"Well, nothing happened, anyway," I tell her.
"Good," she says. "Keep it that way. You haven't -- you know -- with anyone, have you?"
"Yeah, right," I say, catching the meaning of her words. "I've barely been on a date. Who would I – you know -- with?"
"That's good," she says. "It's not all it's cracked up to be anyway."
I don't believe her. Sex is obviously all it's cracked up to be, since she's doing it with lots of different guys. I don't say that, even though I want to. It would hurt her feelings, and I don't want to hurt her. Still, I've wondered about sex. A lot. And I want her to tell me about it, but I don't dare ask. She'd totally blow me off as being too young, and I hate that. "Anyway," I say. "Have you even talked to Hendrix?"
I've wondered about Hendrix too. Hendrix makes me think about sex, a lot more than I care to admit, ever since I saw him standing in the foyer the day his father brought him here. He was tattooed and pierced and he looked at his father with anger in his eyes, the kind of anger that sent a secret thrill through me.
Then he turned and looked at me, dark and brooding, his eyes traveling down the length of my body... Something about that look made me shiver. It stayed with me, and I thought about it later that night, when I slid my finger inside my panties.
Grace shrugs. "He doesn't run in the same circles I do," she says. Which is weird because I'd think they'd hang out with similar people, since she's into tattoos and piercings and all that. I don't know. Sometimes I don't understand Grace at all.
I understand my new stepbrother even less.
I don't understand why I smell bacon. The smell wakes me up, and I open my eyes, expecting sunlight streaming through the windows, but it's dark.
And I'm still wearing my clothes.
I sit up, groggy, and blink my eyes a few times, trying to register what the hell time it is. The clock reads 5:45. In the freaking morning?
Then I realize I must have laid down on the bed and passed out when Hendrix brought me back yesterday from the diner. Holy shit.
Hendrix.
Pulling open the bedroom door, I pad into the kitchen, where I see Hendrix, his back toward me. Hendrix is shirtless in my kitchen, wearing a pair of olive green sweatpants, slung low on his hips. A sleeve of tattoos runs up the length of his arm, covering his shoulder and side, but I can't tell what the tattoos are from where I stand.
He turns and looks at me over his shoulder, then glances back to the stove, where he's turning pieces of bacon over. "Morning, sweet-cheeks."
"What are you doing here?" The words come out of my mouth before I think. I'm still groggy, even though I've apparently just slept longer than I have since I was a toddler. But seriously, what the hell is Hendrix still doing in my apartment?
"That's a shitty way to greet someone who's making you breakfast," he says. He reaches up into one of the cabinets and hands me a coffee mug. "Coffee's over there. Get some."
"Obviously you've familiarized yourself with my kitchen," I say. "I don't know if I should be disturbed or impressed." I'm miffed at the way he just orders me around, telling me to "get some" coffee in my own damn house. I'm also annoyed with how comfortable he seems here, cooking and going through my cabinets and my refrigerator and making himself right at home. I'm about to make a smart comment about it, but the aroma of coffee is distracting and I wind up just pouring myself a cup instead.
"I had to buy you some groceries," he says. "I don't know what you've been eating -- yogurt and salad, by the looks of it."
"I eat out a lot," I say, my voice defensive. My stomach rumbles loudly at the aroma of the bacon, though. Still, I don't need another lecture from Hendrix, of all people, about taking care of myself. Although it does look like he knows how to take care of himself. The thought pops into my head, and I find myself stealing another glance at him.
Hendrix looks over at me, and I know he just caught me staring at him. My cheeks burn, and I try to cover my embarrassment by taking a sip of coffee. And I nearly choke. Hendrix laughs. "Yeah, I make it strong."
"I guess so," I say. "Did you learn that in the Marines?"
Hendrix shrugs. "That's self-taught. What can I say? Coffee is my vice," he says. He turns around and looks at me, his gaze running down my body. "Not my only vice."
I swallow hard, forcing my eyes upward and definitely not focusing on his chest. His bare, muscular, tattooed, damn-it-stop-looking-focus-your-eyes-up chest. And his abs. He doesn't have an ounce of fat on his body, which is especially impressive after I watched him eat enough food to feed a small army yesterday.
But then I remind myself that Hendrix is not just another hot guy. He's an asshole. Leopards don't change their spots, and assholes definitely don't change their...assholiness or something. Not to mention the fact that he's my stepbrother.
I definitely don't need to be thinking about him like this. Or feeling the heat rush through my body as he looks at me.
"I'm sure that's the least of your vices," I say, hinting at Hendrix's past as a total manwhore. "You haven't changed at all."