Page 4 of Twisted Lies 4
Jade laughed huskily. “Shit, you were there for me when I went through my hot-mess phase, and now it’s my turn to be there for you. Just call me, no matter what, okay?”
“Okay. Concentrate on getting that part.” I hung up, pulling a compact out of my handbag, checking myself in the mirror.
I flipped my hair over my shoulder, touched up my mascara and lip gloss, and then fiddled nervously with my pearl necklace and earrings. They were gifts from Grace for my eighteenth birthday in lieu of the new sewing machine I’d asked for.
My body jerked from the sharp stop in front of Grace’s teahouse. After paying the cab fare, I hopped out. My hands trembled while running them along my tight pencil skirt, trying to get out the nonexistent wrinkles. I froze, realizing I was on my way to what Jade called mylevel ten panic attack. Blowing out a breath slowly, I counted to ten before making sure to cover my one act of rebellion—the tattoo that readSinin cursive letters on my wrist. If Grace were to see the tattoo, she would clutch her damn pearls, screaming that proper young ladies—more importantly, her daughter—didn’t get tattoos.
My hands clenched and unclenched while I stood in the middle of the busy sidewalk, jostled by irritated New Yorkers.I can do this. I can go in there and tell her I am fucking done with her shit.My heart was racing as if I’d just run a marathon.I need to get my shit together.
Okay, it’s go time.
I straightened my skirt once more. Pushing my shoulders back like Dad taught me, I marched into Grace’s over-the-top Victorian teahouse like I was going to war—because I was, and it would be a bloody one.
Immediately, I gagged from the overpowering rose incense in the anteroom as I stared around the packed, twenty-seat establishment.Great!Now I would have a full audience when she went ballistic.
I skirted around the guests milling about and admiring the Victorian-style architecture and furnishings that had cost a fortune—and I should know. I had been an unwilling participant in antiquing with Grace on many long Saturdays. She had insisted everything had to be perfect when she opened her teahouse, which was located on the Upper West Side. Moving farther into the parlor designed with dark wood tables, exposed brick, and the white pressed-tin ceiling, I slowed my pace as I took a few minutes to gather my waning strength before proceeding into the dimly lit dining room with the tall, fringed floor lamps.
My stomach clenched when I saw her, and as usual, not one strand of her blond hair was out of place in her tight bun. Her apple figure—large chest, small waist—was encased in a tight black sheath as she strolled between tables, greeting guests with a beauty contestant’s smile and a flawless facade. But her frosty blue eyes told the true story. She was drunk…again.
How could a woman so beautiful be such a damn mess?
Between her binge drinking until she blacked out and her disappearing every night before closing and not returning home until the next morning, she had been more erratic and self-destructive than ever. The strange behavior had been going on for weeks, and I was tired of being her free labor. This was her damn business—a business she’d forced Dad to work extra hours to help her attain, a business that had ultimately cost him his life.
Grace tripped, and I grimaced.
Shit!
This was the last thing I needed right now—to go toe-to-toe with her when she was all liquored up. Like a bloodhound, she sniffed out my presence, pinning me to the spot with a glacial stare.
“Good,” she snapped loudly. “You’re early for once.” She pointed impatiently to the tables. “We’re short-staffed today. I need you to work the tables. I’m expecting a big crowd.” She jammed her hands onto her narrow hips, looking me up and down with undisguised disgust. “And stay away from the pastries. You’re busting at the seams in that skirt.”
The guests snickered into their dainty teacups.
My mouth dropped open in shock.What. The. Fuck?
Effectively dismissing me, Grace returned to flitting among the tables.
I rolled my shoulders to relieve the pressure.
Enough!I wasn’t going to let her bully me. There would be no running away in shame or purging everything I’d eaten to compensate for my inadequacies. The madness stops now.
“Mom!” I screamed over the clinking of teacups.
Grace’s head whipped around. Her lips thinned. “My name is Grace—not Mother, not Mom. How many times do we have to go over this?”
My stance widened. “Grace, we need to talk.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Be quick about it.”
Okay, if she doesn’t want to handle this politely, then I’m not going to make it easy for her.“I quit,” I snarled. “Is that quick enough for you?”
Her serene mask slipped. “In my office,” she hissed before snapping her fingers at me. “Now!” She swayed off toward her office with her stilettos tapping angrily against the wood floor.
By the time we stepped into the white-on-white, expansive space with a silver, glass-topped desk, I was practically grinning, enjoying the fact that her facade had slipped. Now her customers had caught a glimpse of the real monster she was. Grace slammed the door. Photos of her faded beauty queen–contestant era crashed to the floor.
She stalked toward me. “This is my damn business, and you will treat it with respect, young lady!” she screamed while pointing in my face with erratic, jerky motions.
I flinched. She smiled smugly.
