Page 7 of The Sinner: James

“It’s none of your business,” she snaps.

“You take them off, anyway.”

She spins around, her hands glued to her hips.

“Jealous much?”

“Why would I be jealous? What’s so special about spreading your legs for any random man walking the face of the earth?”

She waves me off and turns her back to me before sifting through her clothes again.

“For your information, they are not just any men,” she says, shooting a condescending look at me over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t know, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah... Because not being with a man makes me dumb? Being with a lot of dicks sure didn’t make you any smarter.”

A cold laugh fills the room.

“Look who’s talking,” she mutters, contempt lining her voice. “Sure... Keep your pussy for yourself, sweet little sister, so you can dust it off once in a while. I’m sure some nerd will eventually get it as a consolation prize.”

Fury simmers in my blood, my emotions spilling over my face, fueling her amusement.

Chest rocking with a laugh, she dismisses me with a flick of her hand before turning around and focusing on her dresses.

Three years older than me, a couple of inches shorter and lean but not as toned, my sister has always banked on her pretty features to woo every pair of pants that has ever crossed her path.

She has gained quite a reputation in the process, her affairs becoming the talk of the town.

We never liked each other much, the childhood animosity evolving into a full-fledged war once the hormones ran amok in our house.

It all took a turn for the worse when she started to go out and hook up with men, her arrogance soaring to unimaginable heights.

Despite her claims, I’ve never been jealous of her, and it’s always been the other way around.

It doesn’t help that other than sharing our parents and living in the same house, we have very little in common.

We don’t even look alike.

A mane of brown hair frames her small face and dark eyes, while dirty blonde hair sets off my hazel eyes.

She looks like a pin-up girl for a reason.

She spends hours and hours in front of the mirror, perfecting her looks, while I spend my time talking to Eve on the phone, reading a book, or doing stuff outside.

She goes out a lot. I never do.

She likes men. I’m fascinated by fast cars.

Eve was right––Daria is like a dick vacuum in this town, and most single men know her intimately.

She removes her pick from a hanger––a skintight dress with spaghetti straps fashioned from a stretchy, satin-like fabric––and slips it on.

“Zip me up,” she demands, without glancing at me.

I pull the zipper up, grazing her skin.

She yelps.

“Hey. You don’t have to be nasty.”

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