I nod. Pause. I should let this line of conversation go right here. Leave it alone…
Yeah, fuck that.
“Who did you get it done for?” I growl.
She barks an abrupt crack of laughter. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me. Who, Ember? What bitch ass got you so fucking gone that you out here poking holes in your muthafuckin’ body?” I step backward, tilt my head, and aim my stare toward her thighs. “They turn that pussy out, too?”
If she says yes, I’m flipping all this over.
Am I stupid enough to believe no one has been inside her? No. Am I unhinged enough to want to kill anyone who has?
You damn fucking right.
And anyone—man, woman, them—who’s even sniffed the pussy had best be prepared. Because there’s gonna be some slow singing and flower bringing when I find out who they are. And don’t get it fucked-up—I will.
“There’s this little thing calledautonomy. I don’t know, maybe you’ve heard of it? What I do with and to my body is all for my benefit and pleasure—no one else’s. I don’t need another person’s permission or validation, nor do I give a fuck about anyone’s opinion of it.” She pauses, tips her chin up. “That goes double for who’s bussin’ this pussy wide open.”
“Names.” I snap out the demand, fury, red-hot and howling, boiling inside me. My veins are a conduit for the rage until I’m breathing it, organs pumping it. Shit, Iamit.
Am I being irrational, unreasonable, and hypocritical? Fuck yeah. All of that and more. But it is what it is. When it comes to Ember, I’ve never been sane, sensible, or fair. I’ve played dirty from the moment I walked through the doors of her childhood home, the seeds of plans to steal it all away from her already germinating in my mind. Ain’t nothing changed this way. Demanding a list of her sexual partners though? That might be a new low for me. It’s degrading, objectifying, and shaming.
Fuck if I’m gon’ take it back. I said what I said.
I want names. Every one of them.
I need to know exactly who I need to kill between my two and four o’clock meetings.
Ember blinks. Then the disgust for me that seems to be a permanent fixture on her face makes its reappearance.
“You first,” she fires back, lip curled. “Hold up though. I got a papyrus scroll stashed next to the silverware drawer. You’ll need it if you’re going to get down every bitch you’ve fucked.”
Amusement tickles my rib cage before I can smother it as ruthlessly as I suspect Michelle killed my father. And thin skeins of hate and… fear creep under my skin, spread their deadly spores into my bloodstream.
Michelle once called Ember an abomination.
And in this moment, staring down into those amber eyes that somehow possess the mystical power of appearing warm and so fucking frigid at the same time, I almost agree with my mother. Because only something, or someone, with some kind of corrupt,dark power could make mefeelas much as her. Like I’m one six-foot-plus raw nerve ending.
Only she could make me… scared.
I’m the first to look away, to lose our visual square up. And for the second time in just minutes, I retreat. And not just emotionally. Physically.
Shifting backward a couple of steps, I place distance between us. A much-needed distance where my head isn’t crowded with the delicious heat emanating from her soft body. Or the delicate and precarious thump of her pulse at the base of her throat. Or the no-nonsense citrus and sharp, fresh scent that’s like fresh fruit in the crisp, early-morning air.
I take another step back.
“Meet me in the study. We have something important to discuss.” I don’t wait for her agreement—shit, this is Ember, don’t wait for her argument.
Pivoting, I exit the kitchen without the water I’d initially gone in there to retrieve. Fuck, no man-made liquid could quench the thirst yawning wide inside of me.
Seconds later, I enter the study that’s as far from her father’s as the east is from the west. The only similarities are the walls of books and hardwood floors. Otherwise, the one I’m standing in isn’t a showpiece carefully curated to display the owner’s wealth, status, and power. Nah, this study is lived-in, used… loved.
The same block windows from the dining room claim a wall, while overstuffed bookcases occupy the others. A group of chairs and low table congregate in front of another massive fireplace. Instead of a bar, there’s a state-of-the-art entertainment center with a TV monitor and music system, including a record player and albums. Small glass containers fill the other section, and I don’t need to inspect the contents to figure out what they contain. Ember is a fucking pothead. She loves the shit, and if it were possible, she’d probably fuck it. Yeah, she got down with the Mary Jane like that.
Giving my head a small shake, I take in the rest of the room,landing on the large, cedar desk. Unlike Marcus’s, whose desktop always remained ruthlessly clean, Ember’s looks like the stereotypical scientist works there. It’s the only thing clichéd about her, the avalanche of papers and notebooks, memo notes stuck to the back of the monitor, a collection of random pens jammed into containers. Behind the desk stands a huge whiteboard crowded with equations, numbers, and notes that make my head hurt just looking at them.
My stepsister is a gotdamn genius.