Page 42 of His Pretty Little Duet

I wish I understood him.

But I doubt a girl like me has any business understanding a man like him.

"Mine?"

Fuck me.

I gave him something today.

Invincible.My mother was wrong. Falling for someone does not make you feel invincible; it makes you feel the opposite: fragile, transparent, cut open.

Quite frankly, the feeling sucks.

"Why am I in this?" I shake my head to see if the girl in the mirror can be controlled by my mind. She can.

"They have guests over tonight. I won't be here for it. It's closed house, so only certain staff are invited." Her voice is a little tight, as though her words are being forced out when they don't want to be uttered at all. "Doesn't matter," she chirps quickly. "It'll be boring anyway. I went to a function with my dad once when he won a medal, and the President of Australia was there, so these things don't really impress me much," she says, turning to grab the matching shoes from the dresser. Her high-pitched tone, tight smile, and quick evasive movements betray her entire nonchalance.

"You mean the prime minister, right? We don't have a president," I say, wishing I hadn't because she freezes like I just pulled a loose string, and she's about to tumble into a heap of messy yarn on the floor.

She shrugs. "Yeah, the prime minister. Not very impressive at all."

I decide not to pull any more string. "Well, the whole thing, him, the house...everythingimpresses me," I say. "I've never even been in a store that sells clothes like this."

Dropping to the floor to help me put the small shimmery ballet flats on, she mutters, "You'll have only the most beautiful clothes, the best food, the whole royal service while you're here. Your dad is loaded, too." She stands, smiling that tight, almost false smile that I dislike so very much. Now it's all I can see. "You're like Cinderella."

She's jealous, I think.

Great, another one.

I haven't really had many female friends, having moved often. That, at least, is my excuse for other females not being drawn to me. Truth is, something about me evokes scowls and sneers instead of greetings. I may have had more conversations with her than any other girl... ever. And, well, she's being paid to hang out with me, so I'm not sure this relationship can be considered a kind of friendship.

I doubt it.

Still, it's what I'd like.

I grip her hand, and her brows draw in. "I'm not Cinderella. She becomes a princess. I'm the pumpkin. At the stroke of midnight"—I touch my lower stomach—"It'll all be over."

My own words sadden me, knowing them to be true, contradictory to the feelings I have. Hopeful. For me, not just for the kid inside me. It's silly. The last time I thought someone cared, that someone might want me as their own.

Well, that person is dead.

I'm the pumpkin.

She squeezes my fingers, her eyes softening on mine, her smile relaxing. Honest. A little sheepish. I like that smile. I feel like it matches mine. "Well, you better make the most of it then, Pumpkin. I'm probably wrong. Clay Butcher is way richer than thepresidentanyway. I bet it will be impressive."

I don’t know why I'm invited, why I am wearing this pretty dress, or what to expect. A familiar sensation—Paranoia—creeps into my mind.

I'm on show again.

The monkey, right?

What does he get out of having me here? I want to trust his intensions—a rich man extending the hand of hospitality for a friend's daughter... I snort inwardly, because even if it startedout like that, I doubt part of that generous offer was to help her experience her first-ever orgasm.

The betrayals I've endured at the ignorant hands of my mother, the bitter hands of my foster mother, the police... my foster brothers, have culminated in a kind of thick fog that sits forever in my mind. So, trust from me is as rare as the loyalty I have endured from the people in my world.

"Time to go," Jasmine says, cutting into my thoughts.

Nodding stiffly, I stroll slowly from the bedroom with my paranoia biting at my heels.

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