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My vagina just exploded.
Fuck, I wasn’t into chicks, but whatever the hell they were putting in the Kavanaugh sibling gene soup was sure as hell stirring my pot.
“I’d remember who the guest is here, Avaleigh,” the woman hissed, her red painted lips turned up in a snarl. She was slender, with pin-straight strawberry-blond hair that fell just past her stiff shoulders. Her face was narrow and her porcelain skin was nearly flawless. Muddy brown eyes were framed by long lashes caked in mascara.
She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen her.
“You.” Nan glared at the woman. “How many times do I have to remind you of that? You, Marianne, are the guest here, and how the twins choose to handle Bailey is their business, not yours.”
“My sons once again disappoint me,” the bitch, Marianne, muttered. I’d have taken the fireplace irons to her face if I hadn’t been so shocked at her being the twins’ mother. The woman hadn’t been at dinner the other night, and since the twins hadn’t bothered to share much about their normal lives—outside of growing up in Ireland—I hadn’t known why.
Now I could see exactly why she wasn’t invited.
Debbie downer. Bitch on a stick.
How had this woman birthed two amazing men?
Ugh, there’s that Stockholm syndrome talking.
Kidnappers, Bailey, they’re your kidnappers.Hot fucking kidnappers who managed to light my vagina on fire.
“Did you have something important ta say, Marianne?” Nan’s forehead raised and her eyes narrowed at the woman. “Or did you just come here to complain?”
Marianne put on a plastic smile that was so fake even the Russian space station could see it.
“I was hoping to have a word with our little captive here,” she gritted, the smile still in place.
Nan snorted. “She’s busy.”
The twins’ mother went to protest, but Nan was having none of it. “Why don’t you do us all a favor, dear, and make yerself scarce? Ye’ve never been a help before. No reason ta start now.”
Ava cracked a laugh as Marianne huffed, turned on her heel, and stomped from the room. And I thought I had temper tantrum problems.
“Snake, that one,” Nan muttered darkly. “Judas in the flesh.”
I really wanted to know, but I didn’t.
But I really did.
So I asked.
“What’s her deal with you?” I turned to Ava, sneering at the red pumps Nan laid out with the dress. “I’m not wearing those. I’ll break my leg.”
“Fashion is pain, dear.”
“You know what’s also painful?” I shot back. “A broken leg.”
Nan ignored me and then shuffled out to the room, closing the door as she went. Meanwhile, Ava was smiling brightly at me from the bed.
“She’s a hoot, right?”
“Oh yeah,” I deadpanned. “I’ve always wanted a grandmother who would dress me as a hooker.”
Ava laughed.
“But really.” I shifted myself to the bed, keeping a few feet between us. Seamus had told me that Ava didn’t enjoy being crowded. “What’s your deal with the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“It’s a long story.” She sighed. “Marianne and my mother were best friends growing up. When my mom went missing the first time, she didn’t file a police report until a week later. Even suppressed evidence of their dorm room being raided.”
