Wicked Greed (Cross Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The first sign that tonight is going to suck? The bag of groceries I’m holding splits open, sending a half-dozen oranges bouncing down the staircase.

The second sign? I’m about three seconds away from falling down after them.

"Taylor!" I yell, my voice echoing off the grimy walls of my overheated apartment building. "If you don’t open this door, I swear to—"

Nothing. No footsteps. No sister coming to my rescue.

I clench my jaw and adjust my grip on the remaining bags, which are cutting off circulation to my wrists.

The hallway is a furnace, the pipes rattling somewhere behind the walls, probably plotting their next catastrophic leak.

My shirt sticks to my back, and my arms shake under the weight of my dumb decision not to make multiple trips.

Why did I promise to make dinner for her?

A floorboard creaks above me.

I freeze.

"Taylor?" I call again, but this time my voice is quieter. There’s a pause, just long enough to make my pulse do something weird. Then, another creak. Slow. Deliberate. Goosebumps rise on my arms despite the heat.

But still, the door stays closed.

I swallow hard, shift my grip on the railing, and bolt up the last few steps, kicking the door with enough force to shake the frame.

It swings open violently, and before I can process anything else, I’m tumbling inside.

The weight of the grocery bags finally wins, and the bottoms give out, sending loose grapes and oranges rolling in every direction.

I curse under my breath, dropping to my knees in a desperate attempt to salvage what I can.

My fingers, slick with sweat, fumble uselessly as fruit skitters across the floor.

Taylor stands over me, fanning her freshly painted nails in front of her face. "I hope you don't mind," she says breezily, "I helped myself to some of your nail polish."

I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to scream. Instead, I force a tight smile, though I’m sure it looks more like a grimace.

A mountain of beauty supplies has taken over my kitchen table, making it look like a salon exploded in my apartment while I was out working my ass off all day. Her perfectly made-up appearance, with fresh lashes, contoured cheeks, and glossy lips, only adds to my irritation.

She flicks a glance at me. "Took you long enough to get home. I’m starving."

I don’t have the energy to explain that dinner won’t be ready for at least another hour—or that all I really want to do is order takeout, drink a bottle of wine, and collapse into bed.

My entire body feels like it’s been shoved through a meat grinder after a physically brutal day.

I gesture weakly to the floor. "There’s some fruit. "

Taylor rolls her eyes and steps over the scattered mess of groceries. She beelines for one of the torn bags and pulls out a bottle of wine, a Riesling, her favorite. "This used to be fruit," she announces, holding up the bottle. "Let’s open it."

As she rummages through the drawers for a corkscrew, I wipe my forehead with a trembling hand.

"We're going out for drinks at the Rum and Room after dinner," Taylor declares, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard.

I blink at her. "What? Why?"

She sighs dramatically.

I groan as I struggle to stand upright. My fingers feel numb, and there are bright red welts across both my forearms. On top of that, there's a sharp pain in my back from unboxing pantry supplies all day, like someone’s tugging on my spine through my skin.

Taylor watches me struggle and rolls her eyes again.

Yeah. This night is definitely going to suck.

A headache is already brewing behind my eyes, but I know better than to argue with Taylor when she’s set on something. It’s just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of stress I’ll have to deal with this week.

"Because I have a date later," she says, lazily twirling the wine in her glass. "And that’s where I’m meeting him. And you work there so, duh—free drinks."

I pause, narrowing my eyes. "You’ve been in town for less than twenty-four hours and already have a date?"

Taylor shrugs as I gather up what’s left of the fallen food, clearing space on the crowded table.

"Aren’t you seeing someone? I thought—"

"Ugh, stop. I’m young, I’m single, and I’m bored," she says dismissively, sipping her wine. "You want some?"

"God, yes." I sigh, dragging the rest of the ripped bags across the linoleum. Miraculously, nothing spilled or leaked, so at least there’s one small win tonight. "But open the red for me. It'll go better with the chili I’m making."

Taylor’s nose scrunches. "You’re making chili?"

"Yeah, why? You used to love when I made it."

Her lips press together in a thin line before she mutters, "Well, you remember wrong. But it’s fine. It’s whatever. I’ll eat it."

I don’t react. I just focus on unpacking.

Taylor is my half-sister, a fact I only discovered at the age of ten.

She was the daughter of the mistress; I was the daughter of the wife.

We share our father’s piercing blue eyes, but while Taylor is practically his clone, I’m a stark contrast. My wild, dark curls and sun-kissed skin stand out against their fair features and pin-straight blond hair.

My father always claimed that all of my traits came from my mother, but I have only hazy memories of her.

She left around the same time Taylor arrived, storming out in a violent rage, smashing dishes, and burning all my father's clothes in the front yard.

So pissed off, she forgot all about me, I guess.

Taylor slides a glass of red wine across the countertop just as I start chopping onions. "You’re really good with that knife," she muses, watching my hands move. "How do you do that so fast without slicing your knuckles off?"

"Years of practice," I reply with a yawn. "And plenty of Band-Aids."

She barely listens, already rummaging through a drawer, then a cabinet, clearly searching for something. I know what she’s after before she even finds it.

Sure enough, her eyes light up as she pulls out my beloved Fruit Roll-Ups. Without a second thought, she peels one open and pops the whole thing into her mouth. "Did you make me a cake?" she asks, chewing loudly.

"No, I did not," I say flatly, glaring as she grabs another pack without hesitation.

She scoffs, raising an eyebrow as she smushes the second roll-up into a ball and devours it. "Seriously?"

"Stop eating my Fruit Roll-Ups," I grumble. "I made you some red velvet cupcakes and a dozen macarons for when you leave."

That’s a lie.

I did make them—just not for her. Thankfully, I had extra from the last party I catered.

"Then I’m leaving right now," she declares, laughing as she pulls open the fridge. "Where are you hiding them?"

I glance up from chopping vegetables and watch Taylor rummage through my fridge, and something feels off.

Despite the flawlessly applied makeup, she looks thinner than the last time I saw her.

Not in a new diet, new routine kind of way, more like she’s been running on fumes.

There are other differences too, subtle ones only an older sister would notice.

Her cheeks are a little more hollow, her hair finer, duller.

The usual spark in her expression has dimmed.

She looks exhausted, and much older than twenty-five.

Taylor has always been chasing the next big role, bouncing from audition to audition. But as far as I know, the only thing she ever booked was a toothpaste commercial three years ago. I wonder what’s really been going on with her.

"Have you gotten any good roles lately?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.

Taylor shoves her third macaron into her mouth, eyes fluttering shut like she’s having a full-blown foodgasm. She slumps against the open refrigerator, holding up a finger as if she needs a moment to recover. "S’good," she mumbles through a mouthful.

I know. They’re my specialty—little home-baked orgasms.

She finally snaps the lid back onto the container and returns it to the fridge. "Are you going to be selling these at the bakery?" she asks, skillfully dodging my question.

"Absolutely," I say with a smirk. "Now let’s go back to you. Tell me about work."

She exhales dramatically, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. "Ugh. No. It’s horrible out there. I’ve done a few auditions, but no callbacks. So…" She hesitates, just for a second. "I’ve been working the tables at the Bellagio."

I pause mid-chop, my knife hovering over the cutting board. I stare at her, trying to gauge how serious she is.

She avoids my eyes and shrugs. "Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a bad gig."

Vegas.

Is she there with him?

Is that where Dad is now?

I want to ask. Need to ask. But I don’t. The words catch in my throat, pressing against everything I don’t want to feel tonight. She’s an adult. She makes her own choices. And she knows exactly what that place is like. What he’s like.

Taylor sips her wine quietly, then asks, "When’s the big opening?"

"Saturday," I say, forcing a smile. My fingers tighten around the bell pepper, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground.

Five more days.

My stomach twists, a slow, churning burn of anxiety.

It has to go smoothly. Customers have to show up.

I’ve worked too damn hard for this, juggling three jobs, running on fumes, and pushing off sleep until I’m dead.

I take a long swig of wine, trying to drown out the gnawing fear creeping in at the edges.

It has to be perfect.

But what if it’s not? What if all the years of grinding, sacrificing, and scraping by amount to nothing? I take another sip, quicker this time, shaking off the thought.

No. It’ll be fine. It has to be.

I mean, why wouldn’t it be?

Taylor continues swirling the wine in her glass, watching me. Then, with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss the weather, she asks, "Have you heard from Dad?"