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“What plans?”
She laughs, though, the sound is cold and deadly. “You’ll see, young lady.”
The line goes dead, as it always does. No hellos or goodbyes here.
Caroline Marsh hates me.
Honest to God, hates me.
It may sound like I’m being a dramatic teenager, moaning about my mother, but I’m not.
That woman doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body, and for the entirety of my life, her goal has been to tear me down to size and fit me into whatever box she decides is right for me. I can’t say my father is much better, but at least his box comes with some semblance of freedom and a future.
A knock sounds at my door, but I don’t bother getting up. Betty bounces into my room a moment later, dressed to the nines in a silver, sparkly mini dress and sky-high, black strappy heels.
“We’re going out. So, get up, get showered, and I’ll pick you an outfit.”
“Do I have to?” I whine, rolling over and tossing my legs off the bed. I swing my feet in the air, watching as she pulls my suitcase open and tosses my clothes all over the hardwood floor.
“Yes, it’s our first night here. Noah is going to bed early since he’s got football in the morning. Meaning we can have a girls’ night. Come on,” she says, waving a little black dress at me. “You know you want to.”
I roll my eyes but grab the material from her and stand. “Fine.”
I move into the en suite, flipping the shower on. Steam fills the room as I strip out of my clothes and step under the hot stream before the cool air can hit my body. I run through my routine, exfoliating and shaving my body within an inch of its life.
Thankfully, my dad made sure everything in here was at least stocked in time for my arrival. When I’m rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, Betty steps into the room waving two bottles in her hand.
“Tequila or Sambuca?”
Popping my head through the curtain, I wrinkle my nose at both choices. I’m not much of a drinker, and if I had to choose, I’d rather a basic Vodka and Coke or something like that. “Sambuca.”
With my answer, she rushes out, leaving me to finish. By the time I step out and wrap myself in a fluffy robe, she has two glasses on my empty desk and there’s make-up spread out over my bed.
“Drink up, and sit here,” she tells me, gesturing towards a stool she must have dragged in from the kitchen, considering there’s nowhere to sit in my room. “And let me work my magic on that pretty face of yours.”
Doing as she tells me, I lift the glass of clear liquid to my nose and sniff, wincing when the aniseed tickles my nostrils. Without wasting time, or talking myself out of it, I quickly swallow the entirety of the drink; grimacing as it burns my throat.
Betty gets to work, brushing all kinds of products over my face. Every now and then, she steps back, tilting her head to get a better look at whatever she’s doing before carrying on with whatever the next thing is she slaps on my face.
She quickly blow-dries my hair when she’s done with my make-up, letting the strands fall into loose waves down the middle of my back.
When she’s finished, she holds a mirror up to my face. “Tada, what do you think?”
“I look good,” I tell her truthfully. I was worried she would make me look like a clown, considering all the products she used. Thankfully, I look like me, just less tired and more sparkly.
She’s done my eyes with gold and greens, making the usually dull hazel colour more prominent, while my lips are a cherry red. Normally, I wouldn’t wear such a daring colour, but paired with my almost-white blonde hair and pale skin, I can’t deny that it suits me.
“Fuck good.” She laughs, popping her hands on her hips. “You look fucking banging. If I was into vagina, I’d totally do you.”
I shake my head, lifting from the stool and letting the tie on my robe loosen so I can slip on the little black dress she pulled out for me. While I dress, she heads back out of my room, no doubt to get more drinks.
“Jesus, girl.” Noah whistles when I step into the living room. His eyes lazily travel over my body, almost bugging when they stop at the cleavage trying to spill over the neckline. “Shouldn’t you put on something less revealing?”
Betty whacks him around the head with an open palm, before turning to me. “Ignore him. You look amazing, and all the boys are going to want a piece of the Fallon-pie tonight.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” he mumbles under his breath, sliding down on the couch and running a hand through his short blonde hair. “At least wear a jacket.”
“Yes, Dad,” I tell him with an eye roll before leaning down to kiss his cheek. There’s a bright red stain from my lips, but he doesn’t wipe it off. “And, anyway, when have I ever let a guy take a piece of my pie?”
