Step F*@K: Part Two (A Stepbrother Series Book 2) (2 page)

“Ah, I see you found your clothes. I had them heat this for you, and put a little butter on it.” He holds the plate out to me.
 

“No thank you,” I say coolly. “I actually have to get going. I’ve been here a lot longer than I was planning and . . . I just need to go.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I had a lovely time with you.” He takes a step toward me and holds his hand out like he’s going to touch my face. I step back.

“That’s not the adjective I would use.” I try to sidestep him.
 

“What adjective might that be then?”

“Oh . . . I don’t know. Mediocre? Disappointing? Average?”
He tilts his head, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Are you having a go at me? Is your blood sugar low? Here, take the muffin.”

I glance over the table where the ring is, then back at him. “If by ‘having a go’ you mean ‘being truthful’—apparently an underrated character trait—then yes, I’m having a go at you.”

He takes a deep breath. “So last night, in your limited experience, was average?”
“Limited experience? What, because I’m not some whore I don’t know what average sex is like?”
“You met a stranger online, came back to his room with him, and proceeded to fuck him six ways from Sunday. I don’t know what
your
definition of whore is, but I’d say that certainly falls under—”

“Just stop it!” I snap. “I don’t need your petty insults on top of this. Fortunately, we never have to see each other again, so let’s just forget about this, okay? The entire average experience. Let’s just forget about it.”

He smirks. “Darling, nothing about me is average.”

I look at his crotch as I walk to the door. “Don’t be so sure.”
 

“Right, right. Are you limping? A little bowlegged? Guess my job’s done. We both know you’re just clutching at straws. And if eight inches is ‘average’ then I’m still an overachiever.”

My hand’s on the doorknob. I should just turn it, walk out the door, and not say anything, but that smug, arrogant look on his face is too much. “You’re so pleased with yourself, aren’t you? You’re so certain you’re such hot fucking shit. If that’s the case, you should just go fuck yourself. How about that? Go fuck yourself and be impressed with your massively huge dick. It’s the biggest dick in the world! Can you even wrap your hand around it? Maybe you should get a couple ribs removed so you can blow yourself. If you can fit your mouth around it, since it’s so big. It’s like you’ve got elephantitis your dick is so huge. I can’t even believe you’re actually able to stand up straight with a dick that big.”
 

Jai stares at me, and then begins to laugh. “I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing right now. Is your period about to start or something? Should I have come back with tampons instead of a muffin?”

“Fuck you.”

“I believe we already did that. Many times.”

I turn the doorknob and open the door. “You’re disgusting.” I hurry out into the hallway, before he can say anything else. I half expect him to chase me, or to scream obscenities, but the only sound is the door slamming behind me.

The universe gives you signs, some subtle, some not-so-subtle. What was that I had been thinking on the plane ride over, about possibly getting into a relationship? Yeah, fuck that. No fucking way.
 

I stand there for a moment after I’ve slammed the door, hard enough to rattle the walls. What the fuck just happened? I’ve dealt with my fair share of crazy bitches before, but for a girl to from hot to cold as quickly as Emma just did . . . she’s clearly got problems.
 

Or perhaps my judgment simply isn’t what it used to be. Perhaps a girl who’s going to be willing to meet up with a stranger online and let him fuck her brains out, isn’t actually good girlfriend material. Appearances can be deceiving, after all. None of that matters, though, because I’ll never have to see her again, and I did get a great night of sex out of it.

Dad phones a while later and asks if I’d like to join him and a few of his friends on the golf course. Absofuckinglutely not, but it might help me get my mind off of Emma. Despite many valiant attempts, I keep thinking about her, and I sure as hell don’t wish to be.
 

Still, I seem to have forgotten how much I hate golf until I’m actually out there on the green. This is a sport? People actually want to spend their free time doing this? Dad couldn’t seem happier, looking quite dapper in his pink golf polo and chinos.
 

“Can you believe it?” he says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Tomorrow’s the big day. Life starts now. When are you going to get hitched, my good man? Or . . . should I say . . . my
best
man?” He laughs heartily. Oh, he’s always found himself SO amusing.
 

“I suppose I’d need an actual girlfriend first, Dad,” I say.

“Jai, if I was as young and virulent as you, I’d have about twenty girlfriends.” He pulls a putter from his bag.
 

“That’s nice Dad. It’s probably something you want to keep to yourself—I’d rather not think about you being virulent.”

He winks. “Well, I’m past that point of my life now. I know this, and that’s why Stephanie and I are getting married. Your mom and I married young, when I didn’t have a clue about anything.” He holds the golf club like it’s a walking stick and looks up at the sky, as though reading from a cue card. “I know it’s something we haven’t talked about much. Hell, you and I hardly talk at all, but I always told myself that’s because we both had busy, fulfilling lives. And I knew you were happier to be in London than to be here. You’re like your mother in that way.”
 

I sigh and look across the green, the grass glowing like it’s radioactive. That’s probably not too far off from the truth.
 

“But . . . with the wedding being so soon and everything, that’s made me look at my life, reflect on things, I guess you could say, and I realize that I do want you to know I’m sorry that if any of my actions have . . . have impacted your life negatively. You just don’t realize it at the time, how what you do can affect your kids. I never wanted to hurt your mother, or you. I just want you to know that. And I know that when you
do
find the right girl, you’ll do right by her. She’ll be a lucky lady. She really will. I might not have had a lot to do in raising you, but I can tell you’re a good man. You make me proud.”

He claps me on the shoulder and then goes over and starts positioning himself in front of the golf ball. His friends are motoring their way toward us in one of the golf carts. They’re already three sheets to the wind, and the cart is zigging and zagging all over the place. Is this what I have to look forward to? I watch my dad line up the shot, swing, and miss. I try not to think about Emma.
 

I get a cab home and text Megan.
 

I’m alive. On my way home now. Going to bed for a while.
 

OOOOH! Did you get no sleep last night? Details!
 

The only detail I’m going to give you is that I discovered his wedding ring.
 

So?
 

I start to type a reply. So? So now I’m that other woman, and Jai’s wife, whoever she is, is me, when I was with Tom and getting cheated on. Clearly, if he has an online dating profile, he’s done this sort of thing before—he’s probably hooking up with someone else this very moment. But I stop typing and delete what I’ve written.
 

I don’t want to talk about it
, I write.
I’m just going to try to get a little sleep before the dinner tonight.
 

Was the sex at least good??

I don’t answer. I don’t want to think about the sex, even though it was mind-blowingly good. I don’t want to think about Jai, but of course I spend the duration of the cab ride wondering how someone who I actually felt I had a connection with could turn out to be no better than the asshole who had broken up with me six months earlier.
 

No one’s home when I get back to the apartment. I throw my purse down and go get a glass of water. My headache has subsided a little, but I feel disgusting, inside and out. I take my dress off, the bra off, and stuff them both into the trash. Yes, I like them both, but seeing or wearing either article again is just going to remind me of this, and how gross I feel, so I might as well get rid of them.
 

I go take a shower, turning the heat up as high as it will go, as if I could somehow scald the nastiness off of myself. I shampoo my hair, once, then again, and I squeeze shower gel onto my loofah half a dozen times, letting the water rinse the suds off before I soap myself back up again.
 

The evidence is still there, though. I step out of the shower, feeling a little better, but then I catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. There is a huge, painful-looking hickey on my neck. Take the worst bruise you’ve ever seen, multiply by twenty, and you might be somewhere in the ballpark with how horrid this hickey looks.
 

There’s also little bite marks on my shoulders, my breasts, and even though my inner thighs look fine from the outside, they are
achingly
sore. I finish toweling off, put a tank top and some clean underwear on, and crawl into bed. I just need to sleep this off.
 

“Emma?”
Someone’s calling my name, but I can’t tell if it’s part of my dream or really happening.
 

“Emma?”
I struggle through layers of consciousness, and as I do, I feel pressure on my shoulder, someone shaking me.
 

“Emma, your phone is totally blowing up. Someone really needs to get in touch with you. I’ve been home like fifteen minutes and it’s probably gone off thirty times.”

I open my eyes. Megan is standing there, looking a little amused and a little concerned. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” she says. “Here, I brought you your purse. Your shit is totally blowing up.”

I struggle to sit up. I feel completely disoriented, but at least I’m here, in my own room, with my best friend standing next to the bed, not some random guy I met online. Megan puts the purse down and sits on the edge of the bed.