Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“I love how you think.”
Stella pats my leg, then sets her smoothie on the coffee table with a decisive thunk. “I know, and I’m going to help you through this situation because here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you slutty. Not try-hard slutty, but real, uncut, homegrown vixen. I have a couple of dresses in mind that would make even your stepbrother grovel.”
I clutch the blanket tighter. “Stella, I’m not you. I can’t just put on a latex mini and go full Bratz Doll. I’m still… me.”
She stands, already moving toward her bedroom, the sound of her bare feet on the tile quick and certain. “That’s why you have me. I’ll put together a look. You’ll put it on. If you hate it, we can always go back to Sad Prison Chic. But if you like it…” She grins over her shoulder, teeth wickedly white. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
I let out a shaky breath, and for the first time since the cell, I feel something besides shame and dread. I feel like the world might actually be exciting and fun, if I just let it.
The sound of hangers scraping on the metal rod fills the apartment as Stella rummages for the perfect whore starter kit. I sit on the couch, blanket pulled around my knees, heart thudding so loud I’m sure she can hear it.
I can hear her voice from the bedroom, sing-song and feral: “Kayleigh! Lace or latex? Mesh or see-through? Thigh-highs or commando? Ooooh, I bet he likes commando!”
I want to protest, but instead I laugh, a long, wild sound that bubbles up from somewhere I thought was dead.
This is insane. I’m insane.
But tonight, I think I might just let myself be.
And if that means walking into my stepbrother’s apartment with nothing but lip gloss and a borrowed dress, then so be it.
The ghosts in the apartment can judge me later.
13
MEETING MY SASSY STEPSISTER AGAIN
Trevor
The city looks its best at night. In the daylight, Minneapolis is nothing but cement and ice, glass reflecting glass, a million people pretending not to stare. But up here, after dark, the view from the penthouse is a revelation—a slow pulse of headlights on Hennepin, the flares from the stadium, a spiderweb of red taillights in every direction. It’s all very pretty and all very irrelevant. But I’m not watching the city. I’m watching my own reflection in the window: blue eyes, pale under the uneven light, and a jawline that looks harsh and set, especially after two fingers of Laphroaig.
The glass is cold in my hand. I roll it between my palms, scotch swirling, the ice melting fast in the climate-controlled room. My shirt is half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to my forearms, collar open to show a sliver of the tattoos that climb up my left arm. My hair’s a little messier than usual, but I don’t bother with it. I have other things to think about, chief among them the fact that I’ve jerked off twice this afternoon to pictures of my stepsister.
Yeah, I did that.
And now, I want more.
The images continue to haunt me. I can see them, even now, reflected in the double-paned glass:
Kayleigh, on her bed, the light honey-soft on her skin, her tits perfect and round, nipples the color of new strawberries, hair like liquid gold. The next shot: her fingers spreading herself wide, pink pussy glossy and a little swollen, slick enough to catch the flash. In the last one—the one I keep replaying like a slow-motion car wreck—she’s on her side in front of the full-length mirror, one knee drawn up, the soft round curve of her ass framed perfectly in the glass. She’s looking straight at the camera with a naughty sparkle in those big blue eyes, lower lip caught between her teeth, while her free hand parts her ass cheeks just enough to show off the pale, innocent ring of her anus. It’s beautiful and obscene in equal measure, and I’ve already left two loads on the floor of my shower thinking about it.
Fuck, I’m so screwed. I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes. 7:32. She said she’d be here at eight, but I know Kayleigh well enough to expect her early. She’ll sit in the garage, run her lines, maybe give herself a little pep talk. She’s never on time, but she’s never late, either. Always a few minutes shy of the moment. I like that about her. If I have to wait for a late woman one more time, I might just kick her to the curb for the hell of it.
Now, the glass is almost empty. I set it down and pour another, the bottle neck clinking against the rim. I don’t bother to cap it. The sound echoes through the quiet, and for a second I’m aware of how alone I am—how the penthouse, with all its luxury and space, is nothing but a mausoleum for one. Funny, I’ve never thought of it that way before. Sure, it was silent and still, but I value my peace. Now, when I think of the blonde girl about to arrive, this place seems empty without her. I need her mess. Her sass, and her shyness. Kayleigh brings something that I didn’t realize I was missing.