Bea

Kat’s late. She’s always late. Five years older than me, and never once has been a leading example of maturity. I check my phone as the hair dresser scrutinizes every follicle on my head. At least there was extra time for my hair, which I admire in the mirror.

Side part, a polished small twist of curls that nest along my shoulders.

Chestnut brown.

Girl next door.

A whisp more of blush and powder cascades across my flawless complexion. We went with Petal Rose lipstick, innocent and virginal.

No halo required.

"Wow, girl..." the stylist murmurs to me, as he goes for another layer of hair spray, "you’re gonna kill those cameras with a smile." He gives me a wink and looks over to the empty chair beside me. "I hope your sister is even more camera-ready than you..."

Oh, Kat. All you had to do was show up.

An intern ducks in as he says, "Five minutes, Miss Barc-" And then he’s frozen on the spot, eyes taking me in. A foppish undergrad kid, gangly and sweet. Probably calls his mother every Friday night.

"Is that all?" I smirk, pleased by the results.

"Yes." He stutters out, his face turns beet red and he marches himself out. Muttering to himself before he’s out of the door frame.

I look in the mirror one last time, pulling off the hairdresser’s cape and give my look a once over. My white and pink Chanel minidress clings to my covered bosom, curlicues of rose patterns hug my breasts and run down the sides to my hips. A porcelain doll with the body of a woman.

I smile in the mirror.

I’m really enjoying getting used to this.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Kat yells and she throws herself into the chair beside me.

The stylist and I stare at her in profound horror.

She’s wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of silver stretch pants and calf-length leather boots. Her unruly blonde pixy cut sticks out in every direction. Her raccoon eyes make the stylist whimper and I suck in my breath. But no, I can’t bite my tongue this time. This is Daddy’s day. How dare she?

"What happened to you?” I hiss. Kat looks down, noting her appearance versus my own for the first time. The stylist hands her sheets of make-up remover tsk-ing with each new sheet he plucks.

Kat rubs at her raccoon eyes and sighs. “Some of us aren’t morning people.”

“Or afternoon people, either.” I nod to the clock that reads 12:36 pm. “Where’s your inauguration dress?”

Kat holds up a black trash covering a dress on a hanger. She bites her lip. "Uh...yeah... I thought I had the dress in my car, but it wasn’t the right one. Is there like, a coat or something I can throw on?"

"It’s May.” I hold my breath and try for an even-toned: “Well, what did you bring?” I’m trying hard not to raise my voice. Not on Daddy’s day.

Kat rips the trash bag off, revealing a strapless fire-engine red club dress. Pleather wet-look and sequins.

The stylist and I freeze as the red monstrosity sucks all joy out of the room. Kat grins sheepishly. "So, about that coat idea..."

Kat’s curvier than me, she barely can contain a D-cup these days, and I realize that she doesn’t have a bra on. Her nipples press against the A and E in "Track & Field" every time she sighs. I look at her. I look at the dress. Suddenly, it’s all coming together.

“So Katrina,” I purr as the stylist begins combing through the masses of her bed head. "Did you even go home last night?"

"Yes. Yes? Of course I did." She lies. "I just thought I put the right dress in my car and I should have checked before driving across town and..."

Kat’s phone rings in her raggedy leather purse lying across her lap. "It’s probably just Dad, wondering if I’m here yet." Kat insists. "I couldn’t find him when I got in."

I snatch her purse. "Well, I’ll just text him to let him know you’re getting ready."

"Hey!" She screeches. "Give that back!"

I don’t stop until I reach down to the bottom of the purse and pull out her phone. The phone number isn’t anyone I recognize. "Who is this?" I hold the phone out to her, but pull it back when she grabs for it again.

"Uh, I don’t know? Do we really have time for this right now?" Kat helps the stylist with powder and foundation, racing to have some sort of face at all.

"It’s probably a telemarketer." She shrugs. "I signed some voter registration thing during Dad’s campaign and I’ve been getting calls ever since."

I text back to the number, "who is this?" and quietly hit send.

Kat fingers some gel through her hair and pinches some life into her cheeks. "I probably shouldn’t give out my number now that we’re a public family.”

BEEP. A text message blips back. Kat perks at the beep. Reaches over and grabs for the phone. I hold it away and gaze at the response.

"Where R U? Cum back to bed ;)"

My blood boils. Can she at least keep it in her pants for one day? Maybe an important day like today?

Another text chirps: It’s a picture of a fulling erect cock fighting to stay in frame, a lanky hand gripped around the base in mid-stroke.

“Ugh!” In disgust, I toss the phone back to her, but it falls short and lands on the ground at her feet.

CRACK.

"Hey!" Kat yells, scooping the phone up like a baby. "You cracked my glass!" She hisses. "Why are you being such a bitch?"

I felt bad about the phone, but the word “bitch” rang in my ears. My jaw tightened. “I have no idea, why are you being such a slut?!”

Kat lunges for me, getting a fistful of my hair as she pulls me towards her. "What did you call me?" she screeches.

I swing and grab her arm, sinking my French tips into her flesh. She pulls harder, I dig my nails deeper. "I said," I growl as wrap my other hand around her back for another scratch, "You. Are. A. BIG. SLUT!”

Kat yelps and throws me down on the ground... eyes livid. The Stylist presses himself into the corner, like a circus goer who accidentally finds himself in the lion cage.

I suppose he’s never had a sister.

The intern pops back in, stunned to find me on the floor, holding back Kat’s claws as she growls with rage. He can’t utter a word, seeing two women trying to kill each other for the first time in his life. Not the look of horror like the stylist, but paralyzing arousal. I’d be flattered if I wasn’t livid.

"Yes?" I said, coaxing honey back into my words. "What is it?"

"It’s... It’s showtime."

Next Chapter: On All Fours - Kat