Bound To The Billionaire (The Girl Who Can't Say No, #1)(4)

"Fuck, don't even f*cking think about it Chloe, don't even f*cking do it!"

Wrapping my knuckles around the steering wheel, and grasping it so tightly my knuckles turn white, I'm in almost the same place as last night, working myself into a frothy stupor over the bathroom sink. I strain my eyes, narrowing them gingerly, trying to avoid bawling my eyes out at all costs.

"Don't be f*cking weak now!"

I listen to myself in disgust, bellowing orders to my nervous subconscious from the comfort of my own car. Then the thought occurs to me that I'm only the latest in a long, long list of aspiring actors to do the same, and the feeling of flooding, rushing tears in the corner of my eyes subsides. I let go of the steering wheel, and feel my knuckles cramp up; the skin of my palms burning slightly. My worst f*cking audition: at least in the past I've had the presence of mind not to beg for clemency and then storm out.

I start the car, and begin the long drive back home, with a sullen, throbbing head ache.





***





"So," she asks tactlessly, with what sounds like a mouthful of popcorn. "How did it go?"

I should have known she was on the phone; I haven't earned my way out of an obligatory shout-down for last night's mirrored theatrics yet. I close the back door behind me with a pointed slam, doing my best to alert her to my presence, before dourly stumbling through the kitchen - complete with dirty pans and dishes piled as high as I stand - and make my way to the living room. Jesus, this place isn't any f*cking better; packets of potato chips littering the carpet, plates and dishes scattered asunder, and a giant, admittedly enticing tub of ice-cream, the undeniable centerpiece within the room. I guess she did well in her finals then.

"Great! Excellent! I'm so glad!" she shouts at the top of her lungs, looking at me with unknowing eyes. I look back at her for a moment, lying leisurely upon the couch; a mirror image of myself, my identical twin sister. Her black hair is swept behind her shoulders in unkempt, matted clumps, and her pale skin reflects the golden sunlight radiantly. And then I find I can't stop looking at her. She's a picture of everything I should be this afternoon: thrilled with life, care free, without another worry in the world. I should be the one surrounded by ice-cream and popcorn, celebrating my new f*cking film role. We should be celebrating together.


"Hey, ya know, I gotta go, my sister's back. I'll catch you later, yeah."

And with that, she hangs up, dropping the cell phone to the floor, lost amongst the garbage. Focusing two judgmental eyes on me, I can already tell what's coming.

"You know its no thanks to you that I did so well today. Despite trying your best to keep me up last night, I f*cking did it. I passed."

"Congratulations," I reply, using every last bit of my acting talents to appear sincere, whilst keeping the swelling, burgeoning shame of failing my own personal test hidden within me. "You must be thrilled."

Carissa turns her head from me, looking up to the ceiling, balancing some invisible object on the end of her nose triumphantly. She shuffles across the couch, sitting herself down at the other end, allowing me the space to sit with her if only I can navigate my way past the various articles of trash that litter the path. I do so, and she finally looks back at me.

"In one year's time," she says with pompous relish, "I'll have passed my bar, and I'll be a fully fledged entertainment attorney!"

I'm happy for her. I truly am, even though I don't feel it. She's worked hard. Almost as hard as I have. And duly, she's going to be rewarded. And of course, my reward for diverging from the well-worn family path of law school is to watch her succeed where I fail. Can't you tell I've had enough?

"How about you," she finally adds, after a few more moments of incessant legal rambling, the likes of which I've heard a thousand times before from her. "How did it go for you today? The big audition?"

"I'm quitting acting," I sternly reply, more to myself than my sister, and without a second thought about the subject. "I've had enough. I quit."

"That bad huh?"

She has a way of making light of every situation, a strange talent for a lawyer. It's a fun attribute, and yet one I don't wish to suffer right now. She picks up the carton of popcorn with one deft movement, placing it into my hand, before looking back into me and narrowing her eyes, cunningly.

"You'll feel different in the morning."

How could we share the exact same genes, and yet be so different? Up until high school, we were never apart. She'd wear red, and I'd wear blue, and that's the only way we could be told apart. Today, it's much easier; she's the one wearing the carefree, giddy grin, and I'm the one looking far more morose. An easy identification if ever there was one.

"Look, Carissa," I bark at her, averting my eyes from hers, and holding the palm of my hand toward her, ready to defend myself from an avalanche of well-wishes and patronizing taunts. "I won't feel different. I haven't felt any different for six months. I'm sick of living like this, constantly worrying my way from audition to audition, wondering where the next paycheck is coming from. I'm done."

She's unrelenting, staring into me with the same, formidable blue eyes I have, fluttering her long black eyelashes at me in a show of unrelenting petulance.