Even though she’s wearing a coat, the same one from the other night, I can still catch the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The flash of heat in her glare. The subtle, almost imperceptible sway of her body toward mine.
“What do you want?” she asks, and yeah, it’s through clenched teeth, but fortunately, I’m fluent in You’re Irritating the Hell Out of Me.
“To talk. That’s all,” I tack on as a reminder to myself. And my dick, which is trying to drill a hole through my zipper.
“What about?”
I cock my head to the side. “Really, Ro, I mean,Cypress?” I drawl. “Is that how you want to play this?”
She sighs, tipping her head back and muttering something under her breath. It sounds like “fuck my life,” and I agree with the sentiment 100 percent.
“Fine. We talk, and then you go.” She pauses, as if waiting for my agreement, but I’m not saying a thing. Because by the end of our conversation, I fully expect her to be the one going. As in, out of this shithole.
Still, she must accept my silence as acquiescence because she hits her key fob, engaging the alarm on her car. Well, thank God for that, at least. Although, some of the guys I grew up with wouldn’t let a little thing like an alarm prohibit them from stealing this vehicle. Not with what the parts would bring them in a chop shop.
My mood darkens once more, and by the time she unlocks the motel room door and closes it behind us, my irritation has hit mercurial. Especially when I scan the interior, taking in the water-spotted wallpaper that was probably slapped up when this place was built, the rickety table and chairs, a bed that looks like it’s seen a lot of bouncing from the sagging middle, and a rug with stains I don’t want to begin to analyze. The bathroom must be a goddamn crime scene.
“First. What are you doing in this pit?” Myfearfor her safety edges my tone with razors, but dammit, the flimsy lock on that door wouldn’t keep out a toddler, much less someone intent on breaking in to…
I squeeze my eyes closed, clenching my fingers so tight, an ache blooms across my knuckles. I can’t go there in my mind, what some depraved asshole would do to her in the middle of the night. Her screams wouldn’t mean a thing here. Wouldn’t incite someone to call 911 on her behalf. Damn sure wouldn’t make a bystander get involved enough to save her.
“I thought you had an apartment,” I try again, calmer…on the outside.
She slowly removes her coat and drops it on the bed. Though I’m seething, I’m no eunuch. The dress covers more skin than it reveals, but the way the soft-looking material skims and clings to her breasts, hips, and legs, she should be the centerfold in aPlayboymagazine. It’s refined. It’s sophisticated.
It’s a mind-fuck.
Needing a distraction from the siren’s call of her body, I stalk the few feet to the window and yank back the heavy curtain. Satisfied both of our cars are still there—and that the raggedy fragments of my control remain intact—I turn back to her.
Arms crossed over her chest, she studies me, her full lips firmed into a flat line. Well, as flat as those full lips can get. At some point, I might manage to look at that mouth without feeling it sliding down my dick. Right now is not that point.
“I did have an apartment,” she states. “But my roommate decided she couldn’t live without her ex, so three’s a crowd. Which meant I had to go.”
“Are you serious? She just kicked you out? How could she do that if you’re on the lease?”
“I found her through a Craigslist ad. She let me move in right away, so I didn’t quibble about not being on the lease.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Wait, wait.” I hold up a hand, confused. “Beggars can’t be choosers? You make it sound like you came here with just the clothes on your back and didn’t have much choice. Or money. Dan said you had this great job back in California, which means great pay. Am I wrong?”
She glances away, and a muscle tics along her jaw. The silence between us stretches. What is she doing? Deciding whether or not to lie? Parceling out what to tell me? The urge to charge forward, grasp her shoulders, and demand she let me in rises swift and hard. It shouldn’t matter if she’s honest with me—not if she’s just a one-night-stand-turned-stepsister.
But I’m not operating on logic now. Not when she’s standing in the middle of a red-light-district motel room with God-knows-what happening in the other units. And not when she has that protective streak that has gotten me trapped in so much shit screaming like a warning siren.
“No, you’re not wrong. I did earn good money as a financial manager. But I also made the mistake thousands of people do, which is spending it as soon as it comes in. Not to mention, I still helped sup—” She breaks off, and I swallow back the order to finish the sentence. I don’t have that right, and don’t want it either. At least, that’s what I tell myself. “Anyway, my admittedly small savings and last paycheck went fast after I returned home. And when faced with homelessness and hunger, you take whatever place opens up first and whatever job is available.”
As if embarrassed that she revealed even that little bit to me, she picks up her coat from the bed, spins on her heel, and marches to the tiny closet at the back of the room. She gives more attention than necessary to hanging it up, and I don’t have to know her well to recognize the stalling tactic for what it is.
If she guessed how much that flash of vulnerability has my limbs tingling with the need to wrap around her, to shield and protect her, she might lock herself in the bathroom. Cypress strikes me as the kind of person who accepts sympathy or hugs as well as Superman embraces kryptonite.
“None of that explains why you’re here, sweetheart,” I murmur. She turns, her gaze jacking up to meet mine. Surprise, caution, and a flicker of something dark—they flash one by one through her eyes. My hand itches to cup my dick at that last emotion. An emotion that has no place between stepsiblings. “Your mother lives here. You have sisters.” Dan’s daughters that I didn’t know existed. “Why aren’t you staying with either of them?”
Her chin hikes up as she strides back toward me. This woman has no shortage in the pride department.
“Because Dara shares a home with her mother, and while my sister and I are close, her mother can’t stand the sight of me. She already has one reminder of Dan; two is too much. And Jesse lives with her controlling asshat of a boyfriend who hates anyone he’s forced to share her attention with. Even if they allowed me to move in, the probability of one of us ending up on the six o’clock news is too high. It’s best for all those involved to avoid a potential homicide.” She holds up a third finger, ticking off the list. “And staying with my mother isn’t even an option. So shithole motel it is.”
“I’m sure Dan and Mom would—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” she snaps. “That’s even less of an option.”
