Kat

She broke my phone. She’s standing up there, smiling next to dad as he tells everyone that we’re in a new era of community togetherness, grinning and nodding at his every word. If he were a televangelist, she’d be throwing her hands up in the air, declaring she could feel the Lord’s spirit upon her.

I slouch down in my chair in the first row, wrapping Andy the Intern’s suit jacket around my red dress the best that I can, my scuffed boot bobbing across my knee. I wish this was over.

I never asked to be a politician’s daughter. If you looked at family photos, you’d see me and Bea opening up Christmas presents under an aluminum tree in matching Fraggle Rock onesies, my mom grinning in her oversized reindeer sweater as she holds a mug of spiked eggnog to the camera, rosy-cheeked. Her second cup and it’s only 10 AM. We have always been a delightfully middle class, without much pomp and circumstance. You couldn’t pick us out from any other house on the block.

But when Mom died, suddenly it wasn’t doing it for my dad anymore. The fake tree and cheesy sweaters aren’t really a solo activity. Nor was doing the dishes, making a pot roast, or Bingo night. Plus, his daughters were grown-ass women. And the house just felt so goddamn silent. Even I hated it when I visited. I kept hearing my mom’s whistle to call the dog in.

At first we commended him for getting more involved in the community. At least he wasn’t sitting around, moping. But, man, could you find a more tragic Family Man? A forlorn widow with two daughters who campaigns that he wants to make the world a better place for his grandchildren?

My dad is the distinguished gentleman to a T. Silver-haired fox, the reporters say, but that term is disgusting. He’s my DAD. And Bea goes to every campaign, and like clockwork, cries as he mentions his campaign is to make the world a better place like my mom always said it could be. She does one tear, the one tear of a heroic martyr down her porcelain face.

Bea’s so beautiful I want to vomit. Every guy that passes by us on the street glides right over me and locks onto her. The little good girl they want to defile. She’s petite. Everything in proportion and dainty. She’s, ahem, a spinner, if you get my drift. Where I’m tall and with an abundance of boobs and ass, the keyword in my shopping vocabulary is "Stretch."

This dress I’m wearing actually fits me like a glove. I call her "Piper" as in the Pied Piper since it lures all who see it to my bed. Okay, maybe not a place like here, but in a club, it’s a shoo-in. Here, well, here I need to cover up because--

"And my other beautiful daughter, Katrina." All eyes on me as my dad indicates me in the front row. He’s all smiles - even his eyes are smiling, the way they used to when he’d watch me mutter through a school play or violin recital. Warm and completely wrapped in delight, somehow oblivious to all the wrong notes. I sink further into the suit jacket as photos click all around me. Through the flashes, I see my dad grinning, the happiest day in a long time.

And behind him, Bea shoots me a death glare. Don’t fuck this up for us, she says with her eyes. I touch the welts on my arms from her claws and smile bigger.

Hell, I can do better than that. I blow my dad a kiss. He’s delighted. More cameras flash.

"One day I hope their children will experience the better world we make today."

Applause. My dad waltzes off stage. Reporters scurry after him. Are we done? I hope we’re done. That was much quicker than I hoped. I shoot Bea a triumphant smile, not that she notices. I’ve probably done the bare minimum of work in her mind. They exit off stage, my dad with a supportive hand on Bea’s back. I feel a pang deep inside of me, not sure if it’s more about Bea or my Dad, or just that those two are like two boat rowers and I am the third, out of sync one in the back. Bea was right, it probably looked strange that I wasn’t up there.

I probably should be more like her. I know that’s what everybody thinks. She makes it look so easy, without a second thought. Dinner parties and boyfriends in business suits. She’s never drank until sunrise or had a walk of shame. Every choice she makes is so good I want to scream. And sometimes, after a really bad hangover or bad lay, I’ll make a vow that I’ll do just that. I’ll out Beatrice Beatrice, I will be the best daughter and the pride and joy of the entire family. And I will, I’ll do all the right things. I’ll make a salad, for crying out loud, and drink green tea, even though it smells like B.O. I’ll hit the gym, I’ll watch documentaries on Netflix. I’ll go on dates on Match.com, with boys who don’t hold hands until date three and talk about how much they admire their mother. And I’ll smile in the mirror and tell myself, “See, you can be good.” And I’ll smile even harder.

But good just gets so… boring.

And I think about Mom, in that hospital bed, on a constant chain of saline solution and morphine as the cancer won. Her eyes glazed over, barely able to see us timidly at the foot of her bed as Dad held her hand and wept.

This was the end of the best person I had known.

This was the result of a good life.

And being good did nothing for her.

And when I think of that, I cancel plans on my Match.com Mama’s boy and go out. Go out like tomorrow doesn’t have any promise.

Because it doesn’t.

I stand up and make my way to the exit, holding the suit jacket tightly around me when--

"Ms. Barcus," someone calls out from behind me. Oh, shit. I stomp my boots faster to the exit. "Ms. Barcus!" They call out again. I keep my head down and pretend it’s not possible anyone could be screaming my name at this moment. 

The reporter steps right in front of me. Blonde Ken doll hair in a suit he ironed within an inch of its life. "Ms. Barcus, could we have a word, please?" I smile and shake my head and veer around him.

Flash! Flash!

I’m seeing stars when I lock my eyes back to the ground. The reporter steps in my way again, and I trip over one of my stupid fucking boots trying to get around him.

The ground rushes in front of me and I hit the floor with a smack. I struggle to find breath and get off my hands and knees. 

Me. 

Sprawled out. 

Ass-up and winded. 

I use my first breath to just mutter “fuck” over and over.

The Reporter helps me to my feet. “There you go, Ms. Barcus.” I fall into the reporter and he grabs me, giving me a reassuring smile, a hand firm against my hip. “Ms. Barcus, congratulations on your father’s inauguration today."

"Okay, yes, maybe don’t trip women and then congratulate them,” I hiss. I right myself and he looks down. His eyes grow big.

“Wow.” He sputters.

The jacket is open and my breasts are begging to pop out of my dress as I lean against him, and half my dress has wiggled up in the struggle, making me thank my lucky stars I grabbed my underwear out of the dorm room this morning. I step back and re-adjust, throwing the suit coat over me as I rush out. But the damage...

FLASH! FLASH!

Oh, the damage has already been done.

***

I rush into my apartment and slam the door shut.

I’m hiding here for the rest of the night. I’m going to cement do the door shut and just stay here forever. That should suffice, right? My phone is cracked, my ass was definitely photographed, and that asshole reporter didn’t even apologize for getting in my way.

I pull of these stupid boots and vow to throw them out. And then I remember I don’t have any other shoes at the moment. And I vow to buy shoes tomorrow, and then they’ll walk the plank.

I tear off Piper and throw her on the floor. I feel like she at least deserves a time out.

I instantly become aware that I didn’t adjust my thermostat the night before and it’s freezing. I hug my exposed skin and put on the track and field shirt. My trophy.

That and I look good in men’s shirts. My legs always look like they go up forever. I catch my reflection in a hallway mirror and there they are— the legs. Happy as can be. Not even a bruise from my fall. Oh, good for them. I reward them with a cozy pair of swear pants.

Now I’m properly dressed for feeling sorry for myself.

"Ring ring ring!" The phone reminds me I’m not alone. Never alone. I know it’s Bea. It has to be Bea. And she’s going to be mad I’m not at the cocktail party. So I let it ring and fix myself 2 fingers of bourbon and trudge into my bedroom and bury my face in my comforter, hoping morning will come sooner. And tomorrow, I’ll just stay here. I can’t do any damage from my bed. Well, alone in my bed.

Why is my little sister the boss of me? I mean, Dad probably won’t care as much as Bea. And why would Dad care about some candid photo when he’s fine with Bea hanging out with his golfing buddy. Charles. That guy is a wet blanket. But he’s a cashmere wet blanket, so, obviously, Bea thinks he’s great.

I fumble around my nightstand for a joint. Light and suck. Exhale. Cough. Okay, that’s better.

"Ding dong." I bat away at the clouds and slide out of bed, stumbling on a wad of discarded clothes. My room’s a mess, it’s always been a mess. My mom used to call it my nest. Just a wall of shiny things, postcards, and stickers. Now it’s heels and lipsticks, vibrators and lube.

I approach the door. Peek out the eyehole.

Oh, shit. It’s that reporter! Mr. Ken Doll hair looks nervously up and down the hall. Knocks again.

"Katrina Barcus?"

"Why the hell are you stalking me?!" I call through the door.

"You left your purse at the inauguration. And I thought you might want it back."

He holds my drivers license up to the keyhole. Oh, that is my sorry face. I’m losing ground already. I go for the door handle, but then remind myself I banished myself in my apartment, dammit. And I was about to break that banishment five minutes in.

"Okay, put it by the door and leave."

He nods, puts it on the mat, then: "I also wanted to say I’m sorry for putting you in a compromising position.”

My nostrils flare. "Well, apology not accepted."

He nods in understanding. "I didn’t think it would be, I just wanted to say it anyway."

He walks away.

Ugh, that’s it? He came all this way after fucking me over and I get one "eh, sorry" shrug apology? Not a chance. I unlock the door, shout out: "For your information, I accidentally packed the wrong dress!"

Ken Doll hair turns around, smiles. "Well, I wish I could have seen you in that dress in the proper environment."

I blush. Okay, now he’s working more towards forgiveness.

He thinks for a moment. "Hey, maybe I could write a little bio on you, no pictures or anything. Just to make it up to you?”

"Your editor would print it?"

"If it’s a slow news day."

The idea of getting Bea off my back fills me with hope. A positive puff piece never hurts anyone. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized Bea never had anything written upon her. I can almost see the pang of jealousy she’ll have reading the paper tomorrow.

I open the door, nod for him to come inside.

"I’m Nicholas," He says, offering a shake. I take his hand and shut the door. Then looks around and sees my messy apartment in all its glory. I freeze, looking at him in shame. "Please don’t mention the mess, okay?"

Nicholas chuckles. "Actually, it’s refreshing. Daughter of a politician, I was expecting a maid and something bigger than a one bedroom apartment. Not... something that could pass for my place."

I smile sheepishly, waive to an overflowing trashcan and dishes piled in the sink. "Well, ta-da!"

Nicholas shoves off some junk mail from the couch and has a seat, pulling out a pen and a paper. "So, might as well make this official and I can get some sort of quote. Will you or the dress be answering my questions?"

"The dress has no comment." I sit down beside Nicholas.

"Alright, well, I suppose I’ll have to ask you... What is it like to be nestled up against that bosom?" He smirks at me, the pretends confusion. "Oh, sorry, I meant that question for the dress."

Within five minutes our clothes are pooled by takeout cartons on the floor, Nicholas between my thighs, his face buried in my snatch.

I writhe, loving how his tongue circles my clit. "This is all off the record, right?" I moan.

He comes up for air with a smile. "Trust me, my intentions for you were always off record."

And then he slips two fingers deep into my pussy, finger fucking me till I cum in a screaming orgasm.

I pant and give him a moment to breathe before I shove his head down into my pussy again, "You’re going to have to do a lot more of that to apologize."

And his tongue readily agrees with me.

Next Chapter: Discipline - Bea