Tool

Page 55

Gaige shrugs.   "I don't know," he says.   "I was just wondering if he was…trying to get us together or something. "

I almost spit out my champagne.   "No," I say.   "Definitely not.   Are you kidding?"

"Is it so bad?"

"What, you and me?"  My voice is too loud, and I drop it to just above a whisper.   "Are you asking about if you and I got together?"

"No," Gaige says, and averts his eyes.   "Forget I said anything. "  He lies back in his seat and closes his eyes.

Shit.   I feel like someone punched me in the gut.   But Gaige asking what my father would think if we got together is insane on so many levels.   "I thought you were joking," I say lamely.

Gaige's eyes remain closed.   He was joking, wasn't he?  I nudge his arm, but he doesn't open his eyes.   "Stop ignoring me.   Are you screwing around with me?  You're asking what my father would think about the two of us?  He would absolutely kill you.   And me.   Maybe me first.   He'd definitely fire me.   And you.   And probably disown me.   You're my…" I lower my voice to a whisper.   "Brother. "

He opens his eyes and looks at me.   "Step-brother," he says.   "And yeah, whatever, I was totally just kidding.   Hooking up is one thing, but what am I going to do, date you?"  His voice is nonchalant, but there's an edge to it that wasn't there before.

Crap.   Now I really feel like someone punched me in the gut.

Gaige sinks back against his seat and I sit back in mine, the silence between us deafening, acting as if nothing happened.

Except it feels like everything just happened.

Sometimes the most important conversations start like the most innocuous ones in the world, no big deal, and then they just spiral out of control of their own accord.   I want to rewind the last twenty minutes and do it all over again.   But this time, I'd actually say the right words.

Except I'm not sure what I would say.   Was Gaige hinting that he wanted to date me?  I don't even know how that would work, even if we weren't step-siblings.   I already know Gaige.   We have history.   Would we sit at dinner and go to movies and pretend to get to know each other?

I close my eyes, faking sleep.   How the hell did I get myself into this situation?

And why can't I stop thinking about what Gaige said?

It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks in Japan -- I don't even know where the hell we've been, to be honest.   The first week I was too jet-lagged to notice much of anything, and content to just be told where to go and what to do.   Photo shoots, interviews, appearances, one right after the other.   I shot some television commercials, but I don't even know what the products were.   Cologne, I think – nothing bike-related.   And an ad for one of those little canned coffee drinks.   It's all a blur.

And in the middle of that blur is Delaney.   Always Delaney.   I'm still hooking up with her, sneaking into her hotel room at night after Chelsea has gone to bed.   The sex hasn't changed – it's still as hot as hell.   That in and of itself is a fucking miracle.   I've never had so much sex with one girl.

The thing is, it's bugging me.

I want – shit, I don't know what I want.   I want to be around Delaney all the damn time.   I can't get enough of her laugh, or the way she blushes when I embarrass her, which is a lot, or how she's so professional when we're out somewhere and she's handling me…and then she's mine, totally mine, in bed.   When I'm with her…it's just easy.

Except that everything has felt off since the flight.   Or maybe it's not off for her -- I can't tell.   I don't know why the hell I brought up dating, anyway.   I wouldn't know the first thing about dating some girl, much less Delaney.   Delaney is sure as fuck not any regular girl, even if she weren't kind-of related to me.   The whole stepsister thing doesn't bother me like it apparently does her, anyway.

I answer the knock on the door because I know it's Delaney.   Pulling on my Marlow Oil polo shirt, I yank it open.   Delaney is wearing black slacks and a polo shirt that matches mine, her hair in a ponytail, messenger bag slung across her chest.   Her face is still flushed.   "Good morning, Ms. Marlowe," I say.

It's a great fucking morning, actually.   Delaney is coming from her hotel room and her shower, but only because she sneaked back over there this morning after a little morning sex.