Page 34 of The Perfect Wrong
“Lighten up. I’m just dicking around,” I say, ignoring the wary look Ma shoots across the table. “Sure hope you have something going to help blow off steam. Doing one paper after the next must get stressful. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
My mother coughs.
I look at her while Delia shoots one hand down, trying to shove my hand away without alerting our parents.
Yes, I’m a jackass.
I just don’t care.
It’s too fun getting her hot and bothered. Emphasis onbothered.
As fucked up as this is, I’d still like nothing better than to slide between these silk thighs.
A warped part of me saysdo itbecause it’s spitting in the face of whatever evil spirit worked its black magic to keep us apart.
“Not my Cordelia. I’m afraid my girl has always been rather shy with the boys,” Bruce says carefully, scooping up his risotto the instant it’s laid in front of him by another servant.
“Dad!” she chirps loudly. “Can we not talk about this?”
Interesting.
Looks like Delia does one hell of a tomato impression.
Now she’s hot, bothered, and pissed off.
One more pinch of her skin from yours truly ratchets up the pressure before I tear my hand away, lifting it over the table to grab some bread.
I try not to laugh while I ignore her offended death-glare.
“She’ll catch on soon,” I say, giving Bruce a wink. “Or some dude will catch her, I’m sure. Can’t believe she’s not engaged to some college kid with a triple major yet. Sheseemslike such a nice girl.”
Daddy dearest chuckles like the ignoramus he is. “Oh, there’s plenty of time for that. She’s just a very focused student—and a mighty fine painter, too, if you ask her about that. Though she’s almost as modest with her art as she is with dating.”
I look at my red-faced stepsister.
She doesn’t breathe a word while she pretends to pick at her food.
I’m actually interested, but forcing another secret out of her at this point would just be cruel.
“Her last semester’s coming up in the fall, and she’s been picking away at her thesis all summer,” Bruce tells me.
“Thesis, huh? What subject?”
“I haven’t decided,” she snaps, taking an angry sip of wine. “Something exciting, hopefully. It takes a lot to impress my professor, but I’ll manage. He’s the kind of guy who loves tragic stories, whatever tugs on the heartstrings.”
I can’t help it.
I roll my eyes.
Ma gives me a horrified look.
“Not even graduated yet and you already talk like a reporter. Choose your sob stories carefully, lady. It’s not always fun being on the receiving end of some gangly, embedded media jackoff who doesn’t think twice about tweeting sensitive info or posting it on that clock app.”
“Chris!” Mom’s silverware crashes against the china plate. “I apologize for my son’s mouth, Cordelia. He’s lived his adult life in the military, and he gets a little bent out of shape about these issues...”
Bent out of shape?
Right.