Previously: Chapter 1 [U]

‘Update my fic,’ Clom said. Who am I to refuse? As an aside, thank you on behalf of Clom to everyone who delurked to post a comment on the last chapter – illalwayswonder, verbalvandal, nautic187 and Rc – and to those who popped back to remind us that you all still love the Spashley. And a special hiya to our male reader (you know who you are).

Rating: U.

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Chapter 2

I’ve probably misrepresented myself so far. It’s just that, compared to Ashley, I’m kind of quiet. I’m no wallflower or shrinking violet or any other kind of vegetation for that matter. But I’m just not the head cheerleader or super cool or, well, Ashley. I’m not un-cool, though. I have plenty of friends outside of the Ashley circle. I go out on Friday and Saturday nights. I wear clothes that most people wouldn’t sneer at. But I also do well at school and refuse to associate with the morons that Ashley associates with.

It’s just that I associate with her and have for a very long time. My parents tend to view Ashley as something of a second daughter, although my mother has started to think that her second daughter has gone off the rails just a bit of late. We met in pre-school, which is so trite. I remember the day we met. I turned up in a pretty pink dress, accompanied by frills and pigtails; they were done up in pretty pink bows.

Ashley turned up in a small black t-shirt that was artfully ripped, displaying her affection for The Ramones. It was covered with a patched denim jacket that matched her patched denim jeans and tiny little Converse Chuck Taylors, red ones. In retrospect, it was a ridiculously cute outfit but, at the time, she was just a scary little girl who was stamping her foot on the ground just because it made little dust clouds rise.

We didn’t have a lot to do with each other for the first few weeks. Aside from my having a little tear-fest on the first day, which I later learned she regarded with some disgust, I was fairly quiet. I played inside with the blocks and drank my milk and generally acted like a normal four-year-old. On the fourth day, I was wearing my pretty pink dress and she sneered at it. That I noticed, because I’d been forced outside to play with the other children. At the time, I was terribly worried about ruining my dress and, for that matter, my shiny black shoes.

I stood at the edge of the concrete and watched the dirt with an unamused frown on my face. When a small cloud came my way, dusting across my shoes, I looked up. Ashley’s smirking face looked my way.

“Oh no, did I get your shoes dirty?” Who knew a four-year-old could have a mocking voice?

I just frowned at her. Walking gingerly onto the playground, I circled around her with a big safety zone and headed towards the swings. Both were occupied, but I thought if I waited long enough I’d get my turn. At home, my parents would always make sure that Glen and I both got a fair turn. Clay wasn’t part of our family yet, but he would be in a few short years.

There must have been something about my dress that really, really annoyed Ashley because she followed me to the swings at a distance. It might have been my shoes that annoyed her, though, or the ribbons in my hair. She never did tell me the reason.

When it was clear that the swings were not about to be vacated anytime soon, I walked away with a small pout on my face. My father had brought me up to believe in honesty, integrity and that, if you were fair to people, people would be fair to you, hence my pout. Ashley followed me again.

I noticed her inching closer but, as she wasn’t throwing dust at me, I thought it rude to complain. When she got close enough, she spoke again.

“What’s your name?”

I looked at her. “Spencer Carlin.” I smiled sunnily. “What’s yours?”

“Ashley.”

“Do you want to play?” It was something my father had taught me when taking me to the playground. I always had a good time, because everyone always said yes. I mean, what four-year-old doesn’t want to play?

“No.”

Ashley, apparently. At the time, I just looked at her with confusion.

“Why do you wear so much pink?”

“I like pink,” I replied, still looking confused. “It’s my favorite colour.”

“It sucks.”

“It does not!” For the first time, my voice rose and I got annoyed. I really liked pink. I still kinda do.

Ashley just regarded me. My slightly annoyed response was, she later told me, somewhat of a surprise. She thought that someone in so much pink would pretty much be a wimp.

She took another step closer.

“Do you like cars?”

I made a face at her. “Only my Barbie car.” I regarded her thoughtfully. “It’s pink.” I added helpfully.

Four-year-olds, it turns out, can roll their eyes. She took another step closer. She was quite close now.

“I like cars.”

I looked at her with suspicion now.

“Okay.”

I think it was her next move that really cemented our friendship, but at the time, I thought it was pretty much disaster.

She reached out her hands and with one shove, pushed me, my little pink dress and my little pink self, right on my arse in the dirt.

Then she ran away as I cried about it.

* * *

“Ugh, Aid is such a douche-bag sometimes.” Ashley was lying on my bed, hugging Henry. Henry was the small pink bear she’d given me for my thirteenth birthday. It was definitely a symbol of her love for me: while my strong feelings for pink had faded over time, her hatred of it hadn’t.

“You’re the one who keeps dating him.” Generally, I tried not to dig too much at Aiden. I figured it would be a dead giveaway. But, when she gave me an opening like that, I pretty much couldn’t say no.

“Yeah, well.” Non-committal, that was my Ashley.

I heard a small knock at the door, and it opened before I could say ‘Come in’. I knew it would be my mother, since Dad would always wait for an answer before opening. Asking the same from Paula Carlin was probably asking too much.

“I have cookies and milk, girls.” Sometimes my mother tries too hard. I mean, I know that she wants me to see her as a cool mom that I can relate to and tell anything to but, in reality, she just wants to know absolutely everything that goes on in my life.

“Wow, thanks, Mrs C,” Ashley grins. I know she’d never get the cookie-and-milk treatment at home and my mother knows it, too. Ashley’s gratitude is genuine as it always is with my parents. In response, they try to include her. My parents and neglected kids go hand-in-hand and, while Ashley may be a multi-millionaire, she’s the very definition of neglected. I think she’d give up everything she has just to be part of my family.

Of course, that would make her my sister and then I’d have to kill myself.

My mother leaves the cookies and milk while I walk into my spacious closet to get changed. I don’t know why I don’t change clothes in front of Ashley, especially given that I’d cut my own arm off to catch her looking at me in a non-friend way. I guess there’s something in the back of my head that makes me frightened of it all. I can’t explain my insanity.

I come back in and Ashley is munching down the cookies at a ferocious rate.

“Do I get one?” I tease.

With a mouthful of cookie and a slightly guilty look, she blinks at me. “Nu-uh,” comes out, full of crumbs.

I laugh. She can have my cookies. She can have my everything.

I snaffle one anyway, just to spite her, and sit down on the bed. I’m careful not to get crumbs on the large queen-sized quilt. Ashley gets up and, in a split second, her top is off. Her back is to me, but I see her hands reaching around to undo her bra and my mouth goes dry.

It’s not the cookies either.

Her bra comes off and, though I can’t actually see the front of her, my eyes are entirely fixed on my best friend. If she turns around now, I’m so sprung. She doesn’t, though; she just leans down and grabs her beater, lifting it over her head in what I swear is slow motion. Her muscles ripple under her tanned skin and I want to whimper. When the beater is over her head, I look away, my heart beating like a drum. When I glance back, her hands are unsnapping her jeans at the front.

I start to hallucinate. I see myself in front of her, our eyes glued together, her tongue snaking out to lick her enticing lips and my breath caressing her. My hands are there, unsnapping her jeans, watching her eyes darken. Her pupils widen as I slip her zipper down, rasping as the white of her underwear comes into view. The flaps of her opened jeans are pushed aside, as I contemplate sliding the jeans off or just slipping my hand in.

Back in reality, her jeans drop to the floor. I try with all my might not to breathe so hard that she’ll guess what my mind just flashed to. Her perfectly formed legs step out of the denim and she picks up her boxer shorts. They have Marvin the Martian on them. I gave them to her as a present two years ago.

I’d have said “Aw” but I’m still too busy staring at her legs.

I manage to avert my eyes before she turns around. I finish the rest of my cookie, suddenly aware of its presence in my hand.

“What are we watching again?”

“Gladiatress,” I reply. “Dad and I found it. It’s funny.” She gives me a dubious look. “Trust me.”

I climb onto my side of the bed and prop three pillows up against the headboard. Within seconds, she’s next to me. As she arranges her pillows, I feel the warmth of her body coming towards me. I fight the urge to close my eyes and sigh. Suddenly, without warning, she moves over and cuddles up to me. Our relationship is not devoid of affection, but cuddling is a relative rarity and I have to try even harder not to moan now. She feels so good against my side and she has no idea what she’s doing to me. She has no idea how much I want her to push me down on the bed so that I’m lying under her and kiss me until I can’t breathe any more; how much I want her to slowly inch all my clothes off until our skin is pressed, warmth to warmth; and how very, very much I want her to slide her hand into my underwear.

Instead, she just grabs the remote and flicks the television on.

“This had better be good,” I’m warned.

I don’t really know. All I know is that, while she watches the movie, my attention will be somewhere else, the same place it’s been for the last four years and the same place it will be for as long as I know her.

And she has no idea.

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Next up: Chapter 3 [AA]