Page 35 of The Accident

I can hear her voice from the bedroom, sing-song and feral: “Kayleigh! Lace or latex? Mesh or see-through? Thigh-highs or commando? Ooooh, I bet he likes commando!”

I want to protest, but instead I laugh, a long, wild sound that bubbles up from somewhere I thought was dead.

This is insane. I’m insane.

But tonight, I think I might just let myself be.

And if that means walking into my stepbrother’s apartment with nothing but lip gloss and a borrowed dress, then so be it.

The ghosts in the apartment can judge me later.

13

MEETING MY SASSY STEPSISTER AGAIN

Trevor

The city looks its best at night. In the daylight, Minneapolis is nothing but cement and ice, glass reflecting glass, a million people pretending not to stare. But up here, after dark, the view from the penthouse is a revelation—a slow pulse of headlights on Hennepin, the flares from the stadium, a spiderweb of red taillights in every direction. It’s all very pretty and all very irrelevant. But I’m not watching the city. I’m watching my own reflection in the window: blue eyes, pale under the uneven light, and a jawline that looks harsh and set, especially after two fingers of Laphroaig.

The glass is cold in my hand. I roll it between my palms, scotch swirling, the ice melting fast in the climate-controlled room. My shirt is half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to my forearms, collar open to show a sliver of the tattoos that climb up my left arm. My hair’s a little messier than usual, but I don’t bother with it. I have other things to think about, chief among them the fact that I’ve jerked off twice this afternoon to pictures of my stepsister.

Yeah, I did that.

And now, I want more.

The images continue to haunt me. I can see them, even now, reflected in the double-paned glass:

Kayleigh, on her bed, the light honey-soft on her skin, her tits perfect and round, nipples the color of new strawberries, hair like liquid gold. The next shot: her fingers spreading herself wide, pink pussy glossy and a little swollen, slick enough to catch the flash. In the last one—the one I keep replaying like a slow-motion car wreck—she’s on her side in front of the full-length mirror, one knee drawn up, the soft round curve of her ass framed perfectly in the glass. She’s looking straight at the camera with a naughty sparkle in those big blue eyes, lower lip caught between her teeth, while her free hand parts her ass cheeks just enough to show off the pale, innocent ring of her anus. It’s beautiful and obscene in equal measure, and I’ve already left two loads on the floor of my shower thinking about it.

Fuck, I’m so screwed. I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes. 7:32. She said she’d be here at eight, but I know Kayleigh well enough to expect her early. She’ll sit in the garage, run her lines, maybe give herself a little pep talk. She’s never on time, but she’s never late, either. Always a few minutes shy of the moment. I like that about her. If I have to wait for a late woman one more time, I might just kick her to the curb for the hell of it.

Now, the glass is almost empty. I set it down and pour another, the bottle neck clinking against the rim. I don’t bother to cap it. The sound echoes through the quiet, and for a second I’m aware of how alone I am—how the penthouse, with all its luxury and space, is nothing but a mausoleum for one. Funny, I’ve never thought of it that way before. Sure, it was silent and still, but I value my peace. Now, when I think of the blonde girl about to arrive, this place seems empty without her. I need her mess. Her sass, and her shyness. Kayleigh brings something that I didn’t realize I was missing.

Damn, I said I was losing it, and obviously, I was right.

Then I hear it: the telltale ding of the elevator, the soft, eager shuffle of feet outside the door. My heart leaps into my throat even as I try to quell my excitement. I smile and kill the scotch in one mouthful, letting the burn scrub my throat clean.

When she knocks, I take my time opening the door. Let her sweat for a second. Let her wonder if maybe I’m not going to answer at all, if maybe she should just turn around and flee. But she doesn’t. Kayleigh is nothing if not stubborn.

I pull the door open.

My innocent stepsister stands there, a vision in white and blonde and panic. The dress is a white bandage mini that looks poured onto her, the neckline a steep, lascivious V that divides her cleavage all the way to the solar plexus. It’s not a dress so much as a suggestion. Her skin glows against the fabric, especially the inside of her thighs, which are bare and golden. She’s gone braless, obviously, and unless I miss my guess, she’s ditched the panties too—there’s no seam, no ridge, nothing but the faintest shadow of the dress clinging to the delta between her legs. Her heels are tall, and dizzyingly steep, with thin white straps that wrap around her ankles like a lover’s hands. Holy shit, what a pair of fuck me shoes.

But there’s something innocent about her too. Kayleigh’s hair is done in loose, soft waves, tumbling over her bare shoulders, and her makeup is heavier than usual: smoky eyes, high color on her cheeks, lips lacquered a hyper-gloss pink. She’s gone for maximum impact and, because of the playacting, she doesn’t look anything like herself. Or maybe she looks more like herself than ever before. It’s hard to say, but I happen to adore the tramp look, so it works.

For a moment, she just stands there, arms at her sides, hands clutching a small white purse. Her chin is down, but her gaze is up, blue and wary.

I feel my cock stir in my pants. It’s instant, primal, a chemical reaction as old as the species.

“Hi,” she says, voice barely audible.

I don’t smile. I step aside, let her enter. The perfume hits me a second after she does—something vanilla, with an undercurrent of sharp citrus, maybe lemon or grapefruit. Oh shit. My cock twitches again.

She steps into the penthouse, each heel click a little too loud in the silence. The city lights turn her hair platinum and paint her bare arms with shifting lines of white and neon. She hesitates in the entry, uncertain what to do with herself.

I close the door and lock it behind us.

“You’re early,” I say, not a question.