"Wh -- what?" I stumble over the word and roll over onto my back, sitting up and drawing my knees to my chest.
Jo follows suit, rolling onto her back. "Is he hot?" she repeats. "I mean, yeah, he's a asshole but he's a slutty asshole, right?"
"So?" I ask, my tone high-pitched. "I can't stand him."
"So he's the perfect guy to screw," she says, matter-of-fact. As if she knows every damn thing in the world and is the exact person who should be giving advice. Jo has had a string of shitty boyfriends in the past two years, coupled with dramatic breakups. She's the last person I need to listen to about guys I should screw. I'm immediately irritated by her statement.
"Caulter Sterling is the last guy on earth I'd ever let near my vagina," I lie loudly. Too loudly.
"That's why he's the perfect one to let inside your vagina," she insists, laughing. "I mean, he's slept with a lot of girls, so you know he knows what he's doing. Probably. And you don't like him, so there's no messy breakup before you run off to Harvard."
"Some people wait to lose their virginity to someone they love," I say imperiously.
"Mhmm," she says. "I'm just saying that Caulter would be a perfect one night stand."
"Well, if you think he's a perfect one night stand," I say, "Then you can have him."
She looks over at me, and I can't see her eyes, obscured by the sunglasses. "Well, maybe I will," she says.
My entire body tenses up at her statement, and I swear my heart actually stops. It's just Jo being Jo, I tell myself. And what the hell should I care anyway? Caulter and I had sex once. Well, more than once. We had one night of sex. It was only one night -- completely and utterly meaningless.
Jo should sleep with him. But the thought of her and Caulter together makes me practically enraged. I clear my throat, ready to change the subject, but Jo saves me from that.
"Besides," she says. "You're being smart. It's a very reasonable not to hook-up with him. I'm sure the media would be all over that, if you and your new step-brother were bumping uglies. You know, since the Dick is like the biggest family values guy ever."
I don't respond. But all I can think is that I seem to lose all sense of reason when I'm in close proximity to Caulter.
The driver pulls up to the house and I hate it on sight. It's a huge white farmhouse kind of monstrosity. The only word I can think of to describe it is wholesome. I roll my eyes at the thought of Senator Douchebag giving a tour of the place to reporters, hanging on his every word as he talks about the importance of family values in this day and age. Meanwhile, he ships his kid off to boarding school so he doesn't have to deal with her and marries a rich celebrity who can fund his campaign. Obviously, he's full of something, but it's not family values.
The housekeeper tells me that my mother and the Senator aren't here yet. She shows me to my room and leaves, but not before giving me a look like she smells spoiled milk. I'm guessing someone who looks like me hasn't ever graced the hallowed halls of the Harrison residence. This place probably sees more polo matches than tattoos.
The room, of course, looks like something out of a beach house design magazine. Apparently I got the male version of the guestroom, with a rustic wooden bed, antique corner desk, blue-and-white quilt on the bed, and a ship in a bottle on a shelf on the wall. The entire thing makes my head ache.
The view, on the other hand...hell, that's another story. The minute I open the sliding door that leads out onto the balcony, I get the perfect panorama: two girls, lying on their stomachs on the dock beside the lake, their round asses barely covered by their bikini bottoms. Now, this I could get used to.
One of those asses I immediately recognize as Katherine's. The other girl with an inked pattern I can't quite see running down the side of her leg makes me think I definitely made the right choice coming to New Hampshire for the summer. If Kate has friends as hot as this chick, maybe this bullshit spending the summer in New Hampshire posing as a member of the Stepford family won't be so bad.
Of course, if this means Katherine will be lounging around in a bikini all summer, this entire thing will be a lot easier to swallow. Swallowing makes me think of that night with Katherine, her fumbling tentative movements as she wraps her lips around my cock. I'm not sure she's ever done it before -- she's no expert, that's obvious -- but the way she looks at me, earnestly, unlike the stuck-up priss I know from school, I want to come the minute she takes me in.
Of course, since the last time I saw Katherine, she was pushing me away like I was a leper, the mature thing to do would be to leave her alone and let her hang out with her friend on the dock.
Fuck that. I've never pretended to be mature.
On my way out to the dock, the housekeeper stops me. I can't remember what her name is. "Do you have things you need pressed?" she asks.
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Do I look like I own anything that needs an iron?" I ask.
She puts her hands on her hips and stares at me, her eyes narrow. "You don't look like you own anything that's ever been washed."
I laugh out loud. She's not what I expect from Senator Douchebag's staff. I like her. "It's a look."
She laughs. “It’s something,” she says, shaking her head as she nods to a platter of baked goods on the counter, like I’ve passed some kind of test that gets me into the club where there’s free cookies and muffins. “Your mother and Kate’s father should be in later this evening. Kate’s outside.”