The Punk and the Plaything (When Rivals Play #3) - B.B. Reid Page 0,30
never realized before how goddamn nosy she was. “That’s for me to know,” I taunted after finally meeting her baffled gaze. My fingers curled around Bechette’s elbow, and I pulled her aside, away from Four and Ever’s prying ears. I waited while she donned a pair of reading glasses and pulled a notepad and pen from the pocket of her apron before reciting the information she needed.
“5 Round Hill Lane.”
She peered at me over her thin frames. “Young man, that is an address. I need her waist, hips, and bust size.”
“She’s got perky B cups, a tiny waist that fits perfectly in my hands, and hips that are a little too narrow for all the babies she’s going to give me one day, but fuck, Ms. Martin, no one’s perfect.”
Bechette flipped her notebook closed before pinning me with her glare. “As I already explained, young man, I’m booked and have no time to do a fitting.”
“How much will it cost for you to make the time?”
“Much more than your mommy and daddy give you in allowance, sweetie.”
I didn’t say anything as I plucked the pen from her hand and wrote down a number. “You obviously don’t know who the fuck I am,” I teased when she gaped at the figure. “How soon can you get her fitted?”
MY ENCOUNTER WITH JAMIE WAS still heavy on my mind three days later. I’d spent the rest of the school day bare-assed and tugging on the ends of my skirt thanks to him. A whisper of wind was all it would have taken to make that day infinitely worse.
It was now Sunday morning. Mother’s Day, to be exact, and so far, my weekend had been blissful because it was Jamie-free. Usually, he’d find one way or another to establish his presence, often without even being present at all. It was like he never wanted me to forget the promise he made me nearly a year ago. He was back, and I was screwed.
“Barbette, you’re slouching,” my mother observed, cutting into my private thoughts. It was a wonder I was able to still have them. One day, I’d be just another Melissa Montgomery—a modern-day, real-life Stepford wife. It was an inevitable future, wasn’t it? Hearing my mother’s veiled command, I straightened and found it impossible. I was so on edge that my spine might as well have been a steel rod. “Is something wrong?”
Her tone was soft. Indulgent. Anyone might think she actually cared. The real concern, however, was that I’d embarrass my father. We were having breakfast with the Portlands at the Blackwood Manor, a private country club where only the haughtiest of rich assholes convened. It wasn’t enough to pay the hefty membership fee. You also needed a letter of recommendation from an active member. The Portlands had been my family’s sponsor before they fled Blackwood Keep and the scandal their daughter had caused.
Four and a half years ago, Olivia had attempted suicide, and despite the rampant rumors, no one knew why. Olivia had been destined for popularity and beauty, and for her, it had been enough. Until it wasn’t. No one noticed the light around her dimming until it was too late. Until she’d turned to her crush in a last-ditch effort and then realized Ever couldn’t fill that void.
I hadn’t seen my childhood friend in years, and truth be told, I wasn’t sure if I could call myself her friend. We’d been different and distant despite our parents pushing us together. Mine hadn’t approved of me pretending to be just another one of the boys and had hoped Olivia could unearth my more feminine side. Despite the fact that we shared zero interests, Olivia and I had become trusted allies.
Guilt was an impossible pill to swallow, but I grabbed my glass of water anyway and somehow refrained from gulping it down. I was only allowed the dainty sips my mother deemed appropriate of an up-and-coming socialite.
“No, mother. I’m having a lovely time.” I turned to Mr. Portland to avoid my father’s glare and offered him a charming smile. “Mr. Portland, will you be allowing my father a chance to win back some of the money you bested him out of last weekend?”
My parents and Mr. and Mrs. Portland chuckled. However, their response was stalled by their son approaching our table. Jason was dressed in the club required jacket and tie with slacks, and I knew instantly by the self-satisfied smirk that he’d heard my question. Most days, Jason couldn’t tell his