Read Online Perfections by Kirstyn McDermott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kirstyn McDermott
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Ryan standing with arms crossed beside the couch. ‘No one’s doing business here tonight.’
‘I was only showing her.’ The girl pouts, then actually flutters her eyelashes at him. ‘Hey, Ryan, you think I could, like, bring a couple cases round to your place? Creeping Beauty, maybe, or Malice in Wonderland, that be okay? So she can get to see them while she’s here?’
Ryan grins. ‘A time to every purpose, little thing.’ He bends and kisses the top of her head, right where her dreads morph from pink to peacock blue, rendered purplish in this light. The expression on his face is amused, indulgent. An expression Jacqueline imagines a father might reserve for his favourite child. Except there’s nothing daughterly about the way Zane looks at him. Watching them, Jacqueline wonders about conduits, and whether it would prove help or hindrance to get the girl onside.
Ryan straightens. ‘Come on,’ he says to Jacqueline. ‘My mates’ll be on soon. Let’s head down, grab us a good possie, eh?’
Downstairs is the last place she wants to be. Amid the heat and the noise and the crush of the clammy, pulsating bodies that throng before the stage. But Jacqueline smiles and gets to her feet. Tonight, her primary concern is to keep Ryan happy. As she sidles her way out of the circle of couches, Jacqueline catches Zane’s eye. The girl’s mouth is now a hard, thin line, and her gaze has daggers in it.
Antoinette steps from the shower and grabs one of the ivory-coloured towels from its rail. She still feels bad about ducking away from him like that, slipping mercurial through his arms just as his lips were so obviously about to touch hers, but it was too sudden, and too strange. Kissing him would have been a kind of weirdness she doesn’t want to consider just now.
Her heel looks much better at least, now that she’s cleaned away the dried and crusted blood. It still hurts to put weight on, but the pain is old, dullish, the edges of the wound crinkled white from the shower. There are butterfly stitches in the medicine cabinet and Antoinette uses three of them, smears on some Savlon and wraps a fresh length of gauze around her foot, hoping the cut won’t open up again. Doctors and stitches and shots, oh my! Antoinette shudders.
She rubs at her hair, squeezing as much water from it as she can. It’s too long, the curls too thick, and will take ages to dry, but she’s forgotten her anti-frizz stuff back at home – back at Paul’s – and blow-drying would be a disaster without it. Antoinette swipes a hand across the mirror, cuts a swathe through the steam. Maybe she should hack it all away, short as she can stand it. She bundles her hair together, piles it up on top of her head: Raggedy Ann gone gothic, sure, but certainly easier to care for, easier to dye as well. Already time for a touch up, she notes, a fresh coat of black to conceal the creep of mousy brown.
Antoinette laughs. All that’s happened in the past couple of days, and she’s worried about the colour of her hair? She pokes out her tongue at her reflection, then wraps herself in the towel and opens the bathroom door.
There’s music coming from the living room. The new Emilie Autumn album which she bought only a week ago and has barely found time to play, all violins and high-strung harpsichord, higher-strung vocals soaring over the top. Antoinette closes her eyes, opens her senses. She can feel him somehow, can almost visualise him standing by the glass balcony doors, looking out into the night, a glass of red wine in his hand. Like there’s a thread joining the two of them, some unseen umbilicus anchoring him to her. It’s an odd feeling, and not an entirely comfortable one.
Antoinette slips into the study and quickly dresses – her favourite black jeans and an old Cure shirt she bought on eBay, a black sweater she’s had so long it’s almost grey – then notices that the computer is still humming, its monitor in sleep mode. Curious,
‘I was only showing her.’ The girl pouts, then actually flutters her eyelashes at him. ‘Hey, Ryan, you think I could, like, bring a couple cases round to your place? Creeping Beauty, maybe, or Malice in Wonderland, that be okay? So she can get to see them while she’s here?’
Ryan grins. ‘A time to every purpose, little thing.’ He bends and kisses the top of her head, right where her dreads morph from pink to peacock blue, rendered purplish in this light. The expression on his face is amused, indulgent. An expression Jacqueline imagines a father might reserve for his favourite child. Except there’s nothing daughterly about the way Zane looks at him. Watching them, Jacqueline wonders about conduits, and whether it would prove help or hindrance to get the girl onside.
Ryan straightens. ‘Come on,’ he says to Jacqueline. ‘My mates’ll be on soon. Let’s head down, grab us a good possie, eh?’
Downstairs is the last place she wants to be. Amid the heat and the noise and the crush of the clammy, pulsating bodies that throng before the stage. But Jacqueline smiles and gets to her feet. Tonight, her primary concern is to keep Ryan happy. As she sidles her way out of the circle of couches, Jacqueline catches Zane’s eye. The girl’s mouth is now a hard, thin line, and her gaze has daggers in it.
Antoinette steps from the shower and grabs one of the ivory-coloured towels from its rail. She still feels bad about ducking away from him like that, slipping mercurial through his arms just as his lips were so obviously about to touch hers, but it was too sudden, and too strange. Kissing him would have been a kind of weirdness she doesn’t want to consider just now.
Her heel looks much better at least, now that she’s cleaned away the dried and crusted blood. It still hurts to put weight on, but the pain is old, dullish, the edges of the wound crinkled white from the shower. There are butterfly stitches in the medicine cabinet and Antoinette uses three of them, smears on some Savlon and wraps a fresh length of gauze around her foot, hoping the cut won’t open up again. Doctors and stitches and shots, oh my! Antoinette shudders.
She rubs at her hair, squeezing as much water from it as she can. It’s too long, the curls too thick, and will take ages to dry, but she’s forgotten her anti-frizz stuff back at home – back at Paul’s – and blow-drying would be a disaster without it. Antoinette swipes a hand across the mirror, cuts a swathe through the steam. Maybe she should hack it all away, short as she can stand it. She bundles her hair together, piles it up on top of her head: Raggedy Ann gone gothic, sure, but certainly easier to care for, easier to dye as well. Already time for a touch up, she notes, a fresh coat of black to conceal the creep of mousy brown.
Antoinette laughs. All that’s happened in the past couple of days, and she’s worried about the colour of her hair? She pokes out her tongue at her reflection, then wraps herself in the towel and opens the bathroom door.
There’s music coming from the living room. The new Emilie Autumn album which she bought only a week ago and has barely found time to play, all violins and high-strung harpsichord, higher-strung vocals soaring over the top. Antoinette closes her eyes, opens her senses. She can feel him somehow, can almost visualise him standing by the glass balcony doors, looking out into the night, a glass of red wine in his hand. Like there’s a thread joining the two of them, some unseen umbilicus anchoring him to her. It’s an odd feeling, and not an entirely comfortable one.
Antoinette slips into the study and quickly dresses – her favourite black jeans and an old Cure shirt she bought on eBay, a black sweater she’s had so long it’s almost grey – then notices that the computer is still humming, its monitor in sleep mode. Curious,
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