Stepbrother Bastard Read Free Page A

the suitcase, well, I ’ m afraid I ’ m
just something of a compulsive over-packer. ”
    The
would-be gatekeeper inspects my ID, peering through thick bifocals. At last,
she seems to be satisfied that I ’ m
not going to be throwing a keg party in my motel room. Or hiding a keg in my
luggage, at that. But she ’ s not quite done with the
third degree yet.
    “ There
won ’ t
be any men stopping here to meet you, right? ” she asks, giving me a not-too-subtle
once over. “ Please tell me you ’ re
not that kind of girl. ”
    I
can feel my blood rising to a low boil. If there ’ s
one thing I have no patience for, it ’ s
shaming women on the grounds of their sexuality. My mother may be spacier than
Sputnik, but she taught my sisters and me to
be fiercely feminist in our thinking. I believe that every woman should have
the freedom to make her own choices about her body, whatever those choices
happen to be.
    “ Tell
you what, ” I
say to the woman behind the desk, “ Let ’ s
just say that I ’ m the kind of girl who
would like the key to her motel room now, please. Unless you ’ d
rather I find somewhere else to spend my money tonight. ”
    “ Ugh.
Fine, ” she says hurriedly,
thrusting a square of scuffed plastic my way, “ Have
a lovely evening, Miss . ”
    I
grab my key and do my best to make a dignified exit, onerous baggage be damned.
My room is on the ground floor of the split level motel, overlooking a
leaf-clotted swimming pool and a stretch of highway. In one direction lies
Spokane, Washington; in the other, Montana. I ’ ve
still got half a day ’ s drive before I reach my
destination, a lake house my mother ’ s
rented for the summer in her old hometown. At least, she described it as a lake
house when we talked on the phone. For all I know, it ’ s
actually a yurt. And come to think of it, she never mentioned renting
specifically … we could very well just be squatting.
You never can tell with Robin Porter.
    Nudging
the door open with my shoulder, I trundle into my darkened room. I decide not
to inspect the space too closely — ignorance
is bliss. After a cursory sweep for cigarette butts, condom wrappers, or dead
bodies, I flop down onto the bed and gaze up at the water stains that blossom
across the ceiling.
    Though
it ’ s
nearly midnight after a long day of work, suddenly I ’ m
feeling wide awake. This isn ’ t exactly a penthouse
suite, but it ’ s the first night I ’ ve
spent away from my Seattle studio apartment in over a year. I ’ ve
been working my butt off on the job — trying
my best to impress Carol and Brian. Their creative agency, ReImaged, is a
pretty small outfit, but we still have our share of huge clients. Though we
offer a full range of services, we specialize in event marketing — planning
parties and functions that double as interactive advertising for the company at
hand. Allie and I have become the dynamic duo of the ReImaged event planning
department. I love the variety and excitement that are built into my work, but
it ’ s
easy to get swallowed up by a fast-paced job like mine. This vacation is a very
rare occurrence, and even now I ’ m finding it hard to stop
thinking about the tasks that are waiting for me back at the office. The second
I get back, we ’ re moving onto our next big campaign
for the denim company Asphalt. I ’ m
already chomping at the bit to get started.
    It ’ s
going to be a struggle to stay in the moment during this little getaway. Maybe
I should listen to Allie and make the most of it. But what am I going to do for
fun here, raid the vending machines and watch porn by myself? Not really my
idea of a good time. Don ’ t get me wrong, I can
appreciate a good dirty video as much as the next person — but
falling asleep to Pay Per View, Point Of View in a crappy motel would just be too depressing. 
    As
I stare up at the ceiling, a sudden dash of color catches my eye. The glowing
shadow falls through the window above my bed,