by Logan Fox
“Strange,” Cole says half to himself as he stalks around the table toward us. “And here I thought you look like a girl who knows all about having a good time.”
I try and step back, but Cillian’s there. So I cringe into him as Cole closes the distance, mentally begging Cillian to wrap his arms around me again and protect me.
But this time he doesn’t.
He lets his twin brother walk right up to me. Cruel fingers pinch my chin and yank my head up, bringing tears to my eyes.
“Guess I was wrong,” Cole says, wrinkling his handsome face in disgust. “You’re just like your cunt mother after all.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CILLIAN
His hands are on her.
His fucking hands are touching her and I don’t like it.
I don’t like anything about this situation. I thought I was prepared for it. I thought I knew what would happen—it’s happened many times before. The moment a girl, any girl, realizes there’re two of us. Realizes she could take her pick. She could have either. Maybe she could have both at once? That’s always a lip-biting moment before her hopes of a threesome are dashed and she chooses Cole because, hey, at least Cole was up for it, right?
I knew that would happen and I told myself I wouldn’t care.
Business. That’s what it is. That’s all it ever can be.
When I came in and found her playing in her little fort. Fuck. There is no denying that was adorable as shit. And I’m not a man who finds things adorable but for whatever reason, she amuses me. She makes me forget, temporarily, that I have to be switched off. That everything needs to be black and white.
Lying in that stupid fucking fort with her I started to think maybe gray wasn’t so bad. Let’s face it, there was nothing appropriate about the thoughts I was having. There’s nothing appropriate about any of this. We’re chalk and fucking cheese. She’s immature and some fucked up mix of bratty and innocent… pampered as a princess but somehow still broken. She giggles and she cries, and she does both like she means them. And me? I constantly feel like an old man at the end of his life, a tired, used-up war veteran just begging to catch pneumonia or some shit so I don’t need to wake up and keep my own conscience in a box.
Meisie has nightmares? I don’t even dream.
Meisie acts like a child? I don’t even know what being a child means.
We don’t mix.
We’re not suited.
We shouldn’t work.
She should hate me. And when she straight-up refused to be reasonable, rejected me again… I guess it hurt because it gave me my answer clearer than the kick in the balls she provided for good measure. She did hate me. She knew deep down we wouldn’t work.
So I came here, and I told myself it wouldn’t matter if she looked at Cole the same way she looks at me. Like she’s scared but intrigued. Like she doesn’t know if she wants to fuck me or run away from me.
I told myself I wouldn’t care.
But she’s not looking at Cole like that.
Not at all.
She’s looking at Cole like she’s seeing him, clearly, for what he is.
And that’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed anyone looking at him like that.
How can I refuse to care when she’s the first girl, ever, to look at Cole and not just see a better, less-empty, version of me?
“Cole.” I glance at his hand.
It takes him too long to tear his eyes away from Meisie’s face. I don’t like that either.
When he finally sets his eyes back on me, I can see there are a thousand things running through his mind. Cole has too many feelings and he’s not good at keeping them from showing on his face, especially from me.
He knows.
I watch him fitting the pieces together in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle. There have only ever been two pieces. Two identical pieces, except they’re mirrors, and they fit together perfectly. But there’s another piece now. He can probably sense it better than me, because even now I’m still trying to deny it even exists. But it does. It’s standing beside me and clutching little fingers onto the back of my thigh.
There’s a third piece, and this one doesn’t fit into our puzzle.
The look in each of our eyes says we both know it.
It’s what he’ll do with that knowledge that I can’t begin to figure out.
For now, he moves his hand away and steps back. He looks from me, to Meisie, and back to me again, before spinning on his heels and going back to the desk.
I want to get her away from this. From him. Take her back to her fort. Tell her that this was a mistake. But I’m too far into it now. If I take her away now, whatever suspicions he has about the aforementioned puzzle pieces will just be confirmed.
He flips open the MacBook and spins it around.
“Exhibit fucking A.”
I glance down at her and try to read Meisie’s expression. She’s watching Cole like he’s a venomous snake and she’s a little mouse. Good girl.
Cole continues. “Recognize the car? This was where we made it look like you took a load of drugs and crashed it into a ditch--but not before injuring someone. Those same drugs your mum is legalizing. Do you think she cared?”
When she doesn’t answer he spins the laptop back to face him and hits a few keys with fast fingers. I already know what’s coming before he spins it around, due to the massive fucking smirk on his face.
“Exhibit B. This was when we—correction. Not we. Nah, this one was all my brother’s idea.”
I’ll explain it to her later. I’ll explain to her those photos were genuinely the kinder option. At least, I fucking thought it was.
I grab Meisie. “Right let’s go—“
“Eh, hold on,” Cole says, standing up from the desk. “We didn’t even get to the best part, did we? The backstory. The part where we told mother dearest that we were punting her out to anyone with a twenty-pound note. The part where her own mother didn’t care. The part where—“
“That’s plenty, Cole.”
He leans his hands on the desk and smiles. “You can’t take her away now. We have a wedding to plan. Sarah wants to know colors for the bridesmaids, don’t you darlin’?”
I let out a sigh. “Green.”
And then I scoop her into my arms, leaving my brother grinning like the Cheshire fucking Cat.
Yes, I said I would explain.
No, it didn’t feel like the right time.
And for the first time in my life I’m contemplating feeling like a piece of shit. I’ve always known I was one. Never doubted that. But right now I’m close to letting myself feel like one.
I left her there on the bed without a backward glance, and came back up the stairs to deal with Cole. He wasn’t nearly as annoying without Meisie in the room. After that was done, I didn’t have any excuse for avoiding her.
I should go down there and explain.
But instead I’m sitting in the kitchen counting toast crumbs.
She needs time, that’s my excuse. Time to think. Time to contemplate. Time to be alone. I’ve had thirty years to come to grips with the fact my mother doesn’t give a fuck. She’s had six hours.
I’ll give her some more time. That’s the gentlemanly thing to do.
I’ll let her sleep on it. I’ll sleep on it, just as soon as I’ve bored myself senseless with counting fucking crumbs.
A noise comes from behind me, giving me the fright of my life because Cole left hours ago.
But it’s not Cole. It’s a blond head and a mousey face, and it’s wearing tartan pajamas. Sarah.
“Fuck are you doing here?”
She doesn’t even glance in my direction as she crosses the kitchen. “Making supper.”
Do they think this is some kind of hotel I’m running? Twenty-four-hour all you can eat buffet and en-suite sex dungeon? “You do realize Cole has his own flat, right?”
“Have you seen Cole’s flat?”
I chuckle. “I avoid Cole’s flat li
ke the plague in case you’re in there.”
“Oh pipe down,” she says dismissively. “I’m planning your wedding, remember?”
I suppose she is.
She opens one of the high cupboards and takes a few steps back, trying to see up into the top shelf.
“You won’t find any cocaine in there, doll.”
She spins around and stares at me. “Do you always have to be such a cunt? I thought your brother was bad, but at least he’s not a cunt a good twenty percent of the time.”
I allow myself a singular laugh and take a seat at the breakfast bar. “I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are,” she says, and turns back to the cupboard.
“What are you looking for?”
Letting out a huff, she turns back around to face me. “Teabags. I won’t hold out for biscuits but they wouldn’t go amiss.”
I get up from my chair and she automatically keeps the social distance as I walk around the island. After finding the teabags, and a packet of custard creams, I put them both down on the counter and go to fill up the kettle.
If she’s planning my wedding then I’ll make her a cup of tea. Peace offering, and all that. And I’ll make myself one, too, since I can’t sleep and it sounds slightly more interesting than counting toast crumbs.
“Sit,” I tell her.
She does.
I don’t have a clue how to make a cup of tea, but with her keeping me right I manage two semi-reasonable ones. Maybe I’ll try it again in the morning for Meisie. Or was it coffee she said she liked?
Fuck knows. I take a seat at the other side of the breakfast bar and motion for Sarah to pass the biscuits back to me. I don’t waste any time getting fired into them. “Why aren’t you out partying with Cole?”
She stares at me from across the table and takes a sip of her tea. “Because, contrary to what you’d like to believe, I’m not some druggie bitch who lives for parties. I have work in the morning.”
“Interesting.”
“Not that interesting, I work in a bank.”
I let out a singular laugh. “I couldn’t think of anything better to say.”
A cynical smile flashes across her face and she takes another drink. “Why aren’t you downstairs with Meisie?”
I sniff. “I’m taking a night off work.”
“Oh fuck off. You might have been fooling Cole but you’re not fooling me. Work.” She rolls her eyes while I narrow mine.
I’m not getting into this with her. I’m not getting into this with anyone, so I take a drink from my own cup. It tastes like shit.
“You should put some sugar in it,” she suggests.
I push the cup away. “Nah. I’m not that bothered.”
She laughs. “Is that your go-to stance on everything? Tea? Your business? Meisie?”
“Suited me just fine so far.”
She shakes her head. “If you say so.”
I do say so.
I’m going to bed.
Sliding the chair out, I grab the full cup of tea and take it to the sink, but before I pour it away Sarah says, “Take it down to her.”
I turn around, cup still mid-fucking-air, and stare at her. “Aye good idea, Cupid. She’ll likely burn my fucking face off with it.”
She lets out a proper laugh now. “Well, is it any wonder? You’re the grumpiest fucker I’ve ever met.”
I laugh at her attempted assassination of my character. “I think she actually likes that about me.”
“She needs her head looked at then.”
Aye, I think she might need that too, but I also suspect she needed that long before she met me.
I put the cup down on the counter, tea intact. “Do you know something, Sarah? You’re actually alright.”
She shrugs. “I’m not ready to say the same about you yet.”
I fight my smile and look back at the cup of tea.
A peace offering.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MEISIE
Green. Green? What, like lime green? Forest green? Puke green?
Cillian doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy that comes up with elaborate pranks just for the sake of yelling out, “You got punked!” and then posting it to his Insta.
Still, I don’t know, I was convinced he was joking about the whole marriage thing. I mean…what the actual fuck?
Understandably, the color of my bridesmaid dresses should be the last fucking thing plaguing me right now, but it’s like my mind lost a wagon wheel and that’s where it got stuck.
Green.
I told him it was my favorite color.
He told me it was his favorite color too.
Now my bridesmaids will all be wearing green. But lime green, or like a pastel—?
I flinch when the metal door handle opens. Footsteps thump down the stairs.
Wow. Bestowed with his presence twice in one day? What a fucking honor.
Then my mind throws me a curveball because I can’t actually see who’s coming down the stairs. I assume it’s Cillian because I like to think I’m observant and I’d recognize his footsteps by now.
But what if it’s Cole?
I scramble into a sit and hug my legs to my chest. When Cillian turns the corner, my bones melt with relief. He’s holding a cup and saucer. It looks like a kiddy’s playset sized one in his massive hand. And for once his eyes aren’t on me—they’re on the cup. Making sure he doesn’t spill as he walks across the room to me.
Why you?
Why me?
Why couldn’t this be a normal fucking bedroom? Him a normal fucking guy? Me a normal—
Ha! I never was, never will be normal. That ship sailed years ago.
But I wish I had the imagination to pretend, even for a second, that the guy walking up to me with a cup of tea in his hands was my boyfriend, and not my captor.
Oh, wait. I almost forgot.
He’s my fucking fiancé.
Cillian looks up as he sets the cup down on the nightstand and suddenly he’s wearing a frown almost as deep as mine. “Brought you tea,” he says, but as if he’s now regretting the gesture.
And then he smiles. It’s an awkward, lopsided thing, but it’s a smile.
My eyes immediately dart to the cup. “I don’t want it,” I snap, scooting away over the bed.
He straightens, sighs, and scans the room like he’s looking for a handy exit.
Trust me, Cillian, there ain’t one.
“Look, Meisie...”
I don’t know what comes over me.
Maybe I’m still pissed at my mind playing tricks on me earlier. I know he was having fun with me in my blanket fort—I could see it in his eyes. And then something happened. It was like a switch went off in his head. Like that evil overlord brother of his pressed a button upstairs in his office and snatched away Cillian’s happiness. Yeah—some kind of alarm probably went off in his control center. Bam, Cillian’s telling me I will marry him.
Maybe it’s the fact that he dragged me upstairs and showed me off like a prize pony. I certainly felt like one when his slimy brother put his hands on me. And Cillian didn’t bother to stop him.
For all I know, Cole told Cillian to bring me this tea after putting something extra in it.
You know, something to take the edge off. To keep me complacent and submissive so Cole can come down here, tie me up, and do what his brother seems unwilling to do.
“Actually, it looks lovely,” I say. I crawl back over the bed, and Cillian steps away with a deepening frown as if he thinks I’m going to pounce on him again.
Oh no.
It was fucking obvious from the get-go, but I’ve come to realize there’s nothing I can do to physically hurt Cillian. He’s bigger and stronger and lacks…what is it again?
Oh yeah.
Empathy, the fucking psychopath.
But if he thinks I’m going to roll over and expose my soft little belly so he can rip me open and play with my guts, he’s got another thing coming.
I pick up the
cup and saucer and perch on the edge of the bed, inhaling the steam with a quiet, “Mmm.”
Cillian’s eyebrows draw together as he blatantly waits for the punchline.
Ha! Two can play this game.
I kick my feet a little. They don’t touch the ground—they barely ever do, and it used to piss me off but I’ve had close to two decades to get used to it.
“Think this will help me sleep?” I ask sweetly.
Cillian’s eyes narrow. “You don’t have to drink it,” he says.
I laugh. “That would be rude,” I say. “After all, I’m sure the drugs you put in here are expensive.”
I pour the tea onto the floor.
Cillian watches me without a flicker of emotion crossing his handsome face. And then he turns around and rips apart my blanket fort with a quiet, determined fury that takes my breath away.
By the time he’s done destroying my creation, I’m huddled back against the headboard and still trying to dig my way deeper into the foam.
I dropped the cup and saucer, but I doubt he even noticed.
Cillian scoops up the sheets and blankets and pillows, spins around, and tosses them at me. I manage to get my arms up, but I’m still drowned in linen. I claw my way out, but by that time Cillian’s already dragged the sofa back to its original spot against the opposite wall, yards of concrete between us.
He stretches out on the seat, not bothering to take off his shoes, and pulls out a packet of cigarettes.
The smell of that smoke only reaches me a minute later. By then I’ve managed to sort out the linens and pillows.
We sit staring at each from across the room as he smokes his cigarette.
And with each drag he takes, my heart shrivels up more and more.
I should have been able to stay wide awake with him staring at me, especially after how he destroyed my fort, but my eyes grow heavier and heavier with resignation. It doesn’t matter what I do. What plans I come up with. He’ll always get the better of me. Always be one step ahead.
Silly thoughts start littering my mind as I slip into a pseudo daydream.
Cillian and Cole watch me being fitted for a neon green wedding dress while, all around me, camera’s flash and reporters call out inane questions like, “How did you meet?”, “How many children will you have?”, and “When did you know it was true love?”
