As soon as I arrived at the apartment, I practically ripped off the clothes I had come to despise. It felt so liberating to be naked. When I looked at myself, at how my figure had developed, I grew even angrier. Once I had wondered if I would ever be pretty, attractive, and exciting to boys. Now I knew that I was head and shoulders above most of the girls in my class, and yet I had to hide it. Even Richard, the shyest, sweetest boy I knew at school, avoided me. How ironic all this was.

I lived with my sister, who had to be beautiful and sexy, who had to be someone men were proud to have beside them, men who wore her like some expensive piece of jewelry, the trophy girl who made them the target of other men’s envy. And then there was me.

I had to be the exact opposite, hidden in my room, gagged and tied and shut behind doors. I couldn’t have sexual feelings, fantasize about any boy, or dream about a wonderful love affair. I couldn’t look at any boy with interest or smile or flirt. Alarms would sound. Fingers would begin pointing. What everyone expected would occur. I would show that I was the sister of Fleur du Coeur, a budding second flower drawing the innocent to peer between her blossoms and then, like a Venus flytrap, close around them and steal away their reputations, corrupting them forever.

When Roxy first said I would live with her, I had felt a surge of excitement come into my body. I was going to be permitted to enter her exotic and glamorous world. I was going to learn about real life and be freer than ever, living in an expensive hotel, going to the finest restaurants, wearing the most exciting clothes. Merely walking with her on the street would make me feel special.

But instead, I had put myself in a different kind of prison. I was more restricted than I had been under Papa’s stern supervision. I had to laugh to myself thinking about his reaction now. He forbade my knowing Roxy. He was always afraid that I would turn out to be too much like her, but here I was, because of her, being almost the exact opposite. I’d probably have more of a normal teenage girl’s life if I had gone to live with Uncle Orman and Aunt Lucy.

I couldn’t help being bitter about it. What would I become? Where would I eventually go? What kind of romantic life would I ever experience? Would transferring to a new school, even a public school, really make a difference? What would happen if someone there also discovered whom I was living with? How fast would the stories spread? How quickly would boys, maybe one I fancied, start to look at me as no one to have a relationship with but only someone with whom to have a one-night stand?

Once Roxy was my forbidden sister.

Now I was the forbidden girl.

One night a few weeks later, I put on my robe and sat on my bed feeling sorry for myself, mumbling like some bag lady on the street. It was a school night. I had plenty of homework to keep me busy and help me avoid thinking about all of this, but I was in a foul mood. Defiance washed over me. I rose and went out to Roxy’s bar and poured myself half a glass of straight vodka. It was the one hard liquor I had drunk and, in smaller amounts, enjoyed, especially with some fruit juice. Tonight I wanted the buzz faster and longer. I sat at the bar and sipped it, and then I put on some music.

I hadn’t spoken to Roxy since the night before. She had overslept, and I had left for school without seeing her in the morning. She hadn’t left me any notes when I came home, telling me about where she was or what she was doing. Usually, she was very concerned that I knew her schedule well in advance, especially if it would involve me sleeping in the hotel room instead of in the apartment. I thought she had a lot on her mind since the confrontation with Mrs. Brittany, however. She seemed more distracted with her own thoughts, even a little more secretive at times.

I was half through with my drink when I heard our door buzzer. It was too early for any dinner delivery, I thought. Perhaps something had been sent to the hotel for Roxy or me, maybe something from Uncle Alain in France. I tightened my robe and went to the door.

A man only an inch or so taller than me, dressed in what, thanks to Roxy’s tutoring, I knew to be a Giorgio Armani two-button gray pinstripe suit, stood there with an ever-widening smile, showing small teeth and large nostrils. He had dark brown hair and one of those perfect tanning-salon complexions. On his left pinkie finger, he wore what I thought was an overly big diamond ring. He also had a jeweled Rolex.

Roxy taught me always to look at a man’s shoes closely. If they were polished and/or Italian leather, you knew that he was closer to the real thing, the real thing meaning wealthy.

“Those who fake it most often overlook their shoes,” she said.

Walking with her, watching people moving on the sidewalk in front of a café window, or scrutinizing men and women when they came into restaurants was how she taught me about clothes and people.

“When you’ve lived the way I have, you have to rely on good instincts, but you need to read people faster and more accurately. Often, there’s no time for corrections.”

“Corrections?” I asked.

“Defensive moves,” she added. She didn’t go into what they might be or why they would be necessary.

“Yes?” I asked the man at the door.

“Yes? I’d say yes,” he replied. He looked at his watch. “I don’t think I’m too early.”

“Oh.”

My mind reeled with the possibilities. Did Roxy mess up an appointment? Had she forgotten? Was it this man’s fault? Did he make a mistake?

“Oh? Don’t panic. I can come in and wait,” he said.

“No. I mean, you’re here to see Fleur

du Coeur?”

“That’s the plan,” he replied, still holding on to that wide smile. It looked as if he had a walnut in each cheek.

I considered what to do. I couldn’t just turn him away. I had to call Roxy on her cell phone to tell her he was there and see where she was and what was happening.

“Yes, come in,” I said, stepping back.

“Nice place,” he commented immediately. He looked at me as I closed the door. “So what’s the story? You need help getting dressed? That part of the night’s activities?”

“No, no,” I said, pinching the sides of my robe closer. “I’m not Fleur du Coeur. I’m . . . someone else.”

Tags: V.C. Andrews The Forbidden Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net