Page 21 of Wicked Sins

It doesn’t.

But for some reason, after I saw her naked the other day, I can’t get that image out of my head. It’s been less than a week, but it’s as crystal clear now as it was back then. Last night, at the dinner table, she’s sitting there all normal and shit.

But not in my mind.

In my sick, diseased mind, she’s not wearing a stitch. And, this time, those bruises dot her whole body.

I’m at the point where I’m considering Googling that shit to see just what the fuck’s wrong with me. I’d have done it already, but I’m terrified. I know bad shit runs in our family, but I didn’t think I’d be one of the afflicted. I thought that had all ended with Mom.

What if I’m wrong?

If Dad hadn’t been such a stickler for etiquette and ‘family time’, I’d be eating dinner in my room. I’m starting to wonder if I should get more friends and have myself invited over to their houses for supper, just so I don’t have to keep my eyes on my goddamn plate the entire way through my meal.

“…even fuck her yourself if you wanted. No one’s gonna toss you in juvie.”

My jaw clenches, and it’s the only warning I have. I barely manage to lock my muscles in time.

My fist stops a foot away from Alex’s face. He stares at it, then at me, and bursts out laughing.

“Jesus, you crack me up,” he manages through his laughter. He glances at my fist again, and shakes his head, but then lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever, dude.” He walks backward, still shaking his head, and then turns and trots toward the rest of the football team.

Halfway there, he yells out, “Stop taking everything so fucking seriously, Jo!”

* * *

During a break,I’m at the cooler splashing ice water over my head when I notice a few of the guys on the team huddling up on the sidelines again.

They start laughing, a few of them slapping the others on their backs. Alex stands among them, and he happens to look my way. His grin fades a little before brightening. Then he lifts his palms up and parodies a reluctant shrug.

What you gonna do?

My gaze flashes to the bleachers.

Sean is halfway up, and he’s making a beeline for Candy’s row.

The cup crumples in my fist. Icy water pours over my hand, and I absently drop my cup to the grass.

I want nothing more than to race after him and bash his fucking face against the concrete until it looks like chopped liver.

But that doesn’t make any sense. Like Alex said, Candy is nothing to me. We’re not related. The only thing binding us is some pathetic scrap of paper our parents signed.

Have my dick down her throat by nine tonight.

Candy gives Sean a double-take when she realizes he’s headed for her, and then looks around as if she’s expecting to see someone else sitting close by.

Come to think about it, I haven’t seen her around anyone. I knew she was a snob, but I’d thought she’d have found her crowd by now.

My chest tightens, and it’s not with anger. Fuck, I can’t believe I actually feel sorry for her. I bet she does this all on purpose. Makes herself seem aloof and shit. Bet she’ll have Bettie fucking Monroe eating out of her hand before the week’s out.

Sean stops beside her and hikes his cleat onto the concrete row she’s perched on.

As if she’s stupid enough not to realize that the massive bulge by his dick is a cup. Fuck, maybe she doesn’t, because suddenly Candy doesn’t know where to look.

A hand clasps my arm. I swing around to face Alex, and realize I’m not next to the water cooler anymore.

“Dude, just chill, would you?” he says, shoving at me. “Sean’s a lady killer, but, and no offense, your sister is kind of a bitch.”

“Stepsister,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it.

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