Modern Wicked Fairy Tales: Complete Collection (56 page)

“Sit with me, Wendy-girl.” Peter pulled her
into his lap and she felt the evidence of his arousal through his
jeans. So he
did
want something, she mused, wrapping her
arms around his neck, feeling Nibs shifting behind her, giving out
a low moan. Curly must have been doing something nice to him,
although she couldn’t see what from her vantage point.

“What do you want from me, Peter Pann?”
Might as well just come out with it, she reasoned. Put all their
cards on the table.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, smiling.

She touched his nose with the tip of her
finger like he had with her. “I don’t believe you.”

He opened his mouth to protest but they both
heard the plaintive, “Wendy!?” call from the stairs. She jumped up
and Peter followed, although by that time she’d already ushered
eight-year-old Michael back upstairs, thankful she’d reached him
before he could get around the corner and see what was going on in
the living room—not that Michael and John hadn’t seen worse, living
where they had.

Wendy tucked him back in next to his
sleeping brother, kissing him on the forehead.

“I had a bad dream about a giant fairy,”
Michael whispered.

“Did you?” Wendy blinked at him in the light
of the nearly-full moon.

“She was scary.” Michael’s thumb went to his
mouth. Sometimes he still did that, when he was very tired or
anxious. “She told me she was going to eat me up if I didn’t find
you.”

Wendy glanced behind, wondering where she
might find Tink. “Are you sure it was a dream?”

“She had wings,” Michael mumbled around his
thumb, eyes closing already.

Shutting the door behind her, she found
Peter sitting on the edge of her twin bed. How had he managed to
find this room for her, with so many boys in the house?

“I’ll take them somewhere else tomorrow.”
Wendy kept her voice to a whisper, sitting next to Peter on the
bed. “We can’t stay here and impose on you.”

“You can’t go.” Peter’s hand found hers in
the darkness. The window was open and the sound of the swamp
outside was night music. “I just found you.”

She looked at the moonlit windowsill, felt
the warm breeze on her face. “I’m just not sure this is the place
for us.”

“Where else is there for you to go?” Peter
asked. The boy had a point. He squeezed her hand. “I promise, I’ll
make Tink behave.”

“And what do you want in return?”

He shrugged. “I told you—nothing.”

“You have to want something.”

“Okay, then.” He pulled the covers down,
exposing the sheets beneath. “One thing.”

She knew it. But she asked anyway.
“What?”

“A goodnight kiss.” Peter patted the
bed.

“And that’s all?” she asked, suspicious.

“Yes.” Peter laughed, wrestling her around
onto the bed and tucking the covers in around her. “Go to sleep.
You’ve had a very long day.”

She sighed. “I’ve had a long life.”

Peter’s mouth was magical, his lips
impossibly soft, his breath like sweet nectar. Just one kiss, so
very brief and tender. Wendy whimpered when they parted.

“I’m going to throw you a birthday party,”
he announced.

She smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” He sprang up from his spot on
the bed, going over to open the door. She saw him framed in the
light from the hallway. “Good night, Wendy-girl.”

“Goodnight,” she whispered as he closed the
door behind him, not quite believing that he was going, that she
was letting him go. But he was gone, back down to join the
merriment, she imagined, and that thought had her wondering if she
maybe needed to see a therapist as much as the folks at the foster
care home said she did. What was she thinking, bringing John and
Michael into this craziness?

Maybe it was just Tink’s “fairy dust” that
had her feeling warm and high and fine with everything. Maybe she’d
re-think it all in the light of day, pack their bags, and go. But
right then, with Peter gone and the lonely sound of crickets in the
distance, she found herself very disappointed that she hadn’t
insisted that he stay.

* * * *

Peter had the house going mad, planning for
Wendy’s eighteenth birthday party. He’d had just a few days to put
it all together, and he’d even enlisted Tink’s help. The only thing
that bothered Wendy was his plan for Michael and John.

“I’m telling you, they’ll be fine!” Peter
reassured her for the umpteenth time, helping her carry the boys’
bags down the stairs. “Every little kid wants to spend the weekend
at Disney World!”

Well, she had to admit, he was probably
right. She just wasn’t sure the twins were the right people to be
taking care of them. It was like the blind leading the blind. Or
the immature leading the immature. They were just boys themselves.
How could the twins be responsible for her little brothers?

Of course, how could she? She was just a kid
herself, really.

It was John and Michael who finally
convinced her, popping up around her uncontrollably like Mexican
jumping beans. They were desperate to go, Peter was paying—although
she was afraid to ask where all the money came from—and there might
not ever be another opportunity like it.

“You both be good.” She kissed Michael’s
cheek, and he accepted that willingly enough, throwing his arms
around her neck in a hug. John was more reticent, wiping her kiss
away, but he let her kiss the top of his head without rubbing that
off before he got into the car.

“And you two, too!” She hugged the first
twin—Marmaduke—and then the other—Binky. She knew their names now
but still couldn’t tell them apart. “Take good care of my
babies.”

“We will!” They agreed simultaneously. One
of the twins got into the driver’s seat, the other in the
passenger’s side, and Wendy waved to the boys and they to her, out
the back window, until the car disappeared around the corner.

“Okay, back to work.” Peter ushered Wendy
back into the house. “You go help Tink in the kitchen.”

Wendy made a face. “I’d rather be slowly
disemboweled.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to oblige.”

“Very funny.” She nudged him with her hip.
“Where are you going?”

“I have more surprises to plan.” He gave her
a push toward the kitchen. “Now go!”

The kitchen was the only room in the house
that wasn’t simply lined with bookshelves. The living room,
bedrooms, even the dining room, had wall to ceiling shelves crammed
with books, books and more books. Only the kitchen and the
bathrooms had been spared.

Tink was on her knees, rummaging through a
cupboard and swearing like a sailor under her breath.

“Hi Tink.”

“Ow!” Tink swore again, holding her head
where she’d banged it on the bottom of an open drawer. “Warn a
girl, would you?”

“Sorry,” Wendy apologized, although she
wasn't sure she was really sorry. “I thought I was.”

Tink straightened, still rubbing her head.
“What do you want?”

“Peter said I should help you.”

“He did, huh?” Tink sighed. “Okay, here.
Sit. Can you paint?”

Wendy snorted. “Paint by numbers maybe.”

“Oy.” Tink threw up her hands. “Okay, see
these flower petals? Paint them all pink.”

“I can do that.” Wendy eyed the white
pastiche petals doubtfully.

“Good.” Tink busied herself at the sink,
rinsing and stacking dirty dishes. Tink seemed to be the only one
in the place who actually did any housework or cooking. Wendy had
offered to take some of the burden—it was the least she could do,
she figured—but Tink had practically hissed and spit at the
idea.

“So tell me something, Tink.” Wendy looked
at the three-tier cake on the table, wondering if Tink might have
poisoned it just out of spite. But of course, if she knew Peter
might eat it, Tink wouldn't dare. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.” Tink was quick to reply
but then she hesitated, frowning at Wendy. “I just love Peter.”

“I can understand that.” Of course she
could. Peter was easy to love. She was halfway there herself.

“I don’t want him to get hurt,” Tink went
on. Of course, that wasn't everything, and they both knew it.

“I don’t either,” Wendy agreed. “See, we’re
really on the same side.”

Tink raised her waxed eyebrows. “I’m not
sure I’d go that far.”

Wendy went on painting petals Pepto-Bismol
pink. She didn't have the heart to tell Tink that she hated pink
and she figured Tink probably wouldn't care. Or more likely, she
would be secretly delighted she’d picked the thing Wendy liked
least.

“How long have you known him?” Wendy figured
they might as well talk about the one thing they had in common.

“Two years.” Tink had a secret smile on her
face. “He got me off the streets.”

Wendy glanced at Tink’s outfit—a black
sequin mini-dress under a flour stained apron.
You can take the
girl off the streets, but...

“And how long have you all been here?”

“At Neverland?” Tink shrugged. “About that
long.”

“Did he get all the other boys off the
streets too?” Wendy was thinking about the other night, the way the
boys had touched each other, making out in all corners of the room,
still not sure if her memory was clouded by her experience with
Tink’s “pixie dust.”

“Most of them.” Tink lined up appetizers on
cookie sheets.

“So what do they all do now?” Wendy sat back
to admire her work. Painting flower petals wasn't rocket science or
anything, but she thought she was doing a satisfactory job.

“They live here.”

Wendy looked at Tink, thoughtful. “But… how
does Peter pay for everything?”

Tink didn't reply for a long time, arranging
canapés on the tray. Finally, she said, “Maybe you should ask Peter
that.”

The phone rang and Tink grabbed for it,
looking relieved. It was the old fashioned kind that hung on the
wall with a twisty cord attached.

“Hello?”

Wendy turned her attention back to the task
at hand, smiling to herself at all the preparations Peter had
undertaken just to give her a happy birthday. She could count on
one hand the times she’d had a birthday cake, let alone a party.
The last party she could remember was her tenth, and it had been a
downright disaster, ending with her drunken stepfather sending all
of her friends home and then doing unspeakable things to her while
John and Michael cried in the other room.

“How did you get this number?” Tink’s voice
trembled, her face going white, the rouge on her cheeks standing
out like fat roses. Wendy looked up, watching as Tink covered the
mouthpiece, her eyes closing as she swore to herself, “Fuck! Fuck,
fuck fuck!”

Tink put the phone back to her mouth again.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name, goodbye.” She put the
phone back in its cradle, resting her head against the wall, her
breath coming so fast Wendy was afraid she was going to
hyperventilate.

Wendy put her hand on the girl’s
shoulder—although she knew Tink’s true gender, she still thought of
her as a girl—and whispered, “Tink? Everything okay?”

“No.” Tink lifted her head, blinking back
what Wendy thought might be tears. “Definitely not okay.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“No one.” She was clearly lying. “Nothing
for you to worry about.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” Wendy
asked, feeling helpless.

“I should go find Peter,” Tink said faintly,
wiping her hands on her apron and wandering toward the door. She
stopped in the doorway, turning back to look at Wendy. “What was I
doing?”

“Ummm…” Wendy frowned, startled by the blank
look in Tink’s eyes.

The timer on the stove went off and Tink
jumped like she’d been goosed, grabbing hot pads off the counter
and pulling a cookie sheet full of
hors
d'oeuvres
out of the oven. She slid another cookie
sheet in and set the timer again.

Wendy was curious about the phone call—she
couldn’t help it—but she thought it best not to mention it, given
Tink’s reaction. Instead, she went back to painting petals pink and
watched Tink arrange more
appetizers.

“That’s a pretty dress,” Wendy said, just to
change the subject.

“Thanks.” Tink smiled, tugging at the hem.
It was very short and showed off her long, very shapely legs. “Oh,
speaking of dresses—Peter had me leave a dress for you in your
room.”

“One of yours?”

Tink laughed. “You’d swim in one of mine,
honey.”

Well, that was true enough. Whatever hormone
replacement she’d had, or maybe implants, had considerably blessed
Tink in the breast department. She was tall, curvy, and
large-busted. Wendy was far shorter, slight, and far less
endowed.

“Peter picked it out for you.” Tink’s gaze
swept over the smaller girl. “I’m sure you’ll look adorable in
it.”

Wendy put down her paint brush. “I don’t
want to fight with you.”

“Were we fighting?”

“Tink, I think you’re a very pretty…girl…”
Wendy started, a sort of peace offering.

“Why don’t you go get dressed?” Tink waved
her toward the kitchen door. “I’ve got this.”

Wendy sighed but she went, giving up on
trying to call a truce between them. It was impossible. Besides,
she was far too curious about the dress waiting for her upstairs,
and she wasn’t disappointed when she unzipped the dry-cleaning bag.
Peter had great taste, and although Wendy wouldn't have chosen it
for herself, she had to admit that blue was her color, as bright as
a cloudless summer day, pure silk, backless and barely to her
knees.

She spent more than an hour pampering
herself, shooing away several interruptions from the boys, but she
knew there were other bathrooms in the house. For a little while,
this one was hers. She shaved her legs, admiring them as she went.
They weren't as long as Tink's, but they were shapely and smooth
nonetheless. Her breasts weren't much more than a handful, but that
meant she didn't have to wear a bra with the gorgeous dress Peter
had chosen for her, a fact she wondered about as she dressed—had
Peter considered that fact? The thought brought a slow, secret
smile to her face as she used a curling iron to make long, fat
blond ringlets in her hair.