Side Swiped By My Step Brother Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Scarlett Ward

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]

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  Cover design by Amelia Harrison

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Emma

  I get back from the grocery store and I see my roommate has that look on her face.

  “Wine!” Megan says, making a beeline from the couch where she’s just been sitting with her laptop, to the kitchen counter. She starts pawing through the first bag of groceries, then the second, until she locates what she’s looking for: a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. She faux toasts me with it, grabs the corkscrew from the silverware drawer and gets to work. Once the cork is out, she pours herself a generous glass—in an old grape jelly jar, because we’re classy like that—and then myself an even more generous glass.

  “Drink up,” she says. “I need you to consume at least that entire glass before I tell you what I’ve been up to.”

  I give her a wary look as I put the eggs into the refrigerator. “I probably don’t want to know what you’ve been up to. If it involves a guy, I definitely don’t want to know.” Since Tom dumped me six months, three weeks, and five days ago—but who’s keeping track?—my sex life has been lived vicariously through Megan, though that’s not to say I necessarily wanted it to be like that. It’s just what happens when your best friend, who is also your roommate, is a sassy petite blond who is a sexually liberated nymphomaniac.

  I go through the next bag, which contains cereal, pasta, and a loaf of bread. Yes, we like our carbs, and no, we don’t think it’s a bad thing. Eating carbs—less healthy ones, like buckets of cookies, pans of brownies, and many tubs of ice cream—is basically what got me through the first few weeks of my breakup. Megan keeps reiterating the fact that Tom is just an asshole and I should be glad to be rid of him—and who really meets the person they’re going to marry when they’re eighteen, anyway—but I did think we were going be together . . . forever. I did. I realize how naïve that sounds now, and I’m not exactly sure what it says of my judgment; that there would still be this part of me that wanted to be with someone who had spent the last eight months of our relationship cheating on me. With multiple women.

  “Here, Emma, have a sip,” Megan says, nudging the wine toward me.

  “Shit.” Both grocery bags are empty, but I’m missing the one item I really meant to get when I stopped by the store: Batteries. For my vibrator.

  “What?”

  “I could’ve sworn I bought batteries and they’re not here.”

  “You probably left them at the checkout line. Did you do self-checkout?”

  “No, that just takes away from someone’s job.”

  Megan makes a face. “Someone’s shitty job.”

  “That may be so, but it’s still a job, and the person probably needs it.”

  “Well, then the checkout person forgot to put your batteries in the bag. But at least they remembered the wine! What’d you need batteries for?”

  I hesitate. “My vibrator.”

  Megan’s eyebrows raise, her blue eyes sparkle. “Maybe I can help you out.”

  “Why? You have three double A batteries?”

  “No.” She grins. “Something better. Get your glass and come with me.”

  Our apartment here in Echo Park isn’t exactly what might come to mind if you were to say Hollywood apartment. Megan’s an aspiring screenwriter and I’m a college student, studying architecture, just like my dad, whose work has graced the pages of such magazines like Architectural Digest. The truth is though, I want to be a painter. Always have, but my parents just assumed that my art inclinations were childhood whims, the type of thing you grow out of in order to pursue a real profession, like a doctor or an engineer or, say, an architect. So, while I wish our humble two-bedroom apartment was overflowing with canvases and paint and beautiful books about art, it’s mostly full of architecture textbooks, a drafting table, and Megan’s screenwriting stuff. It’s what you’d call an open layout; the living room, dining area, and kitchen are all basically one space, with the two bedrooms and bathroom off to the left. To the back is the patio, where we sit sometimes and watch the sun set through the thick smog. I live here now because it’s where I grew up and it’s where my family is from, but some day, I’m going to go somewhere beautiful, somewhere that’s not all smog and heat and grit and plastic.

  Right now, though, Megan is opening her laptop and motioning for me to sit down next to her.

  “Emma, you’re my best friend,” she says. “We’ve known each other a long time. Of course it pissed me off the way Tom fucked you over how he did, but honestly, he’s a dick and everyone is better off now that you two aren’t together. You can do so much better than him. I know it’s a total cliché, but it’s true. It’s been six months now, though, and you haven’t shown even the slightest bit of interest in seeing anyone. A rebound, even.”

  I shrug and take a sip of wine. “I haven’t met anyone that spectacular. It’s not like I have a ton of time to be going out on dates.”

  Megan raises an eyebrow. “You could find the time.”

  She’s right, and we both know this. I always made time for Tom, and I suppose a part of me is reluctant to go out there in fear of seeing him cavorting about with some other woman. Social butterfly that he is, it’s not that farfetched of an idea. I just don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.

  “If you met the right person, you would find the time,” Megan continues. “And so. I have taken it upon myself to give you a friendly nudge in that direction and help you find that person.” She turns her laptop screen toward me. At first, I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking at, other than there’s a picture of me, the words beautifuldreamer, and then what looks to be a series of profile-type questions that Megan has started typing answers into.

  “What is this?”

  “I set you up a profile on Sugar.”

  “A dating site? I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to go on a date with someone I meet online. No way in hell.”

  “Are you saying there’s something wrong with meeting people online?”

  “No. Well, not necessarily. But it’s not for me.”

  “You don’t seem to be that interested in meeting anyone in person, so I thought maybe online might be a better way. Look, this site has over a million registered people. I’m sure there’s at least a few guys you might be interested in. And this isn’t to say you’d have to marry him or anything. Besides, you need a date for your mom’s wedding, and that will be here before you know it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I
don’t even want to go to the wedding, and I’m certainly not going to bring someone I met online.” My mother’s upcoming marriage to Zack Carter was not something I was looking forward to, for many reasons. Sure, it was great she was starting over, she had found true love, as she so claimed, but of course it had to be with a washed up former Hollywood star who thought he was more famous than he actually probably ever was. He’s not a bad person, but I know as well as the next that this marriage is probably not going to last the year, and if anything, it’s just another turn in the limelight for Zack. We were having a “family” dinner tomorrow night, in fact, as a prelude to a two-week “vacation” at Zack’s lake house leading up to the wedding. This was certainly not how I planned on spending the first two weeks of my summer vacation, but I’m trying to look at the bright side: I’ll get to spend a lot of time lounging by the lake working on my tan and catching up on all the chick lit novels I don’t have time to read during the school year.

  “That might be your best revenge. Hi Mom, congratulations on your wedding day, my date is a sociopath I met online.”

  “Okay, there! You just said it! I’m not doing this online dating thing because I don’t want to end up going out with a sociopath. No, thank you.”

  “I was kidding. This site is cool because the screening questions and profile stuff they want from you is really comprehensive. This isn’t the casual encounters section of Craigslist. I’ve actually met several guys through this site and they’ve all been very kind, intelligent, and great in the sack.”

  “You do online dating?”

  “Of course. Most people these days do. You can only meet so many people out in the real world, you can only be so many places at once. The way I see it is, you’re really limiting yourself if you stick only to the real life interactions. The last guy I met on here was from La Jolla. Chris, remember him? The surfer with the Welsh Corgi? I hardly ever go to La Jolla, and even if I did, the chances of me running into him there are probably not that great. But you hop online and look at all the connections that open up. You might feel like your options are totally limited here, but that’s just because you haven’t branched out. You’re not willing to explore other possibilities.”

  I take another sip of the wine and give a cursory glance to the laptop screen. She did choose a decent enough picture; it’s one she took herself, when we were at the beach. I’m wearing a pink halter top dress and my hair, which is long and brown and usually a bit unruly, is twisted up into a top knot and looks fairly decent, and my tan has darkened enough to camouflage the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose, which I’ve never liked despite pretty much everyone telling me how adorable they are.

  “What’s up with the beautifuldreamer?”

  “That’s your screen name. You can change it if you want, but I thought it was fitting. It is one of your favorite songs, after all.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say it was one of my favorites; I just like it. We heard it that other day at the store and I told you I liked it, not that it was my favorite.”

  “Well, whatever. It makes you sound appealing without being overly slutty, which is not going to attract the kind of guy we want.”

  “I don’t even know what kind of guy I want!”

  “But you’re not totally against the idea.”

  I sigh. “No,” I admit. “I guess I have been thinking that it wouldn’t be bad to try going on a date or two. But not just with anyone . . . I wanted to wait and meet the right guy.”

  “Oooh look.” Megan clicks the mouse pad. “Someone wants to chat. SexyStranger258.”

  “Seriously? I’m not chatting with someone who refers to himself as SexyStranger. Doesn’t that mean he’s probably totally unsexy?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  She clicks a few more times and then there’s a guy’s profile picture. He’s actually rather handsome, with thick, close cut brown hair and bluish green eyes. His profile says he’s twenty-five.

  “Not bad,” Megan says. “Here, you should reply. I’m getting more wine.”

  She plops the laptop onto my lap. I stare at the screen.

  Hey, I see ur new here. Cute pic. Love a girl with freckles! Most girls around here just try to disguise them.

  I click back to my profile picture and scrutinize it. What, was he looking at the picture with a magnifying glass?

  Thanks, I type back. My friend actually just signed me up for this site.

  Ah, nice friend you have.

  I actually don’t know that much about online dating, never done it before.

  It can be a decent experience, if you’re with the right person. I think I could be the right person for your first time.

  “Uh, I think this guy thinks I’m a virgin,” I say to Megan.

  You wouldn’t be my first time, I type. I’ve had sex before.

  It’s only after I hit send that I realize he was referring to it being my first time doing online dating.

  Lol. Wasn’t implying that. But good2know.

  I groan. “That’s it,” I say as Megan walks back over, jelly jar practically overflowing with wine. “I’m done with this.”

  She reads our conversation so far and bursts out laughing. “Oh, this is good. You’re doing fine! Keep writing.”

  I’m over at the Chateau Marmont. Not going to be here for long, I hope. Would love to meet up, if you’re game.

  “You’re game,” Megan says immediately. “You are so totally down. He’s hot.”

  “Are you kidding me? You think I’m going to just go over to some stranger’s hotel room?”

  “You’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll wear a disguise and wait in the lobby, if you want. Come on, Emma, it’s time to step outside the comfort zone and do something that is going to get you over your breakup, once and for all. And there’s nothing that can get you over a breakup like hot sex with a hot stranger, trust me.” She snatches the laptop from me and begins typing.

  “There,” she says. “He’s in room 513. He sent his phone number so you can text him if you need to. Give me your phone and I’ll put it in. I told him you’d be over there at seven. That’s less than an hour. So let’s get you cleaned up and on your way.”

  The room suddenly seems to be spinning, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the wine I chugged or because somehow, my anticipated evening went from a quiet night with my vibrator and my kindle to me getting ready to go meet some stranger, allegedly a sexy one. The rational part of my brain is chiding me, telling me that this is an incredibly stupid idea and will almost certainly not end well. But another part of me — perhaps spurred on by the wine, or the desire to get back at Tom even though he’s clearly moved on, or maybe just to do something reckless right before my own mother marries a former movie star — that part of me is louder, more insistent, and it wins the argument.

  I finish the rest of my wine and go out to the kitchen. I don’t even bother pouring more into the glass; I drink it straight from the bottle.

  “Not too much,” Megan says. “You don’t want to show up sloppy. Let’s go find you something to wear.”

  Our bedrooms are connected by a large walk-in closet, which makes sharing clothes a snap. Of course, I’m nearly half a foot taller than Megan, but we can share tops, so long as I don’t mind them being a little short and she doesn’t mind them being a bit on the long side.

  “You’re not going to show up in jeans and a t-shirt,” Megan says, nodding to my current attire.

  “But I’m not going to show up looking like a prostitute, either.”

  “No, of course not. Here, try this.” She wrangles one of my maxi dresses from its hanger. “This is the one with the slit up the side. That’s a good choice. Show off your assets without giving too much away. And you won’t look like a slut.”

  I take my jeans and t-shirt off. Megan grins. “Now you look like a slut, though.”

  It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to my underwear. I do like to wear sexy lingerie, und
erneath the tomboy clothes. It makes me feel pretty, but also like I’ve got a secret that no one else knows about.

  “But keep those on.”

  I slip the dress over my head, the fabric cool and soft against my skin. And then Megan’s right there, putting some blush on my cheeks, twisting my hair up in a messy bun, pulling little tendrils out.

  “So this is what we’re going to do,” she says, hurrying me toward the door. She grabs a silk scarf off the arm of the couch and her pair of Jackie O sunglasses that make her look like some sort of sexy alien. “You’re going to take one cab, I’m going to take another.”

  “We can’t just take the same one? It’ll save on fare.”

  “While that’s totally fiscally responsible of you, no. It’d be better if we showed up in two different ones. Just in case.” She puts the sunglasses on and wraps the scarf around her head. We’re outside now, the heat of the day not waning at all even though the sun is sliding lower and lower in the sky. I’m sweating almost immediately.

  “I forgot to put deodorant on,” I say.

  “I’ll go get you some. I left my purse up there too. Maybe call a taxi; there never seems to be one when you need it. I’ll be right back.”

  She dashes away, leaving me standing there, feeling as though the last hour just happened without my having any say in it at all. What am I getting myself into? I should just turn around and go back inside. Completely ignore SexyStranger, I’m sure he’ll get over it. I’m thinking that’s exactly what I’ll do and I don’t care what Megan is going to say about it, but then I see not one taxi, but two, driving down the street, both with their roof lights on. And before any more thoughts can enter my mind, I’m stepping toward the curb, arm up, hailing not just the first taxi, but the second one, too.

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  Chateau Marmont is on Sunset Blvd., designed to evoke feelings of being at some sort of grand retreat in France. I learned this in a lecture I took freshmen year, Architecture and Modernity. Despite knowing a bit about the place, however, I’ve never actually been here and my heartbeat quickens as I step out of the taxi in front of the towering white building, something of a cross between a mansion and castle.