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8
Chrissy
An hour earlier.
I finally manage to get myself off the bathroom floor. I’ve only thrown up once since the guys left for lunch, and my stomach’s finally beginning to settle. Part of me wonders if the reason I’ve been so ill was in fact nerves, and not food poisoning as the twins suggested.
Stumbling my way into the kitchen, I search for sparkling water in the hopes that the fizz will settle my stomach somewhat. Hydration. Yes, that’s what I need.
I’m just sitting down to a glass of ginger ale and a pack of Saltines when several sharp knocks sound on the front door. Who is that? I hold very still, hoping they’ll go away, but the insistent rapping continues.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming, hold on,” I groan. Clutching my stomach, I make my way to the door and immediately regret opening it. It’s my mom, and Angela looks like a crazed animal. It’s not her make-up or hair. No, her blonde locks are perfectly molded into a helmet, and she’s got a fake Chanel skirt suit on. It’s her eyes that scare me. Those blue orbs dart around the room behind my shoulder, as if searching for something.
“Where the hell are they?” she hisses, nails clawing at the air.
“Excuse me? Mom?” I manage to sputter. “What are you doing here? How did you even find me?”
Angela pushes past me and storms into the house, her overly made-up face contorted with rage. She begins marching in and out of various rooms as if on a mission.
“I had myself a nice little chat with Bess Cartwright just a few minutes ago,” she sneers while making her way around the place. The woman slams doors in her wake, and pictures on the walls rattle with the force of her movements. “She just shared the most interesting piece of news about my own daughter.” Angela finally comes back into the hallway, venom dripping from her voice. “Do you know what that piece of news is, Chrissy?” she asks in a faux-innocent tone. At my silence, the woman continues ranting. “She told me that my baby girl is active on the dating scene, and aren’t I just so happy for you?”
I feel my heart skip a beat. Oh shit. But Angela continues with her rant.
“‘Dating?’ I asked Bess. ‘Dating whom, may I inquire?’ And do you know what that good for nothing little slut told me?” My mom’s face is knotted with rage now, her cheeks bright red. I shake my head, hoping for a way out of this nightmare, but of course, that’s too much to ask.
Angela merely spits, she’s so angry now.
“She told me you’re dating the Walsh twins! Imagine that, sweetheart! I didn’t even know they were back in town but it turns out that all along, you’ve been fucking your twin stepbrothers! Is that something you planned on keeping hidden forever?”
Immediately, I try to calm her down.
“I’m not fucking Ryder and Rick,” I say in a calm voice. “We’re in love.”
Angela swivels around to jeer at me.
“Are you shitting me? Love? Where are you getting this? You’re fucking them!”
I hold up a hand.
“Okay, yes, we have sex but –”
My mom cuts me off.
“Do you hear yourself? You’re having sex with twin brothers who are also your stepbrothers! Do you not get how whore-y and disgusting that is? What kind of slut are you? Did I raise you to be like this?”
I try again.
“Rick and Ryder are my former stepbrothers. You’re not married to Fred Walsh anymore, so in fact, it’s fine. It’s not like we’re blood related anyways.”
All this time, Angela’s been crashing through the house like a bull in a china shop. She’s literally been pulling open drawers in the kitchen, and finally, she finds the object of her desire. I watch my mother pour whiskey into a large glass and take a long, slow gulp.
“That’s an expensive vintage,” I say in what I hope is an even voice.
“Your stepbrothers can afford it,” Angela huffs before taking another big gulp of whiskey. “You know why? Because I did a little research on-line and found out that those Walsh boys are worth a fortune. A massive fucking fortune, darling, which means you’re dating billionaires. You hear that, Chrissy? You’re earning billions of dollars with your pussy. What do you do? Offer it to a different twin on alternate nights? Do they pay you bonuses if you perform well in the sack?”
I stare at her.
“Get out. You know nothing about us, and I will not tolerate this kind of obscenity in my home.”
“Your home?” my mom screeches, gesturing wildly with her whiskey glass. Some of the amber liquid spills out, landing on the kitchen floor with a splat. “This isn’t your home. This is their home, and the Walsh brothers are paying you to be their sex toy. Don’t you get it?”
