Page 4

“Get out!” I point to his room.
He chuckles, his eyes traveling down my body, and his head tilts. “Oh, don’t be shy, little sis. I don’t bite…” He grins. “Hard.”
I clutch the towel tighter, scanning down his naked chest to where a tight six-pack sits proudly, with two muscular arms framing his torso. A large Celtic cross tattoo sits over his left pec, and on the right of his ribcage, he has a scripted tattoo sprawled out over it.
I look up to his face, where the corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk. A lip ring sits to the side, and his eyes zone in on me, glistening with mischief. “You done eye-fucking me, little sis?”
“I’m not your little sister,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Get out. I need to get changed.”
“You not gonna ask my name?” he questions, his smooth, sun-kissed skin glowing in the bathroom light, his blue eyes laced with mischief. He pushes off the doorframe he was leaning on, walking toward me with so much swagger he could give 50 Cent a run for his money. His dark blond hair sits messily all over his head, and his torn jeans hang nicely off his hips, showcasing the rim of his Phillip Plein briefs. He pauses when his chest is almost flush with mine.
Reaching for his toothbrush, he grins. “The name’s Nate, little sis.” He winks at me, squirting toothpaste onto his brush before his smile flicks to the mirror. He pops the toothbrush into his mouth and smirks.
Spinning around, I quickly dash out my door. What the fuck was that about? And there’s no way I’m sharing a bathroom with him. Picking up my phone from the bed, I dial my dad. When it goes straight to his voice mail, I growl lightly. “Dad, we need to talk about my living situation—STAT!”
Shuffling into some skinny jeans and a checkered top, I brush my hair out and tie it into a messy high ponytail. Shoving on my Converse sneakers, I head for the door. Just as I open up my bedroom, Nate is walking out of his, still with no top on, and still with those sinful jeans hanging off him. He annoys me instantly. His cocky smirk is spread out over his mouth, and his baseball cap is flipped backward. “Where you off to?”
“None of your business,” I answer, slamming my bedroom door and wondering whether I should have locks put on it. I continue toward the stairs when he races up behind me.
“Sure it is. Big brothers are supposed to look out for the little ones.”
I halt, spinning around on the fourth step and glaring up at him. “We”—I gesture between the two of us—“are not related, Nate.” That only makes his grin go wider. He leans on the rail of the stairs, and my eyes flick under his bicep, where there’s a scar embossed into his skin. He sees where my eyes go and quickly crosses his arms in front of himself. “But since you’re asking,” I say, walking the rest of the way down the steps. I turn to face him and tilt my head once I hit the bottom. “I’m going shooting.”
ARRIVING HOME LATER THAT NIGHT, I thank Harry and make my way up the large cobblestone entryway, up to the front door. I can hear the music before I hit the entrance, so when I swing the door open and see a house party in full swing, I’m not even slightly surprised. Slamming the door shut—rather dramatically—I scan over the drunken crowd. Where our marble kitchen is, there are teenagers playing beer pong, and dancing and grinding on each other in the background.
Swinging my eyes to the sitting room that leads off to our outdoor pool and pool house, I see another crowd dancing in strobe lights, with Akon’s “Ain’t Saying Nothing” blasting from the DJ booth set up where our couch once sat. I look back outside and see the party lights on inside our pool, and half-naked people cannon-balling into it, with a few others making out in our Jacuzzi.
Motherfucker!
Narrowing my eyes, I can almost make out another crowd behind the pool, on the grass area where our backyard leads to the beach. Oh, man, I’m going to kick his fucking ass. When I see the black baseball cap with blond hair peeking out slightly from underneath, and the same lean, tan build—still wearing no shirt—I know I’ve found Nate. I walk toward the couch, where he lounges with a few other guys, his head bobbing to the beat of “Nightmare on My Street” by DJ Jazzy Jeff, as he loads up the tip of a bong with weed.
I recognize all of them from school today—the guys Tatum referred to as “The Elite Kings Club.” Nate is apparently the one whose great-great-grandparents were the founders of Riverside Prep. I’m not sure if that was from his mother or father. Elena is lovely and is as rich as my father. That’s probably why I like her more than anyone else he’s introduced me to. I know she isn’t just after his money. So I guess it’s her side. My dad is good-looking for an old man. He isn’t really old though, sitting at forty-seven. I guess there are fathers with kids my age who are older. He trains daily and eats well, and Elena is the same. She’s fit for her age and takes care of herself. Though I have only met her twice—the first time was when we moved here a few days ago, and the second time was before they flew to Dubai for a business meeting—she was nothing but nice to me. How she managed to have a shithead son like Nate, I don’t know.