"Dude," she says. "What, are you stoned?"
"Huh? No. What?" I sound like a total idiot. "What were you saying?"
"I said, will you hand me the towel?"
"Oh." I reach down and grab the towel beside me and toss it to her, then turn away, adjusting the obvious bulge in my trunks. Fuck. I'm having a hard time -- pun intended -- hiding my response to her and I hope she hasn't noticed. I walk away, toweling off to conceal my erection, my back facing her, and try instead to focus on the most un-sexually attractive things I can think of. It barely helps.
"You're getting better," she says. "Maybe you can go be a SEAL or something."
"Fuck." I practically spit out the word. "Wouldn't that be a trip. The Colonel's head would explode."
"Why?" she asks. I glance over my shoulder at her, and she's pulling the swim cap off her head and shaking out her hair. Damn it. She looks like an actress in one of those movies, when the girl shakes out her hair in slow motion as some slow porno-music plays on the soundtrack, hair tumbling down in waves, and I look away again.
I can't keep coming out here like this, hanging out with her, talking to her like we're friends. Not with the way I'm starting to like her. And definitely not with the way I'm looking at her. "The Colonel is Army all the way," I say. "He considers every other branch inferior. Don't you know? He'd love it if I went into the Army."
"Is that what you want to do?"
I turn around, making sure to hide my junk with the towel. I'm still so damn hard I can barely think, and Addison wants to have a conversation about my life and my damn future. "What, you're going to ask what I want to do?"
She looks taken aback. "What else would I ask?"
"I don't know," I say. "No one else seems to give a shit. Are you doing what you want to do?"
Addison laughs. "I'm fifteen," she says. "I'm a star."
"That's not really an answer," I say.
She just shrugs. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"I don't know. You're not that great at answering questions."
"It's not related," she says. "I need a favor, since I'm helping you."
I cock my head to the side. "You're helping me?"
"I'm teaching you to swim, jerk-face."
"Jerk-face?" I ask. "How old are you, twelve? Go on, I want to hear what kind of favor Addison Stone needs from me."
"I need you to teach me how to drive."
"You don't know how to drive yet?" I ask. "You're sixteen in...how long?"
"Four months," she says. "I was on tour, and my mom has been..." Her voice trails off.
"Preoccupied with my dad," I say, sighing.
"You don't have to," she says, obviously misinterpreting my sigh as reluctance. I guess it wouldn't really be a misinterpretation. I don't want to spend any more time alone with Addison than I have to. I keep coming down to the pool at night, even though I know it's playing with fire. Addison is getting under my skin. It's Addison I talk to about things, down here at the pool. It's Addison I look forward to seeing every night like clockwork, and Addison I'm ditching dates for, just so I can continue our swim lessons. Addison is the one I've talked to about my mom's death, about what a douchebag my father is. It's Addison I want to talk to all the time.
And that's a fucking problem.
I need to get her out of my head. There are a hundred different girls I can go screw, girls that don't live in the same house with me. Girls who aren't my stepsister. And I've been fucking them. It's just that it's Addison's face I see when I'm in their beds. And it's Addison's name that's on my lips.
"It's fine," I lie. I should tell her no.
"Don't do it if you don't want to."
"I said it's fine. We'll start this weekend. But if you fuck up my car, driving it like shit, you're going to buy me a new one."
A grin spreads across Addison's face and she holds out her hand for me to shake. "Okay. Deal."
PRESENT DAY
I strip off my shirt as I come in the apartment, careful to close the door quietly behind me. It's five in the morning, and I'm feeling energetic, despite my best efforts to wear the hell out of myself. Too damn energetic. I'm edgy and irritable as a result of being in close quarters with Addison. Last night, hanging out with her in the pool sent memories of all the nights we spent together flooding right back – all of those nights I spent fighting my attraction for her.
I remind myself that I should be behaving more like a bodyguard, even if this isn't some routine security gig. The Colonel's expressed words were "no actual security threat." I'm a glorified babysitter and that's it. It's also not a regular situation because it's Addison.
Pouring a cup of coffee, I take it back to the room I appropriated a few days ago when Addison was being a less-than-gracious host. Most people like her who are big stars now would hire a designer for decorating, but I know just by looking at it that this guest room, like everything in her place, is her own design. This apartment is her private space. Everything in here has been carefully selected, from the carved teak bed to the deep wine-colored curtains to the paintings on the wall, modern art with bright sunset oranges and Caribbean blues. It's more bohemian than country and it reflects Addy's personality.