The Duplicate

Chapter Sixteen

"Should I go over it again?"

My lips part slightly, and with a few smears of lipstick they are painted blood red. The color blazes in the light of the car's visor mirror.

"Ashford."

Angling the mirror higher, I check the rest of my face—the black strokes of eyeliner on my lower lids, the mascara coating my lashes. My cheeks, now powdered down, are colorless, ghoulish. Having forgotten to buy blush, I pinch them and warm pink blooms under my skin.

"Ashford." Trip's voice comes again. More agitated. He has been standing outside the parallel parked car, hovering over my open passenger's side door for a while now.

I know he has.

Without acknowledging him, I go about brushing my fingers through my hair, loosening tangles and knots. It's almost funny how he expects me to speak to him. This entire ride here I haven't uttered a word, haven't answered a single question he fired my way. I haven't even looked at him. You would think he'd get the picture by now.

But he is as persistent as I am, if not more.

In the corner of my eyes, I see Trip shift. Pause. And suddenly, he snaps the visor mirror up with one quick swipe and a loud smack.  

I jolt, and my gaze darts up at him.

Gleaming in the dark, his eyes bore down on me. Cold and serious. Apparently, the one thing he hates more than repeating himself is being ignored. And he's just had enough. "I. Asked. You. A question."

Glaring back at him, I spit, "I. Heard. You."

Trip's jaw sets.

I realize too late I should have kept my mouth shut. The next thing I know I am being yanked from the car. The spikes of my heels clack against the pavement as I stumble and try to twist my arm out of Trip's grasp. His grip tightens.

"Let go," I grind out, though the confidence in my voice is dwindling, fast. In the back of my mind, I am praying I haven't just pissed him off too bad. The entire street is empty. No one is here to stop him from beating me into the ground.

"I hope," he says, slowly, grimly, "that you're not thinking about trying something stupid in there."

I stare daggers at him, refusing to break eye contact—if only to prove to myself I can look him in the eyes. "Are you going to threaten me too now?"

Before we left Glasses alone in the apartment, Trip's lecture had reduced Dax to a quivering puddle of submission in two minutes flat. He told Dax to keep a cell phone on him. But no calls. No idiotic attempts to leave. No stupidity. Period. Or else. By the time Trip's lecture was over, Dax would have imitated a chicken if asked to.

It was wrong. It was wrong to drag Dax so low. And for what? A selfish need to keep Dax under control? I find myself hating Trip even more for that.

Yet, Trip has the nerve to shrug. "That depends on if you need me to threaten you or not, Ashford."

Vicious now, I wrench away, and at the same time his fingers spring open, releasing me, causing me to stagger back against the bumper of the car. One heel slips over the damp pavement, and my arms flail for a split second before I can grab hold of the car.

Trip watches the whole thing—a very faint, yet noticeable jeer in his eyes. Though it doesn't touch the rest of his face, it's a smirk.

Thick anger churns my stomach. My mouth goes dry, and for just a moment, I feel like I could breathe fire. "Threaten what? What would you do?" I ask, sharply. "Would you beat me? Kill me? That kind of defeats the whole purpose of having me around, doesn't it? I wouldn't be able to do your stupid bidding. You couldn't use me as your little puppet."