Right Kind of Wrong(6)

“Because unlike the three of you,” I say, dropping my purse down on the coffee table and flicking a hand in their direction, “I wasn’t raised by an overprotective daddy who put the fear of God in me about stepping foot outside without a man to protect me. I was raised by Sherry Lacombe and I can take care of myself.”

I love my uncle Noah, but holy hell, he sure raised a skittish pack of scaredy-cats. I used to be jealous of my cousins, having a daddy around their whole lives who looked out for them and endlessly doted on them, but looking at their dreadfully concerned faces now I’m grateful I dodged that bullet.

There’s nothing more dangerous than being afraid of everything.

“You should just fly, Jenna,” Callie says. “With us. Then we’ll get to Grams faster and at the same time.”

Becca nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Alyssa echoes as the three of them close in on me again with their pouty lips and pleading eyes.

“And waste all my hard-earned money?” I snort. “Uh-uh. I’m driving—by myself—and that’s final. So chill, all of you. And step back too.” I push through them, again, and head for the kitchen. “God, you’re like a bunch of needy hens. Peck, peck, peck. I pity the men you three end up with.”

They follow me into the kitchen. Shocking.

It’s times like these I wish ASU would let students live on campus over the summer. But noooo. I had to move my ass out of the cozy dorm I shared with Pixie and shack up with my three cousins, all of whom are in silent competition for the world’s most girly girl ever.

Alyssa’s dressed to the nines, as per usual, even though I’m almost certain she didn’t leave the apartment today. Her hair is all done up, her makeup is far too dark and drastic for anything less than a Vegas outing, and her sparkly five-inch heels match the chandelier earrings flanking her high cheekbones. A typical Tuesday getup for my cuz.

Becca’s no better, with her sleeked-back hair beneath a pink headband, and her button nose between her pink cheeks, and her very pink toenails. She’s adorable in that sexy kind of way, which both perplexes and impresses me.

And Callie… well, Callie is hell on heels with boobs that would make a swimsuit model jealous and clothes so tight I’m surprised she doesn’t need a scuba tank to breathe.

They’re ridiculous, all of them, and it’s hard to believe we’re related. With my endless tattoos and piercings, and my tendency to dress like a punk rocker, I look like Amy Lee and Lara Croft had a half-Creole baby and gave her too much eyeliner for her birthday.

Needless to say, I look out of place among my cousins. But despite my best efforts, I inherited the Lacombe genes with our high cheekbones and small frames, and I have a tendency to wear a lot of jewelry—earrings dot my ears and I have at least one ring on each of my fingers—so I can’t help but look somewhat girly.

“So what are you going to do, then?” Becca asks, hand on hip, jutted chin. “Just, like, pack a bag and drive, with just the GPS on your phone to guide you and your Charger through three states?”

My red Dodge Charger is my pride and joy. It’s also half of my paycheck every month, but whatever. I love it.

“Yes,” I say.

“That’s insane!” She throws the hip hand up. “What if you get lost?”

“What if you get robbed?” Callie says.

“What if you get eaten?” Alyssa adds in a low voice laced with honest-to-God seriousness. She whispers, “I don’t want anyone to eat you.”

I stare at them. It’s like living with Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and Tweedle-doom.

“Yeah.” I turn to the freezer and pull out a carton of ice cream. “That would be a bummer. But look at the bright side. If I get eaten, you three can pillage my wardrobe and keep whatever you want.” I grin.

Callie scoffs. “Like there’s anything in there we would want. Ripped jeans and leather tube tops? No thank you.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Your big ass wouldn’t fit into my stuff anyway.”

“You’re just jealous of this delicious booty.” She waves her hand at her plump rear.

“I have plenty of my own booty to go around.” I take a bite of ice cream.

Alyssa, who’s clearly still hung up on the possibility that someone on the highway wants to eat me, puckers her lips and says, “I still don’t like the idea of you driving back home by yourself.”

I smile. “Blame Grandma. Woman keeps ‘dying’ on us at the most inconvenient times.”

Becca snorts. “That’s the truth. You think she’s really sick this time?”