I close my lips around his gorgeous cock and he fucking growls, pushing my head down with a hand in my hair. “Take your pants off,” he says.
My entire fucking family is fucking Evan Rosier. Even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother is fucking Evan Rosier.
I don’t know what they see in him. Sure, he’s gorgeous. I get that. But he’s not the charming, innovative genius my mother believes. He’s a fraud. He’s the smarmiest smarmy bastard in the history of the world. I don’t care if he is filthy rich. (His father owns a sugar plantation or two. Thousand. How fucking smarmy can you get?) He’s telling them about his yacht, and my mother is cooing. I’m going to be sick.
I swear he’s toying with me. I’m staring into my lobster bisque, and thinking. Lobster makes me sick. The tepid orange color of the bisque makes me sick. Evan Fucking Rosier makes me sick.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see him smirking at me. He stares right at me, smirking his smarmy bastard smirk. I’m not fooled. Every time I look up to glare at him, he’s looking away. Perfect timing. He’s staring at me up until the moment I look up, and then he’s deep in conversation with my grandfather, or passing my brother the salt, or whispering sweetly to his sister. Either he’s toying with me, or I’m going batshit fucking insane.
“But Evanne,” my mother purrs, gesticulating with a perfect, manicured hand over her lobster bisque the color of diarrhea mixed with milk. Evanne, he introduces himself, as if it were French. It’s not French, I tell them. His name is Evan. I am ignored. Evanne. I’m going to be sick. “Surely Paris gets tiring.”
“Oh, I can’t stand it,” Evan purrs back. He’s faking it. He’s got to be faking it. “All that charm and magnificent food. It’s awful. I can’t wait to leave.”
They laugh, as if it’s some magnificent joke. I can’t believe this. No one person is capable of these sheer amounts of smarm.
“Besides,” he says, “those Parisian women can’t compare to my schnookums.” And then he kisses my sister. Who giggles. My five-foot-ten fucking amazon of a sister, who is a disgustingly successful psychiatrist in New York City, is giggling at her smarmy bastard of a husband. This is not my sister. This is a giggling alien clone who has been sent here as a replacement of my sister, from some bright pastel version of hell. My sister would castrate any man who touched her. And now there is nuzzling. They are practically snogging at the dinner table, in front of our great-grandmother Amaranta Dean, who is simpering happily at them both. “Oh, aren’t they sweet?” she gurgles, her hands shaking as she clasps them in rapture.
“I’m going to be sick,” I say, and stood. He was smirking at me. I left.
I spend the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, staring at the soapsuds on the sink, and trying to stop thinking about E. F. Rosier. I look in the mirror and I see my own, familiar face morph into his visage of evil. His nose, his eyes, his lips, and he’s smirking at me again. I don’t look in the mirror.
He’s staying with us at our family home on the lake. We all are, like we do every summer. I hate summer. I hate my family. I hate Evan Rosier. He’s been smirking at me all week.
I hear giggling in the corridor. I hate giggling. After a moment, I recognize the giggling as my mother’s. This travesty is too much to bear. I open the door. They’re walking up the stairs, and she’s leaning on him, since she’s had too much to drink. They’re whispering. I feel something rise in my throat and get stuck there.
Evan Fucking Rosier is flirting with his mother-in-law. And his mother-in-law–my mother–is leaning on him and giggling. He sees me. He smirks. I indulge in a very satisfying little fantasy of wrapping my hands around the perfect, honey-tanned skin at his throat and watching him choke and die.
“Matthew,” he says to me.
“Please die,” I respond. They both start laughing at me. Fucking laughing. I slam the door to my room like a petulant teenager.
I am not a petulant teenager. I am a petulant twenty-something who is failing out of law school. I hate him with a wild, single-minded obsession, like the opposite of a schoolgirl with a crush. I want to cover notebooks with his name so that I can burn them, and only then will I stop thinking of him. There’s a notebook and a pen in my hand. I look down at the page. Matthew Dean Please Die Rosier, it says. I stare. Mathew Dean Fucking Please-Die Rosier. I crumple the sheet and then shred it.
I am completely batshit fucking insane.
My sister’s room is next to mine. Our beds share a wall. I can hear it, as he fucks her. The force of their bed hitting the wall shakes my bed on the other side. I can hear my sister moaning. The whole fucking house can hear my sister moaning. They’re having really, really, damn good sex. I can hear the bedsprings shrieking as he fucks her.
I feel like bedsprings. I imagine that he’s fucking me. I hear her scream his name. It’s not on my lips. It’s not. Evan.
Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier.
I can hear the bats in my own belfry, and they sound like the shrieking of the bedsprings.
I dream that he’s fucking my whole fucking family, on my sister’s bed. All of them, even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother, piled on my sister’s bed, and the shrieking of the bedsprings.
My eyes open and the sunlight is lurking through the venetian blinds like an early-morning burglar. The early bird may get the worm, but the early burglar gets thrown in jail. Someone should inform the sun. Who the fuck would want to get up early for worms, anyway? Fucking bats. Probably.
I stagger into the bathroom, and there he is. Completely fucking naked in the bathroom I share with my sister. There’s a toothbrush in his mouth. He smirks at me around the toothbrush. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier is ass-naked in my bathroom, fresh from banging my sister. I can feel my own brain cells committing ritual suicide inside my head, with little death screams sending twitches of pain through my skull.
I close the bathroom door and stand there staring at the wood two inches from my face. He opens it. Smirks. The toothbrush is gone.
“Are you coming in,” he asks, “or are you going to let me out?”
“Please fucking die,” I manage to say. Naked Fucking Evan Please-Die Rosier.
He takes a step closer. “I don’t see you moving.”
I move, backwards. I am not staring. I wonder how many brain cells I can lose before I become comatose. E. F. P.-D. Rosier is the sadistic scientific experiment which is testing this. He steps forward. I can smell the peppermint on his breath. He walks into my sister’s room. Leaves the door open.
I walk into the bathroom. Stare at the soap suds on the sink. There are two toothbrushes on the sink. One is my sister’s. One is mine. Mine is wet.
He used my fucking toothbrush.
“You fucking bastard!” I shout.
My brother James leans in the bathroom door. James Fucking Dean. This atrocity can only be blamed on my mother. “Matty?”
“Don’t fucking call me Matty.”
“What’s mum told you about profaning before breakfast?”
“I learned all the profanity I know from mum.”
“But not before breakfast.”
“Get the fuck out of the bathroom,” I say. I shove him out, then slam the door.
I stare at the two toothbrushes on the sink. Sharing someone’s toothbrush seems like the oral equivalent of French kissing. I’m going to have to get a new toothbrush, and keep it under lock and key. I brush my teeth with some toothpaste on my fingertip. I throw the desecrated toothbrush in the trash can.
I walk down to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of juice. I look out the window to the porch and immediately regret it. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier is breathing on my nineteen-year-old brother James Fucking Dean. Their faces are six inches apart. Evan Rosier is seducing my brother. I can see them on my sister’s bed. Fucking.
He’s been here a week and he’s already fucked my whole family, except me. I’m not fooled by him. He’s fucked my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother. He’s fucked my dog, and I don’t even have a dog. But not me. Me he smirks at, but he’ll never fuck me.
I push open the screen door. “What are you doing?”
James jumps. Evan Fucking Rosier just smirks at me. “He had something in his eye.”
“Well, in that case,” Evan F. P.-D. Rosier wraps his arms around his brother-in-law. “I was whispering sweet nothings in his ear.”
James is as infatuated by this bastard as the rest of my family. He melts. I’m going to be sick again.
Evan’s eyes are on mine. They’re deep blue, lapis lazuli blue, and he’s smirking. Smirking as he runs his hand down my brother’s body. Smirking as he glides a finger into the hem of my brother’s jeans. I’m still holding the glass of juice. I’m going to drop it. I can feel my brain cells beginning a mass exodus out my ears.
“Careful,” Evan says, taking the glass from me. James very nearly collapses at the sudden lack of molestation.
He takes a drink then hands it back to me. I can see the impression of his lips on the glass.
“Please die,” I tell him.
“You keep saying that.”
“You’re not dead yet.”
“You’ve had ample opportunity to murder me.”
I throw the rest of the juice in his face. It was contaminated, anyway. I walk inside.
“Did you hear them last night?” My aunt gossips, as I enter the den. Trudy, my mother’s only unmarried sister. My mother’s only sister with less than three marriages. My mother killed her first two husbands, probably with arsenic. The third, she still complains, died of a heart attack during copulation on their wedding night. And the simpering fourth she leads around on an invisible leash like a fucking lapdog. My mother’s eldest sister is currently on her ninth honeymoon. Her tenth husband will be Evan Fucking Rosier.
“How could I not?” I steal a fried egg and a piece of toast from my mother’s plate, which she’s forgotten. She’s bickering with my grandfather over what to name the baby. Evan and Val Rosier’s nonexistant hypothetical demonspawn offspring. “You don’t name an antichrist,” I interrupt. “Just call him the Beast. Evil Widdle Beastie-kins, for short.”