Our spell broke when the door slammed behind her. I swung around to glare at my friends before either of them could say a word. Logan took the hint and quickly got back to work frying our ham steaks, although his face was brick red. Fox's shit-eating grin didn't even budge. “Wow, Nixon, you've really got … ” he began.
“You sure you want to finish that sentence?” I snapped.
His mouth shut so fast I heard his teeth click together. Good, I thought, the kid can learn.
My mind was a jumbled mess of horniness and anger. I was still replaying that brief glimpse of Avery's body, over and over, hardly able to believe how sexy and perfect she was. I'd never be able to forget a single detail. As soon as I was alone, I would probably end up jerking off to that image until my dick was too sore to keep going. But I wasn't the only man here who'd seen her luscious curves. I wasn't the only man who knew what Avery looked like naked—the exact color of her rosy nipples and every inch of her creamy skin, the mole just above her right butt-cheek, the faint tan lines around her breasts and crotch from the bikini I'd seen her in yesterday. And I fucking hated it.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this pissed. Even though Fox and Logan were two of my closest buddies, I felt like I was about five seconds away from beating them until they sustained just enough brain damage to erase what they’d just seen. Some distant voice of reason in my head whispered dude, calm the fuck down, this is some serious overkill. But I could barely hear it over the rush of blood in my ears.
I quickly washed my hands and tossed an omelet spatula at Fox. “I'll be right back. Don't let the eggs burn,” I called back as I headed to the guest bedroom. Looks like me and my dear stepsister need to have a little chat.
Chapter 8
Avery
When I woke up, the thin light glowing through my blinds was still an anemic lavender. I squinted at my alarm clock, bleary-eyed, and groaned when I saw that it was just after five-thirty. That time shouldn't even be allowed to exist on a Saturday morning. I rolled over to go back to sleep, intent on at least three more hours.
But my subconscious had already spun into action. I couldn't stop thinking about Nixon's crazy proposal from last night. My body hadn't betrayed me like that since … well, possibly ever, but definitely since I was in high school. I still felt almost drunk, like a teenager swooning over fantasies of her first kiss. Ugh.
After trying to shut down my brain for about ten minutes, I gave up and got out of bed. This annoying wakefulness clearly wasn't going away. Maybe a nice hot shower would help somehow—calm me down, let me figure out this mess, or both. I could always take an afternoon nap if I crashed later. Still in my pajamas, I peeked into the hall and saw that Nixon's bedroom door was shut. He must still be asleep … like a sane person. I stripped and scooted into the bathroom.
The blast of hot water soothed me almost instantly. As I lathered up my hair, I tried to come up with a game plan for today. Nixon couldn't keep bringing up his plan anymore, I knew that much—but how to address him? Best to keep it professional, I thought. All business. Let him know I'm not one for shenanigans.
I shut off the faucet, wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, and started combing out my hair. That shower really had done me some good after all. I felt loose, refreshed, and ready to take on the world—or at least a super awkward conversation. I looked around for a towel and found nothing. Crap. In mutiny against Nixon's “no girly shit” rule, I had hung my hot pink shampoo caddy from the shower head and had been too distracted by my thoughts to even check for towels before I’d jumped in the shower. I chewed my lip, considering options. Well … it's still, like, six A.M. on a Saturday, right? He probably isn't up yet. Sneaking back to my bedroom wouldn't be a big deal.
I tiptoed naked into the hall…
Big. Freaking. Mistake.
Nixon stood in the kitchen. With two strange men. And all of them stared at me.
Screeching in horror, I ran for my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I had to cover up. I hurried to put on my bathrobe, hands shaking with shock and embarrassment. My heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear, but there was definitely a conversation going on in the other room. Were they laughing at me? Who the fuck were those other guys? Would a single thing ever work in my favor while I was living here, or should I just give up hope now?
The door flew open again and I startled back. Nixon stormed in after me, scowling. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.
My face was on fire. I felt like a deer in the headlights. “Don’t you ever knock?” I squeaked.
“I asked you a question.”