Power Addict

Miranda Faeth had always been a shrewd girl. Upon reaching adulthood, she’d become manipulative. Her dark blue eyes constantly searching for ways to turn a situation to her advantage.

Peter sat opposite Miranda, who kept giving him odd looks, like she wanted him to say something. His mother and father sat at the ends of the table. Miranda’s parents sat on either side of her.

“Ms. Quinn,” Miranda’s musical voice sounded from the silence, “Dinner is delicious. Thank you”

“She didn’t cook it,” Peter’s father said, “why are you thanking her?”

“Oh Charles,” Peter’s mother laughed, “You should be thanking me. After all, you’re still conscious. Had I cooked, you would be in the hospital.” She added under her breath, “or the morgue.”

“Jeniana, perhaps I should thank you for dinner too.” Charles mock toasted her.

“Your cook did well,” Miranda’s mother took a bite of her blackened chicken.

“He did, didn’t he?” Jeniana answered.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why our friends have been invited over for dinner?” Peter looked from one parent to the other expectantly.

“You see, Peter…” Charles thought about his words, mulled them over.

“You are marrying Miranda.” Jeniana cut him off. Charles would have argued that his wife should never interrupt him, but Peter, beat him to the shouting punch.

“What?” the young man rose from his chair.

“Peter,” Miranda tilted her annoyingly perfect head to one side, “you had to know it was coming. Our parents becoming such good friends, your parents with a boy and mine with a girl.”

“So, you knew? For how long?” Peter couldn’t help but stare at her.

“Years.” She shrugged.

Peter flopped back into his seat. “Years. It would be nice if I knew about my own damn wedding.”

“Peter.” His mother warned.

“Don’t worry about it, Jeniana.” Miranda’s mother giggled drunkenly. “Arthur needed time to get used to the idea of marriage too. So did Charles. Men like to sew their wide oats and hate the idea of being told when to stop.” She downed the rest of her wine. “That’s all.”

“Dianna, I think that should be your last glass.”

“Hush, Arthur.” Dianna held her glass aloft for the butler who poured her fresh wine. She held the cup mockingly at her husband.

Dear God, Peter felt a shrill of terror go through him. He watched his parents make their snide comments. He watched Miranda’s mother drink down her glass, again, and her father try to talk her out of taking the bottle.

“Miranda, can I talk to you for a moment?” Peter pulled her out of the room by her arm.

“What is it?” she took in the bathroom. It was nice, large.

“Do you want to get married?” He looked her in her big blue eyes.

“Of course I do.” She laughed at him. “I want to have a child while you run your father’s business.”

“We can’t be married.” He held her by her arms.

“We have to, there’s been a contract.”

“A contract.” Peter repeated.

“Yeah.” Miranda shrugged even with Peter’s hands gripping her painfully.

“There are several, several reasons for us to not get married. We, for one, are nothing alike.” He ticked off on his index finger.

“Opposites attract.” She countered.

“No, they don’t actually. That brings me to the next reason. We’d fight constantly.” This went on his middle finger.

“We’ll just live on separate sides of the house; we won’t have to see each other.” Miranda shrugged.

You’re poison, Peter added silently.

“Dianna needs to use the bathroom.” Arthur called for the door. A moment later, the woman stumbled in and threw up in the sink.

Peter watched as the woman brought up her stomach’s content. Her daughter even went to help. This would not be his life. He wasn’t going to subject a child to this.

“I’m in love with someone else!” he cried out as his last resort.

“With whom?” Miranda’s voice sounded unconvinced at best even as she rubbed her mother’s back on slow circles.

“… Her name is…” oh, God, think! “Wendy.”

The oddest sensation ran through him. Peter’s body had a sudden flash of pins and needles from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Vertigo followed on its heals making Peter grip the towel rack leaving finger marks in on the polished chrome. His head began to pound. This was the perfect excuse he thought with mixed emotions. Peter tried to skirt around the pair of women and make an escape.

“Oh no you don’t, Peter Quinn. I’m not done with you yet.” Miranda turned her dagger stare to him.

“I’m not really feeling well.” He put the back of his hand to his forehead, “I think I have a fever.”

“You do not.” Miranda’s attention was on her mother, but her word’s were for Peter.

“If you two need to talk,” Dianna said rinsing her mouth out, “I can take care of myself. I’m fine.”

This time Peter was able to get out into the hall and half way up the stairs to his room, before Miranda stopped him. Her blond hair had been pulled back from her face with a few strands pulled down to add emphasis to her high cheek bones. She planted her slender hand on her almost too thin waist. In Peter’s opinion, she could stand to eat a cheese burger or two.

“So, who is this Wendy anyway? I should know about my competition.” Miranda waited for Peter to explain himself.

“She’s this woman I met. We hit it off right away.” Peter hoped he looked convincing. His head felt like it was going to split in two.

Miranda’s look turned dangerous. “I see.”

A fresh wave of that sickly cold ran through Peter, “I really need to be going. I have to get some rest.”

“You don’t look well.” Miranda’s tone could have been considered worried if there wasn’t an undercurrent of anger. She even went so far as to put the back of her hand to his forehead. He was wet to the touch; clammy.

“I’m going to lay down now.” Peter stated the obvious as he proceeded to continue up the stairs and into his old room. He caught a glimpse of Miranda still on the stairs. Her eyes stayed trained on him but his expression was thoughtful bordering on devious. Peter didn’t care. He just wanted to be unconscious for a while. Every time he picked up his foot to get closer to the bed it felt like the blasted limp was stuck in mud. His body shook something awful.

He made it to the bed and collapsed but only his upper body landed on the plush mattress. Peter fell to the floor with a less then graceful thud. His fingers curled around the blanket on the bed and he pulled it down to the floor with him. At least the floor was comfortable.