Step F*#K (A Stepbrother Series Book 1) (4 page)

“May I sit?”

Finally, she meets my gaze and holds it. She’s gorgeous. Big, bright blue eyes, full lips, that adorable handful of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Love those freckles. Not a lot of makeup, so far as I can tell, and I give her a discreet once-over. Real. None of this plastic shit. Thank fuck.
 

“Yes,” she says. Then: “You’re . . . British. I . . . I wasn’t expecting that.”

“No, I suppose it’s a bit difficult to hear the accent through text messaging.”

“Ah,
and
he’s witty,” sunglasses girl says. She holds out her hand. “I’m Megan.”

“She’s the one who signed me up for the dating site,” Emma says.
 

“So I have you to thank then.” I shake her hand, and she then proceeds to take off the sunglasses, unwrap the headscarf. She’s hot, too, but in a different way. Part of what makes her hot is the fact that she knows it. Emma, I think, has no clue at all.
 

“This was a disguise,” Megan says. “We weren’t sure if you were going to be a psycho or not.”

“I assure you, I’m not. And, for future reference, I’d say the disguise isn’t really necessary—most men would be thrilled if two girls like you showed up, especially if they were only expecting one.”

They exchange glances, and I can see them both trying to decide if this was a humorous thing I’ve just said or a total arrogant asshole remark. A little of both, really, with a healthy dose of truth mixed in as well.
 

“Can I get you ladies another drink?” I say. “I’d like a drink myself.”

“Why sure,” Megan says. “I’ll have something a little harder this time. Make it a dirty martini, extra dry, extra dirty, please.” She picks up her wineglass and drains the rest of it.
 

Emma jumps up. “I’ll go with you,” she says. “I think I’ll get a martini, too.”

“I’d be happy to bring those over, if you want to wait,” I say. “Let me at least
try
to make a good first impression.”

“No, I’ll come, too.”

“I promise I’m not going to try to slip any roofies into your drink.”

Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and I wonder how many drinks she’s had so far. “That’s good. So far you’ve promised not to murder me and not give me any date rape drugs.”

“I’d say things are going smashingly, then.”

She giggles. “I like your accent.”

We go over to the bar and I order the girls their martinis and a gin and tonic for myself. “You’re from England?” she asks, leaning her arms across the bar.
 

“Yes. Well, I was actually born here in California, but my mum took me back to London after she and my father got divorced. I was eight. So I do have some vague memories of my American childhood, but I’ve spent most of my life across the pond. A fact I am perfectly happy with.”

“My parents got divorced, too,” she says.
 

“It seems to be the thing to do once you’re married.” I’m about to mention my father’s upcoming nuptials, but then the bartender is sliding the drinks across the bar and telling me an unbelievably high sum for the grand total. Fucking L.A.
 

Back at the table and I distribute the drinks. Megan sucks half hers down in one gulp. I know her type. Party girl to the max. A petite little thing that could probably outdrink and outfuck pretty much anyone in this room.

“So you’re obviously not from around here,” she says to me.
 

“He’s from London,” Emma tells her. “But he was born here.”

“In L.A.?”

I nod. “In L.A. A fact that I actively try to forget.”

“You’re just in town for a few days, then?”

“I plan to head back to London on Monday.” I take a sip of my drink. “So what is it the two of you do?”

“We’re students,” Emma says.
 

“And what are you studying?”

“Well, I’m studying architecture and Megan’s a scriptwriter.”

“The architect and the writer.” I nod. “Sounds like the two of you are in the right place, then.”

“Emma’s actually an artist,” Megan says.
 

Emma blushes. “Not like a working artist or anything. It’s more like a hobby.”
 

Megan shakes her head. “That’s total bullshit. Emma’s a really great painter.”
 

“Architecture is a type of art, isn’t it?” I ask.
 

“I guess, but it’s not the art that she’s into. She’s only doing the architecture thing because her dad wants her to.”

“And because it seems like it’d be pretty hard to make it as an artist,” Emma says. “I mean, I’m not
that
good.”

“You’re plenty good.” Megan looks at me. “I’ve been telling her that for as long as I can remember. Maybe you should tell her, too. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

“I don’t know if she’s any good. And is that why we’re here tonight, to talk about art?”

They exchange that look again.
Is he or isn’t he being a total asshole? Is that or is that not a complete turn on?
 

“What I meant by that,” I say, backpedaling just a bit, “is that it would be wrong of me to tell someone they had talent at something if they didn’t. It’s nothing personal—it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. Which is not to say, Emma, that I don’t think your art would be sublime.”

I finish my gin and tonic. It’s pretty watered down, if you want to know the truth. A fine example of what ten dollars can get you here in L.A. “I’m going to get another drink,” I say, standing. “Can I get you ladies another as well?”

“Sure, why not,” Megan says.
 

This time, both girls remain at the table, I’m sure to discuss whether or not continuing with the evening would be a good idea. I order two more martinis for the girls and get myself a shot of Jameson this time, neat. I’ve always had a high tolerance for drink, so I down the shot while the bartender’s mixing the martinis. I get another shot once the girls’ drinks are ready and bring it all back to the table.
 

“Thanks for buying the drinks,” Emma says. She reaches to get hers and her hand misses almost completely, her thumb at the last second jabbing into the side of the glass, sending about half the contents sloshing over the side. “Oh shit!” She starts giggling. “Maybe you
did
slip something in my drink.”

“Perhaps, but you haven’t even had any of it yet and have just spilled about half of it all over the table.” I smile. She’s biting her lip trying to control the laughter and I wonder if she knows how beautiful she looks. “Or maybe you’re just a lightweight.”

She tries to rearrange her face into a scowl. “I am
not
a lightweight!” she says, slapping my shoulder. But the flush in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, that suggests otherwise. I down my shot.
 

“You can certainly hold your alcohol,” Megan says, draining the last drops of her own drink. I give her a mock salute with my empty shot glass.
 

“Well, Emma,” she says, pushing back from the table, “since it appears Jai hasn’t slipped you any roofies or GHB, I think it’s safe for me to make my exit. Also, I think I see Michael Fassbender over there. I need to go make his acquaintance.” She gives Emma a peck on the cheek. “Text me later, okay?”

“I will,” Emma says. “Thanks.”

Now Megan looks at me. “It was nice to meet you. You better be good to my friend or I’m going to cut your dick off, okay? And that’s not a threat—it’s a promise.” She gives me a sweet-as-sugar smile and then is gone.
 

“She’s charming,” I say.
 

“She’s my best friend.” Emma watches as Megan disappears in the crowd, a fond expression on her face. “Plus, it’d be her fault if something bad happened, because she’s the one that signed me up for that dating site in the first place.”

“Now, is that really true? Why would she do that?”

“My ex and I broke up about six months ago and she thinks that it’s been long enough and I need to get back into the game. Which I’ve been a little slow about doing. And the batteries in my vibrator died.” Emma dissolves into giggles. “I’m sorry—I can’t believe I just said that. I think . . . I think maybe my next drink should be water. I had some wine before we came over to the hotel. You must think I’m awful.” The giggles keep coming, and she’s trying to stop them by pressing her lips together, but it’s not working.
 

“I don’t think you’re awful at all,” I say. And it’s true. She’s not. What I do think, though, is that I wish she was a little less wonderful, because she’s girlfriend material, not just some random hookup. This is not the type of girl you get with just for a booty call, but I wonder if it’s too late for that. I’d actually been thinking about that on the plane ride over here.
What if I had a girlfriend?
Nothing like an impending wedding to get you thinking about your own relationship status. Not if I
had
a girlfriend I’d actually bring her to this wedding, but I’ve never really had a serious relationship. A twenty-four-year-old guy is generally considered free to go about and fuck whomever he wants. None of my friends are married and only a (small) handful are in what could be described as committed relationships (and of this small group, at least two are having affairs). This is not to say I haven’t had relations with women. Oh there have been plenty, and I know there could be plenty more, but more and more lately, the thought that perhaps I should try to get a proper girlfriend has entered my mind. I’m not sure why that is. I’m getting older? Some biological urge? A desire for stability? For someone to come home to at night? I don’t know. And then I land in L.A. and it’s just all these blond plastic people who only give a shit about how they look and how much money you have and who you know. But now this girl, who is very un-L.A., in a very good way, but we’re just supposed to hook up and be done with it. Ah, the irony.
 

Emma’s still trying to get the giggles under control. “Thanks,” she says. “For not thinking I’m awful for talking about my vibrator.”

“I don’t believe there is a man alive on this planet that would think it would be awful to hear a beautiful woman talk about her vibrator. It’s rather a turn on, actually. Which I suppose, leads me to my next question: Now that your friend has left and you’ve established I’m not a complete psychopath, would you care to come back to my room?”
 

She presses her lips together, and I imagine what it would be like to kiss them, to take her bottom lip between my teeth, to bite down hard enough so she really feels it, but not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to suggest the pain that would inevitably come, were any more pressure to be exerted.
 

Those lips relax into a smile. “Yes,” she says. “I would like that very much.”
 

I feel as though I’m half walking, half floating back to Jai’s room. As we leave the bar, I realize people are looking at us—looking at him, really—because they think he’s a celebrity they just don’t recognize. He puts his hand on my lower back as we navigate our way through a crowd in the lobby. I can feel the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of my dress. As we’re standing, waiting for the elevator, he starts to move his index finger in slow circles, right above my tailbone.
 

“Someone had sex in here,” I say once we’re in the elevator.