NEFARIOUS: B723 SERIES BOOK THREE, page 2
The lady in red chuckles, a smile forming on her face as she leans over to align our gazes together.
“It’s honestly a pleasure to meet you.” she coos, sounding excited at my presence here. “And…I’m sure my sister wouldn’t mind accommodating that for you.”
Shit, I scored sisters?
“Great,” I dredge. “Untie me, and I’ll—“
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” she vouches firmly. “As of yet.”
My brows snap together. “Listen, sweetheart…I love a woman who takes charge and shit in the bedroom, but I have a headache from hell, and my arms are starting to fall asleep here.”
The woman glances over her shoulder at her sister for a moment before returning to look at me. “I’m Odette.” She motions with her hand to the woman in yellow. “And my younger sister, Solange.”
I nod because this is all polite and dandy and shit, but again my body is aching in this position. “Pretty names for pretty girls but, really, my arms.” I wiggle them again to no avail. “How long have I been in this fucking chair?”
“Do you remember anything from last night?” Solange blandly asks, stepping forward at her sister’s side.
I shake my head. “No.” Then I quickly recant because it appears I’m at their mercy to let me free and I’m not looking to piss off a bunch of women who’ll flip petty in two point three seconds. “That is to say, though…I had a lot to drink.”
The girls smile at me but not in that cute and flirty way that women do when they’re either about to rip you a new asshole or they’ll forgive you for anything as long as they have your undivided attention.
Nah, this is a little more wicked, and I don’t like it.
Yeah, I don’t like it at all.
The way Solange is looking at me like she’s studying what way to slice me up, and Odette wanting to rip my dick off and wear it, sends multiple warning signals through my muddled brain.
“Anyone wanna tell me what the plan is? I need a shower and—“
“You need to eat,” Odette counters solemnly, straightening her spine. “And mother will tell you all about it.”
I lift a challenging brow because this shit is getting old really quick. “About it?” I repeat, immediately narrowing my brows. “Again, gonna need you to untie me. I have work and—“
“Not for a while,” the same chick replies, clasping her perfectly manicured fingers together. “You’ll be staying with us for the moment.” I snort and give another heave of my restrains.
“Maybe you should step back,” Solange states. “He doesn’t look pleased.”
I mean…
Odette doesn’t take her advice, remaining exactly where she is. “I won’t be either if the test results don’t work out in our favor.”
“For what?” I finally leer, my heightening irritation beginning to brim over. Her eyes widen at the sound of irritation in my voice before her plump lips quirk, but she makes no effort to answer my question.
Test results?
Another quick glance around the room, and there’s a bed with crisp white sheets that aren’t rumbled up from hours or minutes of sex. (I can’t be held responsible when I don’t remember fucking anything, let alone pleasing a woman.) The light blue walls are sparsely decorated with scenic pictures, and besides a wooden dresser, a small table tucked in the corner, and a flat-screen TV, this appears like a guest room.
“Where the fuck am I?” I ground out.
Odette gives me another patronizing smile. “Your new home.”
If I were ever happy to have a butler open the door for me, this would be it. With a backpack swung over my shoulders, my purse, two Target bags full of notebooks, post-it notes, colored pencils, and tape, my Starbucks refresher in my left hand, my Prada heels tucked in the crook of my elbow, and the box of donuts I promised my carb-obsessed sisters, I give Anthony a grateful smile as I stride through the front of my childhood home.
AKA my current residency for the next month or so.
The smell of freshly cut flowers fills the large white marble foyer as I take a right to the grand staircase up to my bedroom. Everything is pristinely well-kept, thanks to my mother’s handful of maids, I’m afraid even to step foot on the floors when they’re finished waxing, so I don't ruin all their hard work.
“Can I help you, Miss Van Doren?” I glance over and down at Anthony, and if he wasn’t a day over seventy, I might accept.
However, the thirty-two steps to the second floor is a workout all on its own, and I could use the exercise anyway.
“I’m good, Anthony,” I reply with a grateful smile. “But thank you, anyway. Are my sisters home?”
He nods once. “Yes, Miss, they’re—“
“It’s Amirah still,” I jeer with a wink. “You know I hate formalities.” He doesn’t offer me an implication that he understands my teasing as he stares emotionlessly back up at me.
“It’s under your mother’s persistence and—“ I roll my eyes at her snooty and ancient requests. Which are not few and in between but abundant in this house.
“Right, well…” No point in arguing with the man on how to address me with my arms full of things I’m ready to drop at any moment. “I’m sorry, where did you say they were?”
“Out in the backyard, along the pool.”
I give him a curt nod and make the rest of the way up, out of breath by the time I get there, then veer to the left and down the long hallway to the very end.
Dropping my heels in the hallway, I use my now free hand and open the door, kicking the expensive shoes inside as I stride in and dump the rest of my belongings except my drink and donuts and place them on the pink comforter of my bed.
I fucking hate pink.
And I’ll give you one guess on who decorated my room again since I’ve been gone almost eight months. My mother needs a damn hobby besides idle gossip from the Real Housewives of Maryland and their shitty, expensive parties.
This room looks like it belongs to a five-year-old. She even kept the dollhouse that I never played with in here. Even as a child, I knew how much things were. Mom always threw the price tag out as if she was proud that she was given such a life to buy lavish and wasteful things.
I didn’t ask for the dollhouse that year.
I asked for a go-kart.
Scooping up my refresher and donuts I bought from the small bakery outside of this ritzy neighborhood, I get downstairs and outside, locating my sister’s sunbathing lazily in their bikinis and lounge chairs.
“Hey!” I greet, wishing I had brought down my sunglasses for the sun’s unforgiving rays. “I brought donuts.”
Odette moans unappreciatively, draping a dramatic arm over her face as Solange raises her studded shades from her eyes to acknowledge me.
“Little intello,” she beams with a slight smirk to her slender features. “You came home from school.”
Little nerd.
Well, fuck me for wanting an education and a life of my own. At least I’m not waiting around for a rich husband to take care of me because, screw that. I’ve dated rich boys with giant mouths and zero respect, and I’d rather continue fucking my vibrator than have to answer to the likes of those kinds of men.
“It’s summer break,” I drone, placing my white box of donuts on the small table between them. “So, yeah.”
“I don’t know why,” she continues, adjusting her bright yellow bikini bottom. “You hate it here.” I bristle against her comment, but she’s not entirely wrong.
This home is as mundane and tense as a Russian play. My mother is constantly on her bullshit about everything under the sun, and I swear I can’t please her. Dad is always in and out, mostly out, hanging out with his political friends and doing hell knows what with his job.
My sisters, they plot and plan and demise their way to the top of what, I have no clue. I do know that it’s against carbs being their biggest enemy amongst society, but I can get them to indulge in one if I taunt long and hard enough.
I’m sure they’ll go throw it up thirty minutes later anyway.
“Did you earn another degree yet?” Odette, my oldest and the crowned bitch of my siblings, mumbles under her breath but loud enough for me to hear. She doesn’t bother to look at me, arm still spread over her eyes because I’d have to be on her self ascribed level for her to acknowledge me properly as a loving sister would.
I take a seat in an empty chair next to her, ignoring her shitty attitude, and take a sip of my strawberry-flavored drink.
If she wasn’t such a cunt, she’d be pretty.
My sister’s long and thick dark locks frame a perfect complexion, thanks to overly priced skin products, but beautiful all the same. Her green eyes are strikingly her best feature, wide and dawned with naturally long eyelashes and a cute button-up nose. She’s exquisite in every sense of the word, but she’s an asshole and holds the biggest secret of my life over my head like bait.
“Not yet, Od, but will you buy me a frame for this one?” I recite sweetly, crossing my legs at my ankles. My sister doesn’t respond, clearly uninterested on how I’m finally going to be getting my bachelor’s in fashion design.
It used to bother me immensely that not only did I not get any support from my eldest sister but that she believed it was a waste of time. The moment she got boobs and the attention of every horny teenage boy at school, I became nothing to her.
And I still am.
“I’m sorry,” I divulge with my green straw between my lips. “You can’t find those at Versace or Oscar de la Renta. Maybe you can send Anthony out to grab one for you.”
Odette tilts her neck to look at me for the first time but doesn’t have the damn courtesy to remove that damn forearm of hers. “I’ll do that.”
I curl my fingers tighter around my plastic cup. The need to shove two donuts down her throat at the same time ringing through my thoughts because someone needs to knock her down a few pegs.
But it can’t be me.
“Mother found a potential blood donor for Dad,” Solange advises, cracking opening the box of frosted goodness and stealing a peek inside. “We’re waiting on the results to come back.”
My eyes widen. “She did? How?”
My sister shrugs, contemplating on having to run a few miles on the treadmill downstairs over a donut. “Not sure. However, he’s super hot.”
“Hot? How would—“
“Why do you have to ask a million questions?” Odette snaps, finally dropping her arm. Her green eyes slam into mine with so much animosity that it’d knock me off my chair if I weren’t used to it. “You’re not in class anymore. Dad has a blood donor, period. We all know it’s a miracle that Mother was able to pull something out of her ass.”
Miracle, indeed.
Dad has an extremely rare blood type. So rare that they call it golden blood. Only forty-three people in the world are known to have it, and its unique properties make it potentially dangerous for Dad to receive just anyone’s blood.
He has severe hemophilia, which is a rare disorder in his blood that doesn't clot normally because it lacks sufficient blood-clotting proteins. He bleeds longer after an injury—a papercut or cutting himself while shaving, but it’s bigger things like hitting his head that could cause internal bleeding. With this, he could damage his organs and tissues, making it life-threatening.
And with his political career, he wanted to keep it quiet. The doctors say that he’ll need blood transfusions to keep his platelets in line so he doesn’t have such issues with the pain and tightness in his joints, the large and deep bruises and the nosebleeds.
“Thanks for the donuts, little intello,” Solange says, silently dismissing me. “Dad and Laurent will be home tomorrow so that you can tell them all about school.”
He already knows about it because I talk to him on the regular, jerk off.
I’m about to tell my sister to eat the damn donut because she looks like a rail but decide against it.
Rising, I go back towards the house to unpack. And this is how all my conversations go with my sisters. A few blinks, and it’s over.
But it’s not.
Mom walks out of the white french doors, dressed to the nines in her black Louboutin heels, a red pencil skirt and black top, and a shit load of gold jewelry. My mom’s wedding ring practically blinds me as she steps out, a rehearsed smile plastering on her botox face.
“Mon petit gâteau,” she coos, extending her arms for me to step into them.
My little cupcake.
My mother and sisters might as well crucify me to a tree with the blasphemy they believe I create just because I like sweets.
“Hello, Mom,” I greet back, wrapping my arms around her at the exact time she does me. “You look beautiful.”
She chuckles lightly, then pulls away, keeping me in front of her when her palms find my biceps. It also gives me time to notice that she’s been on one of her diets again, hence why my sisters will continue to eye-fuck those donuts I brought for them.
“And what are those?” she asks, perfectly shaped eyebrows raised as she glances down at my somewhat dirty pink Converses with her dark brown eyes.
“Mom,” I warn, already privy of where this is going. “I was running around, and—“
“Amirah,” she scolds in her French accent. “That’s all I do is traipse around, and you see me in decently branded shoes.”
“They’re Converse, not Salvation Army.”
Her face twists—sorta. “What?”
I wave a dismissive hand, getting her to release me. “Nevermind. Laurent is coming home tomorrow?”
Mom smiles at my brother’s arrival. “Yes, and he’s bringing that beautiful blonde girl home with him.”
“Who?”
“Francesca. The woman I introduced him last year at the Children’s Hospital gala.”
Ah, yes, the gold-digging bitch he and I avoided like the plague all night.
“I remember her,” I say. “Although, isn’t she married?”
“Was.” Mom clasps her hands together and twists her face in disgust. “Man was a fraud.”
I’m sure he wasn’t.
“Odette said you found Daddy a blood donor?” I watch my mother’s face pale under her unblemished foundation. Her cheeks are hollowed out a tad from the weight she’s dropped, reminding me of where she came from.
She used to be a model in Paris; it’s how my parents met. You would think we’d be closer than we are with our love for clothes and the latest trends. However, she’d rather me wear the clothes than design them and keep my nose out of a male-dominated world.
Fashionistas are run by women everywhere, I mean, look at Donatella Versace, Vera Wang, and Coco Chanel. Mom wears them on a daily basis for Christ’s sake, but my dream of being a fraction of what those creative and hard-working females built is irrelevant to my mother. She wants me to marry rich and become a Stepford wife in the hell of what we call high society.
It’s been a hell no for me for as long as I can remember.
“Oui,” Mom finally replies. “We’re just pending the test results to ensure he can be used.”
“How does that work exactly? I mean, if Dad needs a few transfusions, will this donor be saving extra for us on the side or—“
“I’m waiting to hear back from the doctor, ma chérie.” She pats my cheek lightly. “Don’t worry, this will all work out.” I nod, and she flicks her attention to my sisters behind me. “Odette and Solange, help your sister unpack.”
“No, Mom, that won’t be—“
“Nonsense,” she retorts. “I don’t want you in there spending all night organizing your things. You are staying all summer?”
Ugh.
“I might be going to California one weekend with Bailey to visit her family, but—“
“California is dirty, Amirah. Why don’t you plan on going somewhere clean and calming?”
“Like Montana?” My mother’s face twists again, and I know she has no idea that it’s one of the fifty states. “It’ll be fine, Mom. One weekend.”
She tsks but leaves it alone when my sisters flank my sides.
“How much crap do you have?” Odette huffs off a sigh. “This is throwing off my—“
“It doesn’t matter,” Mom counters sternly, her eyes boring into her. “Help your sister.”
If you knew anything about my eldest sister and mother, they are two peas in a pod. They don’t fight, they do everything together, and they gossip incessantly.
Neither have any shame.
So Odette does anything and everything our mother demands of her. Solange sometimes, every once in a while, will show a backbone. And me, well, I’m the black sheep in the females that might get stoned to death one day.
“Let’s go,” Solange quips, sliding her arm between mine and guiding me into the house. “You can at least tell me about that one guy you were seeing while we do it.”
“Oh, we didn’t work out,” I quickly convey.
“Pourquoi?” Why?
I shrug as we walk on the white marbled floors to the staircase. Odette silent somewhere behind us.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “He seemed like he was interested at first, then he kinda ghosted me.”
“Ghosted you? Were you goofy on your dates?” I scoff because our idea of the word are two separate things. However, my sisters make no amends to me that they believe me to be odd.
“Uh, no,” I retort. “But he talked me to death during them. Nice guy, though. It’s no biggie.”
We hit the stairs, and my sister keeps her arm linked with mine. “What was his name again?”
“Bobbie Mulligan.”
“As in Bobbie Mulligan who owns half the oil industry in Texas and—“
I shake my head. “No, just Bobbie Mulligan. No one famous or anything.”
My sister chuckles. “Not yet anyway.”
Night drapes throughout the bedroom I’m still being held in, and with each passing hour, so does each ounce of my patience. I've only been taken to piss once by two burly fuckers who didn’t understand that I can’t take my dick out with my hands zip-tied behind my back. That somehow and weirdly became a thing where they argued who was going to do it for me.
