I don’t feel the sting as I once did.
“I haven’t seen the twins in the water for a while, and it might be good for Ash to see the whole family rallying behind him since he’s been in a slump lately,” I explain as the reason for being inclined to go to a high school sporting event on a Friday night.
My brows furrow when the mention of my brother swipes the grin from the girls’ faces, and when Elle opens her mouth, I see the rift Ash created has extended to them as well.
“Being a moody jackass isn’t the same as being in a slump, but whatever. Let’s go then.”
Always well-mannered, both girls bid Vivienne goodbye, and I trail behind them without giving the woman a second thought. I don’t have to see the look on her face to know she’s disappointed that she won’t have an opportunity to corner me tonight and try to have her way with me. In that regard, she seems more like my father than I initially assumed. The words ‘no’ and ‘fuck off’ do not exist in their vocabulary unless they’re the ones dishing them out.
When we get downstairs, Chad Murphy is leaning against his red convertible, all smiles as usual. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without one plastered on his face. He’s a naturally easygoing, good guy, and probably the only one I’d wish my baby sister would lockdown. Frankly, I’m not sure why she hasn’t already. I don’t ask Elle for details pertaining to her love life, and thankfully she doesn’t give me any, either.
Thinking about my kid sister becoming a woman already has me on pins and needles, so her telling me shit about boys, relationships, or whatever would mess with my head badly. Still, I wouldn’t mind it so much if she came to me saying that she was having a thing with Chad. I know the guy does all he can to make her happy. I’m sure he would lasso the moon and pull it from its orbit just to give it to her if he thought it would bring a smile to her face. It’s a shame that she’s friend-zoned him. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I don’t know. What I do know is that if he’s not the guy she wants—if good guys aren’t her thing—then I shudder to think what she’s into. Just thinking about it is giving me a fucking migraine. Mostly because it means I’ll have to keep my eyes out for fuckers that don’t deserve her and will never measure up to the guy she’s insisting on keeping solely as her best friend.
Holland takes the back seat with me, while Elle rides shotgun with Chad. Pretty soon, both of them are bantering away, laughing at some inside joke they share together, completely in their own little world where no one else seems to exist. See? They would be perfect together. I really don’t get how they don’t see it, too. Elle deserves some happiness in her life, and Chad would do that for her in a heartbeat. He has that wholesome, boy-next-door, respectful vibe, which is a plus in my book. If they started dating, maybe I’d get lucky and he’d keep my baby sister a virgin until their wedding day.
One can only hope.
My head is still on my kid sister when I feel a warm, delicate hand cover mine on top of my knee, giving it a little squeeze. It startles me how such a frail thing can scorch my insides with such a small gesture.
“You shouldn’t antagonize my mother like that,” Holland whispers next to me, her sweet perfume wreaking havoc on my senses. I cough, discreetly pulling my hand from hers, not comfortable with how my body always seems to react to her closeness. “I’m serious, Roman. She’s not to be trifled with. She’ll find your weakness and exploit it. I’ve seen her do it. Don’t get sucked into her games,” she warns, mistaking my stoic face for indifference to what she’s saying.
“I can handle the witch just fine.”
Her head slumps back on to the leather headrest, disappointed with my aloofness to her concern.
“My father used to say the same thing. Look at what happened to him.”
I don’t answer that morbid, absurd statement. Craig West killed himself because he was too much of a pussy to face jail time—a sentence he deserved to be punished with, for ruining so many lives with his embezzlement crimes. I’m not a coward, and Vivienne doesn’t scare me in the least. I’m not sure I can say the same thing about her daughter, though.
Thankfully, Chad asks me how my classes at NYU are going, and this takes my mind off the white-haired girl with translucent eyes who is insistent in invading my every thought. When I finally see the gates of Pembroke High, I huff out in relief, never expecting to be so grateful in ending the short ride here and seeing the school’s majestic fountain in the middle of the campus lawn.
Huh. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am a pussy.
When we get to Pembroke House and head to the indoor pool auditorium, I welcome the chlorine smell to replace the one I’m being haunted by. I look around the bleachers and see that it’s a full house tonight, which isn’t surprising.
Pembroke has great athletic programs and has always been known for turning out a record number of professional athletes. College scouts are always on the lookout for the next talent, fighting amongst themselves, trying to recruit whoever is on the school’s rosters. Whether it’s for basketball, baseball, or football, they come to Pembroke High if they want the best.
However, swimming has always been this school’s favorite sport, since it gets the most prestigious recognition. Most of the Olympic gold medalists over the last twelve years had their first race in this very pool. Anyone can throw, hit, or dribble a ball, but not everyone can do a four-hundred meter individual medley—consisting of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle—in four minutes flat.
They may make it look easy, but that shit is hard as fuck. I should know since I’ve watched my younger brothers kill themselves to lower their time, even if by only tenths of a second.
While Ollie isn’t as invested, Ash lives and breathes the sport. He never liked to go a day without being in the water, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a fish or something in a past life—most likely a shark. Ash excels at it and could go pro if he wanted to. It used to be his plan, his dream, before things got so fucked up. Now, I’m not sure if he cares about anything anymore.
I wasn’t lying to Elle when I said it would be good for him to see us here supporting him. He may be trying to push everything and everyone he loves out of his way, keeping himself trapped in his fucked-up little bubble, but he just has to deal with the fact that we aren’t going anywhere—that I’m not going anywhere.
Growing up, I’d never been too concerned about the twins since they’ve always looked out for one another, so I focused my attention on the rugrat beside me. However, just like Ash, my priorities seem to have shifted, too. Seeing him and Ollie on the outs isn’t easy, nor is it something I want to condone. They need each other, and if Ash’s resentment continues to fester, I’m not sure how their bond will survive.
Chad points to a free spot on the top
bleacher, which will give us all a better view of the competition. As always, each race is done by class—freshman races go first, followed by sophomore, and so on. The first few really don’t intrigue me since Elle insisted I sit between her and Holland. She has not given me much choice to refuse and has put me between a rock and a hard place.
I mean, what could I say?
‘I’d rather not sit so close to our stepsister since she looks and smells hot as fuck tonight. It’s not a real good combo for me at the moment, seeing as I haven’t felt this type of attraction to a girl since the one that scarred me up for life. It’s just too much to take on right now, considering how our brothers are still in love with her, and all. Not to mention the fact our dick of a father is in a coma because she stabbed him in the cranium for trying to rape her while you were sleeping. Oh, and just to make things even more interesting, I’ve also slapped her mother’s hands off my crotch, trying to jack me off under the breakfast table more times than I can count. So you see my dilemma here.’
Yeah, that wouldn’t go down very well.
Maybe coming here wasn’t my best move after all. I should have just kept my ass home, swatting away Vivienne’s advances. However, once the junior races commence, I feel more in control of my wayward thoughts and begin paying attention to the competition below. My interest peaks when a guy that looks vaguely familiar—donning so much ink it looks like some gothic artist went nuts with his needle on every inch of the dude’s skin—has everyone on their feet in an uproar.
Everyone that is, except for my little sister.
“Not a friend of yours?”
“More like a sworn enemy,” she can’t help but growl.
“Is he giving you trouble? Do you need me to have a word with him?” I ask menacingly, taking another long look at the guy that has my sister hissing like a snake.