“Wait a second. Aren’t you supposed to be at a poker tournament right now?”
I shrug. “Dropped out.”
“But why? I thought you had to make up for losing at your tournament.”
“Because you’re more important.” I stroke her hair back. “Now go to sleep.”
A few minutes later, she does.
One minute,I’m back in Puerto Rico, floating on my back in the pool, staring up at a cherry-red sky. It should freak me out, but instead, it’s peaceful. An apocalypse sounds pretty good to my dream-self.
The next minute, I’m slapped back to the waking world by a cat paw to the face.
Waffle sits on my chest, insistently pawing at my mouth. She apparently thinks it’s urgent that I wake up right the fuck now, even though Pippa’s snoring peacefully in the bed next to me.
“Go to sleep, demon cat,” I mutter. “It’s the middle of the freaking night.”
The black cat just slaps me again with her tiny little paw. She must be out of food or something, even though I checked it earlier this afternoon.
I stumble through the dark to the kitchen. Waffle’s food and water bowl are completely full, just like I thought—which means she woke me up just to be annoying. Before I can find the little brat and give her a lecture about the importance of letting me fucking sleep, the elevator doors spring open.
“Ryan Archer!” a voice booms. “Get over here this minute.”
What the fuck? What is my dad doing bursting into my fucking apartment?
He’s facing the hallway leading down toward my room, but he quickly spots me standing in the kitchen. His lips turn downward into a sneer. “There you are. I can tell Emily that you’re not dead in a ditch, like she’s been worrying about. I knew better. You always hide from the consequences of your actions.”
“Keep your voice down, Dad.”
“Did you think we wouldn’t read those articles?" he roars, ignoring me. “You thought you could keep us in the dark about this ludicrous relationship? Do you have any idea how this has affected my reputation? Did you eventhinkof what you could do to this family when you started this?”
“We’re not doing this now,” I whisper, as harshly as I can. “Pippa’s got the death flu, and she needs to rest. If you want to scream at me, do it later.”
“You don’t get to tell me when we have this conversation,” he snaps. “If you won’t answer your phone like an adult, then you’ve given up the right to demand anything.”
Dad’s got that raging look in his eyes, the same look they had when I borrowed his vintage Corvette and scraped the paint. There’s no way I can shut off his yelling now, so all I can do is mitigate the damage. “Stay here,” I mutter. “At least let me close her fucking door.”
His jaw firms, but he doesn’t stop me when I head down the hallway and ease her door shut as gently as I can. Pippa’s still emitting her tiny little snores, so I have to hope that the combination of exhaustion and cold medicine will keep her down through whatever screaming match is about to happen.
Dad paces across the living room, fury radiating off him in waves. I spot a flash of black fur—Waffle, settling under the coffee table, the fur on her back bristling as she watches my father warily.
“I can’t believe you,” he spits. “Even after the years of partying and delinquency, and you wasting your time on your joke of a career, I didn’t think you’d stoop this low. Turning your stepsister into your fucking whore.”
My shoulders square, and my fist itches to slam itself into Dad’s smug face. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“You’re the one whotreatedher like a slut. Who fucked her and then abandoned her.”
“I would never do that,” I growl. “Unlike you, I actually care about Pippa.”
“I’ve taken care of her since she was fourteen! I sent her to the best schools! She lived under my roof!”
I stride forward, getting into Dad’s face. I need him to hear this next part, loud and fucking clear. “You never treated her like a daughter. You never went to her art fairs, or took her ice skating, never even helped her apply to college. You didn’t give her a fucking thing, and you think you can act like she’s your family?”
“I’m married to her mother!” he sputters.
“What does that have to do with me?” I shoot back. “Pippa and I are adults. We’re not related, we didn’t grow up together, and we’re not fucking family. There’s nothing wrong with us being together.”
“Don’t pretend to be fucking stupid!” Dad’s foot slams into the coffee table, kicking it over. “Don’t you care how it looks?”
