PEOPLE WHO DON'T know my oldest brother Aidan think he's a saint.

A lot of it has to do with his looks. He's tall and fit, with greying blond hair that somehow makes him look even better than he did when he was young. People call him a silver fox. Makes me want to gag a little, but they're not wrong. He's handsome, so he must be good.

It's so superficial, but hey, people are superficial.

His life is like a stock picture of a happy family. There's his wife, Amelia, who's a real-life princess, and his kids, all of whom are ridiculously good looking, great students, and genuinely nice. He's absolutely religious about going to their extracurricular activities.

He's also absolutely religious in general. The man is an elder in his parish, a Bible study leader,  and a freaking paragon of virtue.

The only thing he's not good at is being a lawyer. That would normally be a problem, but he's so charming and pretty that the Firm has better lawyers do his work for him. That frees him up for charity work. The man volunteers for a ton of charities and other worthy causes. Aidan gives back. He honestly believes that to much is given, much is expected. He would get that tattooed on his chest, you know, if he were the kind of guy to get a tattoo.

Aidan brings in soft capital. Reputational capital. He makes the firm look good. He makes us all look good.

Now, here's the truth of him. Underneath all that carefully honed self-righteous persona is a kinky old man who likes his women young and blond.

I know this because I know his current mistress. Her name is Kristen Kissett. I suspect he has others, but Aidan is amazing at hiding his tracks. The human survival instinct is so strong. Amelia would literally kill him if she ever found out about his little hobby.

She'd get away with it, too. She's crafty.

I met Kristen last year at the Stuart Weitzman trunk show on Chicago's Gold Coast. I had my eye on this pair of black leather thigh-highs when this knock-out blond whispered to me, "Those would look amazing on you."

Was she hitting on me? I was very flattered. She was hot. I would totally tap that. "You think?" I held one up. "Not too slutty?"

"Slutty's okay, sometimes," she said with a knowing look. "It's all about the timing."

The moment she said that was the moment I knew she was hitting on me. I bought the boots, and we went out for drinks. I ordered mimosas. She preferred tea. Spilling it, that is.

"Can I be honest with you, Siobhan?" she asked as she slipped off her mink coat. "I kind of have a secret."

"Okay." I studied her. "Are you a dude? Because that's cool, and omigod, if you're a dude, you are gorgeous, and you need to teach me how to be a better woman."

"I'm not a dude..." She frowned. "Why would you think that?"

I shrugged. "Why wouldn't I? I mean, look at you."

She would have furrowed her brow, if it weren't for the botox. "W-what do you mean?"

"I mean, a gorgeous stranger wants to tell me a secret, I figure it's probably that she's a dude." I sipped my drink. "What else would it be?"

She looked even more perplexed. "No... I'm not... okay, whatever." She played with her cocktail napkin, her eyes on the table, like she was ashamed to look at me. "It's, like... I'm kind of seeing your brother."

"Which one?" I held up my glass at the waiter for another mimosa. "It can't be Colin, because he's so gay... is it Sean? I know it's not Pat. He likes black girls."

She shook her head. "No, not Sean." She toyed with her napkin. "I'm seeing Aidan."

"Aidan?" Now I frowned. "But Aidan's married."

She shrugged and studied the table. "I know."

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, I spit out the mimosa I had just sipped. "No. Shit!"

"Omigod!" She began frantically blotting her blouse. "You spit on me!"

"Sorry! It's Aidan! Holy crap!" I started laughing. "How is this possible?!"

"How is anything possible?" She gave me a dirty look as she blotted her blouse. "This is a silk blouse."

"Have him buy you a new one, Wanda Whiner, and you need to tell me more right now." The waiter dropped off my second mimosa. "You might as well just bring a third," I told him. "Shit, bring a pitcher. My friend and I are having that kind of conversation."

Bottom line is, I learned that Aidan was an active member of the Sugar Daddies/Babies club. He met Kristen through a broker who discretely arranged those kinds of relationships for those men who were particularly worried about reputation.

Kristen was reaching out because they'd been together for nearly a year, and she was bored. She was tired of being a girlfriend. She wanted to be a wife.

All of this blew my mind. I prided myself in how well I stalked my brothers. If I didn't know about it, then nobody knew about it.

Kristen had approached me because she thought it would be a good way to start making alliances within the family. While it was flattering, it wasn't necessarily true. Even when I do what I'm told, I'm not exactly the favored child. Nevertheless, I played along because why wouldn't I? We hung out for a couple of months. I learned about her apartment, her key code, her wall safe, how much Aidan gave her in per diem, her daily schedule... pretty much everything about her.

Then I broke the truth to her. About Amelia. About my family. Scared the crap out her, but she needed to understand. Amelia is an Italian princess and a descendant of the Borgias. You don't mess with her.

Once Kristen understood, she ghosted me.

Unfortunately for her, I didn't ghost her. I'd been keeping tabs on her ever since.

*** ___ *** ___ *** ___ *** ___ *** ___

KRISTEN LIVED IN the penthouse of this amazing lakefront condominium with spectacular views. Aidan paid the mortgage through a series of shell companies. She kept trying to get him to buy it for her, but he wouldn't. I had a feeling Kristen was on the way out. She did just turn 24.

As for Kristen, she was a creature of habit. Mornings she laid around. Around noon, she'd go do Soul Cycle. Afternoons were spent in the spa. She'd wander home around seven or eight o'clock. When Aidan was free, he would come over at 9. I had noticed he was coming over less and less.

I took the El to her condo, let myself in, and took a long, hot bath. What to do, what to do? They sicked the police on me, for God's sake. I was stupid to run. I needed to go back, take the beating, and figure things out from the inside. My chances of getting out of this are nil.

At the same time, Alex would hurt me. Worse than an arm. I couldn't go back. There was only one thing I could do. I was going to run.

I got out of the bath, wiped everything down—no need for her to know I was here—and put my hair into a bun. Kristen had an amazing wig collection. I opted for Chicago blond with a touch of Farmer's Market chic. I selected a long blonde straight hair wig, which I accessorized with a too-short tunic dress from Anthropologie and a pair of Free People jean shorts. For shoes, I went gold Birkenstocks.

I hung up my wrap dress in with other dresses of the same color and put my shoes into her collection. My underwear went into her dirty laundry. She would never even notice.

Next, I grabbed a Herschel's backpack and stuffed a shorter brunette wig inside, along with a couple of outfit changes. Then I opened the safe that was hidden behind her minks. It was where she kept her jewelry, cash, and other gifts she got for her services.

The first thing I saw was a watch box. Aw, Aidan gave her a Rolex! How sweet. I opened it, then put it back. Too hard to fence. There were several stacks of cash, which I did take, along with some IDs and some credit cards. I looked at the Kentucky driver's license picture, then I looked at me in the mirror. One of the more unnerving things about Aidan's relationship with Kristen was how much we resembled each other. It explained a lot.

I tossed the backpack over my shoulder, gave myself a last look in the mirror, and headed to the living room...

"Maintenance." The front door jiggled. "Is anyone home? Maintenance." The door lock clicked open.

I ran back to the bedroom and into the closet. There was a small panic/security room Aidan installed without Kristen's knowledge. I pressed the wall panel and a keyboard appeared. What was that code? I entered it, and a red light beeped.

"Shit!" I entered another security code.

"Is anybody here?" a man yelled. "Just doing some routine maintenance."

The light turned green and the panel swung open. I jumped inside and pressed the panel shut. Inside were television screens showing what was going on every room of each apartment. Kristen was filmed every moment of every day. I had been, too, when I was over. Aidan liked to watch.

He was so-ooo kinky.

I sat down at looked at the living room monitor. Surprise! They weren't maintenance. The redheaded man who murdered my brother was walking from room to room, holding a firearm. A woman and two other men accompanied him. They were being quite thorough.

What was up with the guns?

"Who owns this place?" the woman asked.

"A woman named Kristen something-or-other," the redheaded man replied. "Some whore, from what I can tell."

The woman shot him a dirty look. "Ian. Watch it. Sex workers are workers, too."

"Sorry, Elaine." He smiled at her facetiously. "Hashtag my bad."

She flipped him off. He blew her a kiss.

One of the men came into the closet and started tapping on the panels. Aidan spared no expense, so his taps revealed nothing out of the ordinary. He left the closet and went back to the living room. "She's not here," he announced. "Maybe she went out the basement."

"No." Ian looked around. "She's here... I can feel her."

"You mean, like you could feel back in Dallas." Elaine rolled her eyes. "Ian, don't take this the wrong way, but I think your feelings are on the fritz."

"No. She was there. She was hiding. Like she is now." He sat down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "I know you're here, Red. Come on out. You're not in trouble. I swear."

Elaine shook her head. "Ian, you're losing it, buddy. Come on—" she gestured at the two other men "—let's check out the basement." She saluted Ian. "See you back at base."

Ian grunted, his eyes on the ceiling, not even registering their leaving. Everything got very quiet.

For a moment, he sat completely still, his eyes on a fixed pointed like he was in some deep meditative state.

Then he jerked himself out of it." "Siobhan," he said loudly. "Mary Siobhan McIver. What a name. As Irish as Irish can be, except you're an American girl. You're about as Irish as a box of Lucky Charms cereal." He snorted. "You'd think we'd be assimilated by now, wouldn't you? The famine was what, nearly 200 years ago, but we're still bitter about it. Kick us out and making us come here... even though here has been better to us than there ever was. But we hold on, naming our girls with Irish names, and singing Danny Boy at funerals. It's part of being Irish, you know. We hold grudges. It's who we are."

I slumped in the chair. Self-hater. Whatever.

He grinned at the ceiling. "I read your file, Siobhan. You and I aren't so different, you know." He crossed an ankle over his knee and stretched out his arms. "We McIvers are known for being a little... mental?" He chuckled. "Gives us an edge, I suppose. Did you know that, when we were kids, we both had conduct disorder? It's true. For me, it meant no pets—" he shrugged "—what can I say, I like blood? For you, it meant an over-achieving sense of fair play. But what's another word for a girl who is a bully to bullies?" He snapped his fingers and pointed at the ceiling. "I know! A bully! So cute. You thought you were doing good when all you were getting was a record for behavioral issues." He tsked and shook his head. "You never could understand how boys are action heroes. Girls are sugar and spice and everything nice."

He suddenly stood up. "I know you're here. I know you're listening. Here's what the family has told me to tell you. You come back now, and I mean now—" he paused emphatically "—and you marry Livingston, have at least two children with him, then the family will extract you from the marriage. You can still a life. They'll even double your trust fund as payment for your services."

I started biting a cuticle.

"If you don't come out. You continue this bullshit, Siobhan, I'll go after your boy." He walked over to the mantel and pick up some tchotchke. "Special Agent Jason Donnelly." He dropped the tchotchke and stepped on it, grinding its china into sand on the marble in front of the fireplace. "What a douche. I met him the other day, you know. Mr. All-American asshole. Guys like him make me want to puke. To be honest, I'm looking forward to ruining him, his life, and meeting that sweet little sister of his after dark in that apartment she's renting off-campus." He picked up another tchotchke. "Black haired, blue eyed girls really do it for me, you know, especially little girls like her, who can't be taller than five foot nothing..."

I took a breath, stood up. Alright. Alex can have ten years of my life. I opened the panel and marched out into the living. "Fine. Just... fine.  But can you shut the fuck up?"

"Red! Aw, look who it is!" He gave me a once over, then frowned. "Your hair... it's not permanent, right?"

"It's, fuck you," I snarled. "You don't talk to me."

"Oh, don't be bitter," he chastised with a frowny face. "You gave a good fight, kiddo."

"I'm still going to kill you," I told him. "I will. Don't forget that. I'm going to kill you."

"Meow hiss!" He pretended to scratch at me. "It sounds like somebody's hangry." He grabbed my arm and yanked me to the door. "What do you say we go to Ghirardelli's and have some ice cream?"

Before I could tell him where he could shove a scoop of Ghirardelli ice cream, the door opened. Kristen stood in the doorway, holding several La Perla bags, her expression both surprised and angry. "Siobhan? What are you doing here? And who's tha—"

A red dot appeared on her forehead. She crumpled to the ground.

"Whoopsie," Ian said. "Now, that girl died because of you, Red. See? First, it's Patrick, now it's whore girl, jeez, and they call me a killer. You, you're as much a killer as I am."

My mind was a whirling black hole of misunderstanding. "Kristen?" I tried to bend down, but Ian's hand on my arm was a vice. "Kristen!"

"Come on, buddy. I'll buy you two scoops. Two for the two dead people you killed."

"Kristen?" I was walking... walking... "We should help her."

"Too late for that, sport." Ian shoved me onto the elevator. "Bang, bang, she's dead, and it's all your fault." He got out a phone. "Hello, Amelia. Your problem's been taken care of. My pleasure. Thank you. You, too."

My legs buckled. "A-Amelia. You killed Kristen for Amelia."

"A bonus, sure, but who led me here? Who did? You did!" He bopped me on the nose. "Thanks, little buddy. We make a good team."

The elevator door's opened. "Now, the car is out front, buddy, so just hop, skip, and a jump—"

For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. Special Agent Jason Donnelly stood in the elevator entrance, a box of pizza in one hand, a six-pack in the other, and a befuddled expression on his face. "Siobhan? You dyed your hair?" He looked at Ian, and his eyes narrowed. "You."

"J-Jason?" I sputtered. "Jason, help me!"

"Oh, for God's sake," Ian groaned, "kid, don't be stupid—"

"Too late," Jason replied, and slammed the six pack into Ian's face. "Hold the pizza!" He handed the box to me as he pushed Ian back into the elevator. I hit the penthouse button and entered Kristen's code. The doors closed.

"Okay, kids, let's re-think this..." Ian tried to pull his firearm, but I got in a sharp kick to the back of his knees. "Red! We're family! Where's the loyalty?"

"Jason, he's got a gun," I said.

"Snitch," Ian sneered.

Jason slammed the six-pack into him again, then disarmed him. "We need to talk," he said to me.

"Aw." Ian made a kissy sound. "Talky, walky, so-ooo cute." He batted his eyes. "Can I talk, too?"

I kicked him in the nuts, then kicked him again... and again... and again...

Jason yelled something about pizza, then everything kind of blacked out for a moment.

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

Ian's evil. Jason shows up. We learn more about Siobhan's character.

Some author notes for you...I've been reading a lot on the daughters of the 1% -- because I am not one :) -- and there's like this list of behavioral expectations they all seem  to have. Goes back generations, apparently. When I think of Siobhan in that environment, I want her to be kind of an iconoclast. What I mean by that is she does pretty much whatever she wants, within the boundaries of her caste system. That means she doesn't have a lot of similarly statused friends because she's so poorly behaved, but it does mean she has more freedom of expression.

I've also been thinking of her going to Notre Dame. She goes there because she's proud of her Irish heritage, but would a daughter of the 1% go there? I'm sticking with it, because I think it fits that her character.

Amelia is based on the first FlyGirl, just tweaked a little. I don't see her showing up this time around.

Thank you so much for taking time to read FlyGirl! As always I would appreciate any comments you might have. And if you liked it, please vote!

©Copyright Liz Charnes February 2020

This work is protected by copyright and cannot be copied or used in any way without my express consent. Please don't steal it. Thank you!