Her hand snakes down my chest to cup my cock through my jeans. I should be rock hard for her, but I’m limp as a banana peel. Sydney runs her hands up and down, trying to coax my dick back to life. The more she touches me, the harder the depressing reality sinks in.
“Should I take your pants off?” she suggests.
“I don’t think so.” My voice sounds just as disappointed as I feel. I’d be a selfish prick to ask her to give me a hand job when I know damn well it’s no use.
“Is something wrong?” she murmurs, her brow furrowed in confusion.
I hang my head. “There’s nothing wrong.”
That’s a lie. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Sydney. Any other night, I’d be fucking psyched to tear her clothes off and fuck her right here, high on the thrill of someone catching us.
No, the fucking problem is there’s only one person I want to be kissing, and apparently my cock won’t settle for anything less.
“I’m so sorry, I have to go,” I say, patting Sydney’s arm. “I, uh, feel like I’m getting a headache. This was great.”
I hate seeing the disappointment on her face. Hopefully her friends can cheer her up. When I get to the exit, I find my jacket still hung over the barstool. Digging in my wallet, I pull out five hundred-dollar bills and shove them over to the bartender.
“Buy that girl and her friends whatever they want,” I tell him. “Keep the rest.”
He gives me an unimpressed look, but takes the money anyway.
The air outside feels even colder than before, like some icy storm swept over the city while I was failing at flirting away my problems. I hug my blazer tighter against me, stomping back home. I’m such a fucking idiot. I got the smallest taste of Pippa, and my stupid brain got the idea that she could be an option for me.
As if she doesn’t loathe me.
As if we’ve said more than five civil words to each other in a row.
As if she wasn’t my goddamn stepsister.
Back at my Dad’s place, the party is still going. The living room is full of people in suits and cocktail dresses, now a little big drunker and a little bit messier. A woman I recognize as Dad’s old secretary is hanging off the arm of her date, barely able to stand by herself. She winks broadly at me, and I give her a tight smile in return.
I wind through the crowd in the living room, keeping my eyes down so I don’t invite a conversation from anyone. A few of Dad’s friends try to say hello, but I manage to get away with a smile and a wave.
Once I make it across the room to the back staircase, I turn around and let my eyes sweep over the crowd. I don’t see the tousled bob and red lips I’m looking for.
I sneak up the stairs to my old bedroom. When I close the door, the music and chatter drifting up from downstairs are muffled.
Dad and Emily haven’t changed my room since I moved out for college. Why would they, I guess, when there are so many other rooms in this fucking mansion? Old posters of rock bands are tacked to the walls, along with poker percentage cheatsheets written in my own cramped handwriting. Stuff I’ve long since memorized, but that I was still getting into my bones back then.
Kicking off my dress shoes, I flop forward onto my teenage bed. The twin mattress creaks underneath me, reminding me of the girls I used to sneak up here. They’d put their hands over their mouths, trying to keep quiet while I went down on them. I’d secretly try to get them to scream anyway—so what if Dad caught me? It’s not like he’d have any room to lecture me.
I could probably ask Emily to upgrade my twin to at least a queen, for the few nights a year I spend here. But I kind of like the idea of the room being frozen in time—at least one thing that I know will never change.
Groaning, I shrug off my jacket, shirt, and pants, tossing them in a pile on the floor. Fuck suits—I hate wearing them anyway.
I pull up a poker app on my phone and sign up for a game. It’s the only thing that’ll keep my mind occupied. Time slips by as I play game after game, winning most of the time, but playing a little sloppier than I usually do.
The party noises quiet down until the final guest leaves. I wonder if Pippa stayed up, or whether she went to her own childhood bedroom two doors down from mine. If I wanted to, I could always walk down, crack open the door and see if she’s there, her body tangled under the sheets…
I turn off the light and shove my phone under my pillow. I stare at the ceiling, praying for sleep to come and hating myself for wanting the one girl I can never have.
8
PIPPA
An icy wind blows at the hem of my black wool miniskirt. I grab at the hem to make sure it doesn’t blow up. I’m not trying to give everyone on the sidewalk a show, thanks.
When I put this outfit together, I felt sophisticated and sexy as hell. I’ve got my second date tonight, this time with some wealthy real estate guy I matched with on Keepr. After that whole weirdmomentwith Ryan in the kitchen, I needed a few glasses of spiked eggnog to wipe it out of my mind. That meant I was pretty drunk when I accepted Logan’s date invite, but hey, he can’t possibly be worse than my first date.
