My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1) (9 page)

He changes the subject, his transition awkward.
 

“Look,” he says. “The card got me thinking.”
 

“Hmm.”
 

“I turned thirty today. Thinking about it, thinking about the past? It got me … nostalgic?”
 

“For your good old days,” I say, unable to help myself, “when things were worse.”
 

“A lot has changed.” He dodges my land mine.

 
Now that I’ve had a moment to rest and get used to the shock of seeing Parker, my urgent anxiety has dulled. I’m present enough to feel spiteful and slightly angry. How dare he come here and rub my face in the past? Most of all, how dare he adopt this sad, reflective tone while he ruminates on all that once was? Am I supposed to sympathize with his birthday sorrow? Am I supposed to tell him that no, he didn’t do anything to be ashamed of in his thirty years of life?
 

Fuck him and his pity party. He has everything. We have nothing. Fuck him if those old guilty wheels got to turning. He
should
feel guilty.
Fuck
Parker Altman. Fuck him for the way he left, for all he abandoned. And fuck
me
, while we’re at it, for knowing exactly what I think he might actually be regretting beneath it all, and feeling its unrelenting tug.

“Angela,” He nods toward the car. “Would you like to take a ride? To catch up?”
 

I’m insulted. I want to punch him. I want to slug his tuxedo-clad, pompous-ass chest. I want to slap his pretty, magazine-cover face. The world is falling in love with Parker Altman? I’m over it. His charm is useless on me.
 

I’m supposed to take a
ride?
A pitiful taste of the good life touched to the tongue of the penniless girl? It’s a scrap tossed to a starving dog: a tease, and nothing else.
 

“No thanks, Parker.”
 

“I’ve been thinking. And I don’t really like the way I left things.”
 

“Hmm.”
 

“Not with Dad. With … ” He hesitates. “With you, I guess.”
 

“Why me?”
 

He won’t say it.
 

“Dad is Dad. I’ve tried with him. I give him anything, and he uses it to hang himself. I’ve seen shrinks, Ang. They all say I should just let him go. Because every time I try to make up with Dad or even just listen to him for a few minutes, it’s like he gets his hooks back in me. And your mom? I’m sorry, but she’s never given any indication that she’d accept anything from me anyway, she hates me so much.”
 

I’m thinking about the card Parker got from “all of us.” I’m thinking that Mom isn’t as resistant to accepting charity as she used to be, if she ever was. Parker has clearly forgotten his roots. Everyone has a price. My mother hated him plenty, and still does. She’s only softened on him in the past few days because she thinks he might be willing to pay her price. If he does — if he’s willing to “renew acquaintances,” complete with all the financial responsibilities that come with such action — she’ll pretend to like him plenty. Just like the moneybags son she never had.
 

“But you and me, Angela.
We
were good, weren’t we?”
 

I don’t know how he means that. He could mean “we were good” in the way people say that after reconciling an argument, or he could mean something else. I don’t want to give him hints in case my gut’s wrong.

“What about it?” I can hear my bitterness. We were doing fine without him. I don’t like the way he’s shown up and made me aware how much we could use some help. Before, there was no chance of a renewal. No chance of having Parker and his money back in our lives. Now that it seems like there could be, my choices are to refuse or accept it. Now the decision is in my hands, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist. And even if I
am
, I know how hard it will be to return to our shoddy state of normality after turning him down.
 

“Sometimes I think about you. About — ”

“Why did you
really
come here, Parker?”
 

I look at his car. Inside, through several panes of not-quite-blacked-out glass, I can see his driver’s head. Waiting patiently, ready to obey the great Parker Altman’s whim. I refuse to do the same. We have little left these days. If I give him my pride, we’ll have nothing at all.
 

“I just thought we could talk.”
 

“‘Talk.’”

“Yes.”
 

“Not because you feel guilty.” Now the bitterness is obvious.
 

“I — ”

“If you feel guilty, Parker, why are you just showing up? Not calling? And not just showing up to knock on the door, but instead making a spectacle, waiting for
us
to see
you
out here in all your splendor?” I glance again at the house. “Have Mom and Bill seen you yet?”
 

“No, I — ”
 

I’m not willing to hear the ends of any sentences. I cut him off, saying, “Just wanted to set up a showcase? Saw Bill’s car was gone, knew he’d run out? Remembered that the living room is at the back of the house and that Mom, if she was in there as she always used to be, wouldn’t see you pull up? Wanted to make sure that whichever of us saw you first — me, Mom, or Bill — we’d see you after you were all set up, looking pretty, like a fucking centerpiece at one of your fucking fancy-ass charity events, like a — ”

“It’s not like that.”
 

“Then what is it like?”
 

He sighs before responding. “I saw them leave. I saw them turn out onto Figueroa. They were in Bill’s car. Then when we got closer, I saw you running, turning onto the path.”
 

I don’t see what this has to do with anything. I roll my eyes and stalk past him, toward his fancy car and my ramshackle house.
 

“I waited because I knew nobody was home and I would
have
to wait,” he says behind me.
 

I turn.
 

“I waited because I didn’t want to talk to
them
.”
 

I’d thought I was over my exertion. My heart rate had settled to normal. Now I feel it creeping back up and warming my skin.
 

“I waited,” he says, “because I came to see you.”

PARKER

A
NGELA
LOOKS
LIKE
SHE
’
S
DOING
me a favor, being here. It’s kind of hard to blame her.
 

She’s sitting across from me in the limo, both of us traveling sideways so we can look at each other rather than being side by side. Right now, that feels too familiar anyway. Side-by-side is the sort of thing you do with friends at the movie theater, with family on the couch or with a date if you’d rather touch sides than look into each other’s eyes. Angela and I, right now, are none of the three. We were never really friends. For the first long while, we couldn’t stand each other. When I moved out, I’m sure she learned to hate me more because I’d left her holding the bag. But we’re not really family either; we only seemed to be because my deadbeat dad married her crotchety mom. And we’re sure not on a date. That would be strange.
 

Angela pretends like she’s not going out of her way to ignore me. The limo’s glass can be manually darkened. Once we got in, I turned it all the way up so nobody would see her leaving in this shameful vehicle — not that they wouldn’t have noticed it parked outside her house. But still, the day’s light is strong, and she can easily see out, so she’s feigning interest in familiar streets so she won’t have to talk to me.
 

We have time. Her getting in the car is a victory. I take it as a good sign: maybe I haven’t burned all my bridges.
 

Angela wasn’t inside long enough to shower. She could have made me wait on the curb for hours but was probably eager to get that big, black car away from her home’s front before Bill and her mother returned. She might also have been outrunning her doubts about coming with me. I know I had to force myself. I didn’t know how long she’d be running, but we only waited twenty minutes. That was enough time for me to tell Brian no fewer than three times to pull away and forget this stupid errand. A roll of the dice. Would she finish her run before I lost my nerve? Or would I break first, and she’d never know I’d come?
 

I didn’t even know what I was there for. I still don’t. I just knew that ever since getting that dumb card in the mail, my mind’s refused to stop turning. I made a lot of decisions in life, too many as the idiot kid I used to be. I didn’t realize how selfish I was at the time. I saw myself as a put-upon loser who never got any breaks. Somehow, I thought a lack of self-esteem would make it impossible for me to be selfish. Turns out, that’s not true. My self-disrespect ironically held hands with intense egotism.
 

I thought of myself when I left our old house.
 

I thought of myself when I stopped returning Dad’s calls — and Angela’s, because a call from her was a call from Dad by proxy.
 

I thought of myself when Duncan and I partnered to create WinFinity because I’d had another sorta-partner at the time named Chuck, and Chuck wasn’t smart enough to pull off what Duncan could.

I thought of myself when we ditched acts that needed us early in WinFinity’s career. Callous, perhaps, and a breach of loyalty since they stuck with us back before we were anything at all. But the press saw those decisions as smart business, and though they were, I’ve always felt guilty.

I thought of myself so much that I’ve started to overcompensate. More charity. Being overly friendly. Listening to Samantha’s yammering about my image and trying to seem better in the public’s eyes.

I steamrolled over Angela as an asshole kid. By the time I was established and wiser, it felt too late to go back. What was I supposed to do — drive up to the house and speak to Angela alone, explain that it was unfair to paint her with the same brush as I’d painted my dad and her mom? To tell her that even though she’d never been friend or family or a date, she was still someone worth knowing … and maybe worth saving from all she’d been forced to endure?
 

I’d waffled on that for years. There was no solution. Angela came with baggage: two deadbeats I wanted out of my life. I’d jettisoned Bill and Maria, but she never would. It was a no-win situation without a way out. I solved the problem by stuffing it down, sweeping it under the rug, and forgetting all about it.
 

But that card.
 

Seeing her name.
 

Imagining her face.
 

I haven’t seen her in years. I still think of Angela as that obnoxious, pretentious drama girl: full of life, the insistent center of attention, sure she was so special. The girl who looked younger than her years on the surface but older than her years once inspected. The girl who, it turned out, had blossomed just as I’d known she would.

I watch her across from me as she sits three-quarters on the plush black leather, the bar with its crystal decanters a foot ahead. She stares at the passing streets, taking us from the wrong side of the tracks to the right. From the hard streets to the sparkling uptown. From the place I once lived to the place I live now.
 

She’s quiet. Her skin is smooth and looks soft. She’s a shade or two darker than me, with an Italian complexion mixed with something I can’t place and never cared to ask about — Slavic blood, maybe. Her eyes are slightly narrow in profile. Her eyebrows are long, thin, and striking. Her hair is long, and she’s gathered it into a neat but no-nonsense ponytail, still slightly oily with sweat. She’s changed from her running clothes into a simple short-sleeved yellow top and jeans, yet still manages to be striking.
 

She probably thinks she looks like a pig. But Angela’s different from someone like Samantha. It takes a lot of exercise for Sam to keep her body flawless, but she’s anything but glamorous with her makeup off and workout clothes on. Samantha is meant to primp. Properly fixed up, she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Angela, by contrast, is meant to be real. It doesn’t matter whether Angela tries to dress up or if she tosses on jeans and pulls her hair into a ponytail. As long as she’s authentically herself, she’s breathtaking.

Not that I should be thinking any of this. Angela is my stepsister and has been for thirteen years. When I saw the birthday card, I was thinking nostalgically about helping a good girl who deserved my assistance by virtue of taking care of a shitheel dad I wanted nothing to do with. When I was having sex with two women earlier, I got distracted by Angie’s (not Angela’s) name and nothing else. I’d never think of Angela that way. Not now that I’m a responsible adult, free of the confused, troubled thoughts that plagued my traumatic youth.
 

“Would you like a drink?”
 

She answers without looking.
 

“No thanks.”
 

“Do you drink?”