The Ugly Sister (Part 2)

The Ugly Sister (Part 2) The Ugly Sister (Part 2)

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Pregnant and on the run, Tara finds a new voice, a new love, and a new confidence. Back home, Flynn falls victim to his destructive vices.

Summary

Pregnant and on the run, Tara finds a new voice, a new love, and a new confidence. Back home, Flynn falls victim to his destructive vices.

Chapter1 (v.1) - The Ugly Sister (Part 2)

Author Chapter Note

Pregnant and on the run, Tara finds a new voice, a new love, and a new confidence. Back home, Flynn falls victim to his destructive vices.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: December 03, 2015

Reads: 10836

Comments: 2

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: December 03, 2015

A A A

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Author's Note:

Funny story. The thing about posting a story before you've finished writing it is sometimes things don't go as planned. Sometimes you realize far too late that you made an error early on. Sometimes the story clearly should have had a different setting.

That happened here. The Ugly Sister takes place in 1995. I just didn't realize it until I'd already written 70,000 words. The story isn't changing, just the technology used in it. It's an incredible amount of work, though--it turns out cell phones are all over the damn place--and I've been on a roll with the second part, so I'll deal with that later.

tl;dr: This takes place in 1996, so pretend Part 1 took place in 1995. Sorry.

Oh, and everyone wanting Flynn's perspective, you're welcome.

~..~

I'm a liar.

I've lied about a lot of things in my life. Who I am, what I do, why I exist. I lie because I don't want people to think I'm weird and they wouldn't believe the truth, anyway. I lie because I'm bored, and if I can convince you I was the original bassist for Skid Row or one of the ewoks in Star Wars, why shouldn't I?

I never lied to Tara, though. It was hard--every instinct told me she'd run screaming from the absurd truth of my existence--but I wanted us to be real. I could accept her weird, and she could accept mine, and we could live happily ever after.

Two out of three isn’t bad, I guess. We accepted each other for as brief a time as we had

I try not to think about the life she must have now, but that’s impossible. Does she have that first hint of a bump rising from her stomach? Does she mindlessly rest her hand there? Or, more likely, does she only glance at herself quickly as she walks by a mirror because she's embarrassed about it? She was always so self-conscious about her weight, even though she was a perfectly healthy size.

Or maybe her belly is flat and will remain flat. I gave her permission to terminate the pregnancy if she wants. There are days when I think it's the better choice. I want to hear her voice on the radio one day. I want to see her walk onto a Broadway stage. I want her face on the silver screen. I don’t want motherhood to hold her back.

But that’s what I want on good days, and I’m not having one of them. Today I want her pregnant with my child, and in love with me, and in my bed. Hell, I want her tied up in my bed, naked and sprawled so I can love her without being hindered by her natural bashfulness.

Hell, I want her wanton and aroused and refusing to put on clothes even if I asked, just walking around naked at all times. If I'm going to make a fantasy Tara, I should at least make her perfect.

No, she was perfect. I don't want a butterfly, I want a caterpillar. I want to watch her crawl out from her chrysalis and spread her wings. And I never will, so I wave a single finger at the purple-haired bartender.

She shakes her head, no.

I pick up my glass and shake it, in case she didn't realize what I was asking for the first time.

Again, no.

I slam it down hard on the bar.

"Don't be a prick," she snaps.

The man two stools down from me snorts. I glare at him, and he smirks, tosses his whiskey back, and waggles his glass at Collette.

She pours him a fresh one and yells, "Sit your ass back down!" before I even realize I'm standing.

"Whatever, I'm going home," I try to say, but it comes out gibberish for some reason. I try again, but the best I can do is, "Wudduffhh, gohn himm."

Collette nods. "Good idea, let me call you a cab."

"Wuh? Nah, man. Got muh..gah muh key...sommer." Somewhere, definitely, but someone must have sewn my pockets shut. They're too small for my hands.

"Please?" Collette says sweetly. "It will make me feel better."

I tell myself to smile and thank her and graciously decline, but what comes out of my mouth is, “I sen I’m fiuh.”

The man says, “Hey, she’s just trying to help you. Why don’t you take a seat and—“

That’s as far as he gets before he reaches for me and I take a swing at him. My fist doesn’t get anywhere near him. I put my foot down and my knee keeps going. I’m going to fall, and I know I can stop it if I just catch my balance, but the world is spinning. I never hit the ground. Next thing I know, I’m hovering. An arm is around my waist, holding me up. “Come on,” a familiar voice says. “Let me take you home, okay?”

I peer up, but there are at least three Buckys above me. I reach for one of them, and he grunts as I accidentally smack him in the crotch.

Not sure where on the spectrum of friendship punching a guy in the howdy becomes acceptable, but I don’t think I’m there yet.

I try to apologize and end up drooling on the floor. This is becoming embarrassing. I gotta get my shit together.

I flail until he drops me. I can do this myself, I swear, I just have to get my feet under me. But they feel like newborn calf legs.

Maybe if I sit here for a minute on this filthy bar floor, really focus on making it stay still, I can do this. I just have to believe in myself.

A friendly hand on my cheek makes me realize my eyes were closed. I won’t say I was sleeping, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t. I open my eyes and for one tortuous second, I think it’s Tara. And then she says, “I gotcha, Flynn,” and I glare at her. Tara rarely called me Flynn.

This one is a liar, too. A fucking façade, a pale, scrawny, heartless near facsimile, the ghost of my perfect past. “Fucking bish,” I growl.

She smiles sadly. “I’m going to take you back to Hunter’s, put you in bed, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I-uh never full bedder, you fuckin bish!” I bellow. Bucky helps me back up, and I don’t fight him this time. If someone has to take me home, it better be Bucky.

No, I can just cross the street. I’ll be home in a couple of minutes. I start to shuffle toward the door, and Bucky grabs my collar to restrain me. “Not so fast, speedy. Last time you tried that we found you asleep in the middle of the road, remember?”

I wish I did remember, because that was the most brilliant thing I’ve ever done. I just wish it had been a busier intersection. I’d be dead now and out of this.

I slump down. I don’t care. If Hunter and Kay want to take me to the estate, I don’t care. They can lay me in the bed where Tara and I first made love, that magical evening when I realized this random, awkward, painfully beautiful woman was my entire future.

When she laughed and cried and fought me fiercely and loved me more fiercely yet, when she slept soundly and I had the privilege of studying every inch of supple but scarred flesh and thanked the gods above that the woman I would spend the rest of my life with was so kind and funny and strong even if she didn’t know it.

I lean heavily against Kay, but she holds me up like a champ. She’s used to it by now.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I miss her, too.”

“Bish,” I grumble.

She sighs, but lightly. “I know. But you’re the one that ran her off.”

I did. If I hadn’t, it wouldn’t be Kay sharing my brother’s bed.

It would be Tara, against her will.

Because with Hunter, no one has their own will.

~..~

I’m a superstar. A diva. The next Barbra or Cher or Bette. My name—my new name—will be in lights one day.

It’s what I tell myself as I prepare for my audition. A little pep talk, a reminder I can do this.

I know I shouldn’t doubt myself, not with a community theater, but it’s been several years since I last auditioned. My undergraduate years, maybe. I wasn’t expected to participate in theater during my post-grad studies.

The audition is informal, with the director and his assistant sitting close by and a small section of the auditorium seated by the others who are trying out. I’m not really comfortable with open auditions, but beggars can’t be choosers. I really want this—who could pass up a modern musical retelling of Much Ado About Nothing?--so much I’ve already set up a meeting with a realtor tomorrow. I’m settling down here.

One last breath before I turn around, but I’m practiced enough I doubt anyone will notice. Ideally, it will come off as nonchalance. Just taking my time here, folks. No rush. I am in no way a girl who gets jitters over community theater auditions. And with my background, I know I have nothing to worry about but here I am, struggling to keep my hand off my belly. How did I develop this habit already?

How did I develop a bump already? It seems so early.

“Miss…Wright, is it?” the director says. “Tina Wright?”

I nod. The man who gave me my new identity allowed me to choose my name. I don’t know why I went with a surname so close to Flynn’s, considering he’s the ass who stole my life, but I know why I went with Tina. I’ll respond to it readily enough.

“What will you be singing for us, Miss Wright?”

Maybe This Time from Cabaret,” I say, and the accompanist plays the opening couple notes.

It’s a slow start, a bit of a crap shoot. Casters don’t necessarily want to spend more than a couple seconds on the song—too many people to go through.

So I start strong, digging deep within to hit those low notes, refusing to compromise on the original, Liza Minelli octave.

My voice begins to warble as I near the chorus. Not because I’m losing momentum, but because I haven’t been interrupted yet and I really should have. I focus on the director, expecting to see him taking notes or chatting with his assistant, distracted by something that would lead him to the minor faux pas, but he’s staring right at me, his head tilted slightly, listening intently.

Fair enough. I forage on ahead, gathering steam as I go, and as I near the end I realize how much I need this. I have no home, no family, no future. This can be it. This stage, these people, this ridiculous village on the side of a snow-crusted mountain I feared the van would go tumbling right off the edge of, I can make this my world. I hit all the notes, belt out the finale, and have to catch my breath when I finish.

There is a subdued applause at the end, but I’m competition to most of the audience. Plus, I’m an outsider. I’m sure many of the people here have shared this stage frequently. There are probably whole families auditioning.

The director thanks me politely, and it’s not until a couple hours later, after everyone has had a chance to run through lines, that he explains why he kept me onstage so long.

“Miss Wright!” he calls as I head out toward the parking lot. “Miss Wright, a moment!” He’s frazzled, his heavy winter coat only half on and his one arm laden with the entire stack of forms teetering dangerously. As he hits the parking lot, his left boot skids slightly, and he nearly topples but corrects himself. He even manages to keep the paperwork steady. He makes one of those woo sounds most people do when regaining balance, and his cheeks flush.

His surprisingly bronze cheeks. He reminds me of Hunter. Not in a bad way necessarily, he just has a touch of Hollywood to him. I'd guess him to be in his later 30s, and though the hem of his jacket is frayed and there's a bit of salt in his otherwise cinnamon toned hair, it's obvious he cares about his physical appearance. Again, not a bad thing. My guess is he had Silver Screen dreams but never got past the moth-eaten community stage curtain.

I don't judge him for it. I don't even consider it a sign of inability or ineptitude. Maybe he was amazing and never got that one in a million lucky break.

"Please, call me Tina," I tell him, not just because it's polite but because I'm starting to regret my chosen surname. "Or Tee. That's what everyone calls me."

"Tee. Excellent. I'm Paul Reardon." He juts his hand out, but I now have a dense pile of paperwork in my right hand. I fumble the mountain about, he does the same, and by the time we get it figured out, we both have red cheeks. And then he says, "Oh, I guess you already know who I am," nullifying the whole thing.

I laugh. "Yeah, I didn't want to say anything."

"Right. Anyway, I was looking at your form and you don't have any contact information listed."

I nod. "I just moved here, still working that out. I'm going to look at houses tomorrow, though."

"Ahh! That's why I hadn't seen you around before. Where did you park?"

I nod toward my van, pretending it's not the most embarrassing first impression vehicle I could ever have. I know I have the money to get rid of it, but I've lived out of it the past two months while I figured out where I was going, and it's served me well.

"Oh. Parked next to me, perfect."

Okay, he's driving a Plymouth Sundance, so maybe mine isn't so bad.

"Who's your realtor?" he asks.

"Uhh, Debbie something. Cor-something."

"Debbie Cordova? Jeez. Carolyn!" he yells toward a group walking the other way, but they don’t hear him. "Carolyn! Bah. Lemme give you Carolyn's number. She does the choreography for us. She'll get you a better deal on closing costs."

He digs into his breast pocket and pulls out a pen, only to realize he doesn't have loose paper. Undaunted, he scribbles the name on the bottom of a form and tears it off for me. "There, it was your slip anyway. Wait, no. It's Bruce's. Cripes, what did I do with yours?"

I glance down at the stack I took from him. Mine is on top.

"Right. So, I'll post the cast list Saturday here on the door, so you can check it out anytime, and rehearsal starts next week."

I smile, trying to hold back any comment about how he went over this already, I know.

"Oh! Are you really only interested in the part of Margaret? Not Hero or Beatrice?"

That's sweet of him to ask, but those characters are both maidens. Certainly not ones I could play.
"No, I'm pretty limited on what I can do."

"You sure? Is it the move? We could help. Or, your job...?" He leaves that open as he glances to the blank spot on my form. No job.

I pat the hard spot just below my navel, buried under my layers now but prominent in my profile when I'm topless. "No, no. I'm expecting." It feels weird to say, probably because Paul is the first person I've said it to.

"Oh." The syllable is clipped. His shoulders sink as his eyebrows lace, but only for a second, probably while he debates if I'm even worth considering. Dammit.

But then he perks back up. "Oh! Well, congratulations, then. When are you due?"

"Not until September. I just don't want to mess things up if I start showing a lot early. I've already got a bump and...and everything."

Paul has a goofy smile, reminding me of Flynn. It throws me off.

He shakes his head with a light, carefree laugh. “Gosh, I must look crazy. You just reminded me of my wife. We had planned to keep both the pregnancies hush hush, not wanting the drama, you know? But she couldn’t help gushing about it. Hell, I probably gushed a bit myself. This your first?”

I nod. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Nah, you’re great. Brave, really, moving now. Your husband’s work bring you here?”

Thankfully it’s dark; I’m sure my cheeks are crimson. The topic is going to come up, far more than I want it to, but I can dodge that.  “Just needed a change,” I murmur vaguely. “I should get going before the roads get rough,” I continue more confidently, gesturing to the snow.

“Of course. Oh, hey! It says here you have a, what, Masters, in music? Performance? If you’re interested in doing voice lessons, let me know. I have a paltry amount left in my budget I can send your way for it. Pennies, really, but we’re big on the arts here, could get you students outside of the theater.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him politely as I get into the van. I don’t need the money but I might need the time killer. I’m still not sure what people do with themselves when they can’t work. Hobbies, I guess, but I’ve already maxed out my hobbies getting a degree I planned on doing nothing with. I have a Masters in Hobby.

“Oh, and Tee?” he yells through the window.

I roll it down enough that I can hear him. “Yep?”

“We’re supposed to get a rough storm Friday, so don’t bother coming up here Saturday. I’ll see you Monday!” He turns and scurries to his door before I can yell my thanks to him for giving me the advance notice.

The entire drive back to my crappy hotel room, I can’t unscrew the smile from my face.

This is my home.


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