The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (3 page)

Informative conversation in twelve words. I count them in my head again. Yep, Ethan is concise. And while to someone who doesn’t know my brother he might seem indifferent, he’s not. He’s just quiet and sort of shy, even with the family. He’s got that whole younger twin/older dominant twin—my brother Eric—dynamic going on.

I drop my suitcase in the entry hall and go into the yard, crossing the lawn to the detached dance studio my dad had built so I’d have somewhere private to study and practice.

Nice sentiment.

Didn’t work out that way.

Even the dance studio is not my own space.

I quietly open the door and peek in.

Ah—there’s Mom.

Who are all these people?

She’s in the middle of learning a new performance routine.

Not bad—well, the routine, that is.

Mom, even fit and hip at fifty-two, doesn’t have any moves on the floor.

She’s a half beat behind the music.

I hope I didn’t get my dance gene from her.

Maybe I made the wrong choice.

Juilliard.

The wanting to be a ballerina thing…

“Krystal,” she says, stopping in midstep, then turns toward her choreographer. “Can we take five, Allister?”

From a chair she grabs a bottle of water, downs a hurried sip, then reaches for the towel to lightly dab her face.

“You heading out for the weekend, baby girl?”

I enter the studio and cross the wood floor to her.

“New routine, Mom?”

She makes a cute, aggravated face. “Yep. For live TV, no less. I’m not feeling it.” She loops her arms over my shoulders. “I never get steps quickly unless you teach me. My feet only understand you.”

I laugh. “It looks good, Mom.”

She gives me a silly shake. “Come dance with me? A few steps with Mom before you head out for the weekend. I’m going to miss you after you take off for New York.”

“Really? I would have thought you’d be happy to be down another kid.”

She drops a kiss on my nose. “Nope. Not happy.”

She takes me by the hand and drags me into the center of the room. “Allister, cue up the music again.”

Oh fudge, she’s going to make me do her routine with her before I can leave for the weekend.

I stare at our side-by-side images in the wall mirror.

Small, curvaceous, and stunningly beautiful blonde beside her only slightly taller, less stunning, much less built daughter.

“Five, six, seven, eight,” I hear Allister call out and my gaze shifts to the choreographer who’s moved to stand in front of us.

I effortlessly copy the steps.

Simple moves.

Why can’t Mom get this?

I stop and face her, putting my hands on her hips. “Relax. Move your hips from your torso, not your legs.”

Chrissie laughs, does a hip roll with a turn—perfectly—and I shake my head at her.

“You just pretend you can’t do this,” I tease.

She gives me a wide-eyed, innocent expression.

“You’re a good teacher.”

“Are we done, Mom? You don’t need my help and we both know that. Can I leave now?”

She pouts. “Fine. You can take off for the weekend. Straight to Malibu. Call me when you get there.”

“Really? I’m eighteen. Isn’t it time to loosen the shackles a little? Next week I’ll be living on my own.”

“Don’t remind me,” she says, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “Behave yourself. Say hi to Maddy for me. See you Monday.”

Good. I’m getting out of here quicker than I thought I would. Probably because she’s busy.

One parental unit down.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Halfway to London by now. On the road three weeks.”

My brows shoot up.

He didn’t even say goodbye to me before he left.

“Why didn’t you go, too, Mom?”

“You know the house rule. One of us on the road and one of us always home.”

I shake my head at her. “You should have gone. Had a little alone time with Dad.”

She gives me the Chrissie look. There’s no way to adequately describe that one. Serious shit hiding behind a droll expression. Familiar and nerve-racking simultaneously.

“Someone had to stay to see you off to college next week, baby girl.”

Oh great—she’s going to the airport with me.

Staring people and approaching fans.

That’ll be fun.

Not.

It could be worse.

It could be Dad.

That would be pandemonium.

“I’ll call you when I get to the beach. I’ll see you on Monday night.” At the door I pause to point back at her. “I expect you to have the routine aced by the time I get back here.”

Laughing, she tosses her towel at me, and I leave before she can get out another word. As I hurry across the lawn, I pull my cell from my pocket and check the time. That only took fifteen minutes. A new record with my mother.

Inside the house, I go straight for the front door and retrieve my bag. Eric and Khloe couldn’t care less that I’m taking off. No need to say goodbye to them—I feel a jab of
something
—no need really to say goodbye to any of them.

I’m Krystal.

Middle child.

Largely overlooked.

Not the baby like Khloe.

Not the princess like my older sister, Kaley.

The good girl.

Little Miss Straight A’s.

Never in trouble like my brother Eric.

Always doing exactly what they expect of me.

When I’m here, half the time no one even knows I’m home.

I lug my bag out into the driveway and anxiously scan for one of the security guys to take it and get my car from the cluster of fancy toys parked in front of me, since my dad has more cars than a dealership.

Better to let one of bodyguards maneuver my Audi to the front door.

Oh, and here’s another fun part of my life: we have 24/7 security at the house. Both my parents consider it necessary but I think the security guys are more here because my dad is slightly paranoid over being a billionaire and overly inflammatory with his mouth. Alan worries too much that something bad will happen to one of us kids because of him. And it’s definitely not worth pointing out to my dad that the smarter move would be to say less so he could hire fewer guys with guns.

A familiar figure walks right in front of me, no look or smile, as he continues on his routine patrol of the property.

Yuck, Jacob Merrick.

Why does he have to be the only one within shouting distance? The worst of the worst from the security company.

Such an arrogant prick.

He’s like one of those guards at Buckingham Palace. No matter what I do I can’t get him to look or even smile at me when he’s on duty. As for help, only when I ask directly for it.

Maybe he’s clueless. He’s younger than the rest of the bodyguards. Combat vet. Special Forces. Nothing but best of the best, elite military for my old man.

Jacob is gorgeous, though, for sure. Sandy brown hair and bright hazel eyes. Tall, tan, and well-muscled. Hot body, no denying that. Like all the security team, handsome and cut. But he’s totally unimpressed by me, and not the least bit worried to let me know it.

Why doesn’t he like me?

I drop my bag to land with a thump.

Jacob doesn’t look.

“Hello, security person,” I call out in a rude, snotty way. But I’m not really rude or snotty; it just bugs me that Jacob always ignores me. “I need help. I need my car.”

He stops.

Turns.

I dangle my keys in front of me, shaking them.

He walks across the grass to the front entry.

Without a word, he takes my keys and my bag, and saunters off.

Frowning, I follow him with my gaze as he maneuvers between the cars.

He could at least say hello to me, now couldn’t he?

He tosses my bag into the trunk and brings up my car in about a half minute, having figured out how to get my car unburied and to the front door when I couldn’t have done that in an hour.

After springing from the driver’s seat, he stands there waiting to close it for me.

I drop down into the seat, but leave one foot on the pavement. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says softly, sternly, but, oh, his voice…low and sexy and some kind of accent I’ve never been able to place—Midwest? Southwest? Southern?—definitely not Californian, but it sure is hot. Sort of a slow drawl with a caress on the end.

“That’s stupid. All the security guys talk to us.”

He locks me in his gorgeous hazel eyes. “They’re not supposed to.”

I glance up at him impishly. “And do you always do what you’re supposed to do?”

He ignores the question.

Stupid one.

Of course he does. He’s Jacob Merrick, GI Joe hardnose perfect.

“How long have you been out of the military?” I ask.

“One year,” he says on a releasing breath, annoyed.

“Well, here’s a clue, grunt.” His eyes flash; yep, I’ve heard the other guys call him that. “This isn’t the army. When last I checked, we were all in Pacific Palisades. Lighten up. You’re allowed to smile and talk here.”

His impassive features don’t soften an inch. “Will that be all, Miss?”

Miss
that time.

I study him, then lift my leg into the car.

He shuts the door.

Through the open window, I say at his retreating back, “It’s nice chatting with you, Jacob. We should do this again sometime.”

No response.

Didn’t expect one.

He’s back on patrol.

I take peeks at him in the rearview mirror as I pull from the driveway. Hot guy, thoroughly annoying and confusing, and not worth the time to figure out since next week I’m out of here and Jacob Merrick will be in the rearview forever.

* * *

Madison laughs, sitting back in her chair. “You called him
security person
? You didn’t?”

My cheeks warm. “Yep, I did. But in fairness you don’t know Jacob. He won’t even look me in the eye and he’s always so standoffish. Like my very presence bothers him.”

“Maybe it does.” She makes a playful lift of her brows.

I crinkle my nose. “No, Maddy. It’s not like that. Trust me, it isn’t that guy interested in a girl and playing it cool thing. He’s worked for our family six months and he hardly talks to anyone. Me least of all.”

She looks down at my place. “Is that all you’re going to eat?”

I only half finished my lettuce vegan wrap. “Yep, I’m done. It wasn’t very good and I’m not that hungry after dealing with the security person.”

She laughs, then abruptly switches directions and shakes her head at me. “Well, you might like the food better if you ate something worth eating once in a while. How do you take it, only ever having that crap you eat? Come on, live a little. Have some dessert with me or something. We’re celebrating. Your last weekend before you’re a college girl. And it’s not like you need to lose weight. You’re thin enough as it is.”

She scoops up some of her fries and dumps them on my plate. I ignore them. “I can’t eat those. I’m at optimal ballet weight. I can’t start stacking on the pounds a week before school starts, Maddy.”

She grimaces. “If that’s optimal weight maybe you should go to college for something other than dancing. Jeez, you are practically nothing but muscle and bone.”

“Jealous?” I taunt.

“No. Shoot me. I’d rather eat what I want.”

I focus on pushing my plate away because I know she’s not jealous of me. I’m jealous of her. Five foot nine inches of long-legged and big-boobed California golden girl hotness.

She looks exactly like a younger, more statuesque version of my mother.

She’s Chrissie perfect.

Even if I ate six meals a day, I could never compete in the looks department with Madison. I’d just end up fat, as well as flat chested, totally average, and short.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask.

She nods, shoveling another mouthful of her burger into her, and I wave for the waitress to bring us our check.

As we walk to the car she loops her arm around me. “We’re going to have fun this weekend. We won’t see each other again for months. So lighten up, Krystal. Whatever is bothering you—the
security person
or whatever—get over it.”

“Nothing is bothering me. I’m in a great mood.”

“Then let’s start acting like it,” Madison says spiritedly as she makes a dramatic
whoosh
with her hips before dropping down in the car.

I stop with my door open. “Wait here. I forgot something.”

Madison frowns. “What?”

“I think I left my credit card in the check holder. Stay here. Be right back.”

After slamming the door, I hurry back into the restaurant, my body clammy and my pulse racing.

The impulse.

The need.

Sharply in me.

Even before I ate dinner.

It started back at the house right after I woke.

When I hadn’t had anything but coffee for breakfast.

Oh please, don’t let Madison follow me.

I go into the bathroom, stare at my reflection, and breathe in then out in a feeble effort to stop myself.

I go into the stall anyway.

I shove my finger in my throat.

Well practiced, the contents of my stomach leave me. And then I flush away my lettuce wrap down the toilet.

At the vanity I wash my face and take from my purse the small bottle of mouthwash I carry. I swish it around. I try not to look at my reflection.

I’m not optimal weight.

I’m seven pounds too heavy.

I study my reflection in the wall mirror. Simple pale pink sundress, a shrug—such a ballet type of accessorizing, inescapable—flats instead of flip-flops.

No need to show off my toes and feet. Definitely nothing worth showing today or really most days. I wiggle them in the soft leather and I can feel every tender spot from heel to nail.

There’s always something touchy-ouchy on my feet.

They never look good.

Just like my outfits.

Concealing and not revealing.

That person who said
a girl should always dress for success
obviously wasn’t a dancer, and it’s not like I need to stress over outfits with Daryl.