Kiss Me, Kill Me Page 2

  Melanie whispered, ‘Maybe her naughty pussy would listen if she got tea-bagged more often.’

  Mel and I had discovered tea-bagging was a thing one weird day, years ago, when we’d decided it would be fun to check out some porn on the Internet. We’d watched guys dangling their testicles into girls’ mouths, and we’d ended up screaming with laughter. We were laughing now, minus the screaming, our hands clamped over our mouths so Pam wouldn’t hear.

  As Pam returned, I grabbed a paper towel and squatted down to clean the tea drips off the floor, hoping like heck Sheba would tongue-bathe the rest of it off her fur before she made an appearance. Had no interest in explaining details of the altercation to my next-door neighbour.

  Had no bloody intention of going near another cheese ball in my life, either. If Pam ever offered me another one of her feline spit-ball surprises, I was going to fake a case of highly virulent, type two, sudden-onset lactose intolerance.

  Chapter Two

  One hour and twenty-five minutes later, I stood on the doorstep of my father’s house.

  I was holding his birthday gift: a selection of golf shirts because he loved playing golf when he came home. Greg had the antipasto platter. And Melanie, a bottle of wine and a small tray of cheeses that we’d quickly assembled after raiding my fridge in the wake of the Sheba spit-ball debacle. I knew being such a cheese fiend would come in handy one day.

  Melanie was gawking at what was going on in front of us. She sighed. ‘Can’t believe they’ve gone and stuck a tower on this joint.’

  I shook my head, also in disbelief. The house was a standard two-storey brick number of about three-hundred square metres. So…not a mansion. And now there was an actual cylindrical tower protruding from the front, like Baby Home had decided to play dress-ups with Mommy Castle’s clothes. Except it didn’t appear cute. Just silly. And in danger of toppling forward with all the extra weight up front.

  The door opened and there was my dad, smiling at me and appearing a fair bit greyer and older than the last time I’d seen him. I was hit with a pang of sadness as I stepped forward and was enveloped in a hug. After a few moments, he pushed me back and held me at arm’s length, his gaze tracing over my features. ‘You look beautiful, darls,’ he said with a hint of wistfulness. Then I was released, and everyone was ushered in. There was a hug for Melanie (she handed off the cheese tray to me while she was getting pulled in), introductions and a handshake with Greg, handover of wine and antipasto. Dad bustled off to the kitchen, telling us to stay there for a moment.

  We all utilised the opportunity to take in the surroundings.

  The inside of the new addition was worse than the outside. It wasn’t wide enough for its two-storey height. It felt narrow and claustrophobic. Bonus: the whole thing—floor and walls—was tiled in a light pinkish, heavily veined marble. I fully expected the phone to ring and the eighties to be calling, asking for its hard surfaces back.

  ‘Blimey,’ whispered Melanie through clenched teeth, peering upwards. ‘It’s so long and skinny and slick and…pink. I feel like I’m trapped in a giant vag passage.’

  Greg and I bit our lips, trying to contain our laughter.

  Melanie immediately warmed to her analogy. She had a devilish gleam in her eye. And I predicted, in a minute, biting my lips wasn’t going to contain anything.

  ‘There are three of us in here at once. Triple penetration, man. That’s some kinky shit! Hope you brought rubbers ’cause I bet there’ve been heaps of unsavoury sorts going in and out of here.’ She did a rude finger-in-the-hole motion with her hands and then ran over to a console table off to the side. ‘I’ve found its G-spot,’ she said, furiously twiddling the drawer knob.

  And yes, I was right, biting my lips was futile. Both Greg and I burst out laughing.

  Dad entered the—oh God, don’t think of it as vag passage!—entry tower, giving us a bemused look.

  Melanie quickly changed her twiddling motions to a smooth hand glide across the drawer fronts. ‘Mmmm, nice drawers.’ Dad was the only one who was oblivious to the fact that Melanie was referring to underwear. ‘They open so smoothly,’ she added with a perfectly straight face.

  Dad took possession of the cheese tray and invited us into the dining room. We followed, and Mel shot me a look with raised brows. I realised then that she’d been playing silly buggers to get me to laugh and not be so tense over facing Stepfucker and the Stepsprogs. I would have hugged her right away but we’d reached the dining room, and there they were.

  Michael was slouched in his seat, head bent, messing with his phone. Geneva was sitting straight up—someone had obviously shoved a poker up her bum—and was staring at the doorway avidly. And Lydia? She was back straight, chin titled up, peering down her nose at her own hands while fiddling with her nails and watching the doorway out of the corner of her eye. Studiously pretending not to notice that the guests had arrived.

  Honestly, it was all I could do not to spin on my heel and march the hell out of there.

  Not before reclaiming my cheese tray, mind you.

  As I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, wishing for a God/a powerful entity/the universe to give me strength, I noticed I was beneath an archway. While all the normal people in the whole wide world were turning archways into squared-off openings, Lydia had altered what had previously been a perfectly fine square-set entrance to the dining room into…this. When my vision levelled out, I blinked at the far wall, which, yes, had been painted in a sponged effect. In apricot. In this day and age, the only thing that should be that colour is an actual apricot. Honestly, the phone was gonna ring any minute—

  My dad clapped his hands and spoke loudly, obviously trying to cover the fact that no one was exactly rolling out their welcome mats. ‘Come in, come in. Have a seat.’ He was pulling out chairs and pointing and making introductions.

  Lydia gave Greg a smile and some small talk, even. When my dad forced Lydia’s attention from Greg by asking hadn’t it been so long since they’d seen Mel, Lydia’s expression devolved into what could only be described as a pained grimace. Melanie not being overly skilled at hiding her feelings means Lydia is well aware that Melanie considers her to be a rotten bitch.

  And me? I got the look I’d gotten all my life: disdain. With the added bonus of (what I had dubbed) “fart face.” Lydia has a special face when she’s extremely put out about something. It makes an appearance when the following situations occur: the food/service/ambience at a restaurant is not to her liking; somebody expresses an opinion that doesn’t coincide with her own; she observes a person who does not meet her exacting standards of physical beauty/fashion sense/body shape; and when she meets someone who has a different sexual orientation to her own.

  Whenever these things happen—as well as a great many others because there’s a lot that disgusts Lydia—her mouth compresses into a thin line, lips curving down at the corners, her nostrils flare, and she appears to be pained. As if someone has shoved her face into their crack and farted right up her nostrils—hence “fart face.”

  I wanted to kick myself for not thinking to bring that pussy-licked cheese ball as a special gift for my stepmother.

  In a few minutes, everyone was tucking into the nibbly goods we’d brought. It was weird because usually (at any normal gathering) those things would’ve been consumed cocktail-party style while people mingled. However, I surmised that Lydia (who is anything but normal) was keen to get the meal over with, so we were seated at the table as soon as we walked in. As a result, hands went back and forth, back and forth, some people’s bottoms leaving their chairs while they reached to select cheese and other bits and pieces from the centre of the table.

  The main conversation was between Greg and my dad. Since this was the first time they’d met, Dad had many questions for Greg. Mostly about Greg’s qualifications (he has a medical degree and has also studied natural healing). His business (he has a practice where he and his business partners treat clients with injuries using natural therapies, chiro
practic, acupuncture and the like). And the local small business climate (while some local restaurants, stores and service businesses are closing down, Greg’s business seems to be chugging along quite nicely). In fact, Greg, Theo and Tim are always booked out for weeks in advance.

  ‘So, you must be doing alright, hey?’ Michael asked Greg.

  There was a beat of silence while Greg was probably thinking what a gauche individual my brother was. He answered, ‘I’m doing fine.’

  Michael whipped out his wallet, pulled out a business card and handed it to Greg. ‘Here’s my card,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do you for, don’t hesitate to ring me.’

  I wondered why Michael couldn’t just say ‘do for you,’ like civilised people. I also wondered what on earth Michael imagined he could do for Greg. Michael doesn’t have a job. Has never had a job. He talks himself up. Comes up with lame ideas about the next big thing. And then sits at home and sponges off my dad.

  Lydia took that as her cue to puff up and start going on about how wonderful Michael’s business card was. She dropped words such as ‘innovative’ and ‘creative’ and some other nonsense, as though Michael had achieved a great feat by getting his name and number printed up on some card stock.

  I glanced at the card in Greg’s hand and felt my eyes widen. The idiot (my brother, not Greg) actually had “Entrepreneur” printed under his name. He was an entrepreneur of exactly nothing. He was also delusional. Maybe he should have had that printed on there. It would not be false advertising.

  When dinner began in earnest, the conversation was hijacked by Lydia and we had to endure about thirty minutes of hearing how wonderful her spawn were. Apparently, Michael was ‘talking to some people’ about his new business idea. It was going to be huge and make him lots of money. However, it was hush-hush, so she couldn’t divulge the details. I pretended not to be bored. Which was hard, because I’d heard this story, or versions of it, at least twenty-five times.

  Geneva, who had done a modelling course at TAFE, was about to have a new portfolio done. The other one (which had cost a couple of grand) reportedly wasn’t up to par and was the sole reason she hadn’t gotten any jobs yet. So they were going to spend another few grand and were positive she’d be on the catwalk soon after.

  I could have told Lydia that the only way Geneva would ever end up on a catwalk is if she flung herself from the front-row seats at fashion week. She was about a foot too short, for a start. She also had weird, thin hair and, while not hideous, she was no oil painting. I did not say one word. Who was I to go around quashing other people’s aspirations? That was a job for the Deluded Dream Police, surely.

  While her mother was blowing smoke up her ass, Geneva was playing with her hair, touching her neck excessively, and making eyes at Greg as if she were going to have him for dessert—with whipped cream and a cherry on top. As far as I was concerned, she could take her cherry and shove it up her butthole. Along with the can of whipped cream.

  Melanie and I shared a look. Pursed lips and subtle eye-rolls were involved.

  Melanie knew all about Geneva’s inability to take no for an answer. Sadly, Michael shared the same personality trait. As children, when either of them wanted something, they would erupt into loud and messy torrents of tears. The thing would be given to them immediately because God forbid the darlings be upset! If I happened to possess the coveted thing, it would be snatched from me and bestowed upon them. Then there’d be smiles all round. Except from me, but that was always beside the point. The last time this had happened was when Geneva was fifteen. She had wanted the autographed CD by a local band that I’d bought at their concert. Because my dad was home, the item was not pried from my hands. Instead, Lydia and my father told me I should hand it over, doing their best to make me feel like a heinous bitch for not wanting to give the CD to my poor little crying sister.

  A while later, there had been smiles all round. Except from me.

  Nothing like that had happened since then, only because I’d moved out.

  If Geneva started crying now, saying she wanted my Greg, and if anybody tried telling me I should hand him over, I’d kill some fuckers creatively with my cutlery and assorted dinner items.

  Lydia started speaking in a higher pitch, and her words came out short and sharp. I should have heard warning bells, but I was too busy imagining leaning over the table and poking the chicken bone from my plate directly into Geneva’s predacious peepers.

  I vaguely registered Lydia rabbiting on about how much models earn, and then, ‘How much can you earn in a year as a scientist, Kayana?’ The way Lydia said the word “scientist” she may as well have said shit bucket collector.

  I turned my attention to her. I didn’t say anything for a moment. Because I was occupied with imagining inserting chicken bones where chicken bones positively shouldn’t go.

  I hauled in a deep breath. Blew it out. ‘I’ll tell you what. You tell me how much you earned in the last year.’ (I was well aware the answer was zero dinero.) I pointed to the boyf-stealer wannabe across the way and said, ‘You tell me how much you earned last year.’ I kept my attention on her until she squirmed and looked away. And then I moved my pointy finger of death to Michael. ‘And you show me how much you earned last year.’ Because knowing Entrepreneur Extraordinaire, he’d spout some bullshit about business deals that had only happened in his dreams. From him, I’d take nothing less than bank account statements signed in blood by an accountant as proof. I finished up with, ‘And then I’ll think about telling you how much I earn.’

  I felt Greg’s hand on my thigh. He squeezed, then patted, telling me with his actions that he was right there, backing me up. I put my hand on his thigh and squeezed, telling him thank you.

  My family all sat there, briefly silent. I had never spoken up, or defied them, or…anything really. They seemed shocked and confused. Poor them.

  My father was the first one to pipe up. He frowned at me and said, ‘It doesn’t matter what people are earning, Kayana. Everyone’s in a different situation.’ He then lightened his tone and announced it was time for dessert. He didn’t lose the frown.

  ‘Kayana,’ Lydia said in a voice frosty enough to freeze the tits off that Anna chick from the movie Frozen. ‘Why don’t you bring in the dessert now.’

  ‘Actually, I have to make a call. If you’ll excuse me.’ I stood and exited the room, grabbing my handbag from the twat tower and walking out the front door. I didn’t have to make a call. But here’s the thing—when I lived with Lydia, she treated me as if I were the servant. Despite the fact that she was a stay-at-home person, every Saturday she made me clean the house top to bottom. I cooked, ironed, raked leaves, pulled weeds and whatever else she told me to do. And while I was doing all that, her two kids sat on their asses.

  Whenever I venture back to Lydia Central, the old bat tries to put me right back in my old role. In the past, I have ended up serving hors d’oeuvres at parties, or in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning, and washing dishes while Michael and Geneva continued to sit on their asses. Today I was breaking out of my old role. Because seriously, fuck. That. Shit.

  Greg came outside. ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’ He possessed a detailed knowledge of my craptastic childhood. Everything bar one piece of information that I hadn’t gotten around to telling him yet. Because it was way easier to put it off.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’m not letting her treat me that way anymore.’

  ‘Good for you, my baby.’ He stroked the side of my face and then pulled me in for a hug.

  I loved the smell of him and the sensation of being in his arms. I buried my face in his chest, inhaled deeply and let my breath out on a big sigh. It felt good to know he was there for me. That I wasn’t alone for once. It was like facing a pack of hyenas who’d enjoy nothing more than ripping you apart while being secure in the knowledge that there was someone at your back who’d help you if the shit got bad. Someone who happened to be a lion. The baddest one on
the block/savannah. Or in this case, Stepfucker Street.

  When Greg and I returned, the lights in the dining room had been turned off. Dad’s birthday cake was on the table. Greg and I remained standing while the candles were lit, and then we all sang happy birthday. After the candles had been blown out, I kissed my dad’s cheek and said, ‘Happy Birthday.’

  Greg wished him well.

  One thing that my family probably wouldn’t realise was that Greg was behaving quite coolly towards them. He was polite enough and engaged in conversation; however, it was the bare minimum, his usual dry humour and affable nature nowhere to be found. I’d expected that he might be that way with Lydia, knowing the history, but he was the same with my dad. Greg has a protective streak a mile wide when it comes to me. The way my dad dealt with the situation when I was a child—which was to not deal with it at all—must have offended Greg more than I’d figured.

  Dad cut the cake, put slices on plates and handed them around. We sat, and I was about to tuck into the excellent-looking layered chocolate cake when Lydia started up with another bout of bullshit. Even though she was addressing the room at large, I understood at once by her tone that she was slinging the shit at me.

  She began with information from some beauty blog she and Geneva had been following. When she asked Geneva, ‘What were those products they recommended to tame unmanageable curly hair, darling?’ I thought, Ah crap, here we go.

  Geneva smirked at her mother. ‘I don’t remember. I’ll have to look it up. Wasn’t really paying attention ’cause I don’t need that stuff.’ Another hair pat, a pointed look at me, and then a flirty ogle of Greg.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Lydia replied. ‘But perhaps you could find the information and send it to Kayana.’

  These turds were always on my back about my hair. As if there weren’t more important/interesting/relevant things to discuss than what’s going on around my head. I mean, I have big hair. That’s a fact. It’s thick. There’s a bucketload of it. It’s wavy or curly depending on the weather. It hangs almost down to my waist. And here’s the shocker: I like it. Also, these days, I couldn’t give a single shit about what the blonde, stringy-haired people in the family have to say on the subject.