"I said no," she repeated, popping her gum. "Not in the mood."
Cody's jaw tightened. His hand slid from her bare thigh. "What did you just say to me?"
"Are you deaf, babe?" She examined her nails, bored. "I. Said. No."
She didn't see the danger. Didn't understand—not really—that the power she wielded was borrowed. That the long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, the plump lips permanently glossed pink, the absolute confidence radiating from every inch of her body… none of it belonged to her.
It belonged to the car.
"Get in the back."
Kayla laughed—a sharp, cruel sound. "Excuse me?"
"Now."
Something in his voice made her stomach drop. For just a second, she felt… smaller. Weaker. Like she used to feel, back when she was—
(No. Don't think about that. That girl is dead.)
"Cody, I swear to God—"
"Back seat, Kayla."
Her hand moved before she could stop it. Reached for the door handle. Her legs—long, tanned, poured into tiny denim shorts—carried her out of the passenger seat and into the cold night air. She stumbled on her platform trainers (what the fuck, she never stumbled) and climbed into the back.
The leather was cold against her skin.
She watched Cody pull away from the kerb, her heart hammering in a way it hadn't since… since…
---
Claire Patterson walked home from the library at 9:47pm, messenger bag heavy with textbooks, oversized cardigan wrapped around her thin frame. Her mousy brown hair hung limp around her pale face. Glasses slightly crooked. She was thinking about her English essay—comparing Gothic motifs in—
A car pulled up beside her.
"Claire."
She froze. She knew that car. Everyone knew that car. It belonged to Cody Marshall, and his girlfriend Kayla had made Claire's life a living nightmare for the past six months. The spilled drinks. The "accidental" shoves in the corridor. The whispered slut and ugly and pathetic little virgin as she passed.
"Get in."
Claire's feet wouldn't move. "I—I don't—"
"I said get in."
She shouldn't. She absolutely shouldn't. But something about his voice—commanding, certain—made her reach for the door handle and climb in.
The interior was warm. Smelled of expensive cologne and something else, something sweet and chemical that made her head swim. She glanced back and—
"Kayla?!"
The blonde in the backseat looked… wrong. Smaller, somehow. Her tan seemed to be fading before Claire's eyes, the artificial bronze draining away to reveal sickly pale skin beneath. Her enhanced chest was deflating, the bodysuit hanging looser by the second.
"Please," Kayla whispered—but her voice cracked, went higher, softer. "Claire, you have to get out, you have to—"
"Shut up, Kate."
Kate.
The name hit Claire like a physical blow. Kate Patterson. Her cousin. The kindest girl she'd ever known, who'd disappeared six months ago, who everyone said had run away, who—
"Oh my God," Claire breathed. "Kate?"
The girl in the backseat was crying now, her face shifting—nose shortening, cheekbones flattening, lips thinning. The blonde was bleeding out of her hair, replaced by mousy brown. The acrylic nails were receding into bitten-down stumps.
"I'm sorry," Kate sobbed. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't stop myself, I couldn't—"
But Claire wasn't listening anymore.
Because the warmth was spreading through her now. Starting in her toes and rushing upward like wildfire, like electricity, like the best drug she'd never taken.
"Mmmmh…" The sound escaped her before she could stop it.
Her spine arched. Crack. Her shoulders rolled back. Pop. Her messenger bag slid to the floor as her hands gripped the dashboard, and she watched—fascinated, horrified, aroused—as her fingers lengthened, as her nails pushed outward, painting themselves glossy black.
"Oooooh fuck…"
Her cardigan tore at the seams. Her chest was expanding—rapidly, obscenely—flesh swelling into heavy, round orbs that strained against her sensible cotton bra before the fabric simply gave up and snapped. She looked down and saw her pale skin darkening, bronzing, achieving a perfect golden tan that spread down her stomach as it flattened, tightened, developed the faint lines of feminine muscle.
"Yesssss…" she hissed, and her voice had dropped—sultry, confident, dripping with venom. "Yessss, oh my God…"
The mousy brown was being pulled from her scalp, replaced by waves of platinum blonde that cascaded past her shoulders, past her new massive tits, almost to her tiny waist. Her hips cracked outward—pop, pop—her ass inflating into a perfect peach, round and firm and powerful.
Her face was the last to change. She felt her bone structure shifting, her nose refining, her lips plumping into a permanent pout. When she looked in the rearview mirror, a stranger looked back.
No.
Not a stranger.
A goddess.
"Fuck me," she breathed—then laughed, a cruel, musical sound. "Actually, scratch that. I do the fucking around here."
From the backseat, Kate let out a broken sob. "Claire, please, you have to fight it, you have to—"
"Claire?" The blonde examined her new nails, admiring the way the streetlights glinted off the polish. "Who the fuck is Claire?"
She reached into the glovebox—somehow knowing exactly what she'd find—and pulled out a black puffer jacket and a flesh coloured bodysuit. The car seemed to shimmer around her as she stripped off the remnants of Claire's pathetic clothes and slid into her new uniform. The bodysuit hugged every impossible curve. The jacket made her look like money, like danger, like the kind of girl who'd ruin your life and make you thank her for it.
"Chanel," Cody said, and his voice was warm now. Approving. "That's better."
"Mmm." Chanel turned to face him, running one manicured hand down his chest. "Much better."
"No!" Kate lunged forward—but her arms were too short now, too weak, and she collapsed back against the seat. "Cody, please, I'm sorry, I'll do whatever you want, just let her go—"
"Shut up." Chanel didn't even look at her. "God, was I really that pathetic? That boring?"
"You were worse," Cody said.
Chanel's hand slid lower. Found his belt. "Want me to show you what a real girlfriend does?"
"Prove it."
She didn't hesitate.
Kate watched in horror as her cousin—no, as the thing that used to be her cousin—unzipped Cody's jeans with practised ease. Watched Chanel's glossy lips part. Watched that platinum blonde head lower.
"Fuck yes," Cody groaned as Chanel took him deep. "That's my good little slut."
Chanel moaned around him—actually moaned, like she was the one getting pleasure from this—and Kate could see her throat working, see her jaw stretching, see her taking him deeper than should have been physically possible.
(She's loving it,) Kate thought numbly. (She's actually loving it.)
"Mmmmmh…" Chanel's black-nailed fingers wrapped around the base, pumping in rhythm with her mouth. Wet, obscene sounds filled the car—gluck gluck gluck—and Kate wanted to look away but couldn't.
"That's it, baby." Cody's hand fisted in Chanel's blonde hair. "Show your little cousin what she's too pathetic to handle."
Chanel pulled back just long enough to shoot Kate a triumphant smirk—lips swollen and wet, eyes bright with wicked joy—before diving back down.
"Oooooh…" She was taking him into her throat now, nose pressing against his abs, and the sounds she was making were pornographic—gagging, slurping, moaning like his cock was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.
"Gonna—" Cody's hips thrust upward. "Fuck, gonna—"
Chanel pulled back at the last second, jerking him fast and hard, mouth open, tongue out—
He came across her perfect face, ropes of it streaking her bronzed cheeks, her plump lips, her blonde hair. She caught some on her tongue and swallowed with a theatrical moan of pleasure.
"Mmmm." She licked her lips, gathering what she could. "Delicious."
"That's my girl."
Kate was crying silently now, tears streaming down her plain, forgettable face.
Chanel finally turned to look at her—really look at her—and the cruelty in those eyes was absolute. No mercy. No recognition. Just pure, toxic superiority.
"Awww." Chanel pouted mockingly, cum still glistening on her cheek. "Is the little nerd upset? Did you think you were special, Kate? Did you think he actually wanted you?"
"I… I…"
"You were just keeping the seat warm." Chanel adjusted her puffer jacket, checking her reflection in the mirror. "A placeholder. Until something better came along."
She smiled—beautiful and vicious and completely without remorse.
"And babe? I'm so much better."
Cody pulled the car back onto the road. In the passenger seat, Chanel curled against him like a cat, already scrolling through her phone with those wicked black nails.
In the backseat, the girl who used to be Kayla—who used to be Kate—who had now lost everything twice—stared at her own trembling hands and wondered if she'd ever feel powerful again.
She wouldn't.
That wasn't how the car worked.
Love this, love that Kayla got her comeuppance and Claire got her place, Chanel will be a better bitch anyway!
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