Page 12 of Wicked Sins

If we don’t leave the house in the next five minutes, we’ll both be late regardless of how many stop signs I run.

“Candy!” I don’t wait for her reply—I storm over to the bathroom door and ram it open.

I expect her to be in the shower, a pane of frosted glass between us, and some steam for good measure. She’s in the middle of the bathroom floor, staring at her reflection.

Stark. Fucking. Naked.

“Jesus!” I drop my eyes.

Pointless, because there’s now a perfect shot of this moment imprinted in my memory.

“Jo!” Candy stands for another second and then snatches a towel off the heated rails beside her. She drapes it over her shoulders like she’s cold instead of wrapping it around her like a normal person.

It barely reaches her belly button.

I turn my back, gritting my teeth at the fact that, without seeing my face, she can’t fathom just how pissed off I am at her. “You’re late!”

“Yes, well, I—I know that!” she stutters. And then, as if she’s suddenly realized just how inappropriate all of this is, adds, “Get out!”

“Not without you.” I turn my head—not too look, but so I can direct my voice better at her—and stab at the door. “Get dressed, and get in my fucking car or I’ll drag you out there with that fucking towel.”

“I have to shower.”

“Then you walk to school.”

“Jo, please, I can’t be late on my first day!” Her voice catches. “Please. One minute, that’s all I need.”

“Just tie your hair up, you’ll be fine,” I say, pushing the words through my teeth.

I think she’s finally realized her attempt at modesty isn’t cutting it. From the corner of my eye, I see her readjust her towel.

That’s not all I see.

“Did you fall?”

She goes rigid, her eyes still down and staying that way. “Yeah.”

“Jesus, how pissed did you get last night?”

Her voice drops even lower, barely a whisper now. “Just drop it.”

“Christ.” I roll my eyes and then slam open the shower door. “If your ass isn’t in my passenger seat in the next sixty seconds, I’m leaving without you.”

“Thank you.”

My jaw bunches, but I don’t bother responding. Of course, she’ll be all fucking sweet when she wants something—that’s what women do, don’t they? They treat you like a piece of shit until they want something, then they’re suddenly dripping honey from every orifice.

“Sixty seconds,” I repeat woodenly, before slamming the bathroom door hard enough to make her yelp in surprise.

A minute later, Candy darts out through the manor’s front door. She races to the car, backpack in one hand, her shoes in the other. Her standard-issue school shirt is buttoned up all wrong and not even tucked into her pleated skirt…but she made it in time.

She winces when she slams the passenger door closed behind her and turns that apologetic simper in my direction.

“Don’t,” I mutter, holding up my hand. “Buckle up and shut up.”

She bites her lip and eases her backpack to the floor between her feet. Then she starts prepping herself. I watch her progress without once looking in her direction, except if I have to check for traffic.

The entire ride to school is utterly silent, but for the occasional rustle or huff of breath, as Candy puts on her shoes, re-buttons her shirt, drags her wet hair away from her neck, and subdues it into a ragged ball on the top of her head.

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