"These damn things are as hot as a stiff cock!” —Julie & Julia, Director: Nora Ephron Summer "Cruel." Stab. "Sadistic." Stab. "Twat." Stab, stab. "Alpha- fucking-hole." I bring the knitting needle down toward the cushion again, only for Karma to pull it away from me. "That bad, huh?" She pats the pillow and places it behind her neck. "Swine. Pig. Horseshit." I fume. "Manure." She holds out her palm and I place the knitting needle in it. I spring up and begin to pace, "Bastardo." "Is that Italian?" She loops the wool around the needle, drags it out in that rhythmic fashion that makes my head boggle. "Does it matter?" I walk toward the other end of the room, turn, head toward the other side. "Guess not. He’s certainly helping you expand your vocabulary." "It was already quite extensive, thank you very much." "You talkin’ to me?" Her needles clack. "Taxi Driver." I toss my head. "Ke ep your friends close and your enemies closer." She tugs wool from the yarn. "Godfather." I smirk. "Is that the best you can do?" Her eyes gleam, “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.” "What are you trying to tell me, huh?" I throw up my hands. "I always know when you are trying to manipulate me." "Moi?" She coils wool between the needles. "As if I’d ever try to get you to do anything you didn’t want." "Yes, you. You’re every bit as scheming as that nasty jerkface." "Thought you liked his features." She frowns at the wool. "What’s that got to do with anything?" A headache begins to drum against my temples. "You can’t handle the truth." There’s silence, broken by the clack-clack of the needles. I turn, flounce to the front of the settee where she’s sprawled out. "What are you trying to say?" I frown. "And that line is from A Few Good Men." She doesn’t answer. Her fingers flex, the wool is eaten up in the space between her needles to be spat out on the other side, woven into a perfect design. Unlike my life, which is as messy as a knotted, all-over-the-place, dirty, cast aside, bag of unwanted thread. This must be a new low for me, comparing myself to fabric... Not even—the raw material that goes into making cloth. Ugh. "How do you enjoy knitting?" "It’s calming, helps me focus on something other than what’s going on in my mind." "Right."
"You should try it." She glances at me over the needles. I sidle away to the far side of the settee. "No, thank you, I have better ways of getting rid of my frustrations.” "Oh yeah? How? By destroying cushions?" "I barely touched it. The surface is all smooth... Look." I pull the pillow from behind her neck and fondle the fabric. Silky cotton, soft, yet packed with textures. Like the skin on his chest, the sheath that envelops that turgid muscle between his legs. Concentrate on the topic at hand. Ugh! I bury my head in my palms. "What am I going to do, Karma?" "Nothing." "Huh?" I survey her through the gaps between my fingers. Yesterday morning—after that stunt that he’d pulled on me, the asshole had stayed away from me for the rest of the day; or vice versa. I’d done my best to avoid him completely. Which was easy, considering he’d been away from the office, or so Meredith had informed me. She’d shown me to my cubicle, which is nowhere near his office—thank God. It is on the floor below his, with the rest of the marketing team. Should I be thankful that he isn’t showing me favoritism, or be upset that minutes after proposing to me he was casting me aside as if I was some... piece of disposable machinery? Or a stain on his carpet that he could walk over. Hang on a second. I am not seriously considering his stupid proposal, right? I mean, this entire scheme is insane. I slide down to the floor, then tilt my chin up. "What do you mean, nothing?" My sister knits another stitch, "Exactly that. It's not as if he gave you a choice, right?" "Eh?" "Whether you like it or not, he’s going to put you through the scheme. He’s not going to take ‘no’ for an answer." My heart begins to thud. "So what? I play dead?" "Oh, no." She weaves the yarn between her needles, taking her time. I follow her action, trying to focus, focus— ah, hell. "Gimme that." I tear the knitting out of her hands and fling it aside. "Fifteen minutes." She chuckles. "Huh?" "That’s how long you lasted this time, before yanking away my piece of art." I snort, "It’s a scarf... Or whatever..." I frown, "What were you making anyway?" "It’s a stole... for you." "Oh!" Something hot coils in my chest. My sister can be a bitch, but she does love me. She has my best interests at heart, like I have for her... Right? She snickers.
Blood thuds at my temples. "You idiot." "You believed me, didn’t you?" Her shoulders shake, chortling sounds issuing from her. "Gah! Can’t believe I fell for that." I spring up and onto the sofa, then dig my fingers into her side. She laughs harder. I drag my fingers down her sides, tickling her, squeezing her. Her laughter rises in volume. "Stop." She gasps. "Swear you’ll never do that to me again." She slaps the arm of the sofa; tears run down her cheeks. "Swear. You win. Peace." "Too late," I crow, tickling her under her armpits. She snorts, gasps, pushes at me. I duck, lose my seat on the sofa, and pitch over, onto the carpet. I lay there gasping, glance up at the ceiling. The skylight is open and light pours in. She follows me down, throws herself next to me. "You are horrible." "Says the Wicked Witch." I smirk, referring to our childhood nicknames for each other. "All the better to eat you with." She makes a growling voice. "Bet, that’s what Mr. Big Bad is saying about me, right now." The chuckle catches in my throat. It isn’t funny, not at all. I’d run out of the office yesterday at six pm on the dot, the official closing time for 7 A Investments. I hadn’t spoken to anyone, just messaged Karma, and when she’d r eplied with the address she was at, I’d come here. "Is he?" She tilts her head. "Bad?" I trace the pink lighting up the edges of the clouds far above. "Yes.’ "And the other." She turns onto her front. "Is he?" My cheeks redden. "None of your business." "Aww. You’re blushing. So cute." She pats my cheek. I shove it away. "Oh, get a life." She coughs—on cue. Come on, don’t be uncharitable okay? She’s unwell. But her sharp thinking and general bitchiness makes up for what she lacks in the stamina d epartment. Enough that sometimes I forget that she’s technically unwell. Then, of course, she pulls up her condition, and hell. I curl my fingers at my sides. She coughs again, and her entire body shakes. "Jeez, thanks girlfriend, so blame me for living vicariously." "Hardly, vicarious." I sniff. "Nothing happened." "Something did." "You mean other than what I already told you—?" "About him proposing that you marry him, then invite our father who we’d presumed to be dead to attend the wedding, and plot his downfall—?" She counts it off on her fingers. "Exactly." I drag my fingers though the carpet again. "By the way, this place is nice." "Don’t change the topic." She surveys the sunny three- bedroom apartment. "It is, isn’t it? The car that brought me here was as nice." "Oh?" "The chauffeur helped me pack what I needed too. He drove me here, then told me I have an appointment with a specialist for tomorrow."
I wave my hand in the air. "And you agreed to... to all of this?" "He had an official letter, all signed by Sinclair Sterling of 7 A Investments, which is where you were going for an interview. He told me part of the deal is that you get company quarters." Something he had neglected to tell me. "And you believed him?" "What’s not to believe?" She wrinkles her nose. "He seemed trustworthy, the signature on the note was legit. Besides, when I peeked out of the window and saw the Aston Martin..." "You saw the car, and that was it, you forgot everything else." "Not only, it was the 7 A connection." "Wait until I get my hands on them." I flex my fingers. "You have actually, on precisely one of them, to be accurate." "A-n-d, finally we tackle the issue at hand." I grab a strand of hair, chew on the tip, "What should I do?" "Go along with it." She straightens, walks past me to retrieve her yarn. "Easy for you to say. You don’t want to lose this pad." "No one says pad anymore." She surveys the remnants of her knitting. "I do." "It’s a beautiful apartment in Regent's Park." She sniffs. "Aren’t you worried about what happens if all this goes pear-shaped?" I drag my fingers through my hair. "What if our father refuses to come, or hell—" I shoot up to sitting position. "What if he agrees? "He definitely will." She twists her fingers together in front of her. I spring up to my feet, begin to pace again. "Which means I have to go through with this wedding—assuming I don’t kill the alphahole first, that is. And then, what if... what if...?" "He demands sex?" I shoot her a glance, "Not funny." "Has he asked you?" Yes. "No." I shake my head. "You two discussed it?" Boy, have we! "Of course, not." "Is he as highly sexed as the tabloids claim him to be?" "What have you read about him?" She curls a lip, "See, I knew you were interested in him."
"Of course, I am." I drag my fingers through my hair, "I am supposed to fake an entire relationship with him and then walk away unscathed." My shoulders slump. Therein lies the problem. If I spend more time in his vicinity, I am going to throttle him... Or worse, throw myself at his feet and beg him to lick me all over... After I’ve kissed him, and sucked on that Adams apple of his, and dragged my tongue down his chest, to—no don’t go there, not yet. Not ever. "You’re attracted to him, huh?" "No." "You wish this was real?" I pause, glance at her. "What?" "The marriage, the life of privilege, father returning to our lives, and attending your wedding, with you wearing my wedding dress that would be showcased for all the paparazzi, and me, of course, as your bridesmaid..." "There you go, inserting yourself in the tableau. Not that I mind." I don’t. Truly. But the rest of it? Yeah, she is right. I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d wanted all of that, but not with a man I love to hate. And hate to lust after. And want to throttle to within an inch of his life... After he’s given me enough orgasms to ke ep me high on endorphins, of course. "Oh," I push my knuckles into my eyes, "What am I going to do, Karma?" She pulls at the patchwork of her knitting, and the entire thing comes undone. She flings it aside, then crosses the floor to me, "You know what I’m going to say, right?" I blow out a breath. "What?" "Show me the money!" And ain’t that the goddamn truth? When it comes down to it, that's all that really seems to matter. It sure does make the world go round; it's what brings grown men to their knees, what buys you the best treatment from the foremost specialist in town, what ensures that you can pursue your dreams, your goals, your ambitions, ensure that you never go to bed hungry, or feel helpless... Okay, maybe not the last. But nine out of ten times, it is the money that wins out. And it is why I am going through with this crazy scheme, of marrying this billionaire-bully. I link my fingers together. Damn it, why are my palms sweating? I pivot to face my sister. "Really? You're scraping the bottom of the barrel if you're referencing Jerry Mc Guire. It's... waaay too iconic. A child would have guessed it." "So?" She raises her shoulder and lets it drop. "Guess what my response is going to be?" She tilts her head, "Try me." "Money's something you need in case you don't die tomorrow." There’s a lesson somewhere in those words, about my life, but damned if I can decipher it. She purses her lips, "Wall Street? You stooped low enough to quote Wall Street?"
Desperate times and all that... What can I say, huh? She grips my shoulder. "You’ll be okay, Summer." "Famous last words."