by Lila Price
Even if my place comes with a problematic stepbrother and several deep-seated issues that I need to sort through because of him? I might as well be calling him my stepbother.
“Yeah, I just feel like getting out,” I say. “Besides, we promised we’d hit the town after we turned twenty-one, and I’m ready to go.”
“Then let’s do it! Should we invite Cleo?”
She’s the third musketeer, and I haven’t seen her since holiday break. “Totally. I’ll text her.”
We sort out the minor details—when, where, and how—and by the time we’re set, I’m already up the stairs and in my room, riffling through my closet for something to wear. Since I’m tired of the clothes that I’ve already unpacked from my car, it’s like Christmas in summer as I go through dresses that I haven’t worn in a while.
I know what I’m looking for, though, and when I come to it, I smile.
A red, clingy dress that I bought on a whim last year. I’ve never worn it, because it dips down low in the back and clings so tightly with its jersey material that I might as well be wearing a second skin. And slip it on and slide my feet into a pair of sling back pumps with tiny, sexy ribbons at the back of the ankles.
Later, Tristan, I think. I’m going to get my flirt on tonight, and it’s going to be with a guy who’s going to make me forget all about my stepbrother.
Our Uber drops us off in front of Shady’s, a neon-and-brick club that’s been around the Dunlop Heights downtown scene long enough for Julia, Cleo, and I to have grown up under its legendary shadows, waiting for the day when we would be old enough to get past the bouncer.
We know we’ll get some free drinks on this trip, too, because we went to school with half the staff, including three of the bartenders. Still, we pre-partied at my house, where we busted into my parents’ liquor cabinet to take one or two shots of vodka and Hawaiian Punch. Pure class, that’s us, but now we’re ready to graduate to some big girl drinks.
“Shady’s,” Julia says with her blue eyes reflecting the lit sign outside. She looks like one of those actresses who’ve outgrown their time on Disney or Nickelodeon shows, all dimples, long blond hair, and naughty plaid skirts with bang-me boots.
Cleo catches the reverence in Julia’s voice and echoes it. “This is a moment, girls. We’re almost in.”
She’s dressed for the occasion, too, in a tight beige macrame halter and skirt that compliments her dark skin and hair.
As techno music pulses from inside the smoky, humid darkness of the club, a couple guys head toward the door, slowing down when they see us.
“Very fuckable,” one of them says as he leers.
His gaze lands on me, and I fold my arms over my breasts that are swelling out of my low neckline. Now that I actually dared to pull this dress out of the closet and put it on, I don’t feel half as reckless as I did at home.
Cleo and Julia step in front of me just as the bouncer, who’s an employee we actually don’t know, tells the guy to cool down and then lets him and his friend inside the club.
“Ew,” Julia says. “Douchey.”
“The choices inside will be much better than that.” Cleo eyes a tall guy with a dark gaze who’s also walking into the club—and who seems to be just as interested in her. “We’ll stick together and make sure to keep the assholes away.”
Maybe I’m a tad buzzed, or maybe I’m just happy that I’m here with my old friends, reunited and ready to have some fun now that we’re legally allowed to party. I hug both of them tight.
“To us,” I say. “And to Shady’s.”
They come back with, “To us and to Shady’s!”
They’re just like me, Julia and Cleo. Well, mostly. Cleo was dumped by her college boyfriend over spring break, and Julia is a serial dater, but even if they’re both way more experienced than I am, we understand one another.
The Three Musketeers. Or maybe it’s more like the Three Alices in Wonderland, because as soon as we step into the club, we tumble down the rabbit hole.
The smell of booze, summer sweat, and cologne greets us along with the lights flashing to the music. Sheer curtains billow from the top floor, where long white sofas stretch near the railing. They’re filled with people lounging and laughing.
The dance floor is lined with blocks that rise from the ground and resemble a low Manhattan skyline with lit windows and everything; on top of them, people are moving to the beat. The atmosphere feels sticky, warring with the air conditioning.
I like the song that’s on—a Paramore remix—and the three of us make our way past the first bar, where one of our high school friends, Brent, waves to us. We make a quick stop to say hi, grab free cosmopolitans, and down them. Then it’s onto the floor. Cleo spots an empty skyscraper platform, and we take the steps to the top of it.
Now I can allow all the frustration of the day to melt out of me as I sway along with the music and my friends. A few guys below us stop drinking their beer and look up to watch us. It’s a powerful feeling being watched like that, and we feed off of it, bumping against one another and losing ourselves in the music.
But with all the sexual energy in the air, it doesn’t take long until I’m thinking of Tristan again. The booze has already gotten to me—I’m not a big drinker and it doesn’t take much to get me going—and once I start dancing like this, I get a little carried away. I pretend as if he’s right here, watching me, just as he did after he sprayed me with that water, making my blouse stick to my breasts.
I close my eyes, run my hands down my hips, sway some more. The tips of my breasts tighten again, and my panties rub against me, causing friction, causing me to…
Something makes me open my eyes, a feeling, really, and it’s only when I look down from the platform that I see why.
Tristan?
He’s one of the guys standing below us now, but he’s the only one who doesn’t seem entertained. And unlike the other males—well-dressed men who’re devouring us with their gazes—Tristan stands out like a sore thumb in his white T-shirt, jeans, and boots, looking like he’s ready to throttle me.
Or is there something else in his eyes…?
Warmed by the booze—and heated up by the possibilities—I give Tristan a little smile and shimmy just for him. If there’s one thing I can prove right now, it’s that he’s not the only one who knows how to tease.
I shouldn’t feel this good as his jaw clenches, and when he lightly shoves one of the guys next to him on the shoulder, I realize that he’s signaling to his friend that I’m off limits. He does the same to the other guy next to him, muttering something in his ear, and with one last backward glance at me, starts walking toward the other side of the club with his buddies.
Adrenaline is racing through me, thrilling me. How twisted is it that I enjoy getting such a rise out of Tristan?
Very twisted.
Cleo nudges me with her hip and shouts over the music. “Wasn’t that your brother?”
“He’s my stepbrother!”
“Same diff!”
If Cleo or anyone knew anything about my strange adoration of Tristan, they would think I was insane, so I act casual and shrug.
“He’s back?” Cleo shouts.
“Like an infection!”
She laughs and then tracks Tristan to the other side of the club. I’m fully aware of where he’s going—to the stairs, which he’ll probably climb to the balcony so he can brood with his beer on one of those sofas, too cool for the rest of us.
Town legend always had it that guys like Tristan would come here to pick and choose horny suburban girls then get laid, and it seems as if he’s back at his old habits now that he’s in Dunlop Heights for the summer. I have the feeling he’s one of those guys who generally hangs back in any club he goes to, marking his prey for the night from the shadows.
Once again, I wish he were doing it in the city and not here.
As I’m reminded of how he’s home to keep tabs on Lil Step-sis, a naughty devil comes awake in me. Tristan�
�s probably even monitoring me from the balcony, and that makes the devil dance even more.
Babysit this, stepbrother, I think.
A new song is on, a sexy old number by Prince, and as the sultry beat struts along, I amp up my moves. I play to the growing male audience below us. I work that red dress and those sling back pumps, and as I wind my way to the other side of our platform, I look up to where I think Tristan has gone.
When I see him leaning on the railing, his shoulders stiff as he watches me dance, a burst of satisfaction lights through me. Just to rub things in even more—I’m too old to have a babysitter, I’m pissed that Mom and Dad sent you to monitor me—I inch my skirt up enough to show a bit more thigh. All the while, I never stop watching Tristan right back.
I’m a big girl now. See?
He moves away from the railing, disappearing into the crowd behind him.
I feel as if I’ve lost some kind of battle, and suddenly it’s not so much fun to be this provocative. But then Julia pulls me back into dancing with her and Cleo, and I join them halfheartedly. A few guys have joined us up here, and one of them grabs me.
He’s blond-haired, blue-eyed, kind of hot—but not what I want.
“You’re ready for it, aren’t you?” he says, his breath moist in my ear.
Ugh. I rub my ear against my shoulder and push him away, but he’s all hands. Julia and Cleo are too busy with their own men to notice.
“I saw you dancin’ over there like you’re in heat,” he says, and he’s slurring.
My palms are against his chest, still pushing. “Cut it out.”
“What’chou got under that skirt? Show me.”
His fingers are suddenly on my butt, squeezing, and I rear back my hand to smack the shit out of him. But I don’t get the chance, because he’s already being yanked back by someone.
It doesn’t take me long to see who that someone is.
Tristan is choking the guy with one hand, and there’s murder in his eyes as he shoves him away, sending him flying off the platform and crashing onto the floor in the middle of the stunned crowd below.
3
Tristan bolts off the platform toward the guy who grabbed me. The douchebag’s on the ground, his hands up to fend off my stepbrother’s cocked fist.
I hear a scream, and it’s only after Tristan pulls back while rising to his feet and turning to me that I realize I’m the one yelling at him.
“Stop, Tristan, please don’t!”
But I’m pretty sure he’s not going to stop—his light green eyes are unfocused and he’s got the wire-tight posture of a man who’s ready to snap.
I somehow make it off the platform and pull at his arm.
“Please, Tristan!”
As I look up at him, I can see his gaze soften, or at least come back to sanity. We’re both breathing hard, and everyone has gone still around us. My pulse kicks, warning me that we should get out of here before Tristan’s fuse runs out. I remember the shouting matches he’d have with his dad, and even though the two of them had never traded punches, the intensity was enough to shake me up.
But those confrontations weren’t even close to the rage I’d just seen in Tristan.
I tug on his arm again, and with a final, lethal glance to the perv cowering on the ground, my stepbrother goes with me.
Behind me, I see Cleo and Julia together on the platform, watching me go, their gazes wide.
At the edge of the dance floor, Tristan takes my arm and directs me through what turns out to be a back room, then a door that leads to a parking lot. He’s acting as if it’s more important for him to pull me out of the club instead of my getting him away.
“What the fuck was that about?” I demand as he stalks toward his car. “You didn’t have to go off like that. I was about to belt him.”
“Jesus, Sosie, are you kidding me?”
If he’s calling me Sosie instead of Cherry, he still must be fuming.
He unlocks the car without even looking at me, then yanks open the passenger door. I guess that’s my cue to get inside. I don’t want to make a scene by blowing him off, so I get in without a word and pull the door shut behind me. The sound crashes through the night.
By the time he slides into his seat and starts the car, he’s eerily calm, as if nothing just went down inside that club. But he’s always seemed so very cool to me, as if he’s always been older than his years and knows way more about everything than I do.
He starts the car and wheels out of the lot, and all I can do is stare at him.
“You do realize that you were about to hammer that guy,” I say. “If you’d hit him—”
“He was mauling you.”
While that’s true, I’m still a little afraid of the Tristan I saw tonight—the one with the hair trigger temper. How can I just let that go?
At any rate, I really am thankful he was there, so I might as well give him a little credit. “Okay.” I swallow. “Well, thank you for stepping in.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
What does he want—a gold medal? “It’s like you have no idea that you almost got in a ton of trouble back there! Tristan, you could have…” I shake my head, letting my thought go unspoken. “What were you thinking?”
“That you’d prefer not to be assaulted by that asshole.”
“I’ve defended myself from a lot of those assholes when you haven’t been around.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel and I know I’m being supremely bitchy. But I’m still reeling from the sight of him appearing out of nowhere to nearly pummel that guy, and adrenaline is making my mouth run away from me.
I turn toward the front. The sound of tires whirring over the street only makes things more awkward—and so does the fact that my tummy is swirling with sensations I don’t want to acknowledge.
I’m turned on again.
Finally, the silence gets to me. “I’m serious,” I say softly. “You could’ve gotten arrested.”
He shakes his head and drops one hand from the wheel, leaving the other hand draped over it. Cool, calm bad boy Tristan. “You say that like I’ve never been in trouble before. Didn’t you point out this afternoon that I’m not suited to look after you because of that?”
I don’t want to talk about this afternoon, thank you. “Well, you can at least expect never to be welcomed back into Shady’s again.”
The comment is such an understatement that more silence descends on us. The worst thing about it is the buzzing awareness that I can sense between us, as if Tristan is thinking about this afternoon and my sheer shirt, thinking about how I danced for him in the club just so I could see his temper flare.
“Goddammit, Sosie,” he finally says, gesturing with his free hand at my leg. “Just cover yourself up, would you?”
My dress has crept toward my upper thigh, revealing more skin than I’d been showing in the club. I’m tempted to leave the skirt where it is, but that would be a sassy move that would exceed even today’s bitchery around Tristan.
I subtly pull the skirt down, and I swear I can hear him sigh roughly in relief. But he’s still tense, even under his coolness.
“If your mom saw you like that…” he says.
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“No shit, but you sure can act like one.”
“That’s because you drive me to it.”
“And how’s that?”
If I don’t tamp down my own temper, I’m bound to smack him. How can someone get under my skin like this?
I hold up my hands as if I can push away my frustration with him. “This discussion is going nowhere. How about you drop me off so you can go back out and do your mysterious Tristan things in the dark of night? That way we’ll both stay sane.”
“All I’m saying, Sosie, is that you’ve got to be aware of what you’re doing and how you come off. Hell, you’re dressed in next to nothing, and it’s…”
He stops himself.
My heart flutters, but not in an inno
cent way. It’s like fingertips dancing over the sensitive skin of a stomach, making muscles jump. And that’s how my belly feels right now.
I can’t manage more than a whisper. “Keep saying what you were saying, Tristan. The way I’m dressed is what?” Making you insane?
He doesn’t answer me. We’re at the house now, and he turns the car into the driveway. After he cuts the engine, he doesn’t even come around to open my door, but it’s not as if this is a date.
Not even.
I’m right behind Tristan with my purse in hand as he opens the front door. Something dangerous is urging me to find out what he was about to say, and it won’t let up. “You still haven’t given me an answer.”
My phone dings with a text, but this isn’t the time to respond, even if Julia and Cleo are wondering what’s happening.
He’s already walked inside, and I follow. The foyer lights are dim, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I should leave well enough alone and stay away from him, but that’s just not happening.
I toss my purse onto a loveseat nearby. “Tristan!”
“Go to bed, Cherry.”
Ah, we’re back to Cherry. But I don’t think it’s because he’s in a better mood.
I quickly strip off my sling backs, and, carrying them in my hands, climb the stairs. Without heels on, I’m fast.
“I’m dying to hear more of your fashion advice,” I say, pouring on the sarcasm as I reach the top landing, “so why don’t you continue what you were saying? Or do you just want to go through my closet and toss out anything else you might find objectionable about my wardrobe?”
He’s at his bedroom door, almost ready to close it. The sight of him standing there, filling the frame, tall and built, takes my breath away. This isn’t the same Tristan who grew up in this house, coming and going as he pleased.
This is someone new and even more compelling.
“It’s not your clothes,” he says, glowering at me. “It’s your attitude.”
He scans me, and not in the way he did this afternoon, when at least I could wonder if there’d been something sinful going on inside his head. Now he just seems angry.