Benkinersophobia: I don't have a best friend.
Durga: Color me as surprised as a cheerleader being chased down by a man with a machete five minutes into a B-grade horror flick.
I snorted before gunning a response I knew would make her laugh.
Benkinersophobia: I’d do it for twenty.
Durga: Twenty better include dismemberment, too.
Unraveling the notes on my table, I prepped for the design meeting. One where I planned on confronting Emery Winthrop, my little liar, and endeavored to make her life as miserable as she’d made mine.
She reminded me of the rat I accused Rosco of being, and though I couldn’t extinguish her without pissing my brother off, I’d happily trap her inside a box she couldn’t escape with a smile on my face.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d learn where Gideon Winthrop was hiding in the process.
Fitting.
I was the downfall of my family, and she would be the downfall of hers.
The morning after seeing Nash again came on the same day as the apocalypse. No floods full of dead marine life. No falling skies. No ground opening up and swallowing me whole. That would be too easy.
Ben leaned forward to kiss me, his nose nuzzled into the nape of my neck.
He whispered words of platitude. “Kiss me, Durga.”
When he leaned back, it wasn’t a faceless avatar I saw, but pitch-black hair and cruel hazel eyes.
Nash.
“Pathetic,” he drawled out, tracing my collarbone with the tips of his fingers.
I panted.
Needy.
Desperate.
Craving him.
Wetter.
He flicked my nose and tutted. “You don’t come before I do.”
Nash was straddling me, a leg on each side, not bothering to hold up his weight. He pulled himself out of his jeans and jerked off onto my chest. He was as long as I remembered him, thick with two veins I yearned to lick running down the sides of his cock.
Long ropes of cum shot onto my face and breasts, and I came with him, crying out his name as if I owned it.
“Nash!” I screamed it out, like I’d had a nightmare.
When I opened my eyes, I laid alone in the closet. Dark. Empty. Heaving for breaths. No Nash, just me and a brand-new stain on my tattered sheets between my legs.
Hunger whipped a hurricane in my stomach. Dizziness pinched at my vision until I coaxed myself back to sleep.
Two more hours until the meeting. You can do this, Em.
Two more hours to go without food. Maybe there’d be a breakfast spread at the meeting.
My plan had been to eat the crackers I’d stolen from the party, but Nash had taken them all, along with my wallet. Ironic, considering Nash used to be the person to feed me when Mother refused to.
“And so the savior becomes the villain,” I whispered to the dark room.
The Polaroid of stars in my wallet was the one thing that reminded me of Dad that didn’t immediately make me hate him.
The golden tiger on the back was supposed to be me.
A warrior.
A survivor.
A fighter who never backed down.
But after a slew of death threats post-Winthrop Scandal, I’d written, “ride me” in angry bold letters on the bottom, a reminder that the tiger wasn’t a warrior.
The tiger was ridden.
By Dionysus.
By Durga.
Dionysus and Durga were the god and goddess.
They were warriors.
And the tiger? Nothing but a glorified pet.
The pictures of Reed and Teddy Grieger’s card served as untainted memories of my childhood. Snapped in Polaroid, a series of smudged ink and blurry pixels. Moments I didn’t know were valuable until they’d already become faded memories.
On the days I felt small, I looked at those pictures and reminded myself that I might be one person, but I was also a thousand memories, a million feelings, and infinite love.
I was immeasurable.
Now someone owned the Winthrop Estate, which meant someone owned all my memories.
And Nash had stolen the only ones I had left.
I didn’t know who was worse.
The faceless monster or the monster I knew.
On top of the fucked-up wet dream starring some warped hybrid of Nash and Ben, I woke up a second time to a piercing hangover and an email from Mother. One I actually replied to—the second sign of the apocalypse.
I idled around, flicking lint off the blanket, looking up unique words on my dictionary app, refolding some shirts in my worn cardboard box, replaying memories of Nash in the elevator, and sewing up the hole that had formed on the curve of my Converse.
Anything to put off reading it.
I caved after twenty minutes and pulled up my email app, already knowing I’d hate whatever she had to say. I always did.
Subject: Exciting News
Emery,
I am writing to request your presence at brunch on the fourth of July weekend. I have happy news to share, and I would like to do it in person. The country club has reserved a table for us. I expect you to be there exactly at noon. Do not be late. I will not have you embarrassing me again.
I realize you possess an aversion to Eastridge, a weakness that has never sat well with me. It’s time you get over yourself and think about others. Your Uncle Balthazar has been dying to see you. He asks about you often.
The other women at the club whisper about your absence. It makes me look like a terrible mother. We both know I am not. You have become a stain on my reputation. You can make it up to me by showing up on time, dressed appropriately for brunch—and for goodness sake, do something about your hair.
I can have Darynda ship you a brush if the need arises, or you can simply accept poverty is as disgusting as it sounds and dip into your trust fund. I’ll allow it if you follow my conditions. Return home, find a suitable husband, and stop embarrassing me.
In case you decide to be selfish, remember I know all your secrets, Emery Rhodes. If you do not show up on the fourth, I have every intention of revealing your new name to the press. I look forward to seeing you soon.
With love,
Virginia, Chairwoman
Eastridge Junior Society
Why did anything regarding Mother make me feel like I’d been dropped off in a jungle to fend for myself, armed with a designer handbag and six-inch heels?
I scraped my teeth against my bottom lip, pretending it was food. Maybe my stomach would get the message and swallow me whole. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, wondering how to reply to the email.
The threat.
I didn’t think she would dox me, but Virginia Rhodes also wasn’t a fan of idle threats. Even if my poverty and unkempt hair embarrassed her, she would rather suffer Eastridge’s rumor mill running rampant about my new name and appearance than not have her way.
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