Page 52 of Sinful Like Us
I’m straight, and I’ve only slept with girls. But I don’t feel a need to emphasize this, so I just tell Ben, “I didn’t keep count. Around forty is my best guess.”That’s all I’ve got.
Tom rests his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Higher than yours, Eliot.”
Eliot holds the back of Tom’s head in some kind of brotherly affection. Salt scalds my eyes, a glimpse of my childhood surging hard. And fast.
I see Skylar.
He’s cupping my head, his smile rising. “Thatch.”
I blink, and he’s gone.
My pulse jack-knives. A sheen of sweat built under my shirt. I take a measured breath, and I nod to Jane when her hand touches my knee. She’s silently asking if I’m okay.
I’m good.
She nods and turns to the booth. “My number iseight, and I want to footnote that it’d be even higher than Thatcher’s number if I felt safer with more one-night stands.”
I thread my fingers through my hair. Ignoring how my ribs constrict. Mention of her safety and sex reminds me of theChokehold Incident—and my frontal lobe blisters, my knuckles craving to slam into a bag.
She should’ve never had to deal with that.
Her brothers go quiet, and a wave of concern flows towards Jane.
She sighs softly. “I didn’t mention this to gain sympathy. It’s just a fact.”
“It’s a sad fact.” Eliot pries the card off the table. Pinching the corner, he whips open a Zippo lighter. A flame licks the paper and eats through the gold lion.
We watch the card torch between his fingers, and Eliot never blows out the fire; it just dies in his hand. Nothing left to burn.
“Flip another,” Charlie orders.
Jane says, “You choose this time, Thatcher.”
I pick the card on the far right and flip.
Tell us your favorite part of Jane’s body.
My face almost screws up. I must’ve read this shit backwards or ass-fucking-sideways. Because in my head, there’s no waybrotherswould want to hear this shit about theirsister.
Jane has her knuckles to her lips, analyzing the card like it’s a chess piece.
“She’s your sister.” My voice is stern. “You really want to know this?”
“It’s not for our pleasure,” Charlie retorts in a tone that says,you’re a fucking idiot.
I’m feeling pretty fucking stupid.
Eliot outstretches his arms. “‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.’”
“Hamlet,” Jane whispers to me.
Hamlet?I would’ve never guessed that he just quoted Shakespeare. But I’m starting to think that howI respond to the cards is telling them about who I am as much as my actual answer. In a tense beat, I mentally file through all of Jane’s body parts I love:
Her pussy.
Her hips. Love handles.
Stretchmarks.
