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Under Her Heel 7
Keava
Creepingbackupthe stairs, I make my way back to my room. I hadn’t known about the basement gym, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. When I saw the twins heading downstairs, I was curious, but it took a bit to get Mindy to head out. By the time I got to the stairs, they were talking and it was just too tempting to listen in.
They say eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves. In this case, I’m more than glad I listened in and now I have to decide what this new information means. I’m still pissed over them embarrassing me, but they didn’t vanish by their own choice. It seems like Grandmother was a piece of work and a controlling bitch. But that doesn’t explain why over six years they never sent a letter, not a Smilebook message, no contact at all.
“Carbie!” the high-pitched voice of my new nemesis has me rolling my eyes. Clearly, Whore Barbie thinks that I am here to serve her. She has another thing coming if she pushes me. Wincing, I pull myself to a sitting position, working up the courage to bend my knees again.
“Carbie!” the door handle jiggles, then is flung open by an enraged, blonde bimbo. “Why haven’t you set up for tonight?” Her voice is at a level that I’m sure they hear three streets over.
Remember, not my party, not my job. And you just barged into my room, uninvited. Please leave.” I lay back down, ignoring her as I realize that her idea of an emergency will never be mine.
“Do you want to have a job here? Want to graduate? You’d better do as I tell you.” She stomps over to stand over me. “I expect you to get everything ready in the next hour or you will pay.”
I look up at the deranged bitch, unable to figure out what to say. I want to scream, yell, slap her. But all that isn’t my style, especially when I’m hurting. Smiling, sure that it’s not meeting my eyes, I look up at the over-entitled, spoiled brat and shrug. “Guess your guests will have to fend for themselves and you’ll be responsible for any messes. Now if you don’t mind, I have a show to watch.”
I focus back on my phone where I’m watching the next season of Bridgerton and wishing that Regé-Jean Page was in this series. His smoldering looks would make any girl combust. “Oh, shut the door on your way out.”
A scream shatters the quiet as Lilli slams the door and makes her way out of the room. And I can’t help the smile that splits my face. Such a sweet sound, the frustrations of a bitch when she doesn’t get her way.
I try to pay attention to Bridgerton, but my mind keeps going back to what I heard the boys talking about. What was their life like after they left? I know after their mom died, things were tough both financially and emotionally. Even spending almost every day together, living half of the time at their place, I never had a clue how bad their finances were.
Putting my phone down, I get up and decide a nice, hot bath is what will help me relax. I still have five episodes of Anthony and Eloise searching for their life partner. While I love the show, it kind of pisses me off that nthony’s brother has to hide who he really is to fit into society.
Grabbing my box of toiletries, I rifle through it until I find my absolute favorite bath mix, a lovely milkshake made of sea salt, powdered coconut milk, and dried lavender flowers, with a hint of vanilla. It leaves my skin so soft and smelling delicious.
I adore the bathroom that is attached to my suite. The walls are a pretty aqua-colored beadboard, with a large shower in one corner, and a claw-foot tub that sits before a window with a small, fenced-in garden. A six-plus-foot wall surrounds the small garden, giving it privacy. A vanity with sink and toilet make up the rest of the bath.
Once the water fills the tub halfway, I sprinkle the mixture into the water, swirling it around with my foot. Climbing into the hot water is slightly painful as it hits the cuts from earlier, but once I am settled in, the soothing smell of lavender and the heat of the water relax my muscles, but not much for my mind.
Images from years ago flicker across my mind, my own little film of the good times with the boys, turning to less happy memories after. Memories where home wasn’t the haven that it had been, instead it became a minefield of either serving beer and smokes to Mom, Stu, and their friends; or when Duane had gotten mom high on some shit and his lecherous gaze and wandering hands became too much to handle, finding somewhere safer than my room with it’s thin-as-fuck door. A door that I learned was all too easy to punch a whole into.
Sitting up, the water still warm, I realize that sitting here isn’t helping me relax. The steady beat of some base-filled song pulses through the house and I shrug. If I am going to be tortured with listening to just the base, I might as well go and join the party. Maybe I can meet a few people.
