Tool(50)

I close my eyes, faking sleep. How the hell did I get myself into this situation?

And why can't I stop thinking about what Gaige said?





It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks in Japan -- I don't even know where the hell we've been, to be honest. The first week I was too jet-lagged to notice much of anything, and content to just be told where to go and what to do. Photo shoots, interviews, appearances, one right after the other. I shot some television commercials, but I don't even know what the products were. Cologne, I think – nothing bike-related. And an ad for one of those little canned coffee drinks. It's all a blur.

And in the middle of that blur is Delaney. Always Delaney. I'm still hooking up with her, sneaking into her hotel room at night after Chelsea has gone to bed. The sex hasn't changed – it's still as hot as hell. That in and of itself is a fucking miracle. I've never had so much sex with one girl.

The thing is, it's bugging me.

I want – shit, I don't know what I want. I want to be around Delaney all the damn time. I can't get enough of her laugh, or the way she blushes when I embarrass her, which is a lot, or how she's so professional when we're out somewhere and she's handling me…and then she's mine, totally mine, in bed. When I'm with her…it's just easy.

Except that everything has felt off since the flight. Or maybe it's not off for her -- I can't tell. I don't know why the hell I brought up dating, anyway. I wouldn't know the first thing about dating some girl, much less Delaney. Delaney is sure as fuck not any regular girl, even if she weren't kind-of related to me. The whole stepsister thing doesn't bother me like it apparently does her, anyway.

I answer the knock on the door because I know it's Delaney. Pulling on my Marlow Oil polo shirt, I yank it open. Delaney is wearing black slacks and a polo shirt that matches mine, her hair in a ponytail, messenger bag slung across her chest. Her face is still flushed. "Good morning, Ms. Marlowe," I say.

It's a great fucking morning, actually. Delaney is coming from her hotel room and her shower, but only because she sneaked back over there this morning after a little morning sex.

She rolls her eyes. "Good morning, Gaige," she says. But she's smiling.

Reaching forward, I grab the front of her shirt and pull her into the entryway of my room, out of the hallway, so I can kiss her.

"Stop," she whispers. "Chelsea will be out here any second."

"When are you going to stop giving a shit what that bitch thinks?" I ask.

She slaps me lightly on the chest. "When there's no chance of my father finding out what we've been doing," she says. "Now, are you going to go over answers to questions? Remember the product placement. Do you have your hat?"

"I'm not talking about the interview with you," I tell her. "I'm bored with this shit. Pick another topic. Like how I want to unbutton your pants right now and put my fingers inside you."

"You better take this seriously," she says. "You have an interview in two hours."

"Then you should make sure I'm prepped."

"Your version of prepped and mine are not the same thing."

I hear a door slam and Chelsea comes into view. Delaney takes a giant step back from me, and the fact that she steps away pisses me the fuck off. The fact that Delaney gives a crap what Chelsea thinks pisses me off.

"Has Delaney prepped you on the interview?" Chelsea asks, her voice clipped. She doesn't wait for an answer. "Well, come on. Traffic will be terrible and Delaney, do you think that this time, you could make sure to ask for a cab with air conditioning? The heat and humidity in this hellhole are going to kill me, I swear."

"I'll do my best," Delaney says as we walk down the hallway. When I open my mouth, about to say something smart-assed to Chelsea, Delaney elbows me and shakes her head no.

And I, Gaige O'Neal, master of not giving a fuck about anything, refrain from telling Chelsea where she can put her air conditioning just because Delaney gives me a look. I just held myself back from telling someone to fuck off because a girl asked me not to.

Hell really must be freezing over.

Or I might really like Delaney.

Shit.

I'm not sure if the sinking feeling I get is because of the elevator, or if it's me.

"Are you listening?" Chelsea asks. We're standing in the lobby and Delaney is talking to the concierge in Japanese. She nods and giggles, her mannerisms different when she's speaking the language.

"Look," I say. "Delaney might think she has to put up with your condescending attitude and your bullshit, but I really don't have to. And if you talk to her again the way you did a second ago, I'll make sure Beau knows exactly how uncomfortable I am working with you."