"Oliver."
"Huh?" I blink, realizing I've been staring at her.
"Were you just trying to impress me by how gross your regular drinking spot was or are we actually going to drink something?"
Damn. And see, there's that, too. She's got a bit of sass to her that's stirring things in me a girl like this really ought not to be stirring.
Okay, I get it; it's weird. Our parents are getting married soon, which sort of casts a bit of a pallor on any sort of wayward thoughts I might otherwise have for a girl who looks like this. But whatever, I'm a guy, she's a hot girl, and it's not like we're actually related or anything.
Right then, keep rationalizing the fact that you're fantasizing about fucking your stepsister, perv.
I grin, rather forcing myself back into the moment and back into my role as captain knob-head, "Oh, definitely the first. Chicks get all sorts of wet when I show them how rebel my pub is."
She wrinkles her nose. "Oliver, if you honestly believe a single girl has ever been turned on in a place like this, you might want to start worrying about what else they've probably told you that you've believed," she says with a sly arch of her brow.
My grin widens as I chuckle and hold up two fingers to the surly looking barkeep; there's no point naming anything, it's not like this place gives you the luxury of choice when it comes to a shitty pint.
He turns to grab two foggy glasses from the back shelf, and I lean down towards Chloe, "Luv, they don't have to tell me anything," I husk into her ear, loving the way she stiffens even as she tries to put up this smooth criminal look she's trying to work with.
"It's usually the gasping moans, the fingernails on my back, and the screaming of my name that does the tipping off."
I can see her cheeks glowing bright pink and the slightest beat of her pulse right below the skin in the curve of her neck. For a second, I think I may have just outplayed my hand and pushed it too far, until she seems to catch herself with a roll of her eyes just as the bartender comes back with the beers.
"Dude, does this work for you?"
"Hmm?" I say, grabbing the shit beers from the sour bartender.
"This whole misogynistic crude douchebag thing," she shrugs, "I'm just curious if that ever works for you."
"Like a charm, luv," I say, sighing dramatically, "Like a fuckin' charm."
She laughs and takes the beer from my hand as we move to a corner somehow even darker than the rest of the windowless, poorly lit cave we're in.
"Well, luckily I'm immune to your dark powers then."
"Oh, you think so, huh?"
"Oh I know so," she says, grinning at me. "Besides," she says quickly, "I think it just comes standard with being your stepsister and all."
I arch a brow as she quickly looks away and sips her beer. That last bit, about being my stepsister, came out way too fast, and with way too much force; like she was throwing up a last-ditch effort defense.
"Not yet, you're not."
"Hmm?" She turns back, throwing a quick sour look at the beer she's just sipped.
"I said ‘not yet' you're not. My stepsister, that is."
Her eyes meet mine for a quarter second; a lingering quarter second where her gaze narrows as if trying to peer into me a little more before the moment breaks and we both look down into our beers.
"Listen," I say, switching gears, "About tonight."
She's instantly changing speeds too, her eye's darting back up to mine and narrowing a little, "What?"
"You need to leave what happens in the kitchen in the kitchen, darlin." I take a slug of the awful beer in my pint, my eyes not leaving hers. "Grow a pair, you know?"
She rolls her eyes, and I can tell she's about to say something back so I cut her off, "Look, you wanted to work in that environment, so I'm telling you, you better toughen up."
She shoots me a look, "I'm plenty tough, you're just being a dick cause I wouldn't fuck you five years ago."
I'm not sure which of us is more surprised that she actually says it, but her eyes suddenly go wide with surprise, her hand coming up to her mouth as if she wasn't supposed to let it out.
I just laugh, meanwhile. "Oh is that what you think, sis?"
She wrinkles her nose, "Ew, don't call me that, like, ever. Way too close to home."
"Well I suppose it's a good thing we didn't fuck then, huh?" I grin as she rolls her eyes, that adorable flush coming back to her cheeks, "I mean, even though you totally wanted it."
She barks out a laugh, "Please!"
"Hey, a little courtesy and some manners like that might've gone a long way back then, luv."
She shoots me a look. "Oh my God, you wish. I believe it was me that told you to keep your hands off of me."
I shrug, "Seemed to me you were begging for it."
"Unlikely."
"Mouth open, panties soaked, gaga for me."
Chloe slams her beer down, and it's only then that I realize I've probably just crossed a line.
"You're disgusting, I'm going home."
"Was that an invitation?"
I've certainly been slapped before, but for some reason, the one I get from Chloe is especially unexpected. And then I'm sitting there alone with a crap beer in my hand, a lack of witty comeback on my lips, and an old geezer in the corner laughing at me.
I'm shrugging my pajamas off while I wait for the shower to heat up when the pounding on the bathroom door has me whirling and frowning at the sound, "What?"
"Oy! Let's hurry it up in there, sweetheart!"
Oliver. Jesus he's infuriating. And disgusting. And I'm exhausted at this hour in the morning.
Why am I exhausted? Well, because that dickhead spent half the previous night watching porn in his room once he got home. With the sound on.
Loud.
I mean honestly, I thought the British were supposed to be classy. That's the word that I kept hearing when people heard I was moving to London, at least.
"Think of all the classy guys you'll meet!" Sarah had said when we were getting drinks a week before I left, "Oh my God, like, guys with actual culture and sophistication!"
Yeah, right. I can say first hand that there isn't anything remotely classy about any of the things I tried to muffle out with my pillow last night.
I frown at my bleary eyes and the bags beneath them in the mirror. Seriously, a repeat performance like that again tonight and I'm on the next flight back home.
His fist pounds on the bathroom door again, "C'mon! You need some help in there or what?"
"Fuck off!" I yell, testing the water with my hand real quick before I sit on the toilet to pee.
"Clock's ticking, princess, and I know you don't want to be late."
I grit my teeth as I tear off a piece of toilet paper. "I'm showering, Oliver! Fuck o-"
I screech, jerking my knees up to my chest and flinching as the door bursts in and Oliver himself just comes waltzing through. He takes one look at me and just starts to laugh.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" I scream, jumping up from the toilet and yanking a towel from the rack around myself. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Oliver's just grinning at me with that cheeky, smug smile of his, his eyes openly sliding up and down my towel-clad body. "You were taking too long, and some of us take punctuality seriously," he shrugs, his eyes lingering on the short edge of the towel across my bare thighs; "That's what I'm doing."
I hastily turn towards the bathroom window, away from him as I hug the towel tighter around myself and I can hear him sigh dramatically behind me, "Jesus, have you even used the shower yet?"
"Well I was about to," I huff, gritting my teeth with my back to him. "But I'm sure not going to use it right now."
"Oh, good, so you won't mind if I cut the line."
"What? No! You-!" I whirl around, but then I'm suddenly tripping right over my tongue and my words at the sight of a very perfect, very muscular, and very naked butt.
Oliver's butt.
I quickly look away, but not before the image of his muscled and tattooed back and that hint of something I know I saw between his legs is forever etched onto my brain.
And I'm not altogether upset by that.
I hear the sound of the glass shower door opening and then shutting.
"You did not just steal my shower. Are you serious right now?"
"Serious as a heart attack, luv," he calls out.
I turn back to glare at him, but then very quickly realize that there isn't anything remotely frosted or fogged about the stall door, and I'm now looking quite directly at a completely naked Oliver in the shower stall.
It's a solid three seconds before I realize I'm staring at the shape of his body behind the glass. I blush as I catch my eyes dipping lower, trying to catch a glimpse of what I most certainly should not be trying to "catch a glimpse of."