It’s just a photo. It doesn’t matter. These people are nothing and soon you’ll have left this nightmare forever.
I repeat this mantra over and over as I walk home. I’m a Bianchi, and everyone in this city knows that crossing a Bianchi is dangerous for your longevity, except high school doesn’t follow normal rules. High school is its own ecosystem with different in-crowds, out-crowds, and pecking orders. Lately, I reek of vulnerability. I’m the limping gazelle on the savanna, and the predators are closing in around me.
It’s just a photo, Mia.
But it’s not just a photo. It’s evidence of me doing something that gets my stomach churning every time. I need two shots of vodka just to walk through that door.
I clench my backpack strap, and then whimper as my bruised and reddened knuckles blaze with pain. I think I hurt myself more throwing that punch than the person who received it.
A noisy, souped-up car approaches behind me, but my stomach is revolving a hundred times a minute. I don’t recognize the sound until it’s far too late to duck down a side street or into a store.
A black Camaro pulls up next to me, the engine throbbing, and dismay tumbles through me.
The driver rolls the windows down and thumping bass spills out. A mocking voice asks, “Alone again? Where are your friends, high-school girl?”
I can’t deal with my stepfather right now on top of everything else. I keep walking and staring straight ahead.
The engine cuts, a car door slams, and Laz steps onto the sidewalk in front of me. Sunlight dapples his broad shoulders, and the wind ruffles his dark hair. Behind his sunglasses, his brows are drawn tightly together.
There’s genuine concern on his face. “What’s happened?”
“Who says anything’s happened?”
“Your face, Bambi. You look like someone ran over your kitten.”
I give him the finger and step around him. “Don’t call me Bambi. I’m fine.”
Laz grabs my wrist, and my middle finger is right in his face. “I don’t believe you. Get in the car.”
I try to twist out of his hold, but his hand is like steel. “Piss off, Laz!”
Laz’s eyes flash. “Get in the car or I’ll put you over my knee and spank you right here in the street.”
I wince as a couple walking their dog nearby turns to look at us. “Don’t be so crude.”
“I can be cruder if you don’t do as I say,” he says in a threatening voice. “How about I start describing the way you ground your wet pussy all over my fingers? Loudly.”
My eyes narrow. He wouldn’t dare.
Laz takes a deep breath and opens his mouth.
“Okay, I’m going. Keep your voice down.” I yank open the passenger door and get into the front seat. I’ve been ignoring him since he humiliated me at dinner four nights ago. He hates it in our house, but why does he have to take his bad temper out on me?
Stupid question. I know why.
It’s fun for him, and he thinks I’m pathetic.
If only he knew the real reason I keep my mouth shut. That I’m biding my time and saving my pennies, and the second I graduate high school, I’ll be gone like a shot. Mom and my uncles will never have to look at the Bianchi family shame ever again.
The interior of Laz’s car is gleaming and perfect and smells like leather and him. When he gets in and starts the engine, I glance at his large, tattooed hands on the steering wheel. There’s something captivating about the way he manhandles the stick shift into place as he guns the engine and turns the wheel. It’s a totally ordinary thing that he must have done a thousand times before, and yet the churning in my belly suddenly settles and is replaced by a fluttering sensation.
Laz isn’t special. Men just look attractive when they’re driving, and any man driving this car would look hot. Connor, my ex-boyfriend, could be counted in the top three hottest guys in school, and to prove the point to myself, I picture him in Laz’s place.
I scrunch my nose as I imagine it. Or not.
Laz glances at me as he steps on the gas, and we roar down the street. “What’s that face for, Bambi? You don’t like my car?”
I love his stupid car. “You do realize Bambi was a boy?”
We drive in tense, uncomfortable silence. I can feel the anger radiating off Laz’s body in waves.
“I’m getting fucking sick of you,” he says through clenched teeth. “If someone’s hurt you, then go do something about it.”
I push my fingers so hard into my palms that my nails feel like they’re going to cut right through flesh. That’s easy for him to say when he’s six-foot-four, ripped, and a man. An intimidating man. Even if I had a black belt in karate, I still have these stupid big brown eyes. No one takes your threats seriously when you resemble a terrified woodland creature.
I shake my head and stare out the window. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me.”
“You’re right. I have no idea what it’s like to be a scared piece of shit.”
Fuming, I reach into my school bag and thrust a letter at him. He takes it with a frown and opens the envelope against the steering wheel one-handed. Still driving, he glances between the road and the letter.
“To Mia Bianchi’s parent or guardian, blah blah blah . . . suspended for fighting?” A delighted grin breaks over Laz’s face. “That’s more like it. Who did you flatten?”
I snatch the letter back. Of course he would think it’s funny. “None of your business.”
“Come on. Who pissed you off? Tell me, and I’ll finish the job off for you if you didn’t give them a black eye yet.”
I picture him sinking his fist into Kaleb’s face, and the idea is enthralling. But then I’d owe my stepfather. “If I have a problem, I’ll tell Mom, not you.”
Laz bursts out laughing. “Why, because you think she’ll care?”
His words feel like a slap across my face. Who told him about the man who fathered me? Did they ridicule me and Mom? Did Laz think it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and laugh like he’s laughing now?
“You’ve been in my family for five minutes, and you think you know us? You don’t know shit, asshole.”
Laz turns to me with a smirk and rumbles lazily, “Damn, I knew you had a dirty mouth. What else that mouth do?”
He’s relaxed in his seat as he drives, knees spread and wearing his usual black jeans. They hug his hips and muscular thighs, and before I can help myself, I’ve glanced at his zipper.
Not his zipper. His dick. I felt him thrusting against my ass the other night when he was hard, and he was huge. He’s not hard now, but there’s a sizable package in his jeans. I can vividly imagine Laz cupping the nape of my neck as I lean over his lap and take him in my mouth. A little hiss of pleasure and then his low, breathy, Good girl as he raises his hips to fuck my mouth.
I look away quickly and glare out the passenger window, but not before I catch his shit-eating grin. He knows exactly where my mind went.
He’s married to Mom, I remind myself. He screws Mom. Remember how you heard them that time? Not moaning and panting, but the unmistakable rhythmic noise of a headboard hitting a wall. Otherwise, dead silence.
Revulsion skitters through my body at the memory. Finally, a normal reaction to my stepfather.
When Laz pulls into the driveway at home, I get out of the car, expecting him to speed away again, but he follows me inside. In the hall, he overtakes me, looking into every room until he finds Mom in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the counter answering emails on her phone.
“Your daughter has something to tell you,” Laz announces, and then he stands back and folds his arms.
Mom looks past me as if she expects to see Rieta or Isabel standing in the doorway.
He means me. I’m your daughter, too.
Mom turns back to her phone and her acrylic nail taps the screen. “What do you have to tell me, Mia? You’re not failing school, are you?”
The pain in my chest doubles. She assumes that if I’ve got something to say, it must be because I did something wrong.
Tap tap tap.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Laz glares daggers at me as I turn on my heel and sweep past him. “Pathetic.”
I keep walking while images of revenge flash through my mind. Heaping all his fashionably ripped jeans into a pile and torching them in the back garden. Scraping a key along every panel of his beloved car. I want to scream at him. I want to rake my nails down his chest. But I also know that it won’t make me feel any better when the person I truly wish to scream at is Mom. I want to crack that frosty, aloof demeanor of hers and make her see me. Even if I wanted to hurt her, I wouldn’t know how. If I acted out, she’d flick me a haughty glance and return to whatever she’s doing, because I’m less worthy of her attention than a mosquito buzzing around her head.
I lock myself in the bathroom and splash handful after handful of cold water over my face. I’m so sick of this place. The school year ends in four months, and I haven’t saved up enough money yet. Maybe just one more month will do it, and I could sell the handbag Mom gave me for my birthday. A crummy little apartment would be better than living under this roof.
I turn the tap off by slamming it with the heel of my hand and gaze at my dripping face.
Or I could stop being a scared little bitch and actually face Mom like a grown up. Stand up for myself, for once.
Once I’ve dried my face, I head back to the kitchen and approach Mom. In a calm voice, I say, “Mom. One of the boys at school took a picture of me.”
Not a lie. But not the whole truth, either.
“What picture, darling?” she murmurs, tapping on her phone screen. A large gin and tonic rests at her elbow.
I take a deep breath, and then falter. Is this the time to come clean? But if I do, all hell is going to break loose. “Up . . . up my T-shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra.”
Mom raises her head and stares straight ahead. Then she puts down her phone and gets to her feet. Relief washes over me. I knew it was the right idea to talk to Mom like an adult. She’s never had time for whining and complaining.
Without warning, anger flashes in Mom’s eyes, and she slaps me hard across the face. “You disgusting girl.”
Pain bursts through my face, and I cry out, covering my cheek with my hand.
“How did this happen?” she seethes.
Now is definitely not the time. It never will be the time. “G-gym class,” I stammer, my eyes burning with tears of pain. “I forgot my sports bra.” The truth is I don’t need a sports bra. My boobs are barely there.
“You come to me with this story and expect me to believe it? You’re whoring around in this town again, aren’t you? It makes me sick to hear about your shameless behavior.”
I flush red to the roots of my hair as I remember the face peering in Connor’s steamy car window. Anyone else would have turned and walked away or minded their own business in the first place, but not my family. Uncle Tomaso yanked open the door and dragged me out of the car by my hair and threw me to the ground. He was yelling horrible names at me at the top of his lungs. Connor couldn’t drive away fast enough.
“Which boy?” says a dangerous voice from the doorway. “What photo? Where is it?”
I stiffen. I didn’t realize Laz was still in the house.
“Why, do you want a copy?” I snarl over my shoulder, and his expression darkens.
I turn back to Mom, but a strong hand grasps my upper arm and drags me from the kitchen. I fight Laz every step of the way, but his bruising fingers don’t let go. He hustles me out the front door and toward his car parked down the street.
“Let me go.”
Laz pushes me into his vehicle and slams the door behind me. With a squeal of tire rubber, we race down the street.
My cheek is still stinging from Mom’s slap, and worse is probably waiting for me when I get home. I haven’t even told her I’m suspended yet.
Laz pulls up and parks by a bridge next to the river. It’s a narrow street with the bridge towering over us and sheltered by trees. Absolutely no one is around. He turns to me with a savage glare.
Before he can accuse me of anything, I say, “I didn’t send anyone a picture of my tits.”
“All right. You didn’t.”
He doesn’t even sneer the words. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I wonder why he believes me, and then I realize why with a dismal feeling.
“What’s that face for?” he asks.
“You only believe me because you’d think it was hilarious if I wanted to show these off to anyone.” I wave my hand at my chest.
A smile hooks the corner of his mouth as he glances at my top. “I like your tiny tits.”
I shove his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “Screw you.”
Laz hooks a finger into the neck of my T-shirt. “Don’t believe me? Show ’em to me.”
I swat his hands away. “What? No.”
“Some little shit who’s bald as a baby bird down there has seen your tits and I haven’t. I’ll tell you what you’ve got.”
“The guys at school are eighteen, not twelve.”
His eyes flash. “You mean they’re men? Now I’m jealous. That’s it. Lift up your top.”
He grasps my waist with both hands and slides his thumbs beneath my T-shirt.
“Stop that,” I mutter, wriggling back against the car door. There’s barely an inch of space to move. My heart is battering against my ribs. I could jab him in the eyes with my fingernails, but the intensity of his green gaze has me holding on to his forearms instead. I don’t want him to stop looking at me exactly the way he is right now.
Like he really is jealous.
My eyes fasten on the scar that bisects his lips at the corner of his mouth. “How did you get that?”
“Fighting.” Staring right in my eyes and moving so slow it’s agony, Laz starts to pull my top up. I have eons of time to stop him, and he’s not holding the cotton so hard that I couldn’t shove it down. He pushes it high so that it’s tight under my arms, totally exposing my breasts. As usual, I’m not wearing a bra.
He drops his eyes and I stare at his face, terrified he’s going to laugh at me. I hate that Laz is good-looking. I hate that he has a long, straight nose, dark brows, and inky black lashes that are too goddamn lush for a man. A hard jaw, and those scarred, teasing lips. Only, they’re not teasing now. They’re full and soft. His eyes are soft, too, drinking me in like I’m a work of art.
Laz plucks my tender nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and it aches so good I moan softly. My waist arches involuntarily in his hands and I suck in a shaky breath.
“Fuck, you’re sexy,” he says in a roughened voice.
Mia Bianchi, whoring around in a car again, except this time I’m not misbehaving with a boyfriend from school, I’m showing my tits to a man who’s nearly thirty, and who happens to be my stepfather.
Laz wraps his arms around my back and pulls me closer to him. As he dips his head, his dark hair falls into his eyes. He runs his tongue slowly up one of my breasts, and then pinches my nipple with his teeth.
I moan in his arms and heat floods my pussy. Heat, and a sharp, sweet ache. I brace one hand on the dashboard and another on the roof of the car as I breathe unsteadily. I want to touch Laz and find out whether his muscles feel as good as they look, but I don’t dare touch him because I know he will. He’ll feel better than anything I’ve ever felt before, and I won’t be able to let go of him.
He’s not yours, I remind myself frantically.
Don’t touch him because he’s not yours.
“What’s this guy’s name?” he murmurs coaxingly, running his soft tongue over my nipples. “The one who took the picture. I won’t do anything crazy. I’ll just make him delete the photo. You want that, don’t you, Bambi?”
My God, I might come from just his tongue on my tits. My pulse is racing wildly, and I push my sweaty hand against the dash, trying to think. Will he really not do anything crazy? But everything Laz does is crazy, including what he’s doing to me right now. “I don’t trust you.”
He takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks me. Hard. “Who, me?”
Oh, fuck. “You married my mom four weeks ago, and now you’re . . . now you’re . . .”
I feel him smile against my sensitized flesh. “Now I’m having the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m living under the same roof as a horny little bitch who’s been hungry for my cock the moment I met her. She’s got the prettiest fuck-me eyes I ever saw, and the sound of her moaning my name while I pound her sweet pussy is all I want for Christmas.”
He plants slow kisses up my neck, and like the horny little bitch he says I am, I bare my throat for him. I didn’t want him the first moment I saw him. I was just hyperaware of him the moment he stepped in the room with his smirk and those muscles. I was picking up on that big dick energy like my pussy was suddenly a goddamn radar. The more I tried to ignore him, the more violently he intruded in my thoughts.
Now we’re in his car and my tits are in his big, warm hands while he kisses my throat. How the hell did this happen?
Laz pulls back and our faces are inches away from each other’s. The scar across the corner of his mouth beckons me to kiss him, while the rest of the world feels very far away.
“Tell me, Bambi,” Laz murmurs, teasing my lips by not quite touching them with his. “Tell me who hurt you, and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”
“You care that some boy is tormenting me when tormenting me is your favorite thing to do?”
A wicked smile touches his lips. “I’m not tormenting you. This is foreplay.” He glances above our heads at my palm pressed tight against the roof of his car. “Why aren’t you touching me?”
I don’t want to know what he feels like. I don’t want to replay the feel of him beneath my hands over and over again as I lay in my bed in the dark, furiously rubbing my clit.
Laz tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Bambi, don’t look so terrified. I’m a mouthy bastard, but I’m not going to run off and tell anyone about this. You think I want to draw the wrath of the Bianchis down on my head by telling them I’m messing around with my stepdaughter?” He smiles wider, his white, shiny canines glinting. “So touch me.”
Nope. It’s a trap. He touches my body. I touch his. He kisses me. Next thing I know, I’m in the back seat of his car while he pounds the living daylights out of me. Yet another terrible decision.
I swallow, hard. “Let’s just go home.”
Laz takes a fistful of my T-shirt and drags it down and settles it carefully back into place over my ribs. He sits back, and finally I can breathe again. “Not until you give me that name.”
The world rushes back. Holy shit. How does he command one hundred and ten percent of my attention like that? “Don’t worry about it. I don’t care anymore.”
Laz’s expression darkens. “There’s a red mark on your cheek, Bambi. I’m fucking furious. Either we go home and I give your mom hell for putting it there, or you let me unleash it all on the bastard who caused this shit in the first place.”
My heart convulses with longing. Suddenly, I don’t care if he’s sincere or not. Laz wants to defend me. I crave to know what that feels like for the first time in my life.
I lift my fist and show him the red bruise on my knuckles. “But I got him good already.”
Laz takes my hand and kisses the mark. “You got him so good. But let me finish him off for you. Don’t worry, I won’t kill him. I’ll only punch him hard enough to give him a black eye. Flattening high school wasters isn’t much fun.”
“He’s six feet tall, works out, and has an older brother and a mean father.”
He shrugs. “So?”
“They’re all into wrestling.”
Laz’s eyes flash with delight. “You mean it will be a proper fight? Now you’re talking. Name and address. Now.”
I sigh and stare straight ahead through the windshield. Maybe I’ll regret this, but I tell him the address.
“Good girl,” he says, his eyes lighting up as he starts the car.
When we pull up outside Kaleb’s house, he and his brother Michael are playing basketball in the driveway. Both of them have stripped off their T-shirts and a good two inches of designer underwear is showing above their belted jeans. They’re almost as tall as Laz, and Michael clearly works out just as much as he does.
Laz turns to me, his eyebrows lifting. “Jesus. I’m fighting these guys? You couldn’t be bullied by Napoleon Dynamite?”
“No one’s making you,” I tell him, but bitter disappointment creeps into my voice. For a while there, it felt good that someone was going up to bat for me, even if it is my strange, weirdly sexy, and definitely deranged stepdad.
Laz gives me a lazy grin. “You think I can’t take them? Bambi, they’re toast.”
We stare into each other’s eyes and my heart batters against my ribs.
He steps out of the car and calls out, “Which one of you bitches wants to dance?”
I pass a hand over my face. Oh, my God.
Kaleb and Michael exchange glances and a puzzled frown. They seem to get the message that we’re not here to sell Girl Scout cookies, though, as Michael throws the basketball aside and the pair stalk menacingly toward the car.
Laz slams the door and leans down to speak through the window. “Stay there, baby. I’ll be right back.”
He turns around to face the two boys, still smiling.
All of them are sizing each other up, Kaleb and Michael seem unwilling to get too close until they’ve figured out who’s bigger, meaner, and crazier.
Laz has no problem stepping up and getting in their faces. “Let’s play twenty questions. I’ll go first. Who’s the prick who took a photo of Mia?”
Kaleb looks past Laz and sees me. With a smirk for his brother, he says, “Hey, it’s Miss Tiny Tits.” He turns back to Laz. “Who’s asking? You her pimp?”
Laz’s smile vanishes. Without warning, he pulls his fist back and slams it into Kaleb’s jaw.
Kaleb staggers away with a hand to his face and falls down.
I clamp both my hands over my mouth. Oh, fuck. This was a mistake. Kaleb is a boy and Laz is a grown man. This is not a fair—
Michael grabs Laz by the back of his T-shirt, swings him around, and knees him in the nuts. Laz’s eyes bulge and he doubles over with a groan. Then Michael’s knee hits him in the face, and blood pours from Laz’s nose and drips onto the concrete.
I take my hands away from my mouth and wince. Okay, maybe it’s fair.
Kaleb recovers and gets to his feet, ready to lay into Laz, but Laz straightens up, and sweeps his feet out from beneath him. While Kaleb is down again, he throws a punch at Michael. Michael might be big, but he’s slow, and he doesn’t see Laz coming and gets a split lip for his carelessness.
Laz pushes Michael back against the house and points a finger in his face. “Stay out of this. I’m not going to hurt your brother. I want his phone and then I’m leaving.”
He goes back to Kaleb who’s just started to sit up. Laz stands over him with his hand outstretched. There’s blood all over his lips and chin. “Your phone. Then I’m leaving.”
“Why? Who the hell are you?” Kaleb snivels like a ten-year-old boy, dabbing at his bleeding nose with his fingers.
“Mia’s stepdad,” Laz seethes. “And you know why. That picture you have on your phone of my girl.”
With a sulky expression on his bloody face, Kaleb reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out.
Just then, a truck comes roaring down the street. Kaleb and Michael both turn around to look, their faces lighting up. The driver parks behind me and gets out, and he’s freaking huge. He’s older than Kaleb and Michael, and he’s six-foot-something of seasoned, angry muscle in a trucker cap and wife beater. This must be Kaleb’s dad, and he’s pissed.
He surveys the scene before him, reaches into the back of his truck, and pulls out a baseball bat.
“What the hell is going on?” He walks straight past the Camaro toward Laz without seeing me, brandishing the bat like he can’t wait to beat someone to death with it. Michael, energized by the sight of his dad, starts closing in on Laz. Even Kaleb is grinning.
Laz’s expression goes slack. “Oh, fuck.”
Oh fuck, indeed. Without thinking twice, I scooch over the handbrake into the driver’s seat and start the car. It squeals as I rev the engine and struggle to remember how to put it in gear. Stick shifts. I can’t drive goddamn stick shifts.
After a moment of fumbling, the car shoots forward past Kaleb’s dad, and I slam the brakes next to Laz. “Get in!”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He snatches Kaleb’s phone from him, pulls the door open, and jumps in the car.
“Don’t stall, please don’t stall,” I beg the laboring engine. In the side mirror, Kaleb’s dad is getting closer and closer with that baseball bat. Michael has run into the garage, and he’s come out with a bat of his own.
“What are you playing at, Bambi? Go.”
I move my foot on the clutch and the engine sputters into life. Gasping in relief, I pull away from the curb and slam my foot on the accelerator. The car whines in protest. I forgot to put it in second gear and we’re only going ten miles an hour.
Laz is twisted around in the passenger seat so he can look out the back window. I see in the rearview mirror that the truck swings out onto the street and races after us, three people sitting inside it.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” I say over and over as my blood roars in my ears. I change up through second to third gear and there’s an excruciating grinding sound.
Laz stares at the stick shift and then up at me. “What the hell are you doing?”
I’m panicking, that’s what. We’re going to be caught and have our heads caved in with a baseball bat. “I can’t drive your stupid car! I only took three lessons in a manual.”
“Clutch,” Laz orders, and I push with my foot. He puts his hand over mine, yanks the stick down into fourth and we slam into gear. The powerful engine roars and we shoot forward. For a second, my heart lifts.
But the truck is gaining on us.
The street ends, and I change down to second before taking the corner at speed. The back end skids out in a squeal of rubber and we nearly hit a tree. I wait for Laz to shout at me to be more careful with his precious car.
He pats my shoulder, hard, still staring behind us. “Yes! You’ve got this, Bambi. Leave them in the dust.”
The road is clear ahead. I take a deep breath.
And floor it.
The gears change smoothly. Laz whoops in delight as we race ahead.
But the truck isn’t giving up. Kaleb is leaning out of the passenger window, hollering something indistinguishable but threatening. He gets louder and louder as the truck surges up on our ass.
This is my neighborhood, and I happen to know there’s a slip road down to the river that appears almost out of nowhere on the crest of a hill. I accelerate like I’m determined to get us up and over the bridge to the main road on the other side. The truck changes lanes to our left, preparing to overtake us and cut us off. They haven’t noticed the slip road. We’re driving past it. We’re almost past it.
With my heart in my throat, I wrench the wheel to the right. Horns blare, and my stomach seems to vanish completely from my body. The Camaro grips the road and stays on course. The truck shoots past us over the bridge, and I hear a roar of frustration from the three men in the car.
I let out a scream of triumph and step on the gas, and we head down the side road and along the river.
Laz slams the dashboard with his fist and grins. “You lost them. Fuck yeah, Bambi.”
I’m laughing too hard to catch my breath. The truck will be lost in a tangle of red lights and traffic by now. I take a right-hand turn and head for home.
“That was crazy. First I thought you were going to kill them. Then I thought they were going to kill you.”
Laz waves away my concern. “Please, I had the upper hand the entire time.”
“Yeah, you had the upper hand with your nuts when Michael slammed them with his knee.”
He winces. “Be nice about my nuts.” He pulls the phone out of his pocket and holds it up. “Are you going to tell me what this photo is and how they really got it?”
The smile dies on my face. Laz doesn’t believe my lie about not wearing a sports bra during gym class. When I don’t answer, he rolls down his window and throws the phone out. It sails away behind us and falls into the river.
I glance over my shoulder in surprise. “You’re not going to look at it? You’re not even going to bug me about it?”
He smirks at me, relaxing back in his seat, looking too damn sexy for a man with blood all over his face. “The memory of your soft tits in my mouth is going to be better than any photo. Nice driving, Bambi.”
I find myself relaxing, too, enjoying the breeze in my hair and the thrum of the powerful engine. “Your car made it easy.”
“Modded her myself.” He lovingly pats the dash. “But you still drove like a hot bitch.”
My mouth twitches as a warm glow spreads through me. The road opens up before us, and it feels like freedom. It causes a physical ache in my chest to head for home.
When we walk through the front door, Mom looks with distaste upon Laz’s bloody face and my wild hair and flushed cheeks.
“We sorted out the prick who took that photo of Mia. You’re welcome,” Laz tells her.
Mom gives him an overly sweet smile. “Thank you for defending my daughter’s honor, husband darling.”
The smile drops from her face, and she shakes her head like she’s disgusted with both of us.
He points a finger in her face and looms over her. “Don’t lay a hand on your daughter ever again.”
Mom gazes up at him with a bored expression. “One afternoon of beating up some teenagers and you think you’re the man of the house? Go and get cleaned up. You’re a disgrace.” She turns back to her phone, muttering, “Both of you.”
Blood is still dripping from Laz’s nose. I grab an ice pack from the freezer and push at his shoulder. The last thing we need is another explosive fight in this house. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”
In the bathroom, he perches on the edge of the tub while I wipe the blood from his face with a damp washcloth.
“In all my fighting days, I was never tended to by such a pretty girl.”
I shrug, gently dabbing around his nose like it doesn’t matter to me one drop that Laz just called me pretty. “This doesn’t look broken, but I think you’re going to be sore.”
He smiles up at me, his eyes sparkling. “It was worth it.”
With a jolt, I realize I’m standing between his spread knees. He has his hands braced on the edge of the tub like he’s inviting me to get closer.
I should move away.
I don’t move away.
Instead, I reach behind me for the ice pack and press it gently over his nose. He hisses in pain, and reaches up to take it from me, holding it in place.
“That boy might still have that photo of you,” Laz tells me. “He could have sent it to a friend or backed it up.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. I don’t know if I care much anymore. That photo was all about power, and Laz and I just went and took a good chunk of it away from Kaleb. “Let them enjoy my tiny tits if they’re so obsessed with me.”
A smile spreads over Laz’s face. “You’re a fucking badass.”
“Who, me?” I step to the side to grab a clean washcloth and wet it. When I step back, his knee is between my thighs, and I squeeze him, pretending to be intent on wiping the last of the blood from his jaw and throat.
Laz groans and his hand with the ice pack drops away from his nose. His face is on the same level as my torso, and he gazes at my bare waist and hips like he’s wondering what I taste like.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Bambi?” he murmurs huskily.
I give a choking sort of laugh like I’m not vividly imagining straddling his thighs.
“Turn around and pull your panties to one side for me. A quick fuck before we go downstairs for dinner with your mom.”
My heart races, and then trips up and goes flying on one of the words he’s spoken. Mom.
What the hell am I doing? Laz is married to my mother, and she’s downstairs right this second waiting for us. They snipe at each other, but a lot of couples do that when they care for each other. I’m sure Mom cares about Laz in her own way. She doesn’t deserve a husband who cheats on her with her own daughter.
And there’s something else. I’ve been giving Laz the impression that I’m a lot more experienced than I really am. I’m not a saint, but I am a virgin. Laz seems like his type is women who know what they’re doing. Once I tell him that I don’t, he’ll lose interest.
Cheeks burning, I mutter, “What an enticing first time.”
“We’re in a hurry, but I won’t leave you wanting. This dick is magic, Bambi. Hop on and give it a try.”
Revulsion bursts through me at his callous words. He’s so depraved that he can talk about deflowering his stepdaughter like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.
I’m so tired of feeling like I’m nothing.
I take the ice pack out of his hand and slap it back on his face. Hard, so that he winces. Laz doesn’t want me. He just wants the twisted clout of saying he fucked his stepdaughter.
I step away from him. “You’re a pig. Thank you for an evening of cheap thrills and mindless violence, but keep your hands to yourself from now on.”
