Side Swiped By My Step Brother (2 page)

              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, underneath 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.

              I linger, waiting for Megan to arrive. I can feel my nerve starting to slip, and if she doesn’t show up in the next few minutes, I’m probably just going to hail a taxi straight back home. What am I doing? I’m not the sort of person who does this, and I sure as hell don’t want to end up a cautionary tale spread across the six o’clock news: Very naïve and very horny college student loses life after foolishly attempting tryst with Internet stranger.

              But here’s Megan, climbing out of the taxi with the pink leopard print scarf wrapped around her head, giant sunglasses, and a trench coat. She, of course, could make wearing a housecoat look sexy, so she looks great, but totally ridiculous at the same time. She fiddles with the scarf, adjusts the sunglasses, and gives me a grin.

              “I bet we’ll see some celebrities,” she says. “And if I’m lucky, I’ll fuck at least one of them.” She slides her arm through mine. “But really, tonight is about you. And if this guy turns out to be a total douchebag, text me, and I’ll stop whatever I’m doing—”

              “Or whoever you’re fucking.”

              “Or whoever I’m fucking—I don’t care if it’s Ryan Gosling—if you need me, I will be there, that’s how much I love you.”

              I smile. “More like, that’s how much you owe me, seeing as you’re the one who signed me up for this site, and if anything happens it will basically be all your fault.”

              She pats my arm. “Nothing is going to happen. Nothing bad, I mean.”

              “You sound so sure of yourself.”

              “I’ve always had good luck on this site. Just wait and see. You’ll be thanking me later.”

              Living in Los Angeles means celebrity sightings are just part of life, but even still, I can’t help but feel a little starstruck as we step inside the lobby. Right away I see that actress who starred in that surprise action hit last summer. I can’t remember her name but she’s sitting there on one of the brocade couches, a hot guy next to her, and she’s speaking to a few people who are clearly important. The interior of this place feels less like a swanky hotel and more like some sort of vintage, funky hangout, just the sort of place you might be able to get into all sorts of trouble.

              “So what’s his room number?” Megan asks.

              “Uh . . . Five-thirteen.”

              “I wonder if it’s one of the bungalows,” she muses as we walk to the elevator. She raises a hand. “Hold that please.”

              The guy standing in the elevator jumps forward and thrusts his arm out just in time to stop the door from closing. He’s cute, probably in his mid-twenties, and has a wide-eyed look on his face that blatantly screams TOURIST.

              “Hey,” he says, looking at Megan. “Are you an actress?”

              She still has her sunglasses on, but she swivels her head around and gazes in his direction. Several seconds pass. The elevator door shuts. The guy is starting to blush.

              “I mean . . . I’m sorry. Clearly, you don’t want to be bothered . . . I . . . I shouldn’t have said anything. This is my first time in L.A. If you couldn’t tell.”

              “Oh, I can tell,” Megan says. I lean against the wall as the elevator starts to ascend.

              “I’m from the Midwest. So it’s pretty wild just to be out here at all. I’m having a really great time. Um . . . what floor are you going to?” the guy asks.

              “Fifth.” Megan looks over at me. “Just so you know, darling, Benicio del Toro and Scarlett Johansson fucked in this very elevator after the Oscars.”

              Tourist Guy’s eyes widen, in disbelief or appreciation, I can’t tell. I step away from the wall and wipe my hands on my dress, making a mental note not to touch anything.

              “Thanks for sharing that vital piece of information,” I say.

              “Wow, you know them?” Tourist Guy asks. “I saw that movie she did . . . the one where she kissed the other girl . . . what’s her name?”

              “Penelope Cruz.”

              “Yeah! That’s the one. It was a little artsy for my taste, but . . . that scene with the two of them . . . totally made it worth it. Could I . . . could I get your autograph?”

              The elevator has stopped, third floor. Tourist Guy has stepped across the threshold but is standing there, looking hopefully at Megan.

              “I don’t have any paper,” she says. “Or a pen.”

              Tourist Guy looks over at me. “Do you have a pen?” he asks. “Are you her publicist?”

              I rummage through my purse and pull out a pen, which I hand over to Megan. “No,” I say. “I’m actually her—”

              “She’s a dominatrix,” Megan says. “Though you would never know by looking at her. That’s what makes her one of the best in the field. And she’s been hired to help me prepare for my next role. It’s a cross of Fifty Shades and Interstellar.” She puts a finger up to her lips. “But it’s top secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

              She ends up signing her name on Tourist Guy’s arm, because of course he doesn’t have a piece of paper, either. Her scrawl is illegible; she could’ve just written eat shit and die for all he knows. But he’s beaming and thanks her and then he’s gone and the elevator door is closing and suddenly we’re there on the fifth floor.

              Megan ushers me out of the elevator quickly and down the hallway, as though she can sense my deteriorating will. My mouth is dry. What was I thinking? That I’m just going to flounce up to this strangers door, knock, go in, and have mind-blowing sex? No. This might be L.A. and everything, but that sort of thing only happens in the movies, and certainly doesn’t happen to someone like me.

              “Go on,” Megan says. “I’ll wait here. It’s that door right there.”

              But I stop when she does. She nudges me. “I can’t,” I say. It’s as though my feet are rooted to the ground. I’m not taking another step, unless it’s back to the elevator.

              “Yes you can.”

              “No, I can’t. This is stupid. And shh! Keep your voice down. He’s probably standing there on the other side of the door, listening.”

              Megan laughs. “Bullshit. Just knock. I won’t let anything bad happen. If he’s awful, we’ll go get drinks and laugh about it.”

              His door is literally about four feet away. But I can’t do it. It’s like standing on the ledge of a very steep cliff, and even you’re supposedly harnessed and the bungee cord is strong, you just can’t pull the trigger and make yourself jump.

              “Megan, I can’t.” My voice is shaky. “Let’s just go home.”

              She folds her arms across her chest. “We came this far. I am not going to let you give up now. What kind of friend would I be? You need to get laid. And we saw his picture online. We know he’s attractive. Even if he doesn’t have the best personality, that sort of doesn’t even matter when you’re having sex. This I know from personal experience. How about you text him and ask to meet down in the bar? That way it’s less private, less awkward if you need to escape.”

              I glance at his door. “Okay,” I say. “Okay, I can do that.”

              We get back in the elevator and I don’t lean against the wall this time. I send him a text:

              Hey, I’m here. I was thinking I might like to have a drink first. Want to meet in the bar?

              We’re back in the lobby when my phone dings.

              That’s fine, his message reads. Wherever you’re most comfortable. Though I’m not going to go psycho on you, or try any funny business, unless, of course, that’s what you’d like. Be down there in five.

              “Did he respond?” Megan asks.

              “Yes. He says he won’t go psycho on me, unless I request it. That’s probably a sign to just call it a night and go home, right? I mean, he’s basically admitting that he could go psycho on me.”

              Megan shakes her head. “Anyone could go psycho at any time.”

              I nudge her with my elbow. “That’s so deep of you.”

              “I’m just saying—if anything, it’s a sign that you’re in for a good time. Now, let’s go get at least one drink in you before he gets down here.”

Chapter Three

Jai

              Fuck Los Angeles. I mean, seriously. I’ve been here a day and it’s already been one day too long. This whole thing is a disaster, so I guess it makes sense to have it happen in this disaster of a city, but the second the vows have been said, I am out of here and back to London.

              Mum phones. I consider not answering, since I’m expecting a knock on the door at any moment, but I pick up because I’m sure she’s a bit frazzled, what with the big event happening in less than two weeks, despite her insistence that she doesn’t give a toss what my father does anymore.

              “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks. “You’re not missing much over here. It’s supposed to rain again.”

              “No, I wouldn’t say enjoyment is the proper word to use. Though it’s not raining here; I think earlier today I was able to make out something resembling the sun through all the smog. I understand why you divorced him,” I say. “I don’t care who I was married to; if they were going to insist I live here, I’d be gone in a heartbeat.”

              She laughs. “Oh, darling, living in Los Angeles was only a fraction of the reason your father and I got divorced. Though it is a wretched place, I agree with you wholeheartedly about that.”

              “Not if you like plastic, I suppose.”

              “Have you . . . have you met her yet?”

              “I haven’t.”

              “I do wonder what she’s like.”

              “I’ll be sure to give you the full report. We’ve got to spend two weeks ‘getting to know each other’ so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to tell you. Should I go out and buy some ‘Hello my name is’ labels?”

              “That might be a nice touch.”

              “I mean, how long have they known each other? Five months? Five weeks? I don’t see what the rush is.”

              Mum laughs. “I don’t know if it’s sad or ironic that this is the sort of conversation I’d expect to have with your father about you.”

              “You’d never have this conversation with him about me because I’m never getting married. Don’t really see a need for it. It seems like a waste of time and a waste of money. For something that’s most likely not going to work out anyway.”

              “Oh, darling. When did you become so jaded? You’re too young for that type of talk. And I do hope that some day you will revise your feelings on it—I’d like grandbabies some day. Emphasis on some day of course.”

              I decide it’s better not to mention that my early childhood memories of my parents’ contentious relationship have all but cemented by decision to never get married. Why do that to someone? Why do that to yourself? Relationships can be messy and complicated enough as it is, getting married just seems to add a whole extra layer of unnecessary catastrophe.

              “And some people just work better as a couple,” Mum continues. “Your father was always saying that. Problem with him was that he wanted to be part of more than one couple. I’m sure the next Mrs. Carter will figure that one out in no time.”

              “So, it can’t really be considered bad manners to not attend a wedding that you know is doomed to fail then, can it? Even if you are the son?”

              “Oh, Jai,” she says. “You should go; you’re already there. I know it will mean a lot to your father.” Inwardly, I scoff. I doubt he will even notice if I’m there. “And it’ll be over soon enough,” Mum continues. “I do hope you’ll manage to have a bit of fun while you’re out there.”

              I glance at the clock on the bedside table, green numbers aglow. That “bit of fun” is actually about five minutes late.

              “I’m going to try,” I say.

              “Good. That’s all I ask.”

              I chat with Mum for a few more minutes, but then get off when I hear something out in the hallway. Or think I hear something. I toss the phone down on the bed and pad quietly over to the door. Female voices. They’re whispering. Wait a minute…

              “I can’t.”

              “Yes you can.”

              “No, I can’t. This is stupid. And shh! Keep your voice down. He’s probably standing there on the other side of the door, listening.”

              I smile. One of the girl’s laughs. “Bullshit. Just knock. I won’t let anything bad happen. If he’s awful, we’ll go get drinks and laugh about it.”

              “Megan, I can’t.” Her voice is muffled, but I can hear a shakiness, like she’s about to cry. Hmm. This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. I’ve only actually met a few girls online, but they were all ready and raring to go. None of this standing outside the door, ready to cry.

              And then they’re gone, it’s quiet out in the hallway, and I figure it’s off. Well, well, well. Shouldn’t come as that big of a surprise, I suppose, should it? Easy enough to hop back online, though I could also just mosey on down to the bar and see what sort of trouble I could rouse up there . . .

              No sooner does this thought enter my mind when her text comes through, asking me if I’ll meet her at the bar. So she hasn’t chickened out, not completely. I respond and tell her I’ll be down in five, even though I’m ready and could head down right now. Don’t want to seem too eager.

              Except I am, which is a bit nutty, if you want to know the truth. I blame it on the fact that I’m here, in this foreign place, forced to participate in a debacle that I have to pretend to be excited about. I need a distraction, and nothing does the trick better than a good fuck. I go into the bathroom, splash a little water on my face. I could use a shave actually, but if I go down there with a face as smooth as a baby’s bum, well, that’s certainly going to seem far too eager, and that is not the image I am trying to perpetuate.

              Once I get down to the bar, it doesn’t take me long to find her. Even though she’s sitting down, I can tell she’s taller than I thought she’d be, and not plastic at all, thank goodness. She’s seated at one of the small tables, the girl next to her completely camouflaged in big sunglasses and a zany head wrap. They’ve got half-finished glasses of white wine in front of them.

              “Hello,” I say, realizing that I don’t actually know her name, only her screen name. I extend a hand. “I’m Jai. Figure we should get the formal introductions out of the way first so you don’t have to refer to me as SexyStranger all night.”

              “Oh, but you are,” the sunglasses girl says. She takes a sip of wine and smiles appreciatively. “You’re even better looking that your picture.”

              “Thanks,” I say. “Since I can’t actually tell what you look like under that getup, I’ll have to assume it’s to disguise either great beauty or severe disfigurement.”

              “Are those my only two choices?”

              “Afraid so.” I look at beautifuldreamer, who actually is something like a beautiful dream.

              “I’m Emma,” she says.

              She takes my hand and meets my eyes for a second before looking away, blushing a little. I’d been wondering she if she’d been having a go at me, claiming that she’d never done this online thing before, but it’s clear she was telling the truth, a fact that I now find rather charming.

              “May I sit?”

              Finally, she meets my gaze and holds it. She’s gorgeous. Big, bright blue eyes, full lips, that adorable handful of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Love those freckles. Not a lot of makeup, so far as I can tell, and I give her a discreet once-over. Real. None of this plastic shit. Thank fuck.

              “Yes,” she says. Then: “You’re . . . British. I . . . I wasn’t expecting that.”

              “No, I suppose it’s a bit difficult to hear the accent through text messaging.”

              “Ah, and he’s witty,” sunglasses girl says. She holds out her hand. “I’m Megan.”

              “She’s the one who signed me up for the dating site,” Emma says.

              “So I have you to thank then.” I shake her hand, and she then proceeds to take off the sunglasses, unwrap the headscarf. She’s hot, too, but in a different way. Part of what makes her hot is the fact that she knows it. Emma, I think, has no clue at all.

              “This was a disguise,” Megan says. “We weren’t sure if you were going to be a psycho or not.”

              “I assure you, I’m not. And, for future reference, I’d say the disguise isn’t really necessary—most men would be thrilled if two girls like you showed up, especially if they were only expecting one.”

              They exchange glances, and I can see them both trying to decide if this was a humorous thing I’ve just said or a total arrogant asshole remark. A little of both, really, with a healthy dose of truth mixed in as well.

              “Can I get you ladies another drink?” I say. “I’d like a drink myself.”

              “Why sure,” Megan says. “I’ll have something a little harder this time. Make it a dirty martini, extra dry, extra dirty, please.” She picks up her wineglass and drains the rest of it.

              Emma jumps up. “I’ll go with you,” she says. “I think I’ll get a martini, too.”

              “I’d be happy to bring those over, if you want to wait,” I say. “Let me at least try to make a good first impression.”

              “No, I’ll come, too.”

              “I promise I’m not going to try to slip any roofies into your drink.”

              Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and I wonder how many drinks she’s had so far. “That’s good. So far you’ve promised not to murder me and not give me any date rape drugs.”

              “I’d say things are going smashingly, then.”

              She giggles. “I like your accent.”

              We go over to the bar and I order the girls their martinis and a gin and tonic for myself. “You’re from England?” she asks, leaning her arms across the bar.

              “Yes. Well, I was actually born here in California, but my mum took me back to London after she and my father got divorced. I was eight. So I do have some vague memories of my American childhood, but I’ve spent most of my life across the pond. A fact I am perfectly happy with.”

              “My parents got divorced, too,” she says.

              “It seems to be the thing to do once you’re married.” I’m about to mention my father’s upcoming nuptials, but then the bartender is sliding the drinks across the bar and telling me an unbelievably high sum for the grand total. Fucking L.A.

              Back at the table and I distribute the drinks. Megan sucks half hers down in one gulp. I know her type. Party girl to the max. A petite little thing that could probably outdrink and outfuck pretty much anyone in this room.

              “So you’re obviously not from around here,” she says to me.

              “He’s from London,” Emma tells her. “But he was born here.”

              “In L.A.?”

              I nod. “In L.A. A fact that I actively try to forget.”

              “You’re just in town for a few days, then?”

              “I plan to head back to London on Monday.” I take a sip of my drink. “So what is it the two of you do?”

              “We’re students,” Emma says.

              “And what are you studying?”

              “Well, I’m studying architecture and Megan’s a scriptwriter.”

              “The architect and the writer.” I nod. “Sounds like the two of you are in the right place, then.”

              “Emma’s actually an artist,” Megan says.

              Emma blushes. “Not like a working artist or anything. It’s more like a hobby.”

              Megan shakes her head. “That’s total bullshit. Emma’s a really great painter.”

              “Architecture is a type of art, isn’t it?” I ask.

              “I guess, but it’s not the art that she’s into. She’s only doing the architecture thing because her dad wants her to.”

              “And because it seems like it’d be pretty hard to make it as an artist,” Emma says. “I mean, I’m not that good.”

              “You’re plenty good.” Megan looks at me. “I’ve been telling her that for as long as I can remember. Maybe you should tell her, too. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

              “I don’t know if she’s any good. And is that why we’re here tonight, to talk about art?”

              They exchange that look again. Is he or isn’t he being a total asshole? Is that or is that not a complete turn on?

              “What I meant by that,” I say, backpedaling just a bit, “is that it would be wrong of me to tell someone they had talent at something if they didn’t. It’s nothing personal—it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. Which is not to say, Emma, that I don’t think your art would be sublime.”

              I finish my gin and tonic. It’s pretty watered down, if you want to know the truth. A fine example of what ten dollars can get you here in L.A. “I’m going to get another drink,” I say, standing. “Can I get you ladies another as well?”