Page 52 of Roaming Holiday

When I finish my eye makeup, I spot precisely what Maia’s wearing through the mirror. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

She glances at her chest. “I’m not.”

“You are. I got it at the mall with Raven.”

“But it’s not your shirt.”

“Yes it is!” I insist, walking out of the bathroom and putting my makeup bag into my duffle. I remember picking the red shirt instead of the lavender and how I would only wear it when I was feeling particularly saucy because it was the one revealing shirt I have. And Maia’s B-cups don’t fill it the way my D-cups do.

“I’ve literally had this for months so it’s not like you were missing it.”

“So you admit that it’s mine.”

“What does it matter? You don’t wear it!”

“It matters ‘cause it’s mine.”

“Oh, my god. It’s not a big deal!” she wails, getting to her feet. The shirt looks good on her, can’t deny, but I’d rather die than tell her that.

“How about you don’t take my shit?”

“How about you get over it?”

“How about you grow the fuck up?”

“I don’t have to—you act old enough for the both of us.”

“Because nothing would ever get done!” I screech, wanting to throttle her for the childish way she said I don’t have to.

“No one told you to act like my mom!”

“You’re so—” I clench my fists with an annoyed groan. The number of times her crying ass came to me with her homework or over another boy she liked! I push out a sigh. There’s one focus here, so I hold out my hand. “Give me my shirt back.”

“No,” she quips. “It looks cuter on me.”

Fuck this. I’m not her mom. Which means I can hit her.

I lunge to wrap my arm around her neck, slapping aside her raised hands. As I haul her to the ground, I shout, “You don’t even have the boobs to fill it out!”

“What the—” Maia stammers, struggling to get off her back. She might be an inch taller than me, but she’s also a twig. “You’re psychotic!”

“I want my shirt back!”

She tries to shove her knees between us and I push them away and reach for the shirt zipper on her back. She squirms away. “Too bad!”

When she slices me with her unreasonably sharp nails, drawing blood, I slap her in the face. “Don’t scratch me, you little bitch!”

“Get the fuck off—” She groans in frustration. “Nina!”

“All right, enough!” Wesley snaps, hooking an arm around my waist and lifting me off my little sister.

Mason intercepts Maia from hopping up and lunging at me. As her bodyguard pulls her away, I notice she’s slipped off her sandal and raised her arm to either throw or hit.

“Drop it,” Mason demands, loosely holding her wrist. At her silence, he adds, “Maia.”

The sandal drops to the floor with a thud.

“Good girl,” I taunt. “Now speak.”

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