The Evil Stepsister (Fairytale Killers #2)

The Girls Are Educated

“So, had a change of heart? Or do I call Sully?”

Franco looked amiable: in a double-breasted white uniform, he’d be a chef who likes his own cooking too much. 

“Yeah I was in, it's not what I expected, is all,” Oz said.

“Yes, I know it sounds old-fashioned,” Franco understated. “I'm not that strict, the girls are educated, dress fashionably. I let them out on some nights, with friends. I'm not really attached to the whole purity angle, personally -- it's why they're not kept inside or went to Catholic school. Well, this and that their mother is a very strict Orthodox,” Franco laughed. “But a promise is a promise. It’s about time they're married off -- I want my name connected to Rawlings’. And they're kept happy, you'll see. Really soon, actually, I heard the car outside, they're back from dance practice, they're probably on their way up. I'll introduce you to them.”

Mono laughter echoed down a hallway, approaching the door to Franco's left. It still surprised Oz when the door hit the wall, and a blonde woman entered, smile neon bright, in yoga pants and what looked like the alpha version of a two dollar t-shirt, soon to be built into an actual t-shirt. It was short and tight, revealing a body sculpted by those hours of dancing. A body Oz had seen naked.

Two years before, in Ibiza, Riverside's party district. Flash images went through his head. Her staring at him from across the dance floor. How they approached each other, unable to hear over the music. It was enough to breathe in each other's ear, because they soon found a wall to make out on. The taste of her made the noisy hammer being dropped on his head, better. They'd soon realized that they were going to have public sex if they didn't stop, so they crossed the club, bouncing on hallway walls, passing bored security stares, hiding in a back alley where he got to get his hand inside the lace her legs kept wet. Caught by another couple that wanted to use the spot, she got sober enough to see she was half-undressed on a dirty wall, and that three strangers had seen her breasts, pulsing in his face, shining with his marks, so they went to his hotel room. A proper bed, she had insisted.

He raised his eyes to meet the dark ones he knew so well. She was blonde then, too, a far cry from the timid brunette kid in the photo. Twenty-two, she had said that night, leather skirt, lace underwear, her father a city away. Oz remembered her getting undressed in his hotel room, climbing him in bed, wild hair cascading over him.

Even worse, when he finally got to her eyes, it was obvious she had no idea who he was. Eyelashes fluttered in a polite yet expectant look. Not really curious, just waiting for Oz to prove he was there for a reason she cared about. 

Just when he was about to speak, a deja vu stopped him: the second sister appeared in the door frame. Same clothes, same hair, same body, same face, same smile. Same approaching Franco to kiss her father's cheeks.

Twins. Identical.  

“Carmela, Caterina, this is Oz, your new driver. Fellow Romanian, maybe he lasts more under your… verbal stress,” Franco said to the double vision, reactions choreographed: annoyance, acceptance, curiosity.

Two pairs of dark lasers converged to Oz, both with the same interest in him, at least physically. He knew women well and he preferred those who were attracted to his type, so it was an area he’d dedicated time to improve in: catching that gleam in a woman's eyes when she imagined herself in his arms. Both had it. Same look, making it even clearer his one-night stand didn't remember him. It was “new guy” alert, not “old flame reignited” alert.

Oz stared, searching for something to differentiate them. Clues to which of the Walter sisters had that gleam in her eyes in Ibiza, a mystery unraveling like those printed images next to each other in papers. Spot the twelve differences. Zero.