Page 22 of The Alpha's Assistant & The Dom Next Door
Then there are the dreams I have about him ... but I’m not going to go dwelling onthemin front of my parents’ grave. Still, I giggle a little. “I think you would likehim.”
“Like who?” snaps a voice behind me, and I freeze. The voice is a little distant, and I hear the shuffle of feet coming up through the dead grass.Shayla.I shudder and clench my fists to calm myself, glad at least that she wasn’t standing behind me listening the whole time I was lost in my talk with thedead.
“None of your business,” I say as firmly as I can, cursing the tiny shake I can hear in my voice as she stalks around me and dumps an enormous bouquet atop the mausoleum. Purple monkshood clashes gaudily with orange lilies, hot pink snapdragons, and blood-colored rhododendron, crowding out my simple garland of whiteroses.
“I can’t believe you’re up here talking to a couple of corpses in a marble box. They’re fucking dead, you melodramatic twit. Life after death is a myth, just like yourGod.”
I hold myself very still, the anger and resentment I’ve felt for as long as I can remember burning inside of me like an ember. I won’t give her the satisfaction of breaking down in front of her, or of losing my temper. Either reaction will leave that narcissistic cow thinking she’s incontrol.
“Emmeline, can you hear me, or did your shrink put you on more tranquilizers?” Her voice is a mocking whine as she turns to confrontme.
I straighten, lifting my head, and meet her sharp, dark gaze with my own. My sister looks older and crueler every time I see her. Her mouth is a narrow, dry slit thinly lined in dark red, her eyes are sunken and hold a greedy gleam, and her straight, russet-bronze hair—so like my own—has been clipped to her jawline and streaked withgold.
She wears a silk suit the exact color of her lipstick, with no blouse underneath, her silicone-enhanced cleavage tastelessly exposed. On the whole, she’s wearing too much musky perfume and too much gold, too many jewels, and not one single indication of grief or loss. That’s my big sister: making wealthy, slutty sociopathy fashionableagain.
She seems absolutely stunned by my mute, expressionless examination of her. She doesn’t understand just how done with her I am. She never has been able to understand boundaries; even when my father would shout at her at the top of his lungs for her latest round of household thefts, she’d always claim he was “overreacting.” She’s immune fromguilt.
But she’s absolutely unused to my standing up toher.
“Shayla, I’ve put up with a lot of your shit over the years, but I refuse to do it at our parents’ grave. Knock it off, or we’re done forgood.”
She’s blinking very rapidly now, her vain, narrow little mind struggling to process where my show of backbone has come from. The thing is, I always had a backbone; I just wasn’t confrontational. I was shy and kindinstead.
Instead of punching my sister in the face when she stole my clothes and ruined them, or was cruel to me at school, I turned the other cheek, and prayed, and felt better. I listened to my apologetic parents trying to explain to me thatShayla is sick, thatshe can’t help herself, and that I had to be strong. I did as they asked, for the sake of familyharmony.
But then my parents’ car exploded with them in it, and me just steps away from joining them. If I hadn’t gone back for my phone, I would have died withthem.
Shayla didn’t visit me in the hospital. She greeted me without warmth or sympathy when I returned. Instead, upon hearing that I wasn’t going to join a convent like I had planned, she drove me out of our family home, claiming it forherself.
Her ways of driving me out were very effective, making sure that I couldn’t stay, no matter how much I wanted to. Banging on my door at all hours of the night. Breaking into my room. Stealing and breaking my things. Screaming at me and lecturing me every day, sometimes forhours.
I left as soon as I could gather enough of my inheritance together to pay for my new home in cash. That was months ago, and the venom still hasn’t left my veins. Instead, it’s killed my ability to give a single damn about being nice toShayla.
“I can’t believe you! How rude can you be? Telling me to shut up! I’m only saying these things for your owngood—”
“You came into this conversation being the biggest bitch you could be, and now you’re hurt that I’m not happy to see you?” I snort, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear that have escaped my braid. “Drop the act. Nobody’s ever happy to see you, Shayla, because you’re a soullessbitch.”
“When in the hell did the aspiring nun take up swearing?” she finally manages to mumble. She sounds incredulous, as if I’ve suddenly sprouted a pair of devilhorns.
“I’m not an aspiring nun anymore,” I growl, scooping up my shoulder bag and turning togo.
“Wait, wait! We have to talk about finances!” She starts to move to intercept me, but I step quickly away from her and stalk off down the hill. My Doc Martens have better purchase on the slippery hillside than her stiletto heels, and I hear her yelp with dismay as she falls behind. “Come back here, you rude littlebitch!”
I’m cold all over by the time I reach my pickup, but I refuse to let the tears fall. My grief curdles my stomach, but I won’t take even the slightest chance that Shayla might catch me crying. If she finds me in tears, she willlaugh.
Through the rage, I feel an unexpected surge of pride in how I’m handling this.I actually stood up to her.It was bitter, mean, and clumsy, but I didit.
I don’t even let myself wonder why she’s trying to talk to me about money—except, of course, that it’s the thing she loves best in the world. Maybe she’s after my half of the inheritance. She’s always been jealous of anything my parents gave me—includinglife.
When I was little, I used to try so hard to get Shayla to like me. I used to cry with frustration over it, and that would make her laugh with delight at how hard I was trying, even though I alwaysfailed.
Now, as I drive home in uncharacteristically thin New Orleans traffic, I think to myself that the only effort she’ll be getting from me from now on is the bare minimum it takes to keep me from beating her physically and landing in jail. A tiny, heartbroken part of me, the part that realizes that Shayla is the only family I have left in the world now that Mom and Dad are gone, knows that I should hurt unbearably. But instead, the whole encounter has just left me very, verytired.
When I pull up in front of the stately white home with its double wraparound porches and iron railings, I have to take a breath for a moment before pulling into the driveway. But the tall iron gates open automatically at my truck’s approach, and I drive inside,unchallenged.
Once I’ve parked the truck in the open carport, I walk inside ... and feel a wave of relief wash over me.Alone. Alone in my own home, which I bought with my own money, in a safe neighborhood far from mysister.
How wonderful not to have to share a space with her after those months of psychological warfare. Maybe next time I see her, I should say goodbye for good, and lift the weight of knowing her from my heart forever. It won’t make up for my losses, but it will sure make my lifeeasier.
