The Rush (The Siren Series) - By Rachel Higginson Page 0,11

and then turned my back on her.

I walked over to our immaculate eat-in kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water out of the stainless steel fridge. I noticed a note on the counter from the cleaning lady and had to grip the counter to keep from rolling my eyes. I hated everything about this apartment, about our clothes, about our possessions…. about our lifestyle.

It was honestly disgusting.

“Ivy, ladies don’t say ‘sucked,’” my mother chastised.

“I apologize,” I mumbled. I forced myself to turn around and face her. It took a huge effort on my part and an even greater effort to look in her forest green eyes without cowering. I was her spitting image, it was our strong genes that kind of took over any mixing of DNA and molded us into replicas of each other. One day if I had a daughter of my own she would be just another carbon copy of me. Good thing I would never, ever, ever have children. That was so not in my life plan.

“So, tell me about your first day back,” my mother asked with way too much enthusiasm.

“Why are you so dressed up?” I deflected. We were supposed to have dinner together tonight. I wouldn’t be all that upset about the loss of mother-daughter bonding time but I was terrified for whatever man had to put up with my mother for the rest of the evening.

And possibly through the morning.

“Oh, right,” my mother sighed looking down at her ensemble as if she just realized how dressed up she was. Her eyes darted around the room never quite reaching my face. “Uh, Nix is in town. He has some sort of business thing tonight and we’re going to dinner first.”

My fingers found the edge of the granite counter again and I instinctively dug in, gripping it tightly until the pads of my fingers started to tingle with numbness. I concentrated on my breathing, steadying my ragged breaths and forcing myself to remain calm. I had to remain aloof; I needed to keep the perfect disguise of cool indifference. I couldn’t let her see my fear, or my anxiety, or any of the other hundreds of emotions spinning like a self-destructive tornado inside me.

“Are you meeting him somewhere or is he coming here?” I ground out, barely keeping the bite of anger out of my tone.

“He’s coming here,” my mother said slowly. She was watching me carefully, her eyes sweeping the length of me, waiting for me to fall apart again.

But I would never fall apart again.

I learned my lesson the first time. I couldn’t be real anymore. I couldn’t show anything beyond the plastic casing I wrapped myself tightly in or they would know; they would see something immediately.

And I would have to pay.

Eighteen. Trust fund. Two years. Breathe. Just breathe.

“He wants to see you,” my mother continued. Her smiled tightened just a fraction into a practiced ease that meant that she felt the volatility of the moment as acutely as I did.

“Good,” I breathed carelessly. “I want to see him too.”

My stomach started twisting in the aftereffects of my lies. I felt lightheaded and dangerously close to trembling. I could not let her see me struggle for calm. She had to believe I was relaxed, or at least as resigned to the situation as she told me I had to be.

“Good,” she smiled wider, her expression becoming natural once again.

The twisting got worse until bile was rising in the back of my throat. I turned my back on her, my fingers instantly finding the counter again and digging in until the edge cut into my skin and I could have winced from pain.

“Why don’t you change then, he shouldn’t see you so…. disheveled,” she remarked callously. “What did you do? Spill on yourself today? I saw a boy drop you off earlier, I’m surprised he took any interest while you looked like that.”

I held in my gasp of indignation. It was just my shirt, my dark shirt that barely showed any signs of stains, that was ruined. Something in the room was slowly sucking out all of the oxygen leaving me lightheaded and disoriented.

I gasped for breath.

I needed to hold it together.

I couldn’t lose it.

Not again.

“I spilled coffee,” I explained in my practiced patience. “I’ll go change. When will he be here?”

“Soon, sweetie. Why don’t you wear that new red dress I bought you?” she suggested.

I paused for a moment near tears. “I don’t have to go with you, do I? I’m