But Franny just tilts her head, appraising me. “I used to think you were a selfish bastard, but I’m starting to believe you’re just a fool. A double-damned idiot. I’m not sure which is worse.”
“Then I guess it’s good that I don’t give a turtle’s arse-crack about your opinion of me.”
The only indication that she heard me is the sharp lift of one side of her pink mouth.
“I think you like her clueless—it makes her dependent on you. And it keeps her innocent. Untainted by this cesspool the rest of us swim around in every day. But you’ve left her vulnerable. She doesn’t understand the rules. She doesn’t even know the name of the game.”
“So, you’ll what?” I growl. “Teach her to play?”
Franny’s dark eyes blaze.
“Oh no, silly boy—I’ll teach her to win.”
I’ve never tasted brandy before. When Franny handed me my first glass, she warned me to sip, not gulp. The first taste felt hot in my mouth and burned its way down my throat. But now—three glasses later—it’s like drinking a melted peach in a glass, thick and sweet.
The combination of liquor and a hot bath has made me feel calmer. No, that’s not right—I feel numb. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse for me and Nicholas, but I’m not thinking about him right now. Because Franny has kept me busy.
I’m tucked into the snow-white couch, engulfed in an oversized cashmere robe, my hair down and wet—curling around me as it dries. I have Franny’s iPhone in my hand, looking through the pictures on her Instagram account. It’s a veritable who’s who of Wessco’s rich and famous, and Franny’s been filling me in on their dirty not-so-secret secrets and sins.
“Meth-head Bitch.” Franny paces behind the couch like a drill instructor. “She tried cooking up her own batch and almost burned her family’s castle to the ground.”
She’s referring to a blond with her tongue hanging out and her right hand giving the finger to the camera. Classy.
I move to the next picture.
“Bulimic Bitch. Everyone thinks she’s cured, but there’s not a meal that passes through those lips that doesn’t come back up. Rotted her teeth out. Those dentures are as fake as her tits.”
They’re all bitches, according to Franny. Illegitimate Bitch (“the butler’s child, don’t you know”), Bald Bitch (“anxiety disorder, compulsively pulls her hair out”), Itchy-twat Bitch (“I’m going to do her a favor and send her a crate of Vagisil for Christmas”). Apparently, even the guys are Bitches: Rancid Bitch (“flatulence—spend too much time in close proximity and your nose hairs will be singed”), Microscopic Bitch (“But he’s a big guy,” I say. Franny wiggles her pinky finger. “Not all of him”).
I toss the phone on the cushion beside me and drop my head to the arm of the couch. “Why are we doing this, again?”
“Because this is how it’s done. They hate you—even the ones you haven’t met yet. If there’s a chance you’re going to stay, you need ammunition.”
“But it’s not like I’m going to walk up to Illegitimate Bitch and tell her I know who her father is, Darth Vader style.”
Franny’s rosy lips slide into a smile. “And that’s why Nicholas adores you. Because you’re not like any other woman he’s known.” She pats my knee. “You’re nice.
“But,” she goes on, “using this information isn’t the point. It’s enough that they know you know—their bitchy-senses will tell them the moment they see you. It’ll be in how you carry yourself, how you look them in the eyes. Perception is reality. If you can control perception, you control the world. That’s how things are here. That’s what Nicholas was trying to do today.”
I take a drink of the warm liquor as her words sink in.
Then, just for shits and giggles, I wonder, “What kind of bitch would I be? Poor Bitch?”
“Definitely.”
“And my sister would be Tiny Bitch—” I pinch my fingers “—because she’s this big.”
“Now you’ve got it.”
I look at Franny’s profile—her perfect skin, adorable nose, shining, exotic eyes with thick lashes that go on for days. She really is breathtaking.
“What would you be?”
Franny laughs—it’s a throaty, boisterous sound. “I’d be Ugly Bitch.”
“Uh…you mean Opposite Bitch?”
It takes her half a minute before she answers me. She lifts the sleeve of her silk blouse, checking the diamond-encrusted watch around her delicate wrist. “All right, dearie, settle in and Franny will tell you a bedtime story. Once upon a time there was a girl—the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world. Everyone told her so. Her mother, her father, strangers on the street…her uncle. He told her each time he came to visit, which was horrifically often. His ‘pretty princess,’ he would say.”
My stomach drops and the brandy feels too sickly sweet in my gut, nauseating.
“I’ve always loved animals,” Franny says, smiling suddenly. “They have a sixth sense about people, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I think so. I don’t trust anyone my dog doesn’t like.”
“Yes, exactly.” Then she turns her eyes back to the fireplace. “The girl’s uncle was killed in a riding accident. Thrown from his horse and trampled—his head was crushed like a melon beneath the hoof.”