AN: A quick note on the actual structure of this fanfic: Whilst I'm sure that you're all very eager to find out more about the "family ghost," I'm afraid that specific story won't really be explained for a while longer. You see, for the ghost's story to be fully told, Steve's character has to encounter the person who knows the story better than anyone; and for Steve to do that, certain events have to transpire which will lead to him encountering Sierra's un—this non-specific person who knows all and was bitten by a dolphin because of it. Because the plot taking place in the eighteenth century is actually pretty fast-moving, I thought that NOW would be the best time to get most of the "modern" story over and done with, and then leave it alone until the end when both plots come together. (Because they DO come together, and in a most predictable and uninventive way.)
If you've read though all that instead of skipping to the actual chapter, well done. If you haven't, please do so; even if it's AFTER you've read this chapter.
How My Perfect Life Was Inverted
Chapter Thirteen: Kiss
To say that Sierra did not remember much of the "family ghost" would be a gross understatement: from the age of twelve, she had dismissed Jack as being nothing more than the imaginary friend of a lonely child. And she had been an exceptionally lonely child; shy and reserved and considerably lacking in any social skills that would win her friendship amongst her peers. The persona she had fashioned for herself—that of something greatly resembling a child prostitute—was the façade she had fabricated in order to sever her ties with her imaginary friend and thus leave her free to pursue companionship with others. She had done this for fear that she was abnormal; after all, what sort of twelve-year-old still possessed an imaginary friend?
Much less an imaginary friend for whom her feelings were, she had at that age come to realise, decidedly of a romantic nature. No, that wouldn't do at all; how could she, a clever, logical girl like her, nay, a twelve-year-old no less, be in love with a man who wasn't even real? Never mind that he was almost obnoxiously handsome. (And why wouldn't he be? She had a vague suspicion that she had subconsciously modelled his appearance on the actor Johnny Depp.)
Around the age of thirteen—just after, coincidentally enough, she had "married" Julian—Sierra, having successfully displaced her fascination for her false friend with an unhealthy obsession for a certain Hollywood actor she had no intention of actually meeting, had forgotten altogether about the man who called himself Jack. (Well actually, she had forcefully repressed all memories of him with such success she ought to be referred to a psychologist for intensive study, but never mind that.) And it had actually been easier for her than one would have thought. Perhaps it helped that the name had been so normal; true, Sierra had only ever encountered a total of three Jacks in her childhood, but all in all it had been easy for the name to lose whatever significance it may have once held.
And then, as though to quell any remaining doubts that her romantic liaisons were less than normal, Steve had entered the picture.
He hadn't meant to be late; his original plan had been to pick his car up in the morning, drive it slowly through the perpetual rush hour back to his flat, and then make his way to Sierra's school. However, there was apparently a flu or something of the kind that had infected half of the mechanics, leaving the remaining employees to toil and labour in the garage unaided. So if anyone was to be blamed for his wanting punctuality, it was them. Or the virus that caused the flu; he didn't care who took the bullet, so long as it wasn't him.
Bugger, he thought irritably, looking in vain for a sign of his girlfriend through the unrelenting sheets of arctic rain. A glance at his watch told him that it was five minutes past four; thirty-five minutes after they had agreed to meet. Even as he thought it, he caught a glimpse of a dark-haired girl, dressed in nothing more than a white shirt and black skirt; no coat or any other form of outerwear. The boy smiled in relief, and glanced at the inclement weather outside.
"Sierra!" he called, his window screeching jerkily down; there seemed little point in having the both of them getting wet. "Sierra!"
She paused for a moment, her arms wrapped protectively about her torso. And then, quite childishly, she turned and continued in her stroll, making a point of ignoring him.
For God's sake, he thought irritably, shifting gears and trailing after her, like a curious puppy.
"I'm only a little late," he attempted unsuccessfully to pacify.
"Hmph!" he thought she huffed.
"It wasn't my fault," he stated honestly; and then, clearly thinking that this in itself constituted as an apology, added, "Come on love, get in the car."
That made her pause; she turned to look at him in disbelief, her eyes scanning the car, apathetic.
"When did you get that?" she asked.
"This morning; well, this afternoon."
"And that was why you're late, is it?"
"Partly; there's the traffic I suggest you take into consideration before condemning me."
"The traffic?" she laughed derisively. "There's no traffic in Northwood."
"There is in Stepney."
"You drove here from Stepney?"
"I was running late!" he reminded her.
"That's not the point!" she snapped, apparently ignorant of the droplet hanging precariously off of the tip of her nose. He watched as it quivered, momentarily suspended for a second or two more, before gravity took hold, and it vanished, sliding down her upper lip and disappearing into the unexplored cavern of her mouth.
"—even my father would rather I mingle with the hoi polloi on public transport than get chauffeured around in a car!"
"…What?"
The girl paused, infuriated; her blue eyes then narrowed and, shrugging her bag more securely onto her shoulder, she turned and left with an "I don't want to talk to you right now," thrown coldly over her shoulder. He had to forcibly restrain himself from asking if she had her period.
"Oh come on," he continued, undeterred, following her casually in his newly-acquired car. "If you don't want to spend the afternoon with me, that's fine, but at least let me give you a lift."
"No."
"Why not?"
"You're sixteen; it's illegal to drive when you're sixteen. Do you even have a provisional licence?"
"Well of course I—um—I'll send off for one tomorrow morning—"
"Oh, Steve!"
"—Now will you get into the car?"
"No! I'm very annoyed with you at the moment. Besides, I'm almost certain you're going to crash."
"And why the lacking faith in my flawless motoring abilities?"
"Well if your attention span is such it barely allows you to follow a short conversation, I shudder to think of where your eyes will wander when on the road."
…Ah; of course—maidenly modesty. (Not to mention inbred prudery.)
"You can't really blame me for staring at you," he attempted to flatter, noting that her blouse was by now extremely wet. In a few minutes it'll be clinging to her skin; the thought alone actually tempted him to prolong the trifling spat.
"We both know you weren't staring at me," she scoffed. "Now go away."
"Who else would I have been staring at? There's only y—" His words were cut off as a girl that could best be described as a blonde Amazon strolled suddenly pass. At first, the most he could make out was a pair of long legs, nicely tanned, the bare feet encased in black pumps. The short skirt that disappeared under her white coat told him that she was also a student at Sierra's school, albeit a few years older than Sierra herself. A flash of sun-coloured hair fluttered beneath her umbrella, and after a few paces, she turned to flash him a brilliant smile, revealing a face lovelier than any angel's. A few seconds later, and she had disappeared, never to be seen again.
"…Oh," he said at last, shaking his head and looking back up at Sierra. "Sweetheart, I honestly harbour no interest in your… colleague. She doesn't happen to have a sister, does she?"
This attempt at light-heartedness clearly didn't go down too well; Sierra promptly turned away from him and continued in her walk—which happened to be in the same direction as the girl's, he noted.
"Sierra!" he called, exasperated, whilst secretly wondering why she was so upset. Alright, so he had been distracted by the fair-haired female—but to give credit where it's due, he wouldn't have noticed her had Sierra not (silently) pointed her out beforehand. "For God's sake…" he groaned as she abruptly ducked down what must have been a hidden alley. Looking around, he decided to risk parking on a double yellow line—as if the wardens would come out in this weather anyway!—and, locking the door, hurried after her.
It took fifteen minutes of running about in the glacial rain before he grudgingly accepted that he'd all but lost her; as he trudged disappointedly back to his car, he couldn't help but wonder why she was suddenly so upset. They'd known each other for six annoyingly chaste months, during which Sierra had been unwilling to relinquish even a single kiss. A kiss; they hadn't even kissed! There had been times when he had come close to begging her for just a kiss—that was all—and each and every time he had been coyly rebuffed. Of course, he knew exactly what she was up to; by denying him a kiss, she was effectively denying any other amorous favour he may have the mind to ask for. This abstinence of hers also had a second, more valuable effect; sex had long since been cast off of his agenda, thus ensuring her virtue remained intact (for the moment, at any rate).
But that wasn't to say that the most they ever did was hold hands. Of course not!—And that was the oddest thing. Take last week, for example, when he had been working at the Intrepid Fox. She had snuck into the kitchens about half nine, and he had, up until that point, been cleaning the dishes. He'd heard her come in, but hadn't paid any attention; it could have been Andy or Sam, for all he cared, and he wasn't exactly on speaking terms with either of them. But then a pair of arms had curled about his waist, and a kiss was placed on his neck; and then he heard Sierra's voice playfully ask him if he'd missed her.
"As always," he remembered replying, wiping his hands on his trousers before placing them briefly over Sierra's.
"Good," she had murmured, and continued to nuzzle his neck. He'd leant his head back and made history by being the first male that had tried his hand at the supposedly female art of multitasking; in this case, clean a dish and enjoy his girlfriend's caresses. Even when her hands had brushed against the front of his jeans before slipping inside, he was still able to rinse off a glass. But then she had reached up and whispered something that, whilst not incredibly obscene, was shocking enough to hear from her supposedly inexperienced lips: He then knocked over a mercifully small pile of dishes, and had to immediately push a giggling Sierra under a table.
"Steve," she had whined, "why do I have to hide?"
"Because the last time I had sex during working hours," he replied, "the landlord threatened to fire me on the grounds that sexual intercourse in the kitchen violated basic Health and Safety laws, even if I did ejaculate inside her."
"Oh, Stephen! That is absolutely the most disgusting thing—"
And then Ian had burst in to rebuke him for his clumsiness.
The teenager smirked to himself, pulling up his coat; although nothing more had occurred that evening, he knew that he wouldn't be forgetting that particular night in a hurry. Mainly because it had been that exact moment he had realised—or rather, the experience had confirmed—that he was in love with her.
Even if they hadn't kissed.
Glancing up from his wet shoes, he blinked and allowed a smile to pass across his lips: Sierra, it seemed, had doubled back, and was now walking towards the alleyway she had originally scarpered up of. He quickened his pace, but made certain to remain at a far enough distance, wryly noting that she wasn't even glancing over her shoulder. Only when she had ducked down the passage did he begin to jog.
The downpour was appallingly unrelenting; his clothes had long since been soaked. But he was grateful for the monsoon-like weather, as the rainfall helped to mask the thudding of his feet until he was barely five feet away from her; until he was too close for her to outrun him. She had then slowed her steps, had stopped, had turned around. An extra seven seconds to use to his advantage.
"You followed me?"
"You knew I would," he brushed off, darting forward and grabbing her arms to stop her from running away again. It was only then that he realised that she had been crying—and he knew her well enough to know that it wasn't just about the blonde. She wasn't that pathetic.
"Sweetheart," he said gently, "what's the matter?"
She bit her lip, and defiantly raised her chin.
"You were late."
"And I'm sorry."
This simple comment apparently caught her off guard; her mouth opened and closed, her forehead furrowed, and her eyes darted about her, as though searching for inspiration.
She doesn't want to tell me, he thought grimly. Fair enough; she had every right to privacy. God knows there were a few things that he didn't want to tell her.
"It's alright," he whispered, placing a kiss on her forehead and pulling her into a hug. "Cry if you want to. I won't ask any questions."
There was a thud that was Sierra dropping her bag; her arms reached up to wrap about his neck, and she buried her face into his shoulder.
"It-It's nothing, really," she gibbered. "It's small. It's petty. It's pathetic. But it's still hurtful; I'm still hurt. By it. …I'm sorry, but I honestly don't feel like I can—like I can—"
"Tell me?" he guessed, and felt her nodding miserably. "It's alright. You don't have to. I'm here for you."
This, of course, was nothing more than manipulative reverse psychology, and within minutes, words were pouring out of Sierra's mouth in an incoherent flood of language. Something about her friends; and something about her sister; and something about Steve himself. He was no fool; within minutes, he had guessed the general gist, and was clasping her tighter than ever.
"I love you," he reassured her. "You know I love you."
"I know that," she babbled. "I know that you do—but when I heard—and Christa—" Her sobs overpowered her words; suddenly tired, she fell against him, allowing herself to be weak, to be vulnerable. She felt him pull his arms away, but she needn't have panicked; it was only to pull his coat around the both of them. She smiled slightly at the gesture, remembering Angie's words of warning: Rebel without a coat. It had seemed so long ago, and she could scarcely believe that the boy who had robbed her of her purse and later attempted to seduce her was the same one that was holding her so tenderly now.
But then again, was it really so surprising? Many people took her at face value, took in her shamelessly promiscuous façade; no one, as far as she was aware, could see the introverted virgin beneath. Perhaps Steve was playing a similar game, albeit with slightly different rules. Perhaps that was why they were so attracted to one another; because she did love his duality, his ability to slip from smug Don Juan to—well, to constant Ophelia. Sierra bit back a smile; she didn't think Steve would enjoy being compared to a fictional woman who drowned herself in a river for want of love.
Neither of the couple were certain of how long they stood there, clinging to one another, any more than they knew exactly who had initiated that first kiss. Steve would later claim that it was Sierra who had slowly pulled away; Sierra would maintain that she felt Steve's fingers stroking her cheek, silently urging her to move her head back. What they both agreed on was that their lips had moved closer in unrehearsed synchronicity; and, whilst it was a very chaste kiss, even by a Puritan's standards, it was also an incredibly powerful one.
For Sierra, this was her first kiss; Julian had always fainted (supposedly from delight) every time she had given him a quick peck on the cheek; she was afraid she'd send him into a cardiac arrest if she tried anything more. This in itself was reason enough for her to enjoy it. And as for Steve; well, he had actually gotten to know Sierra before kissing her, had fallen in love with her; and if various sex acts were heightened when performed within a close, intimate relationship, then surely the same rule applied to kisses? Sexual intimacy, he realised as he pulled her closer, was overrated; he'd been with many girls, and he hadn't felt half as close to any of them as he now felt to Sierra. (And besides—how did that saying go?—Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.)
When the pair eventually broke apart, Sierra couldn't help the small smile hovering on her lips; a reaction that did not escape the notice of her boyfriend.
"Did you like that?" he queried, in all innocence; she simply narrowed her eyes and gave his arm a playful swat.
"Steve," she began quietly, in all seriousness, "Steve… Can you take me home now?"
The bubble of joy that had been building up inside his chest promptly deflated, but he hid it well.
"Sure; I mean, I don't actually know where you live, but…"
"No; n-no, Steve," she interrupted quietly, "I meant—could you take me to your home?"
He quirked an eyebrow. "My home?"
"Just for a little while," she hurried to clarify. "I-I mean, I might want to—to consider spending the night, but only if—you know…"
He didn't know, but he could make an educated guess.
"I'd be delighted to have you," he assured her, adding quickly, "As my guest." just in case she wasn't offering her virginity to him on a silver platter. "But, um—I do live in a one-bedroom flat…"
"It's alright," she smiled softly up at him. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch."
In the end, it had been Steve who had suggested they abstained from any further physical intimacy.
"You're too shy," he'd explained gently to her, pulling the sheet over her half-naked body. "You're not ready; I once dated a girl I'd actually quite liked, but she dumped me 'cause she felt that I'd pressured her into sex—I don't want to repeat the same mistake with you." Sierra had found it odd that he hadn't incorporated the fact that sex with a fourteen-year-old girl was illegal into his argument, but didn't dwell on it.
Naturally, she had protested against the whole idea, albeit half-heartedly; secretly, she was glad to hang on to her virginity for a little while longer. She was also pleased to see that Steve was attempting to meet her halfway; he'd taken her back to his flat, where he lived alone, having moved out from under his mother's roof seven months ago—Sierra noted the way his face had closed when he'd mentioned this, as though he had no inclination to discuss his family's history, but had decided that it would be inconsiderate to pry; after all, he had been perfectly willing to let her cry in his arms without asking as to why.
The flat itself was a small little square, and plainly decorated, bordering Spartan, but despite this, Sierra couldn't help but notice how everything was clean and organised. She was slowly beginning to realise that she actually knew very little about him, besides the fact that she was the first heterosexual girl he had succeeded in having something resembling a proper relationship with. Which was why, after a brief shower, she had sat down in front of his CD collection dressed in only a borrowed shirt and pair of jeans, her own clothes hanging off of a radiator, and promptly began flicking through them.
At that very moment, she was attempting to come to terms with the fact that the musical taste of the man she loved left a lot to be desired.
"New Order, The Smiths, Joy Division, the Sex Pistols, Smashing Pumpkins, the Rolling Stones… Steve?" she called to him, glancing at the bathroom door—he'd left it open, just in case she changed her mind about joining him in the shower, he had winked. "Steve, I'm curious—Do you listen to anything recorded after 1989?"
"I wonder," he called back over the sound of water pattering against the tiles, "if I ought to justify my musical inclinations to a girl who doesn't own anything composed after 1901?"
"I own a recording of Madame Butterfly."
"That doesn't count!"
She pouted, knotting the black shirt above her navel.
"That's quite hurtful; I think you ought to kiss me better."
"Come join me and I will."
She'd hesitated, of course, before deciding that a man who had told her that he valued their emotional relationship enough to turn down sex wasn't about to change his opinion in any hurry, and obeyed. That being said, she did make certain to keep her gaze above his neck. Well, his shoulders. No? Alright, above his nipples; fine, his navel—Oh, stop it, Sierra!—His hips, then; above his hi—
"Oh my God!"
She heard Steve's amused chuckle as she abruptly turned away, staring determinedly at the wall.
"…because I have seen one before," Sierra was still gibbering embarrassedly several hours later. "I mean, this is 19—"
"In what context?" Steve interrupted, leaning against the headrest.
Yet another wave of embarrassment washed over her already crimson cheeks.
"Um—i-in Biology, an—and, um—In tutorial, when we were being taught about—you know—human reproduction…"
Steve's brow furrowed at her words. "Aren't your tutors—your personal tutors, I mean—aren't they all… nuns?"
"…Yes…" she answered wearily.
"So they're not exactly—qualified, are they? To discuss sex and birth and pregnancy, I mean. I've a feeling they've glossed over contraception…"
"Now you sound like Olivia," she sighed.
"Olivia?" he pounced; this wasn't a name he had heard before.
"Olivia; my… She used to be my nanny; now she's my guardian."
"And what did she have to say about the whole matter?"
Sierra shifted nervously, "Well, she… took it upon herself to instruct me on the entire matter…"
"Oh for God's sake, Sierra!" Olivia snapped. "Stop crying; you're not six anymore!"
"I—" Sierra whimpered. "I don't want to learn anymore! And besides, it-it's not appropriate…"
"Don't be such a baby!" Olivia had ordered mercilessly. "You're ten years old! An entirely appropriate age to examine pickled testicles."
Sierra had wailed and stubbornly placed her hands over her terrified eyes; this action caused the nanny's heart to melt with a tenderness that can only come of caring for a child from the cradle onwards.
"Sierra," she said gently, attempting a different approach. "Oh come now Sierra, please don't cry… Look, it's not as if I'm asking you to put your hand in the jar and feel them (yet)—"
"Wait a minute," Steve interrupted, sitting up straight and viewing her with open hostility. "Are you telling me that at the age of ten your nanny—guardian, whatever—whipped out a jar of pickled human testicles and asked you to put your hand in it?"
Sierra shifted nervously. "It wasn't a jar of testicles, specifically," she corrected uncomfortably. "There was a… penis in there as well."
The boy could only stare at her in mute horror.
"…I think," he said at last, "I think I now know why you're so… I mean, now I understand your reaction. And I also think that it would be immoral and wrong to send you back to that woman. Look, we're outside your house now; so why don't you just nip in, grab an armful of belongings, and we'll run away to the West Country together?"
"Maybe next weekend," Sierra brushed off, straightening her (though technically Steve's) shirt and leaning closer to give him a kiss. He had asked her to stay over, of course, deliberately emphasising the completely nonsexual aspect of his invitation:
"You can call home and say you're sleeping over a friend's," he had suggested, his fingers curling around her mostly-dried hair. "Ask Georgie or whoever to cover for you until tomorrow…"
"I could, I suppose," she allowed, "But—" And she had stopped, her face closing up. Her boyfriend had rightly guessed that whatever it was that had attempted to follow was the true reason she had been so upset earlier.
"Do you want to know something, Stephen?" Sierra purred affectionately against his lips, snuggling closer into his arms.
"What?" he queried.
"When I first met you, I thought—and, if I'm honest, for the past few months, I subconsciously believed… I thought you were a total bastard," she blurted out with her usual tactlessness, and the boy scowled in resentment. "But now… Now I realise that you're not a complete bastard: You're actually really, really nice. Goodnight."
"'Night," Steve answered with a quick peck on her nose, and watched as she climbed up the steps and slipped through the door.
Sierra entered the house on feet of feather, a song in her heart and a grin on her lips. She knew she should have been more concerned; not only had she returned one hour later than she had promised, but she had returned dress in boy's clothing, her own slightly-damp uniform thrown unceremoniously into a bag. She didn't have to look in a mirror to know that her lips were red and swollen from kissing, and would likely remain that way for a good half hour more. She knew her customarily immaculate hair was unkempt and lacklustre; she'd haphazardly run a single-tooth comb through it, and Steve didn't have any conditioner. She was also certain that she was wearing that look; the one that suggested she had a secret, but was unwilling to share.
She also knew, above all, that she didn't care. She was happy, she was so incredibly happy, and nothing—no one—was going to take that away from her.
Not even Christa.
"Let me guess," a female voice drawled as Sierra happily set about plundering the fruit bowl, "You had sex in the back of that old Ford of his, and then it broke down. Is that the reason why you're late?"
She deliberately ignored her sister's comments, immersing herself in the fine art of chopping bananas and tipping the sun-coloured circles carefully into a blender. She then went to the fridge in search of strawberries; when she closed the door, she found herself face-to-face with the owner of the long golden legs that Steve had found so very distracting that afternoon.
"She doesn't happen to have a sister, does she?" Words that Steve would never have spoken had he known that the sister he had asked after was her. Though she supposed he couldn't be entirely blamed for that particular faux pas; she knew that she'd made very little effort to integrate him into her family life.
Christa was five years Sierra's senior, even though academically she was only four years above. She was what one might call a classical beauty: tall and slender, but with just enough of a curve to her body to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a woman. Her hair was a pale shade of yellow; in the summers it lightened to such a light hue that, were it not for the tanning of skin that simultaneously occurred, she could easily be mistaken for an albino, and as for her eyes… They were large, wide, incredibly blue, and deceptively innocent: you couldn't tell just from looking at her that she was a girl who had an illegal abortion when she was just sixteen years old, only to later lie to her quasi-conservative family and claim it was a miscarriage. She'd missed a year off of school so as to "come to terms with her grief." She spent it sleeping and moping around in the day, and sneaking out at night the better to do God know what with God knows who.
Sierra hated her because of it: not only could Christa get away with things that would result in Sierra's strangulation at the hands of her father, but she had displayed little to no remorse at the prospect of losing a baby. Sierra would have been mad with grief, had it been her.
The fact that Christa was, by all accounts, far prettier than her didn't help their already strained relationship.
"Oh Sierra, don't be so bitter," Christa soothed, crossing her arms over her red kimono. "Most people would think I was doing you a favour, showing you what sort of friends you really had." She failed to suppress a sudden smirk; Sierra had a feeling that she wasn't trying to. "Did you honestly have no idea?"
Sierra's jaw tightened, and she abruptly turned away. The truth was, whilst she may have harboured suspicions that her friends talked about her behind her back, she honestly had no idea that the conversations were so… vicious. The fact that they were led by Georgie and tended to centre around Steve only made it all the more painful:
"I heard that one of his exes is pregnant; no really! I don't think he told Sierra this… Of course I don't know who, I just know that someone is! But he hasn't told Sierra… He only likes her because she's rich, you know… He doesn't even like brunettes, he prefers blondes, or at least that's what Angie told me when we used to speak to each other; I wonder how quickly he'll drop her when he meets her sister, she's much more his type…"
And it had been that same fair-haired sister that had dragged her into the dormitory—St Katherine's was a boarding school as well as a day school—and pulled her into the next room the better to eavesdrop. It was also that same sister that had traipsed through the rain, pausing only to smile at her boyfriend; and Steve's reaction to the older girl—coupled with everything she had learned and heard of her so-called friends—had actually moved Sierra to tears, though she would never admit it. But then Steve had kissed her, and suddenly everything was alright again.
"Go away, Christa," she said; and whilst the words may have been childish, the tone of voice was not.
"I'm simply expressing my concern," Christa responded in her frustratingly aloof manner. "I'm very worried about who—or what—my darling little sister is getting involved with. It's perfectly natural."
It would have been far easier to spar with her sister had she not been so well-raised and well-educated. The comment about the Ford had been childish, but it had been a mere slip of the tongue. Wit did not come as naturally to Sierra as it did to others: she knew she wouldn't win. So she remained silent for a time, searching for something mildly alcoholic.
"You shouldn't have talked me into eavesdropping on them," she said at last, quietly. "That was rather hurtful."
"Oh was it? I am sorry; that hadn't been my intention in the slightest." Sarcasm was always more painful when the derisive words were spoken with something resembling sincerity.
Sierra never would understand why her older sister bullied her so: she'd once suspected that it was to do with displacing her position as the youngest child and only girl, but why would that matter since she had usurped little—if any—parental attention? Of the three offspring, she was, after all, the only one to have been cared for by a nanny: the elder two had been hand-reared by the parents themselves. So she knew it wasn't due to lacking affection. In time, she came to accept that some people were born to spite: and Sierra herself was one of them, although she took care not to be as casually cruel as Christa.
"You wouldn't have been as upset, you know, if you didn't know that it was true."
"It wasn't true; it was just a patchwork of rumours fabricated by a gaggle of bored schoolgirls."
"Oh, I know you were never pregnant—you're not very attractive, and sticking your fingers down your throat every night isn't going to help matters—"
"I don't!" she snapped—a little too defensively, it should be noted. "Not anymore."
"You never told them that those three months last year were spent in the Priory, did you? No wonder they thought you were giving birth, considering how your reputation does precede you—But never mind, that was last year and I'm getting off topic. So they were wrong about you being pregnant: but how do you know that they were wrong about—Steve, is it?"
"They were," she insisted. "They don't even know him. He doesn't like me just because I'm rich: no one is that shallow. And he's not using me for sex, either, before you ask: the most we've ever done is kiss, and he's always treated me with the utmost respect. He loves me."
"Didn't he rob you?" the elder sister asked slyly.
"…Well, yes," Sierra allowed: "But only because he doesn't like chatting girls up with recycled lines."
"Hmm. Alright, I'll let you have that one, but only because the numerous negatives are so obvious it would be an insult to your intelligence to point them out. And I'm curious: what's your reaction to what Georgie mentioned? How one of his exes is pregnant?"
Sierra slammed the fridge door shut; it shuddered for a good thirty seconds afterwards.
"Now that is just malicious: Georgie—Georgiana, rather—has a crush on my ex, Julian, but he's either gay or in love with me: Either way, he's not paying her any sort of attention. It's my firm belief she began that rumour with the hope that it would eventually reach me. None of Steve's exes are pregnant, at least not by him: he'd have told me, if that were the case. We share things."
A low, mocking laugh spilled from Christa's perfect lips. "Oh Sierra: for all your affectations at worldliness and sophistication, when it comes to men, you're very much still a child."
"Which says more about you and your taste in boyfriends than it does mine."
"I'm not looking for a healthy, loving, equal relationship, and neither are you, or else you wouldn't have left Julian for Steve. I've heard say that our taste in men implies that we suffer from self-destructive tendencies, but I don't think that's the case, do you? It makes us sound like victims."
"Firstly," Sierra stressed, "I am still a child, in legal terms if not in anything else; secondly, we are not alike, as our parents subtly insinuate whenever they're home; and thirdly, I'm not self-destructive. Steve is good for me; he must be, or else you wouldn't be attempting to sabotage our relationship as fervently as you are." She paused and allowed her eyes to scan her sister's faultless body in a disdainful way that was rare for her. "Flaunting yourself as you did this afternoon—what was that meant to achieve? I know he finds other girls attractive, I'm not an idiot—and now this." She hoped that by ridiculing her sister's subtle attempt at flirtation she would effectively disguise how much it had threatened her: seeing Steve's brief but intense reaction to Christa's beauty alone had actually brought her to tears.
Christa quirked an eyebrow at this. "Has it ever occurred to you," she said slowly, "that the only reason I haven't told Father or that dreadful Olivia—" Olivia, of course, being Sierra's ex-nanny and current guardian-cum-housekeeper, "about your current infatuation is because I'm curious to see the train wreck this affair will leave you in."
"No, it's because you've got nothing to tell. I've never been secretive about Steve; my family just isn't interested enough to ask." She couldn't help the bitterness that crept into her words; as if she had known anything other than coldness from her parents. "Now, if you've nothing further to say, I'm off to bed."
-x!x-
AN: How long do you think… Oh, never mind. Just please leave a review telling me what you think of Sierra's relationship with her sister, and how long you think this newfound happiness with Steve is going to last.