father.
Well clearly, Marvin Carrington is having none of that, regardless of my reasoning.
You will do as I tell you, young lady. You’re a part of this family and will act accordingly.” His normally cool green eyes grow just a tad darker as his voice rises.
I feel like I’ve been slapped, even though neither one of them have ever put their hands on me. Not even for a hug that I can remember. Then I bristle at his words. Now I’m a part of this family. What happened to consoling their teenage daughter who had just been through a horrific time? Whathappened to wanting to keep her safe? Clearly there’s a killer on the loose.
While I’m standing here thinking all this and literally biting my tongue to keep from mouthing off some more, my mother stands and walks over to me. “You don’t go out with enough guys, dear. This will be fun.”
Was she kidding? What mother tells her fifteen-year-old daughter, “you don’t go out with enough guys?” Normally, it’s exactly the opposite. This place is like a freak show.
“I don’t feel like having fun.” And I really don’t. Not with some strange guy anyway. This just cannot be happening.
“Now, just go on upstairs. Casietta already has something picked out for you to wear. Stephen will be here in an hour. Take a nice long bath and do your hair. Oh, you’re going to have a fabulous time.”
She’s rubbing my back with one hand, the other is doing something weird to my hair, and her voice is like chalk scraping down a blackboard. I want to scream.
“And Sasha…”
I look over my shoulder to see my father not even looking up at me but shuffling some papers around in a folder he’s been holding on his lap. “Be sure to talk up the club. How you and your friends will be spending a lot of time there and such.”
Yeah, I think when I’m finally allowed to leave the room with the two psycho parents in it, I’ll talk up the club that I never plan to set foot in. Stomping up the steps seems juvenile, but I do it anyway, releasing only minute waves of frustration as I go.
I’m not their daughter. I’m a pawn in this game of their lives. They don’t care what I do or how I feel as long as everything works out for them.
I shouldn’t care about what they want or how they’ll feel if I do something they don’t like. I shouldn’t.
But I do.
It’s pathetic, but I do care. I do want their approval. So I take the shower and I get dressed and I wait for the date I don’t want to go on in the hopes that one day things between us will be different.
His pants are too high.
That’s the first thing I notice about Stephen Whitman IV. And that’s probably because I can see his argyle socks as he walks toward me. His khaki pants are hard creased and swing at his ankles like they’re boot cut. His shoes are leather, Italian probably. I keep looking at them because, of course, I’m a shoe-aholic.
“Hi, Sasha,” he says when he’s closer, his hand already extended for me to shake like we’re closing a business deal or something.
I sigh, then force a smile. My hand lifts and embraces his, but I swear it must be on autopilot because that’s not what I was thinking of doing. I’m actually considering turning and running back up the stairs. This night isn’t going to go off as planned. I can feel it deep down in my bones.
“Hi, Stephen.”
“You look beautiful.”
Do boys say beautiful? More importantly, do they really mean it when they say it? Probably not.
“Thanks,” is my automatic response.
“Shall we go?”
My parents already had the opportunity to talk to him, filling his mind with a bunch of crap about their precious club, I presume. But I’d stayed upstairs a little longer than necessary, especially since I’d seen when the Rolls Royce pulled aroundto the front of the house and watched as the suited driver stepped out and opened the back door for Stephen.
I’d known he was here and still hid upstairs like a Chicken Little. But
Well clearly, Marvin Carrington is having none of that, regardless of my reasoning.
You will do as I tell you, young lady. You’re a part of this family and will act accordingly.” His normally cool green eyes grow just a tad darker as his voice rises.
I feel like I’ve been slapped, even though neither one of them have ever put their hands on me. Not even for a hug that I can remember. Then I bristle at his words. Now I’m a part of this family. What happened to consoling their teenage daughter who had just been through a horrific time? Whathappened to wanting to keep her safe? Clearly there’s a killer on the loose.
While I’m standing here thinking all this and literally biting my tongue to keep from mouthing off some more, my mother stands and walks over to me. “You don’t go out with enough guys, dear. This will be fun.”
Was she kidding? What mother tells her fifteen-year-old daughter, “you don’t go out with enough guys?” Normally, it’s exactly the opposite. This place is like a freak show.
“I don’t feel like having fun.” And I really don’t. Not with some strange guy anyway. This just cannot be happening.
“Now, just go on upstairs. Casietta already has something picked out for you to wear. Stephen will be here in an hour. Take a nice long bath and do your hair. Oh, you’re going to have a fabulous time.”
She’s rubbing my back with one hand, the other is doing something weird to my hair, and her voice is like chalk scraping down a blackboard. I want to scream.
“And Sasha…”
I look over my shoulder to see my father not even looking up at me but shuffling some papers around in a folder he’s been holding on his lap. “Be sure to talk up the club. How you and your friends will be spending a lot of time there and such.”
Yeah, I think when I’m finally allowed to leave the room with the two psycho parents in it, I’ll talk up the club that I never plan to set foot in. Stomping up the steps seems juvenile, but I do it anyway, releasing only minute waves of frustration as I go.
I’m not their daughter. I’m a pawn in this game of their lives. They don’t care what I do or how I feel as long as everything works out for them.
I shouldn’t care about what they want or how they’ll feel if I do something they don’t like. I shouldn’t.
But I do.
It’s pathetic, but I do care. I do want their approval. So I take the shower and I get dressed and I wait for the date I don’t want to go on in the hopes that one day things between us will be different.
His pants are too high.
That’s the first thing I notice about Stephen Whitman IV. And that’s probably because I can see his argyle socks as he walks toward me. His khaki pants are hard creased and swing at his ankles like they’re boot cut. His shoes are leather, Italian probably. I keep looking at them because, of course, I’m a shoe-aholic.
“Hi, Sasha,” he says when he’s closer, his hand already extended for me to shake like we’re closing a business deal or something.
I sigh, then force a smile. My hand lifts and embraces his, but I swear it must be on autopilot because that’s not what I was thinking of doing. I’m actually considering turning and running back up the stairs. This night isn’t going to go off as planned. I can feel it deep down in my bones.
“Hi, Stephen.”
“You look beautiful.”
Do boys say beautiful? More importantly, do they really mean it when they say it? Probably not.
“Thanks,” is my automatic response.
“Shall we go?”
My parents already had the opportunity to talk to him, filling his mind with a bunch of crap about their precious club, I presume. But I’d stayed upstairs a little longer than necessary, especially since I’d seen when the Rolls Royce pulled aroundto the front of the house and watched as the suited driver stepped out and opened the back door for Stephen.
I’d known he was here and still hid upstairs like a Chicken Little. But
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