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“The green,” I say, trying my best to sound interested.
Darcy looks at the green dress, pursing her lips. “The black it is.”
She turns on her heel and leaves me to scrubbing her toilet while she gets ready for wherever the hell she’s going.
Turning back around, I curse under my breath, reminding myself why I’m here. It’s the only reason I haven’t told these narcissistic arseholes to sod off. I can’t believe how unbelievably obscene and cruel these people are.
To the outside world, they are respected, admired for their hard work and determination, but I’ve seen who they really are behind closed doors. Once their masks are removed, I see the ugliness which truly lurks beneath the surface.
All but one.
Punky.
I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s unlike the others. Something about him makes him stand out from the rest. Yes, he is a Kelly, therefore, he is the enemy, but not by choice. He was born into this; as was I.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Shakespeare said it best, but Punky and I are no Romeo and Juliet. We aren’t star-crossed lovers. We never can be. I know that. So why can’t I stop thinking about him?
These are dangerous waters I tread because so much relies on getting what I want, but to hurt someone like Punky to achieve this doesn’t seem right. He’s as much a victim as I am.
With a sigh, I continue scrubbing Darcy’s toilet as I have a day filled with chores ahead of me. Once I’m done cleaning the bathroom, I enter her bedroom and try my best not to cry out in pain with each step I take.
She looks incredibly dolled up, so I’m guessing she’s going on a date. I wonder who the unlucky fella is.
Darcy is pretty if you like that perfect kind of look, which is what every guy likes, bar Punky it seems. He didn’t hide his distaste of her at dinner. She could have cartwheeled in the nude in front of him, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
That probing stare of his penetrated my very core as I tried my best to remain unmoved by his presence. But he makes me nervous, and he knows it. Simple tasks such as breathing are a chore with him close by. I’ve never felt this before.
I’m twenty years old, and although I’ve had a couple of casual boyfriends, none of them were able to elicit these feelings in me. Being near Punky excites me, and I think he feels the same way about me.
I can see it.
I can feel it.
And that’s what worries me the most.
I need him to be strong because my resolve is slipping. If he doesn’t deny me, then I sure as hell can’t deny him. I’m playing with fire…especially if he finds out who I really am.
“I have a guest arriving soon. Please don’t interrupt us.” She pauses from applying her red lipstick, and her mirror image smirks at me. “If ye know what I mean.”
“Of course, Miss Duffy,” I reply, nodding quickly. That won’t be a problem. I don’t want to be anywhere near her PDA.
“Grand.” She goes back to finishing her makeup, puckering once she’s done. “I’ve been trying for years to get his attention, and it’s finally worked. When he called me, I was so surprised. But I knew he’d give in sooner or later. I always get what I want,” she adds, turning around to face me.
I don’t know if this is supposed to be a two-way conversation, so I keep quiet, focusing on making Queen Darcy’s bed. She asked I change her sheets to the pink silk set. No guessing why that is.
“But I suppose someone like you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I don’t take the bait.
“Did you always want to be a—” She pauses, appearing to search for the right word. “A maid.”
Maid is a polite way of saying fucking servant because what twenty-year-old woman can’t make her own bed? Darcy can do it, but why would she when she has me to do it for her? This is how the rich work. They use and abuse those “beneath” them because that’s what we’re here for—to serve them.
She doesn’t give me a chance to reply because she doesn’t want me to. This isn’t two friends gossiping about boys. It’s two distinct classes co-existing because they have to. Darcy isn’t sharing this as a friend; she’s bragging about everything I’ll never have.
Thankfully, the doorbell rings.
