Page 9 of His Pretty Little Duet

She can't know him that well. She's young. "You're my age? How long have you worked for them?"

"Since I dropped out of high school, so like, three years. I'm a maid, usually, but this is just for now because I need something to do. But I suppose he wanted someone your age to be with you. See, that was thoughtful. Sort of."

I nod, liking that I didn't wake up alone in here, but still unsettled given she's sitting on the bed with me. "So you're being paid to just hang out with me?"

"I'm being paida lotto hang out with you."

Not a bad gig.

My hollow stomach contracts, a groan reaching out, the sound outward and loud. A blush hits my cheeks."Hunger is unbecoming."My foster mother's words sound in my ears.

"You're hungry," she says, jumping to her feet, eager to act. "You missed dinner. What do you want?"

"I'm fine," I say, the gurgle of my stomach fighting against my words, rendering them lies dangling in the air. "Okay, sorry. Iamhungry, but I don't want to eat his food."

She clicks the side lamp on, lighting the room further, allowing my eyes visibility. She shimmies her slippers on. "Don't be silly. You're a guest. Want ice cream?"

I slide from the mattress, looking down and seeing I'm in the same shirt and jeans, reminding me that I really should go back to the motel and collect my things. I adjust my clothes because the material feels rough compared to the luxurious, soft sheets I was touching with my fingers. "Ice cream?"

"Yeah! You're pregnant, though. Do you feel like ice cream? Or cake. They have the best cakes downstairs. I sneak slices when I'm on the late shift, cleaning up after a party or something." Her bright eyes and beaming smile cause the corner of my lips to twitch upwards and a flake of excitement to settle inside me. I lock away my wariness.

"Yeah. Cake sounds amazing."

"Cool." She twists around, bounding towards the door. "I'll go get us some."

"Wait," I blurt out, stepping towards her and the door. "Can I come?"

"Ah..." She pauses, her eyes wide in thought. "I don't see why not. Everyone is asleep anyway. It's past midnight." I trail her from the room, and she makes a little hmm sound in her throat. "Looks like Bolton has ducked out. I thought I'd have to convince him to let us go to the kitchen."

I sneak after her down the shadowy hallway where most of the lights are off or dim. The walls are bare, with not a picture frame in sight, no indoor trees or ornaments.

Twisting around to view the direction we came from, I see several doors heading in that direction. We turn and she descends a wide staircase with another hallway continuing in the opposite direction. I would most definitely get lost if I were alone.

At the bottom of the stairs, we take a door behind them, and Jasmine flicks a switch. The room comes to life under the strip lights on the ceiling.Woah.It's a kitchen. A large commercial-style kitchen, set in chrome, sterling silver, glass, and white splashback tiles. Nothing like the small kitchenette in my foster family's house, but I suppose that is to be expected as I imagine Mr Butcher has a full house of staff.

His staff probably have staff.

I stay by the door as she bounces towards the double fridge. Gripping a cake box, she appears, bringing it towards me. She cuts two pieces and then lifts herself onto the workbench, sitting up there and taking a bite. "Come have some. It's orange and macadamia."

I slide up beside her, eagerly grabbing a slice of cake and taking a bite. My tastebuds burst under the sweet and tart flavours, the playful but delicate tones. "Fuck, this is so good. I feel like we're being naughty or something."

"Nah. Bolton has a camera on him at all times, so he knows we are in the kitchen and Mr Butcher told me to make sure you eat, and, anyway, I can get away with pretty much anything." She takes another bite, talking around her mouthful. "So, you're trying to find your dad? Why? Because you're knocked-up?"

Her lack of a filter only brings a bright smile to my lips, liking the friendly, no-bullshit approach she has with me. We share this flaw in tactfulness. I stare at the cake, wishing I could createsomething this magnificent. Wish I had a skill. Wish I was worth more than my appearance."You may feel good about yourself now, while you're young and pretty, but when you're my age, you'll be nothing."The bitter words of my foster mother fill my mouth with bile, the truth in them hard to keep down. I'm not good for much, not good enough to be a mother, that's for sure. I won't let this baby struggle with me through life like my mother did, and I can't let it be raised by the system like I was after her suicide. So, giving Dustin the baby makes sense... "I want to give Dustin the baby. I can't look after it. I'm not made of the right stuff to be a mother."

"What about the father?" she asks, finishing her slice and staring longingly at the remaining wedge, her internal debate clear in her eyes. "Doesn't he want the kid?"

The reverie of an old black-and-white television show flickers behind my eyes, provoking my heart to shudder, to move low into the pit of my stomach with the surprise baby and the delicious cake. Benji... I want to say it's Benji's. That the baby was made in a loving moment, but then she might ask questions. Want details. Then I would have to lie, and I've twisted the truth enough today. I'm exhausted by the weight of all my omissions. "I don't know who the father is. Not for sure," I admit, taking another bite, filling my mouth with more joy and coating the bile with sweetness. The wordslutis probably echoing in her ears.

"Oh." She dusts the sugary shaving from her fingers. My confession thickens the air, an awkward silence hangs between us.

Slut. Slut. Slut.

"What about you?" I say, finishing my slice before sliding off the countertop, needing action and a distraction from, well,slut.Cringing inwardly, I walk to the fridge and open the door. As the frosty air radiates out, I ask, "What's your story?"

"My story? Where do I start?" She laughs, before bouncing to her feet, outwardly indifferent to my predicament. I sigh my relief. "I have so many stories to tell. My parents are always travelling for business," she says. "They are really important. I've been to almost every country with them. But when I turned eighteen, I wanted to experience something real. I'm sick of stuffy galas, ya know?"

I blink at her. "Um...Sure.I know."

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