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She also hated that I wanted to spend my time withcriminals. Sure, some of them were. But that didn’t mean they were bad people. Sometimes the bad people are the ones who go to church every Sunday, and the good ones were the ones covered in tattoos and reeked of cigarettes.
I pull up in front of my house and curse as I notice some lights still on. Our house was nice – two-story, spacious and to be honest, a bit fancy. We weren’t poor by any means. Our neighborhood was filled with luxury cars and large houses. The grey stone texture surrounded the whole of the house, with large windows surrounded in dark red wood. In the driveway, our cars were parked parallel to each other. I drove into a vacant spot in my vintage dusty blue Chevrolet.
Stepping out of the car, I resisted the urge to slam my door into the black shiny Aston Martin next to me. See the thing is, I may not be overly materialistic, but I did love our house, and the cars. And fuck what the world says – money does make life easier.
No, what pissed me off was the people inside.
I open the front door, not bothering to try to cover my noise. They already know I go out, and I really don’t care what they think of me. They already think I’m a disappointment, so why riskdisappointingtheir expectation of me?
“Looks like someone had too much fun tonight. Did he not own a brush he could have lent you?”
Sighing, I looked up on the stairs. There he is. The golden child of the house, and biggest pain in the ass to ever exist.
Asher Taylor.
My stepbrother from hell.
“Bite me, Asher,” I snap, exhaustion creeping in. It is too late to fight, and I am sadly out of fucks to give.
Footsteps move down the stairs, and I throw him an incredulous look. He smirks, not halting in his movements until he is a mere few feet away.
“What’s wrong, sis? Did you lose your panties again in another paddock?”
It happened once, and the asshole just loves to bring it up in conversation. In fact, it seems he has a damn photographic memory, or a hobby of collecting all the messed-up events in my life so that he can pull them out at inconvenient times.
“Thankfully, no. I am wearing my favorite pair so, that’s a blessing.”
Asher snorts, crossing his arms. His light brown hair is slightly messy and wet from an obvious recent shower. He’s dressed in a light black cotton shirt and grey sweats, his muscular arms out on display. My eyes involuntarily trail over the black and grey ink which covers the tops of his arms, down to his forearms. I remember him sneaking off on his 18thbirthday to start his work of art. Our parents were pissed but forgiving. I secretly thought it was hot and every time I have the thought, even to this day, I tell myself it would be less painful to stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork than to admit it out loud. Especially tohim.
He notices me watching and shifts his position to get my attention, which isn’t hard to do because as much as I hate to say it, he has a body like a God. So, sue me, I’m a female who likes muscly men. It’s not a crime to be attracted to hot guys, but it should be illegal when it’s your stepbrother. More times than I can count, I have questioned my sanity. It’s already been established I am a hot mess so what’s one more disaster to add to the list?
I lock eyes with him, his grey ones zoned in on my blue irises. Even being tall, I’m still no match for him as he looks down from his 6’3” frame.
“Rylee,” he draws out, and I instantly hate how much I like the way he says my name like that.
“What?” I breathe, my eyes on his lips as he steps forward, his tongue shooting out along his bottom lip.
We are inches apart, our gazes locked on each other. My heart races and even when I tell myself that I should push him away, I don’t. Because I hate the fact that despite how much I hate him, I don’t at all.
Most of the time.
Asher leans in, so close that I feel his breath on my face. I stand frozen, panicking until a smirk slowly tugs at his lips.
“Charlotte stayed up to talk to you. She wanted to see you the moment you got home.”
Reality hits me hard and I quickly shove him back as he laughs.
“I’ve been home for several minutes, asshat.”
He laughs as he turns and starts climbing the stairs. “I know,” he says, “but where’s the fun in that?”
I enter the kitchen, almost surprised to see my mom up this late, sitting at the table with her Kindle and a cup of green tea.
“Mom,” I acknowledge, walking past her to the double doored fridge. I retrieve a can of soda and turn to her. “You’re up late.”
Charlotte Taylor is my carbon copy, even down to the scolding looks we can produce. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun and her ice blue eyes pierce me with concern.
“Rylee, do you have any idea what time it is? And on a weekday.”
