AN: An extra-long chapter, just in time for Christmas :) No switching between time periods in this one; just two scenes in the present accompanied by one long, uninterrupted segment of the back story to get through. Happy holidays.
How My Perfect Life Was Inverted
Chapter Five: Bastard!
"So you actually got to New York three days ago?" Janelle interrogated from the doorway, watching her friend and houseguest unpack. "Why did it take you so long to get here, then?"
Sierra sighed, spreading a short, dark teal dress out on the bed, and Janelle frowned; she'd already seen the way her boyfriend looked at her English friend; if Sierra wore that tonight, they might be breaking up.
"Janelle… I had… Other things to attend to."
"'Work,' you mean; you were… you know… weren't you?"
"Yes," Sierra said shortly, closing her eyes and cursing herself for befriending such a pillar of morality. Dropping a red sweater onto the mattress, she spun around to glare at her.
"It is not prostitution," she repeated evenly.
"Sierra, I know you think I'm a chaste, naïve, sort of girl, but even I know a man won't pay fifteen thousand dollars for companionship."
"They're lonely men."
"Lonely enough to pay thirty thousand for a weekend?"
"Are you jealous because I'm rich?" she asked dangerously. "No, don't protest; when we first met, I was living out of my father's pocket, and you hated me then, didn't you? And then I disappeared for two years, and when I came back, I was pregnant and penniless. And my father just didn't want to know, even when I told him that I'd misca…" She couldn't even bring herself to say it. "You were a lot nicer then," she brushed over professionally, "and we were friendly for a couple of years. And now that I'm back on my feet—"
"There's something highly ironic about getting back on your feet by lying on your back, don't you think?" the woman asked cruelly.
"Janelle… Why do you care?"
"Because I'm worried about Johnnie," she said. "He loves you, he worships you; he wants to be the male equivalent of you… Don't you see?"
Sierra was silenced by this.
"Janelle, you know that I… Does it really matter? As far as he knows, I'm just a writer with a close circle of very generous, mostly male friends."
Mostly?
Janelle would have replied aloud, had a blue-clad cannonball not streaked pass her at that very moment, launching himself at Sierra, little arms wrapped tightly about her legs. Sierra giggled, carefully disentangling herself before bending down to wrap the toddler in a hug.
"Missed me, Johnnie?" she laughed affectionately, placing a kiss on his nose; the boy squealed and clung tighter to her, too delighted to speak coherently.
Janelle knew when she wasn't wanted, and with a forced smile, exited, leaving the pair to reunite; when the couple were done hugging the life out of one another, Johnnie shyly offered to help the woman unpack. Sierra glanced at the suitcase, satisfied that all underwear and other personal items had been removed, and consented.
As such, it was Johnnie that had found the smuggled jewellery box. The boy tilted his dark head to the side, mouth opening and closing as he tried to read the letters engraved into the lid.
"Mi… Mi… Mickey?"
"What is it, baby?" Sierra asked lightly, tucking away the last of her socks and coming over. Her eyes widened, mouth opening, and then a dark scowl stole across her face which made Johnnie shrink back.
"Oh sweetheart, no; no, I'm not angry at you; how can I be, when you're so sweet and perfect?" she cooed, bending down to kiss his smooth brow soothingly, and Johnnie's shoulders relaxed.
"What is it?" he asked babyishly, pointing at the box; Sierra hesitated before smiling and sweetly offering he open it. The toddler did so, gasping as the light fell across the diamonds and Akoya pearls; behind him, Sierra's eyes slid closed in silent confirmation. She had been secretly hoping that the box had been a Christmas gift from Gary, the man she had spent the past three days with, and whose sense of humour would excuse him this sort of behaviour…
That's the last time I let Steve take me to the airport, she thought wryly.
Well, the last time I let him handle the luggage, anyway.
"Steve?" Janelle frowned later that evening after she'd finished mingling. "Who's Steve? You never told me about Steve."
Sierra hated how Janelle drew out Steve's name; Janelle loved to draw out Steve's name because Sierra hated it so.
"He's an ex-boyfriend," she said ambiguously, taking a sip of champagne and making certain to stay away from the mistletoe sprinkled throughout the interior; whilst she loved how the majority of Sean and Janelle's male friends, relatives, colleagues and miscellaneous acquaintances stared and drooled over her (she wouldn't have worn the low-cut babydoll otherwise), she couldn't see any attractive enough to be worthy of her kisses. (Except for Sean, but he was Janelle's boyfriend, and as such, strictly off limits. In public, anyway.)
Janelle rolled her eyes, knowing full well that Sierra had a lot of exes; that being said, there were very few who she would refer to as a boyfriend.
"And?" she pressed.
"And nothing!" Sierra snapped defensively, her hand instinctively reaching up to brush against the diamonds and pearls around her neck. Janelle frowned at the white gold pendant, having noticed how the brunette had a tendency to fidget with the gems when agitated. She had casually enquired as to the origin of the jewels, and Sierra had simply replied, "Steve gave them to me," but had refused to elaborate further.
"He gave those to you recently, didn't he?" she asked bluntly.
"No—Alright, yes," she amended, shrugging apologetically; when it came to Steve, Sierra had a habit of automatically denying any and everything connected to the man. This instinct had saved him from quite a few arrests in the past, and both were grateful for it.
"Oh Sierra, that's wonderful!"
"What?"
"Well… It's nice to see you moving on from Jack."
"What?" and she stared at the redhead in disbelief.
"Well… The two of you are dating again, aren't you?"
"No!"
"But you want to?"
"We're just—"
"Friends," she completed with an evil smirk that was highly unbecoming. "Of course."
Sierra scowled—why did no one (Steve included) believe her when she said that?—and took a gulp of gently fizzing champagne, staring silently into the glass.
"I do like him," she admitted quietly. "But… But I haven't quite… gotten over Jack yet." She smiled humourlessly at this. "He's a very hard man to forget, particularly if you've slept with him—"
"Maybe for you," Janelle muttered under her breath.
"—and that's why I don't want to… initiate… a relationship with Steve… Not yet, anyway… Because I don't want to hurt him, do you see? I really value Steve as a friend, and if we were to become more than that… again… I'll just keep comparing him to Jack, and that would be really unfair on him, particularly because… Oh God, I really am an idiot," she trailed off, lowering her head, a sad smile on her face.
"When I was with Jack," she continued softly. "I kept comparing him to Steve—not deliberately, and not even consciously—I never said anything about Steve to Jack… And yet he knew. He just knew. And he hated that; by God, he hated that."
Janelle was silent, watching her hurting friend sympathetically; if Johnnie hadn't already gone to bed, she would've fetched him: Two minutes in the boy's presence always perked Sierra up, no matter what the circumstances. The American tried to be sensitive of her friend's feelings, but to be perfectly frank, she was overwhelmingly intrigued.
"Oh, honey… I had no idea that… I mean, I know that your relationship with Jack fell apart because he let slip that he—"
Sierra's dark head snapped up suddenly, her eyes hard. "Don't," she snapped harshly, "Don't you dare say her name."
Janelle bit down hard on her tongue, and looked over to Sean, silently grateful that their relationship was relatively simple and straightforward.
"So… Tell me—how did you and Steve meet? I mean, how did it all begin?"
Sierra hesitated, taking another sip of her drink and swallowing uncomfortably, studying the rim in silent scrutiny.
"Well," she said at last, "I suppose it began like any other normal, healthy relationship does…"
"You," a fourteen-year-old Sierra was saying, stopping before Steve with her arms crossed. "You."
Steve glanced at the three boys and pink-haired girl beside him, murmured something about excusing himself, and pulled Sierra away, up the stairs and into a bedroom piled with various coats and scarves. The shut door immediately muffled out the music from below (Nirvana's Nevermind had long since replaced the Red Hot Chili Peppers, much to Sierra's aural relief), and the girl suddenly felt raw and exposed and… vulnerable.
"Is there something you want?" the boy asked politely, leaning back to sit comfortably on the bed and patting the free space beside him invitingly. Lazily, she stepped towards him, and delivered the most powerful slap she could muster.
"…Well…" Steve said at last, shaking his head. "Impressive, but next time, hit with your fist closed; causes far more damage on impact. Why, when we've settled our little disagreement, perhaps I might show you."
She could feel the colour rushing to her cheeks, but kept her eyes on his.
"Do you remember me?"
"Of course; how could anyone ever forget a face as lovely as yours?"
"Don't try to charm me, you slithering little snake," she snapped at him, fury and humiliation causing her face to twist unpleasantly in a way that she knew was decidedly neither lovely nor beautiful nor pretty nor any other of the hundreds of truthful compliments he could think of showering upon her. But then she realised how ridiculous she must look, a slight slip of a girl standing before this decidedly taller, stronger adolescent, demanding if he recalled the day they had met: what a comic sight she must have made, slender, delicate sylph that she was, her eyes flashing, cheeks glowing with anger.
And besides, whilst emotion was indeed the very essence of human nature, a public, uncontrollable display of it was a leisure best entertained by the lower classes. No one of proper upbringing would ever throw a childish fit, nor slap a complete stranger, even if he did deserve it. So she straightened, inhaled once, deeply, and said in a false calm that was quite frightening in its measured control,
"You took my purse from me, ten days ago, do you remember? Practically ran me over."
Steve's face flooded in unexpected relief.
"Oh, thank God; and here I thought you wanted to confront me for slipping that lovely little trinket off of your neck."
"Now that—!" she began angrily, but caught herself just in time. "That is a secondary concern, but it is a concern nonetheless."
"Well, listen to you talk; tell me, are you always so charmingly eloquent just before you rip someone's throat out?"
"I wouldn't know; I've never wanted to rip anybody's throat out before this moment."
"Then I consider myself honoured. But I'm curious, Sierra—" And he leaned forward, that arrogant smirk of his never once leaving his face as he placed his elbows on his knees, fingers lacing together to provide a resting place for his chin as he smirked knowingly up at her. "Exactly how did you plan to retrieve your wallet and necklace?"
Sierra was silent; it would be a lie to claim that she had not, in all actuality, thought that far, for she most certainly had; but it would also be a lie to claim that she had fashioned a cunning, foolproof plan, for she most certainly hadn't. To be perfectly honest, when she had first realised that Steve was Steve, she began to hope that, by her own wiles or indeed, by any other means, he'd become so drunk he'd pass out somewhere private and quiet, thus leaving her to search his person for her necklace and his house keys. Then she'd stealthily approach Angie, who last, she checked, was busy literally wrapping her body about a lamppost outside, inform her of the problem, retrieve Steve's address, and take his unconscious self home. If he lived alone, or if the house was empty, then, well, brilliant, for Sierra would be free to rummage through his home and belongings in peace. And if he didn't, and if the house wasn't, then she'd simply say she was a ditzy, insipid, air headed girl the boy had met at Angie's party—not a complete lie—and that she wanted desperately to exchange phone numbers, but then he passed out. She'd act silly and trivial and dim, but she would flavour her character with just enough sweetness to convince Steve's mother or father or uncle or aunt or social worker or whosever's legal responsibility it was to watch over Steve that her heart was true, her intentions pure, her brain slow. She'd have, perhaps, five minutes, was it, to potter around and search through his drawers and closets and whatnot and then, and if necessary, she'll inform his parents of what he had done to her, because surely he'll relinquish what were rightly her belongings, and look, she was rambling again, and she had just missed what Steve had just said.
"Pardon?"
He smiled and shook his head. "I was just asking: what, exactly, are you willing to do, to get your little purse back?"
There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her cross her arms defensively over her chest whilst silently cursing the low neckline; Steve noticed this, and grinned.
"Are… Are you flirting with me?"
"And you would care because…?" he responded, raising a dark eyebrow. She opened her mouth, reconsidered, and snapped it shut again, her blue eyes narrowing.
"Do you want me to be flirting with you?"
"Certainly not; I asked because I'm not exactly well-acquainted with the mating rituals of the poor," she sneered in reply, her eyes roving pointedly over his faded shoes and scruffy clothing: Offence was, after all, the best defence, or so they say.
Steve showed no signs of having his feathers ruffled, tilting his head and looking at her contemplatively; when he spoke, however, the danger in his words betrayed an affronted ego.
"Be very careful with what you say and who you say it to; 'the poor' aren't known for their… gentle actions."
"Is that a threat? Look, I don't like you, alright?—And why should I, you're a lying, two-timing, thieving little git who'll probably die of a drug overdose by twenty-five—And all I want is to get my purse and necklace back and continue with my life." Good God, why did she have to end that speech with a whine? She must have seemed utterly pathetic.
"Ah, but why would I want to do that?" he drawled, standing from the bed and swaying slightly as he swaggered towards her. "What's in it for me?"
"Less of your life spent in jail and one less misdemeanour on your criminal record would be enough to tempt an ordinary person," she answered, secretly pleased that she wasn't affected in the slightest by his close proximity; Georgie was wrong, she could resist the charms of handsomeness. She made a mental note to tell this to her.
"But I'm not an ordinary person," he told her, tilting his head the better to examine her eyes. "And besides, if you were going to go to the police, you'd have done so by now. So I'll ask you again: What's in it for me?"
She was silent, looking up at him, suddenly realising how his eyes had dropped to her lips, and blushing furiously.
"No," she whispered firmly. "No, I'm not going to kiss you."
"As if I could be satisfied with one kiss," he half-laughed, though his voice remained low.
"You're a prat, you know that? You think you could steal from me—twice!—and then get me alone in one room, and expect me to just open my legs up for you—Well, you're far more arrogant than I realised."
"And yet you're still here."
She looked up at him evenly, hatred causing her eyes to burn.
"Well, you still have my purse."
"And we're back to the beginning: d'you know, I actually could have this conversation all night long?"
Slowly, he leaned closer, mockingly giving her the chance to pull away; but it wasn't until his lips were brushing against hers that Sierra ducked out from under him.
"Why don't you just go have sex with one of your lesbian girlfriends?" she snapped nastily.
"'Ey! Where do you think you're going?"
She spun on her heel, pleased as she saw him wince; her loose hair had inadvertently whipped his face. "Home," she snapped. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Sierra, wait," and he had the audacity to reach out and grab her arm!
"What?"
"It's too late to be walking—or, indeed, be taking any form of public transportation home," he said to her, pulling her firmly away from the door and escorting her to the bed, which—can you believe it?—he actually pushed her down onto. Sierra's nose wrinkled in distaste against the mattress, and she turned and sat up, hurriedly adjusting her hair and clothing. Then she looked over to Steve, who had sat down beside her and was busily counting out several five, ten and twenty pound notes, brown hair falling into his eyes.
"Where'd you live?" he grunted. "Mayfair?"
"Yes."
"Which part?"
"I'm not telling you!"
"Fine."
Now Sierra was more bewildered than ever; surely it wasn't common practice for a complete stranger to pay for a taxi? Unable to control herself, she scooted closer, peering curiously over his shoulder.
"That's my purse!" she screeched, somewhat stupidly, as Steve shifted suddenly, thus preventing her hands from reaching over to grab the object.
"Oh, so it is," he agreed mildly. "What, you didn't expect me to pay for your cab, did you? Come now, Sierra."
"Give it back!—No!—Stop!—You bastard!" she gasped out as he continued to dance out of her reach.
"Persuade me," he leered, and she slapped him out of frustration.
"Closed fist," he reminded unperturbedly, demonstrating with one hand whilst making a show of tucking her purse into his jacket pocket with the other.
"You—" she stuttered, her hands reaching out with her fists bloody well closed, but he was ready for her this time, grabbing her slender wrists easily in one larger hand and holding them above her head whilst she twisted and struggled helplessly. When her squirming had slowed, Stephen Verne, with a smug smirk, leisurely reached out to tuck a handful of notes down her shirt as though she was some sort of stripper; and what was even more offensive, if that was possible, was the three minutes or so he then spent pulling and tugging and generally adjusting her blouse, even reaching under and round to flitter over her bra.
"Because we wouldn't want you to come undone now, would we?" he smirked.
If it hadn't had been so unladylike, Sierra would have spat at him; as it was, she decided to simply settle for glaring at him through narrowed eyes.
"I hate you."
"I know," he said cheerfully, lowering his hand to give her buttock a friendly pat. "Take care, sweetheart," and he threw her back onto the bed with an indignant squeak before tucking his hands into his pocket and strolling out of the room, whistling a tune in a manner most blithe.
Sierra simply laid on the bed for several minutes, mouth opening and closing as she stared up at the ceiling, two angry red spots scorching her cheeks whilst the words Bastard, prick, git, dickhead, cunt, wanker, prat, and several other offensive and derogatory terms used to describe men in general paraded through her head. Soon, she came to her senses and, her hands shaking with anger, sat up to comb through the numerous piles of outerwear until she came across the various items of clothing that belonged to her and her friends; folding these over her arm, she reached up to pull the money from out of her bra, tucking the flimsy paper firmly into her jeans' pocket before dropping her friends' belongings to shrug on her coat.
On second thoughts, she could do with a mirror. So she picked up her friends' property and strolled to the door, closing it softly behind her and stealing across the landing to what she thought was the bathroom.
"Oh, sorry," she apologised upon opening the door to see two girls kneeling before the bathtub, attempting to pathetically snort up several scraggly lines of cocaine. "I just wanted to check up on my hair and makeup, do you mind? Thanks," and she stepped in, closing the door gently behind her, dropping the coats onto the toilet's lowered lid and turning on the tap. A few minutes later she was drying her hands on the towel, satisfied with her appearance. "See ya," and she exited, moving hurriedly to the stairs before stopping, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
There were two people lying in her way, and it was quite obvious to her that they were beginning to, in the middle of, or had just finished having sex.
Of all of the places— She stopped again upon realising that the boy on top was Steve.
Oh, God, she thought, both angered and disgusted.
…But, seeing as he was so occupied…
Hesitantly, she snuck slowly down, wincing as one of the steps creaked; thank God the two lovebirds didn't notice it. Then again, they wouldn't, would they?
Slowly, cautiously down she trod, until she was sitting on one of the steps beside them, the coats clutched protectively to her chest. …Now, which pocket did he put her purse in? Left or right? The girl couldn't remember, damn it.
The other girl, a fellow brunette with curls that were tied back, giggled and buried her fingers into his hair, and Sierra scowled even as she frantically scoured her mind.
Left or right? Left or fucking right, you fool? she thought wildly, feeling more and more uncomfortable as the seconds passed.
"I can't believe you talked me into this," the girl whispered, and Sierra found it miraculous that neither were aware of her presence. Yet.
Hormones: Thank God for raging hormones.
"Shut up, Cam," he rasped in reply.
"It's Kim."
"That's what I said."
Bastard! her mind screeched; and she was certain that Kim would have said exactly the same thing, had Steve not lowered his head to her neck at that very moment, causing her to gasp.
"Oh, Steve…"
Sierra was beginning to feel vaguely nauseous; she was also overcome with the urge to never, ever, ever use stairs ever again; when she got home, she was going to ask that an elevator—or escalator, she really wasn't very fussy—be installed. Failing that, a chairlift will do.
Left? It has to be left; his left is the side that's closest to me. Oh, please God, let it be left.
Kim giggled suddenly, causing Sierra to jump back, and the fourteen-year-old grimaced as she saw the older girl tilt her head back, her lips parted.
"Steve…"
"Will you shut up?" he growled.
He's not very romantic, she thought needlessly, edging slowly closer, hands outstretched; sure enough, there was an unmistakable bulge. Alright, so now all she had to do was—
"Steve, please—get your trousers off."
"Ah, you like that, do you?"
…hurry. Throwing caution to the wind, Sierra's hand darted forward, silently grateful that the couple's movements meant that the purse was slowly slipping out anyway.
Yes!
"Steve!"
"Alright, alright; I'd ask you to keep your knickers on, but…" he laughed, and Kim giggled along with him.
Disgusting, Sierra thought, sneaking slowly down a few steps before straightening and, tucking her purse into her coat, hurrying down the last six steps or so; she supposed she'd have to come to terms with the fact that she'd never see her necklace again, but at least she got her purse back…
"Georgie!" she cried out upon spotting her friends. "Fran! Quick, where's Harry?"
"Here," a voice gasped, and Sierra looked down to see a dirty blonde slumped against a wall, knees drawn to her chest, head bent forward.
"Oh, honey, what happened to you? Never mind—here's your coat—Come on!" And she pulled the girl up, shoving the dark blue material into her arms.
"Leaving so soon?" Georgie asked with a quirked eyebrow.
"Yes—and I've got what I wanted back, thanks for asking. Now, your parents all know that you're sleeping over at my place, right? Good, so let's go! It's already half eleven, Liv would be worried!"
"Why the rush?" Georgie questioned, slinging an arm around Frankie's giddy shoulders whilst Sierra supported Harry.
She hesitated for a moment.
"Remember how I'd 'lost' my purse in the first place?"
"Yeah…"
"I reacquired it in much the same fashion."
"Nice one," Georgie approved, dragging Fran towards the door. "Actually, should we stop and call for a minicab? Yeah? I'll just ask Angie," and she dropped Francesca into a chair before weaving through the adolescent crowd.
"You're both idiots, you know that?" Sierra raged at the drunken pair, fiddling nervously with the buttons of her coat; Harry merely whimpered and buried her face into Sierra's shoulder, and she scowled before adjusting her grip accordingly the better to support her.
Five minutes passed, and Sierra soon found herself face-to-face with the hostess.
"Hello, girls," Angie said pleasantly. "I bumped into Georgie; from what she told me, I thought you might need this," and she held out two cups of water.
"Thanks, Angie," Sierra said with a smile, and Angie's darker cheeks coloured a little; Sierra couldn't help but grin at the reaction, flattered as she was.
Angie was a strikingly beautiful creature; her mother had been white, whilst her father hailed from Korea, and as such, she had inherited the best of both races; a wonderfully smooth, golden complexion, sparkling doe eyes with a slight slant, and silky black hair that fell about her shoulders. Her mixed parentage had been one of the reasons Georgie's own parents had desired that their daughter stay away from her; though of course, in the racially tolerant, politically-correct world they now found themselves living in, the pair would never admit it.
"Hey, have you seen Kim?" she asked suddenly as Frankie clumsily slurped up her drink, and Sierra jumped.
"…Kim?"
"Yeah, Kim; my girlfriend, Kim; haven't I introduced you to her?" she smiled conversationally.
"Why don't you just go have sex with one of your lesbian girlfriends?"
"Um… No, I don't think you have. Why?"
"Oh, no reason; I just lost her, that's all," she sighed. "To be honest," she continued conversationally, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin, "I was really looking forward to introducing her to Steve—that's just some bloke I went out with for a total of thirty seconds, by the way, so technically, he's my ex."
"Why?" Sierra blurted out before she could stop herself, a strange feeling creeping over her stomach. Angie looked surprised, yet at the same time, very flattered that she sparked such interest in such a beautiful girl.
"Well, Kim didn't know that I tried heterosexuality—which obviously didn't work out for me—and I just think that Steve would really, really like Kim."
Can't disagree with you there, Angie, Sierra thought pityingly whilst silently praying on the girl's behalf that Steve and Kim both came to their senses and stopped; Angie was far too nice a person to go through the pain of double betrayal.
"Hey, listen; look, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, because, you know, I'm straight, but—can I have your number?" she asked suddenly of her host; Angie blinked at this blunt request but acquiesced, disappearing for a few seconds, and Sierra turned to look disparagingly down at her companions.
"Why?" she asked them both, reaching out to pull Harry's honey hair away from her face. "Why did you both have to go and get so incredibly drunk? I can't explain this to Olivia!"
Frankie's face blanched, and she curled up on the chair, whilst Harry merely whimpered how sorry she was.
"Oh, shut up," Sierra dismissed. "It's painful, listening to the two of you whine."
Angie returned, a folded slip of paper in hand, and Sierra tucked it into her jeans, where the notes Steve had given her rested.
Bastard, she thought again with a glance at Angie, her lips curling in distaste. Georgie returned several minutes later to announce that the cab should arrive in twenty minutes; Sierra shifted nervously, her fingers reaching into her coat pocket, where her purse laid, fiddling anxiously with zip.
"It's too hot in here, can we wait outside?" she blustered anxiously. "Besides, these two could do with some fresh air."
"There's no such thing as fresh air in London," Georgie grumbled, but complied, pulling Francesca's arm over her shoulders.
"So, what happened with Steve, anyway?" she queried once Frankie and Harry were seated on a low wall outside. "You seem to be a little… agitated."
"He is such a bastard!" Sierra exploded, because, of course, at this particular point in time, her mind couldn't conjure up Steve without the word bastard following in immediate succession.
"Wow, and you're not even gay," Georgie laughed. "Angie told me that only lesbians hate Steve."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Because they're the only girls who will go out with him."
"And thus, the only ones who fully realise what a git he is?"
"No; apparently, he's a very good boyfriend, if you ignore all the cheating and sleeping around, of course."
Unbidden, the image of Steve and Kim flashed before her eyes, and Sierra shuddered, though she was certain that the cold had something to do with it.
"So why do they hate him, then?"
"Well, he has a habit of converting them, you see, according to Angie, which makes people think that they weren't really gay in the first, but just wanted attention."
Kim's face flashed before her, head tilted back in delight, her insipid giggling ringing in her ears.
"Fair enough."
And they spent the next seventeen minutes tending to Frankie, who had decided to bend over and vomit, until, at long last, a black car pulled up before them.
"Only three allowed in the back?" Sierra frowned at the driver's words, and turned to look at the three girls behind her so that the man could not see the relief that had passed over her face; she wasn't certain if one had to be sixteen or eighteen to hire a cab, or if there were any age restrictions at all, but she wasn't going to take her chances. "Alright, I'll get in the front," and she opened the door and darted in, leaving Georgie to sarcastically thank her for leaving her to attend their ailing acquaintances.
The brunette sat silently, her face turned towards the passing world outside, fighting down the nausea her restlessly squirming stomach caused.
I want my necklace back, she thought bitterly, fingers reaching up to trail against the discomfortingly naked skin. A red light caused the vehicle to stop directly under a streetlamp, and Sierra took advantage of the external glow to pull out her purse, her fingers tracing over the leather thoughtfully.
A thorough examination revealed that, besides the notes tucked into her jeans, no money—or at least, not a significant amount to warrant notice—had been taken. Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled in relief, although her stomach's knots seemed to tangle further, even as she asked herself, So why did he take it, then?
Her father's face flashed before her, and she opened the wallet again, searching for her debit card; she had only gotten it three months ago, and it was the only access she had to her allowance; it was far easier for her father to pay the money into a bank account, considering how more often than not he was out of the country.
Of course, it had gone.
Bastard!
She really was incapable of thinking more.
Frantically, her hands turned the item over, snapped it shut, and opened it again, silently praying that it had all been a trick of the light, and that the rectangular plastic would wink up at her in the yellowed glare.
Instead, a small slip of paper, carelessly folded, fell into her lap. Her abdomen cried out in silent discomfort, and her hand went to rest over her navel.
That…
Her hand shaking, she reached down, turning over and unfolding the scuffed square, silently reading the hasty yet oddly elegant scrawl;
Hypocrite.
Call me.
Steve.
An eleven-digit number followed this short, almost playful note.
"Cunt," she muttered darkly under breath; and even as her fist scrunched the scribbled paper into a tight ball, she couldn't help but notice how her stomach seemed to have unclenched.
-x!x-
AN: You should know by now what I'll ask for: opinions on Steve (do you like him now?), on Sierra, on other characters, on relationships; opinions, opinions, opinions… Come on, it's Christmas; a time to give and receive…