Step Brother (7 page)

“Jax, eh? Wonder if he had that name before or after
Sons of Anarchy
?”

“Oh, quit it, little Miss Smarter-Than-Everyone-Else. You’re just bitchy because you didn’t get enough sleep last night. If I’d spent all night sucking my brother’s dick, I’d be tired too.”

“Oh my God.” I groaned. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Come the fuck on,” Chelsea said, downing half of her twenty-dollar martini. “You’ve spent years giving me shit about my exploits. Let me enjoy the fact that you acted like a total slut last night. Not that I blame you, of course. Reed’s gorgeous.”

I shook my head and flashbacks from the night before threatened to short circuit my brain. “You don’t have to remind me. I just can’t believe Dad married his mother, though. I finally hook up with a guy who’s not only ridiculously hot, but smart and successful, and he turns out to be my stepbrother. Seriously—out of all the women in the world, why did Dad have to marry Tina?”

“There’s nothing wrong with dating your stepbrother, Tatum. It’s not like you grew up together. If you had, then that would be gross, but you didn’t. I’d hit that every chance I got.”

“I can’t, though. How would I explain that to my dad?”

“Who says you have to tell your dad anything?”

“Well, I can’t just lie to him.”

“C’mon. You and I both know that his interest in you is only going to last as long as there’s something he wants. From the sounds of it he’s the king of fly-by parenting.”

“Yeah, as sad as that is, you’re probably right. I can’t believe he’s actually going to run for office again. You’d think he’d have learned his lesson.”

“Are you sure he is? He didn’t actually tell you, did he?”

“No. But I’m sure. I know the signs, and honestly, it was just a matter of time. He craves the attention. Can’t get enough of it. His campaigns are more important than anything to him.”

“Wonder if your new stepmother knows that.”

“She will soon enough. I can tell he’s been grooming her for her role. She’s using fancy words that aren’t entirely comfortable for her, and she’s started up her new charitable work. She’s practicing to be a politician’s wife.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

I knocked back most of my martini. “Costa Rica, actually.” We both laughed, and I pointed to the terrace outside. “You ready?” I asked.

Chelsea grimaced. “Did I mention that I’m afraid of heights?”

“Why did you pick Ghostbar, then? Where did you think the elevator was taking you?”

“It was on the list of the must-visit clubs.”

“Well, here’s the must-do while you’re here,” I said, grabbing her hand and taking her outside.

The wind tugged at our hair, and I held my skirt down with one hand while I dragged her to the edge of the terrace and waited for the inevitable reaction.

Chelsea looked out over the glittering lights of the Strip. “Oh my God.” She made sure to stay a full arm’s length back from the railing, and I knew she’d flip shortly.

“Look down,” I said.

She looked positively green as she looked straight down—fifty-five floors down. The glass section in the terrace floor made it feel like you were suspended high above the city, floating in midair. Though I didn’t really need to be drinking expensive martinis, Chelsea’s reaction was totally worth it.

“I don’t feel so good,” she said, and I took pity on her and led her back inside to our table.

Once Chelsea’s color returned to normal, she laid out the rest of her plan for the evening.

I interrupted her. “If Jax shows up at Tao, I’m gonna head home. I have some stuff I need to prep for my interview, and I’m just beat.”

“That’s fine. I know you’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Understatement.”

“So, why does it bother you so much that your dad’s going to run for office? I’d think you could benefit from his being in politics, given that you’re an attorney.”

“Whatever gain there might be won’t be worth the public notoriety.” I shook my head. “I know most people would love to have their fifteen minutes of fame, but let me tell you … it’s highly overrated.”

“Most people didn’t have to move in the middle of high school because their fathers went to jail, either,” Chelsea said, showing the empathy that made being her friend worthwhile.

“You have no idea how awful it was. Reporters and cameras on the front lawn. Paparazzi following me to school. It was horrible. They invaded my life, and I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“Surely your dad will walk the straight and narrow now, though. There shouldn’t be any real story there, right?”

“Even if it doesn’t last long, I’d guess that some reporter somewhere’s going to try to make a name on the scandalous news that a convicted criminal is attempting to return to his life in public service.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Maybe I should change my name,” I joked.

“If you hadn’t already taken the bar, that would be a great idea. Hey, I know what you could do,” Chelsea exclaimed.

“What?”

“You could marry Reed and take his last name.” She dissolved into giggles, and I stood up in amused disgust.

“Not funny. I have to pee.”

I walked to the bathroom, unable to get the image of Reed out of my head. He was impossible to forget. Tall, dark, sexy, tattooed, successful. Jesus, there was nothing not to like. Except for the obvious.

I was simply going to have to avoid him. I knew there was no way I’d manage to keep my hands off him otherwise. He clearly didn’t seem to have a problem with sleeping with his stepsister, but I knew it was more than I could manage. I had important things I needed to focus on, like landing a job and getting my career started off right. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by a piece of ass … even if it was a really nice ass.

When I got back to the table, I’d decided I was going to beg off the rest of the night. “I’m sorry, honey, but I just got a look at myself in the mirror, and I look as bad as I feel. If I don’t get to bed, I’m going to fall asleep on the dance floor, and that won’t be a pretty sight.”

Chelsea stood up and gave me a hug. “That’s okay. You owe me a visit, though. Dallas might not have as many clubs as Vegas, but I can still show you a good time.”

“Deal. Now you be careful, and I want a text when you’re getting on the plane. Don’t make me worry.”

I took the surprisingly fast elevator ride down to the casino floor of The Palms, leaving Chelsea in the capable hands of Jax. I climbed into a cab, checked my phone, and saw that I had two missed calls and half a dozen texts from Garrett.

“Shit.” I called him back after giving the cabbie his address. “Garrett, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot about class.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Um, Ghostbar?” I winced and braced myself for his response.

“So not only do you blow off my class, but you do it to go to a club that was cool ten years ago. I feel double dissed.”

Trust Garrett to not only make me feel guilty, but also unfashionable. “I’m sorry, Garrett. I’ve had the most fuckawful hangover, and you just will not believe the day I’ve had. I told Chelsea I’d meet her for drinks on her last night here, and I just flat-out forgot the class. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t go. I’d probably have thrown up and embarrassed you, anyway.”

“Embarrassed yourself, more like.”

“Well, anyway, I’m on my way home. Chelsea will probably still be drunk when she gets on the plane in the morning, but I’m just done. I’ll be home in about ten minutes.”

“You going to tell me about this crazy day you had?”

“It’ll keep until tomorrow. Suffice it to say, it was full of weirdness. I need some sleep before I can even talk about it anymore.”

“All right, but don’t forget you have bootcamp class in the morning. And I will tell Seth not to take it easy on you.”

“Deal. See you there.”

Glad it was Garrett’s late night at the gym, I went home, got an enormous glass of water, put on my pajamas, and crawled in bed. I flipped on the TV, assuming I’d fall asleep within minutes, but when my third episode of
Orange Is the New Black
ended, it was official. I had far too much on my mind to get to sleep.

“Goddammit,” I said, throwing back the covers. If I wasn’t going to sleep, the least I could do was accomplish something productive. I grabbed my laptop from my desk and crawled back in bed. I went through my usual routine—email, Facebook, and CNN—before I got down to work. Skimming the biographies of the partners of the firm I’d be interviewing with, I made notes in another window. Though any job would be a good thing, this firm was one of my top three picks of all the firms in Vegas. They were big, but not too big; high-profile, but not too high-profile. The perfect spot for that rare attorney who wants a shot at spending an entire career at a single firm. That was my ideal goal. I knew I had what it took to make it to partner, and I was determined to see it happen.

I was looking at one of the slick, professional photographs of the entire team of partners, when I thought about Reed. Okay, I’d been thinking about him all night, but I kept trying to push the images of him from my mind. The problem was that it wasn’t just my mind that was preoccupied with him. His physical presence was so powerful that it made me feel flush, jittery, and turned on, all at the same time, even when I wasn’t thinking about having sex with him.

“Fuck it. I give up.”

I typed “Inked Las Vegas” into Google, and the very first link was to his shop. I took a deep breath before I clicked on it, knowing that looking at pictures of him and his work wasn’t likely the healthiest thing for me to be doing, but I did it anyway.

I was a little surprised. The website was very sophisticated, full of unique artwork and easy to navigate. He must have paid a lot for the site design, or he must know someone who was very talented. I clicked on the “Staff” link.

“Wow.” Reed had a seriously good-looking and stylish staff. There were links to all sorts of awards won by the artists who worked there, and the photographs of some of the tattoos were just beautiful. Ink had never been my thing, but I could see the appeal from the pictures. I let my mouse hover over the “Contact Us” button, while I thought about what I might write to Reed—not that I would, of course. That would be foolish, and I was not a foolish girl. At least not most of the time.

Before I could think any more about it, I closed the window, closed my laptop, and returned it to my desk. I needed sleep, and I needed to stop thinking about Reed. It couldn’t happen. It was a bad idea for lots of reasons, and I couldn’t think of a single reason for even considering seeing him again. Except, of course, the fact that I kind of liked him, and I found him attractive, and he seemed to like me as well. None of that could matter, though, I told myself as I turned off the light and hoped I’d dream of something other than my stepbrother.

It hadn’t been easy, but I’d done it, and I was damn pleased with myself. I pulled up along the curb in front of Garrett’s house and waited for Tatum to emerge. Getting her number from my mom had been the easy part. Talking Tatum into riding to Thanksgiving dinner with me—much harder. Figuring that she was just running a few minutes late, I scrolled through my new emails, and when I looked up, I saw Tatum leaning out of the front door, waving frantically at me.

“What’s wrong?” I called as I got out of the car.

She didn’t look happy. “I have a bit of a problem.”

I followed her through the door. “Smells amazing in here.”

“Unfortunately, the pumpkin pie smells better than it looks.” She led me into the kitchen. “Garrett’s cat got into the pie, and it’s ruined,” she practically wailed.

I could see nibble marks in the surface of the pie, and even a single orange paw print next to the glass pie plate. It took every bit of self restraint I had to keep from laughing, and I only managed because it was clear Tatum wasn’t amused. “That’s quite a mess you have there.”

“I know. I left it on the counter to cool while I was showering, and I had no idea that a fucking cat would eat pumpkin pie.”

“Can’t blame you there.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Well, since we’re due at dinner in half an hour, there’s no time to bake another pie.”

“Right.”

“Do you have any whipped cream?”

Tatum looked at me with a deliciously wicked grin. “I don’t know that there’s time for that, Reed.”

I could feel myself harden inside my jeans, and I wanted nothing more than to tear off the white cotton robe she wore and not come up for air until Christmas. But I had a feeling I could earn some brownie points if I could solve her pumpkin pie problem. “Go finish getting ready, and I’ll handle it.”

“What are you going to do?” Tatum looked suspicious, and I was trying to look at the deep V of her robe.

“Depends on what I find in your kitchen.”

“There should be pretty much anything you want, as long as it’s healthy.”

“Sugar and eggs?”

“Yup. Pantry’s next to the refrigerator.” She turned to walk down the hallway and stopped. “Can you really cook?”

“There’s not much I can’t do, Tatum, especially if I’m determined. Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll have your problem solved.”

I’d noticed the KitchenAid mixer on the counter, and I knew that meringue would be much more stable than whipped cream. I know it takes most people by surprise when they find out a tattoo artist likes to cook, but I have a monster sweet tooth. I can’t help it if I like dessert, and if I’m gonna eat those calories, they’d better be good. I separated three eggs, discarding the yolks, and put the whites in the bowl of the mixer, adding some sugar, putting on the whisk attachment and turning the mixer on low, just to get the sugar started dissolving.

I poked through the cabinets, found a large saucepan, filled it halfway with water, put it on the stove, and turned it on high. I warmed the egg whites and sugar while I whisked the mixture by hand over the saucepan of simmering water. After five minutes or so, I put the bowl back under the mixer, turned it on high, and let the KitchenAid work its magic.

Turning my attention to the ravaged pie, I smoothed out the top as best I could, scooping out the parts that had been touched by the cat. When the meringue was done, I spread it on the pie, broiled the top to brown it, and when Tatum emerged, I had a perfectly browned, glossy meringue-topped pumpkin pie on the counter. I was loading the dishes into the dishwasher when she saw it.