My point is just: Xander has always taken the hit for me, and I heard enough second-hand stories from classmates to know that he did the same for them, too. If he’s caught up in something dark, it’s because he had no choice, and if he had no choice, it’s because I drove him away from home— even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

  It’s my fault. So I’ve got to at least try to fix it, right?

  Xander

  “Pardon the interruption. Let’s get back to it,” I say, nodding my head at the guys seated around the table. The room is dim, with atmospheric Moroccan lights and hand-carved woodwork. It’s small, but the guys like it this way— I think it makes them feel like they’re getting away with something. Or maybe they’ve just watched too many movies.

  “Family emergency?” one of the guys asks, eyes flicking up toward me. This guy— I call him Norton, which is his last name, but we typically go by last names here— is a few shades too tan. What is it about having money that makes people stay in the tanning booth for five minutes too long? Do they get distracted in there, thinking about the next yacht they’ll buy or something?

  “It was nothing,” I say.

  Another one of the guys, a film producer in a dress shirt that, despite being untucked and rumpled, has clearly been tailored exactly to his body, speaks. “I didn’t even know your phone accepted calls from anyone who isn’t sitting here,” he jokes, motioning to the others.

  “Let’s just get back to the game already,” a brusque voice interrupts. It’s Finney, who has a thick accent and to whom, frankly, I regret ever extending an invitation. Sort of. He’s brought me most of the big fish at the table, but he’s old, old money that I strongly suspect has some not-so-friendly ties, no matter how “clean” he professes to be now. Finney adds, “Deal already. Some of us have places to be.”

  “Alright, same as always, gentlemen: the game is Texas Hold ‘Em, blinds are one hundred/two hundred. Minimum buy-in is fifty thousand dollars. Your dealer this evening is, once again, my dear friend Roderigo, and your bartenders this evening are Eva, Mirabella, and Madison.” I motion toward the bar at this point. Three bartenders for a crowd of eight may seem like overkill, but the ladies are here as much for their looks as they are for their skill behind the bar. “Can I answer any questions before we begin?”

  Heads shake casually; the eyes of the eight men are on the felt tabletop or Roderigo’s hands, which now hover right above it. He’s holding a deck of cards which have already been shuffled in a very expensive Shufflemaster that I shelled out for two years ago, when the game got so big that I needed to make it look more professional, rather than just more expensive.

  It’s not really a professional game, though. These aren’t pro poker players. They’re actors, millionaires, athletes, and trust fund babies. They play poker and bet money because losing a few hundred thousand dollars makes them feel alive, and because taking another rich guy’s money is like winning the world’s most expensive dick-measuring contest. Making them feel like pros instead of rich assholes is as much a part of my game as thousand dollar bottles of champagne and a referral-only invite system.

  And it is, without a doubt, my game. I don’t play poker; I play the poker players.

  Roderigo begins dealing, which means it’s my cue to step back. I oversee the game, the payouts, the buy in, the books, but during actual play I’m little more than a ghost. I don’t let my mind wander, though— I watch each and every hand, so there can be no debate over how it went down later.

  Well. Usually I don’t let my mind wander. But tonight, all I can think about is Josie.

  I don’t like the idea of her thinking the deposit was hush money, but…if I’m being honest? Maybe it was, sort of. Hush money— apology money. Money that came with a plea for her to forgive and forget what almost happened between us— and all the things that did happen. Why the hell did I think it would work? Would a few thousand dollars make me forget about that night? About the way my fingers felt on her breasts. Between her legs, against her clit. About that moment when I was sure, so sure I was about to slide myself inside of her—

  “Fold,” one of the players— Kaufman, one of the newer guys— says, and I jolt back into the moment. It looks like Finney is winning the hand, and I smile politely, pretending like I saw the entire exchange. Roderigo collects the cards and begins the second hand; Eva sweeps out to refresh one of player’s drinks. He tips her with a thousand-dollar chip. It seems way too generous, but I know he’s just showing off— making the others aware of how little a thousand dollars means to him, that he can throw it away on a pretty cocktail waitress. Eva thanks him, but doesn’t overreact, which is one of the reasons she’s been working these games with me for months, now. Well, that and the fact that she looks great in that little black dress.

  I wonder how Josie would look in that number?

  Ugh, and just like that, she’s back in my head; her pretty eyes, the way she looked up at me from my bed, the way she spread her legs for me, seemingly as eager for this to happen as I was.

  This is a nightmare. It doesn’t matter if she wants it as bad as I do. What would be the point? We couldn’t have a relationship, after all, and on the scale of awful, socially unacceptable ideas, having your stepsister as a fuck buddy seems at least one step more terrible than having her for a girlfriend.

  So it’s good that she’s mad at me. Maybe she’ll be mad enough to never speak to me again.

  That’d be for the best. Besides, I’ve gone three years without speaking to her. Surely I can go at least another three hours without cracking.

  The hand ends, and a player who made his millions on the basketball court takes the pot. I blink in surprise, then offer another polite smile.

  I can’t even make it three hands of poker without thinking about Josie.

  What the hell have I done?

  Josie

  Standing outside of Xander’s apartment door, I fidget with the check in my hand, folding and unfolding it until the crease feels dangerously close to giving way. It’s early— well, before lunch, anyhow. I picked this time because I assume he was out late last night, and thus he’s almost certainly still in bed— and thus, still home. Unless he never even came home?

  The door swings open.

  The check flutters from my fingertips.

  “Josie,” he says— or perhaps he just mouths my name? I can’t tell, taken as I am by the sight of him. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing more than pajama pants and an annoyed expression that melts to something else entirely as he mouths my name.

  “Xander,” I say, trying to sound formal, or in the very least, like I’m not having to force my eyes away from his six-pack abs. I always thought Xander was hot, but now that he’s a man, not a boy, he’s meltingly so.

  “Josie,” he says— this time I know he says my name aloud, because there’s an edge to it.

  “I brought a check,” I say, looking down to where the piece of paper has fluttered to the floor.

  Xander looks at the paper, the front splayed up at him, like he can’t quite believe it’s real. “You could have mailed it,” he says.

  “I know. But I wanted to talk to you,” I say, then glance back and forth down the hall. “Can I come in? It’s sort of serious.”

  Xander’s face goes almost ashen, but his cheekbones don’t quite support that expression; instead he just looks twice as broody as normal.

  “Not about…that,” I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. Xander looks doubtful, but steps aside, giving me twice as much room as I need to step through the doorway, like he’s worried about getting too close to me.

  I brush past him; he retrieves the check from the ground and holds it like the paper’s texture disgusts him. When I hear the door shut behind me, I turn to face him.

  I planned to immediately come out with the question— what kind of shit are you caught up in?— but I have to give myself at least one moment to appreciate how good Xander looks. In the doorway, his muscles, his skin, his shadowed chin were all lit by hallway lights. Last time I saw him, it was the glow of the ultra-modern chandeliers that hang in his apartment. But now? It’s bright and sunny, and light is streaming through the curtains. It bounces off of him like he’s carved from stone, and it’s wild to consider the fact that this is the same sullen boy I crushed on as a high schooler.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to pry, okay? And I know things were sort of…I don’t know, weird, last time we saw each other, and I’m still pretty mad about that but…I’m worried about you, okay?” I begin, stumbling over the words.

  Xander’s eyebrows shoot up. “Worried about me.”

  “Yes. I don’t know what’s happened in the last three years, Xander, but it’s pretty suspect that you can afford to drop a few grand into my bank account and have a freaking amazing apartment and be out late at night in bars working.”

  “Okay,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

  It annoys me; that smirk. As if I’m still that same goofy kid stepsister, and he’s still laughing to himself about my innocence and general cluelessness.

  “So what is it? Are you like…a drug dealer or something?”

  “You think I’m a drug dealer?”

  “You tell me,” I say, folding my arms. Xander’s eyes drop to my chest and linger on the resulting cleavage.

  Finally, he glances away. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not the one who got mugged my first night in town.”

  Ouch. That one stung. I feel my eyes sting a little. “I guess I must be an idiot for trying to care about you,” I mutter.

  Then I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm. Not too rough, but just his touch makes me freeze. Makes me realize how fucking bad I still want him. “Wait a second,” he says.

  When he speaks again, his voice is gentler than I expect, though he’s clearly working hard to keep it that way. “I can’t tell you about my job. But I can tell you that it’s nothing you that it’s not drugs or anything crazy like that…” he lets go of my arm.

  “Then why can’t you tell me?” I say, wishing he’d just touch me again. Touch me like the last time we saw each other.

  Xander licks his lips and rubs the back of his neck. It makes each and every muscle along his arms stand out, and I feel my stomach clench at the want for him. “Because I don’t know you that well, Josie.”

  I bite my lip. “And you don’t want to know me any better, so I guess…I’ll never know what you do for a living?”

  My attempt to disguise this as another question about his line of work is almost comically transparent.

  “It’s not that,” he mutters, and takes a few steps forward, down the two steps that lead to the sitting area.

  “Okay, but…” I begin, searching for the words, wondering if I can get them out before the hot ball of tears in my throat overpowers me. “Tell me this, at least— did you stop things between us because you suddenly realized I’m not as good looking as you or something? That I’m not on your level? Or is it really because our stupid parents happened to get married to one another?”

  Xander stares. “That’s what you seriously think,” he says.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I admit with a shrug. My eyes are starting to burn, and I can’t help but wonder if I really came here because I was worried about Xander, or if I just wanted to see his face when he answered my questions.

  “I’m older,” he says cautiously. “I’m supposed to protect you. I’m not supposed to be your first sexual partner.”

  “Says who?”

  “Probably the state of New York,” he answers. “Why is this so important to you?” he adds, almost sounding concerned.

  I can’t answer that— because for starters, I’m not entirely sure I know the answer. Perhaps it’s because, up until this week, Xander was as unattainable as any movie star. And now that I know there’s a chance, I can’t merely walk away. Or perhaps it’s because I’m angry. I’m angry that our parents brought us together, then got married, tainting any chance of a relationship.

  Or maybe it’s nothing more than red hot lust.

  Finally, I just blurt out the truth. “Because I’ve never even considered losing my virginity to some other guy, because I always just…I don’t know. I wanted you,” I say, words muddled in embarrassment and hurt. I stare at my hands.

  Xander breathes in slow, heavy breaths for a long, long time— so long that I finally look up at him.

  He swallows. “Josie,” he says, closing his eyes, shaking his head, and I prepare myself for another round of rejection. But instead, eyes still shut, he says, “take your shirt off.”

  END OF PART ONE

  Part Two is coming soon, so stay tuned…

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  Harper James, Dirty Stepbrother [Part One]

 

 

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