When I’d come back from California, Cici had never asked me about the change of style. She’d never seen me as damaged or broken beyond repair. She’d just glanced me up and down and beamed.
“Cool. You look really cool, sis.”
“Do you promise to take a picture of the outfits for me?” Cici asked.
“Ugh, okay, but only for you, cricket. Only for you.”
Later, alone in my new room, I stared at the selection of clothes on the bed. Not too long ago, these designer items would have been my dream. Now, they seemed like the clothes of a stranger.
Cici: Send pics!
My sister’s message popped up as I procrastinated changing into my new outfits.
With a heavy sigh, I started the long process of removing my clothes. Despite the temperature these days, I wore layers. Under my jeans, there were tights. Under my T-shirt, I had a cami on, and one of those compressing sports underlayers that came right up to my throat and down to nearly my fingertips. It drove my mother crazy, but I loved it. It made me feel safe and took the edge off the chill I constantly felt.
I slowly took the underlayer off, leaving me in just my underwear. I didn’t check in the mirror. I avoided it whenever possible. I didn’t need my reflection to show me anything about my body that I didn’t already know. Every hollow and scar, every burn, every freckle. I knew them. They were all mine.
After all, I was damaged goods and had become the keeper of my own pieces.
A caretaker of the ruins. Collector of wreckage.
I pulled on a vest and buttoned it up, then put on the matching tailored pants. Now, I stood in front of the mirror only to take a selfie to send to Cici. It wouldn’t work like this to wear in front of anyone else but Cici. My arms were bare. I’d have to wear a dress shirt underneath. Scars tended to lead to questions, and I wasn’t going to answer to anybody about what I decided to do with my own body. I had one scar that I hadn’t chosen, and that haunted me enough to try to block it out with my own handiwork. That was my choice to make.
Cici: You have to put your hair up
Me: Agreed
Cici: Let me see!
I pinched the bridge of my nose for a second, tossed my phone down, and then headed for the bathroom. I didn’t have anything approaching a hair tie in my new room. I barely had anything at all in there, so I could only hope the bathroom would have something.
My mom was the type to be easily influenced into stocking and restocking random shit in my bathroom just for the hell of it.
I pulled open the door, and a cloud of steam billowed into my face, enveloping my head.
I waved a hand in front of my face, my brain struggling to take in what had happened in my own bathroom… before a voice spoke.
Deep, English, arrogant.
“I don’t do free shows more than once, heathen, so get out of here and remember to knock next time.”
Oh, right. It wasn’t my own bathroom. It was a Jack-and-Jill, and now I knew whose bedroom was on the other end.
My brain didn’t take those words in right away, since the steam had cleared enough for me to see him.
Brody Sinclair, naked, except for a towel around his strong hips. His inked torso glistened with droplets of water. His muscles were ridiculous. Like a guy like him needed anything to make him cockier.
The familiar signal to freeze flashed through me, making me powerless for a second. Then he touched me. Firm fingers on my chin, pushing my mouth shut with a soft snap.
“You want a picture? It’ll last longer.”
His hand on my face reminded me of our kiss. My first in over a year. But that had been before I’d known he was my wicked stepbrother. His finger reached out and softly traced over my lip ring.
It broke the spell. I slapped his hand away.
“Wow, what an original comment. Did you come up with that yourself? Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t stare at me like you want me to then,” he drawled and turned away from me to stand in front of the mirror. “Again,” he added.
