Page 7

“Yeah, Nationals.”

“No shit? For what?”

“Cheer,” she says before disappearing into her room.

Standing in the hallway, with only my wet pants to keep me company, guilt starts to seep in. I was supposed to make nice with this girl. Instead, I nutted on her, lied to her about it, and then insulted her. Now she’s about to hand over hush money for what was clearly a mistake on both our parts.

I mean, I liked it—my cock even more so—but it never should’ve happened. The last thing I need is to get on the Rhodeses’ bad side, especially on day one.

A few minutes later, when my stepsister reemerges, sans bag of frozen fruit, I start over by asking, “How do cheerleaders compete?”

“Passionately.”

This laugh I let out. I imagine a chant-off followed by a see-who-can-clap-the-longest contest.

Not as amused, Kota thrusts a folded-up piece of paper at me. It’s not green like cash. It’s white.

“What’s this?” I take it with my left hand.

“A check.”

I didn’t know people my age even knew how to write checks. I don’t.

It must be big. Really big.

Too curious to wait, I unfold it in front of her.

Zero. She wrote me a check for zero dollars and zero cents.

This little bitch.

Her snicker floats by me at the same time her body does. She’s laughing at me. Openly. She’s not scared of me at all. If she had any inkling who I really am, she would be.

The worthless check, along with any guilt I felt a moment ago, gets crumpled.

“You’re a cheerleader, right?”

She doesn’t stop as she says, “Uh-huh.”

“Aren’t cheerleaders supposed to be hot?”

Now that gets her to spin around to face me.

“The only thing cheerleaders are ‘supposed to be’ is determined. And obviously, this one’s hot enough to make you finish in your pants like a prepubescent boy. I checked my shorts when I was in my room and they were dry on the outside, so that…” She waves a finger toward my waist. “Was all you.”

Would you look at the time. It’s later.

“And this was all you.” I bring up my right hand, unfurl my fingers, then drag my tongue from the bottom of my palm to the tip of my middle finger.

Fuck, that’s good. I might have to rethink my stance on staying off ovulating women.

Or just this one.

Nope. This will never happen again. She’s my stepsister. A shitty one at that. Not very fucking welcoming, Kota.

“Tastes tragic,” I say, earning nothing. No response whatsoever. Eyebrows close together, she silently studies me.

Why isn’t her stuck-up ass appalled? Is she not as good as her mommy believes?