Twisted Affair: The Complete Series Box Set (4 page)

“Would I do that?” I smiled and blinked, all innocence.

She raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain a stern look that didn't last more than a few seconds before she laughed. I loved making her laugh. It reminded me of her as a child, before everything bad happened, back when she had been as happy and carefree as I still was. After we had been sent to the orphanage, she had changed. She’d taken it upon herself to ensure she had the means to care for us both. She studied rather than played, taught herself everything she could learn, searched for every opportunity to make it. She hadn't even wanted to be a model, but the money had been too good to pass up. She had known it would be our best chance of getting to the United States. Girls like us, if we didn't have the money to come, ended up in a sweatshop or worse. We were pretty enough to be mail order brides, as we had been told more than once, but we knew that the chances of that ending well were not good. Modeling had been risky enough. I had offered to do it instead, but she had refused, saying I was her responsibility.

I had told her more than once that I didn't need her to care for me, that I was quite capable of caring for myself, but she always put me first. I tried to return the favor, but she never allowed it. I wanted, more than anything, for her to be able to live her dreams. Unfortunately, there was only one thing that I knew she wanted. From a young age, the only thing she had ever truly wanted to do was design clothes. And that, I knew, was not a realistic dream.

Livie was talented. She had designed clothes in the orphanage for all the children, reusing the material from the government-issued drab uniforms we had all been given. While nothing had been able to make those things stylish, Livie had managed to make them more bearable. She had tried to pitch her designs to the people she modeled for, but they had never wanted to hear it. It had been her job to stand there and look beautiful, not to think.

That was part of the problem, I supposed. In Europe, she hadn't been just a pretty face. She had been an orphan, a ward of the state as was the common term here. We had all been educated, but no one ever truly saw kids like us as the kind who would contribute to society in any true way. In America, I had hoped things would be different, but I saw that while some of the details may have been different, the results were generally the same. It always made me angry when people assumed that because we had accents, we were unintelligent. Okay, so I hadn't done well in school, but I wasn't stupid. Livie, however, was brilliant. She had gotten straight A's and was even looking into online or night courses to receive a business degree. No one worked harder than my sister.

I just worried that this was something that couldn't be accomplished by sheer determination and hard work. There were many types of occupations that relied more on who you knew, how much money you had or who you were willing to sleep with to get ahead than they did on real talent. I had seen enough American movies to know this to be true. The fashion industry was similar. I loved my adopted country, but there were plenty of people who looked down on foreigners – ironic, I had always thought – as well as those who had more respect for those who had been born into money than those who worked hard to earn it.

“Do you ever wish we had not come here?” I asked Livie, curious.

“No,” she answered immediately. “We needed a fresh start, away from the bad memories.”

“We could have gone anywhere in Europe,” I pointed out. “Paris is known for its fashion, and you had liked it.”

Livie frowned. “As is New York. And that’s where I want to work.”

“But we do not live in New York.” I pressed the matter. “Perhaps, instead of working as a bartender here, we should move to the city and find work there.”

Livie shook her head. “We have discussed this. Philadelphia is the best location. Close enough to New York that travel is easy, but less expensive for us to live, which means more money to finance my studio.”

Ah, yes, the studio. My sister and I had talked about it many times. She was convinced that she could rent a studio and start making her own clothes, fine dresses and evening wear. Perhaps even wedding gowns at some point. She had an entire business plan that if I knew anything about business, I was sure would look impressive. Then again, none of the banks she had gone to seemed to think she was a good investment.

I climbed off the bed and wrapped my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. “I just do not want to see you hurt.”

“I know.” She squeezed me once before releasing me and stepping away.

I tried not to take it personally. Livie not only didn't smile like she had as a child, she rejected most forms of physical contact. She didn't freak out or anything like that, she just didn't like physical shows of affection. She had when we were kids, before our parents had died. I still remembered us racing to our father when he'd come home from work, competing to see who would get to him first. She had won more often than not and he would pick her up, spinning her around until she was shrieking with laughter. I missed that.

“I do not want to be late,” she said.

The way she worried about her appearance and promptness, one would think she had a job in some prestigious office and not serving alcohol to entitled rich kids. I'd thought she'd been joking when she'd told me where she'd gotten a job. I hadn't been able to imagine my reserved, serious sister being any good at bartending. I hadn't taken into account that her desire to be the best at whatever she did overcame all other personality traits. I'd asked her once, a couple weeks after she'd gotten the job, how she did it. How did she make small talk and act friendly enough to get the generous tips she brought home? Her answer was simple. She said she merely asked herself what I would do in that situation, and as long as it wasn't sleeping with someone or burning down the bar, she went with it. I sometimes considered sneaking in to watch her work if only to see her behave in such an uncharacteristic way.

“I am closing tonight, so do not wait up,” she said. “Behave.” She pointed a finger at me and raised her eyebrows. “And re-make my bed.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Yes, Livie.” Older sisters could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. But I wouldn't trade her for the world.

Chapter 5

Blayne

The sun had already set when I stepped outside and the late January wind had a bit of bite to it. I rarely paid attention to the weather report most of the year, but during the winter, I generally checked it going into the weekend.

When I was twenty, I'd ended up getting snowed in with a stage-one clinger who'd thought that because I couldn't drive home through a foot and a half of snow, I wanted to marry her. I'd eventually ended up wading through snow up to my knees and about froze my balls off just to get away from her. After that, I'd made sure that if a storm was coming, my plans involved booze and drugs, not sex. I'd rather be left getting myself off than go through that insanity again.

I got into my car and headed back into the city without any real idea of where I wanted to go. I'd expected dinner to go badly enough that I'd want some sort of outlet when it was done, but I'd figured I'd either make a play to get my 'fiancee' in bed or go to a club to find an easy hook up. Maybe even see if Angelique was working again. Fidelity couldn't be expected in an arranged marriage, especially during the engagement period.

Not that it mattered now. I'd successfully torpedoed that. There was no way the Stirlings would let me anywhere near their daughter after what I'd said about how they treated her. For Rebecca's sake, I hoped her parents got their heads out of their asses. I was starting to wonder if her brother had taken off for Europe just because of a woman. Family sure made running away seem like a viable option.

If I hadn't thought my parents would cut me off, I would've headed straight for the airport and bought the first ticket to a decent city. Part of me was still tempted. I could clean out my bank account and put as much on my credit cards as possible before my dad figured out what I was doing. Then I remembered that I had a cap on how much money I could withdraw at one time and in a twenty-four hour period. Dad had added that safety precaution a year ago when I'd taken out five thousand dollars one night and blow it all on a three day bender. I was pretty sure I'd even gone to Atlantic City at some point, but things had gotten pretty blurry after the first day.

I drove down to the part of the city that had the best clubs and pulled into a parking space. I sighed. I wasn't really in the mood to be at a club. Dancing, talking, none of that sounded very appealing at the moment. I knew if I went into a club, I'd inevitably be fending off passes. I wasn't arrogant, just truthful. I'd never gone into a place where I hadn't had at least one woman try to slip me her number and as much as I didn't want to go home alone tonight, I didn't feel like the work it would take to get a woman to go with me.

Why did it have to be so hard anyway? Not getting their attention, but getting laid. Why couldn't I just see some hot woman, walk up to her, tell her I wanted to fuck her brains out and take her somewhere private? There were some women like that, I knew, but most of them at least wanted a drink, wanted to flirt. A lot of them wanted to show me off too. They wanted the other women in the club to see me, wanted the other men to know they couldn't be touched. Normally, I liked that kind of back and forth, or at least didn't mind it as long as it got the woman hot and bothered. Tonight, I just wasn't in the mood. Even if I went to
Exotica
to see if Angelique or one of the other girls were there, I'd have to put some effort into it.

I didn't want to make an effort tonight. In fact, all I wanted to do was get pass-out drunk so I wouldn't have to think about tomorrow. Dad was going to be pissed I wasn't answering my phone so he could force me to come over and lay into me about what I'd done.

I looked around. Clubs were out, but a bar might be nice. Not something big where there would be a lot of people. No, I wanted something out of the way. The kind of place where I could sit at the bar, drown my problems and not have to talk to anyone but the bartender.

Finally, I spotted it. Tucked into a corner on a side street, I could just make out the sign.
Frankie's
. It looked like as good a place as any. I zipped up my coat and climbed out of the car. The walk wasn't very far, but by the time I got there, it felt like the temperature had dropped a couple degrees. It looked like the weatherman had been right and today was the last nice day we'd have for a while.

I stepped inside, rubbing my hands together and wishing I'd had enough sense to wear gloves. I looked around and no one really looked back. There were a couple glances, but then attention turned back to drinks or companions. Perfect.

I walked up to the bar and took a seat at the end. I had a couple bar stools between me and the next person, which was good too. No one trying to start drunken conversations either. The place seemed to have the perfect number of people. Enough so that I didn't stand out, but not so many that it was crowded. And then I saw the bartender and thought that maybe the night wouldn't be a complete waste after all.

She was smoking hot. Like model hot, but not so skinny that she looked like a skeleton. She was tall, easily close to six feet, and slender, but her fine features said it was her natural build. Her breasts were a little above average and I was pretty sure they were real. Most women who got boob jobs wore extremely tight and low-cut shirts to show off their purchase. This one was tastefully dressed in a fitted sweater that hugged her curves but didn't exploit them. Her dress pants did the same, giving me a view of a tight ass and long legs. She wore her hair in a ponytail, which I thought was strangely attractive and her make-up was light, barely noticeable. She had none of the overdone look that a lot of women tending bar had, nor was she the leather and tattooed type. The more that I looked at her, the more I thought she'd be better placed in a school or library than a bar.

“May I help you?”

Shit. She had the sexiest accent. European of some kind. I wasn't sure exactly what. Russian maybe? I could also see that her eyes were a deep, rich green. She was fucking gorgeous. Maybe I would end up taking someone home tonight after all.

“I'm sure you can.” I gave her my most charming smile.

The smile she returned was polite, but not flirtatious. Her response – or rather the lack of one – caught me off guard. I'd come in here to avoid having to do any sort of work to get laid, but the fact that the bartender hadn't even reacted to my smile piqued my curiosity.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked.

“Surprise me,” I said and leaned forward, my elbows resting on the bar. “Whatever you give me, I'll take.”

Not even a blush or the hint of a real smile. Maybe she didn't understand the innuendo.

“Do you want what is on tap or something stronger?” She half turned toward the back shelves, giving me another angle of that great body.

“Stronger,” I said. “It's been a rough day.”

She nodded in response and pulled up a shot glass. A moment later, she retrieved a bottle from the middle shelf. Smart, I thought. She didn't automatically assume I could afford the top shelf, but she didn't try to give me the cheap stuff either. I may not have ever tended bar, but I'd drank at enough of them to recognize the wisdom of what she'd done. Maybe the reason she hadn't responded to my comments wasn't because she didn't have a firm grasp on the language, but rather because she was too intelligent to find it charming. Definitely not a typical bartender, or typical of the women I usually hit on.