4. Who Was That Girl Again?
WHO WAS THAT GIRL AGAIN?
Kayleigh
Morning comes as a golden glow, shimmering through the old leaded glass of the McEnroe-Cahill kitchen.
Every surface lights like it’s slightly afire, but the place still smells faintly of cleaning fluid and yesterday’s roses, with an undercurrent of something less polite.
I sit at the marble island in my teddy bear pajamas, knees curled up, cupping a mug of coffee like it’s the only real friend I have.
Across from me, Henry reads the Wall Street Journal on his phone, every so often stabbing at the screen like he wants to kill it.
He’s in a golf shirt and pressed slacks, no tie today, but his hair is still shellacked into a Lego-perfect coif.
My stepdad has always been more foreman than father, running even Sunday mornings like there might be a performance review.
Victoria pours her own coffee—black, no sugar, no cream, just like she taught me when I was fifteen—and then sits primly at the counter, both hands around her mug. She looks at me over the rim, eyes perfectly dry, posture ramrod straight.
She sighs. “I cannot believe that woman’s outfit.
” She doesn’t mean me; she means Trevor’s date, the platinum blonde, now consigned to history as simply “that woman.” Victoria frowns, pulling her robe closer about her bony form.
“Honestly, Henry, is your son dating a stripper? Is that what’s happening here?
How could she show up to a family wedding dressed like that? Has she no shame?”
Henry doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’d wager that she’s definitely stripper,” he says, his voice wry, “or at maybe a lady of the night. I think that’s a real possibility.”
A giggle nearly escapes me, a quick bright bubble at the back of my throat, but I fight it down and try to keep my face neutral. The truth is, it’s nice when my stepdad and my mother gossip. They’re old, but they’re not humorless.
Victoria huffs. “She looked like a circus act. That dress—was that even a dress? I saw more of her chest than I’ve ever seen of my own.”
I’m not sure what to say to this, so I focus on the bear’s paw stitched onto my pajama sleeve and pretend I’m twelve, not twenty-one.
Henry finally looks up at his wife. “Don’t look so scandalized, Victoria,” he says. “Men use prostitutes. It’s the oldest profession on Earth, and does good business to this day.”
My mom goes sheet white.
“Your son uses prostitutes?”
Henry just shrugs. “When you’re Trevor, you do whatever you want.
He’s been like that since he was fifteen.
Maybe earlier.” He sets his phone facedown and leans forward, folding his hands.
“Even back in high school, he charted his own path. He was captain of the debate team and varsity quarterback at the same time. A real piece of work.” Henry’s mouth twitches, the closest thing to pride he allows.
“Then, top of his class at Northwestern, then law school. If I’m being honest, I can’t fault the kid. He’s made himself bulletproof.”
Victoria snorts and dabs at her lips with an imaginary napkin.
“Bulletproof or not, I’d rather not have to explain to my friends why my stepson’s girlfriend was trending on Twitter last night.
” She scrolls on her phone, and I catch the faintest flicker of an offending photo: Cassie’s tits, Trevor’s hand on her lower back, both of them looking like they owned the world.
My cheeks heat, not out of shame but out of something stickier and much more confusing. I can’t stop remembering the way Trevor’s hand curled around that girl’s hip as he reamed her from the back. The way, for a single hot second, he seemed to look up and lock eyes with me.
I force a swallow of coffee, burning my tongue, and say, “I’m sure she’s not a prostitute. I’m sure that’s hyperbole. Right, Henry?”
But my stepdad merely shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But you’d be surprised how much of the ‘scene’ is paid to be there—actresses, models, people who want to be seen.
” He taps his knuckles on the counter. “Plus, my son isn’t in it for love.
He’s never been sentimental, and he’s always been willing to pay for what he wants.
” Then, softer, more to himself: “Trevor was always more interested in winning than in feeling.”
Victoria frowns, and for a moment I think she might actually say something. But she just sips her coffee, head tilted in regal judgment.
I glance out the window, at the bright, empty street.
My stomach is still a little tight from last night—too much champagne, not enough food, and the sight of my stepbrother’s gloriously naked body imprinted on my brain like a tattoo.
I shouldn’t want to see him again. But the thing about forbidden fruit is that it only gets riper the longer you stare at it, and especially if it’s shaped like a massive eggplant, hard and bulging with veins.
Victoria breaks the silence. “Speaking of which, did you see the magazine yet?”
“What magazine?” I ask, my voice careful.
My mom rises from the stool, glides to a drawer, and returns with a recent issue of Minneapolis Tatler.
She sets it on the marble, the cover glossy enough to reflect the under-eye shadows I’m trying to hide.
Front and center, of course, is Trevor: black tuxedo, hair slicked back, mouth twisted into a knowing smirk that’s one molecule away from a snarl.
His eyes—those eyes—are the same blue as a wolf’s, sharp and cold and hungry.
Of course, he’s so handsome that my heart starts pounding immediately.
The headline sprawls across the bottom: “MINNEAPOLIS’S MOST ELIGIBLE: THE CITY’S TOP BACHELORS REVEALED.”
Victoria flicks the page with one finger, sending the magazine spinning toward me. I stop it with my palm, leaving a smudge on Trevor’s jawline. There’s a prickle on my scalp, like the cover might burn through my hand if I touch it too long.
Victoria sniffs. “Well, at least they got a good photo of him.” She hesitates, then adds, “He’s not actually seeing that girl, is he? Cassie, I think her name was?”
I force a smile, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I don’t know. I never saw her before last night, but probably not, if he’s a featured bachelor. I mean, you couldn’t really be a bachelor if you’re dating someone seriously, right?”
Victoria relaxes. “Right. It would be a shame if your brother’s reputation got tangled up with someone like that.”
Brother. She says it so easily, as if biology cares about a marriage certificate and two years of awkward blended Christmases. I stare at Trevor’s photo, the hard line of his jaw, the knowing glint in his eye.
“He is impressive,” I say, and it comes out flatter than I mean it to.
Henry grunts. “You may hate him, but Trevor’s got a lot of redeeming qualities.”
Victoria interjects quickly.
“I don’t hate your son, Henry. I just hate the idea of Trevor getting tangled with a piece of good-for-nothing that will use him for his money.”
Henry shrugs again.
“Let her use him for his money. I think that’s what he wants.
In fact, I have a feeling that’s what Trevor was aiming for all along, that and the shock value of bringing a hussy to a family event.
But my son’s a genius at law and business, and I don’t say that lightly, because Trevor started with nothing.
Okay, not nothing, exactly, but just a little seed money from me and a bunch of ideas.
Now half the law offices in the city are running on his AI software.
” He sips his coffee and adds, “He’s already worth billions, and he’s going to make trillions before he’s forty if Counterpoint AI goes public. Mark my words.”
Victoria looks faintly bored.
“It’s all paper money,” she says in a flat voice. “Nothing is real.”
Henry shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s more real than a lot of things, these days.”
Meanwhile, I tune out my parents and I flip the magazine open, my thumb running down the edge, skimming the profile: Trevor Cahill, thirty-five, founder of Counterpoint AI, disruptor of legal tech, single and ready to mingle, enjoys squash and marathon running, has “his eye out for the right lady.” Ha ha, what a joke!
My stepbrother’s out for pussy, and his behavior last night just proves my point.
But the interview is full of tight-lipped answers, fawning adoration, and jokes at the expense of his competitors.
There’s another photo, him leaning against a steel banister, sleeves rolled, forearms corded with muscle as he smirks at the camera again.
This man is really too handsome for his own good.
But what really gets me is the sidebar at the bottom of the page: a little announcement in bold red.
“Join us for the Minneapolis Tatler Annual Bachelor Auction, featuring this year’s most eligible men. All proceeds benefit local youth charities. Bid on your favorite bachelor for a night of fine dining and adventure!”
My throat goes dry. I stare at the block print, reread it three times. My stepbrother’s going to be sold? To whom? To do what? I know Trevor’s not going to stop at “fine dining and adventure.” That man is hell on wheels, and doesn’t care who knows.
Victoria’s still talking, and her words startle me to life.
“Kayleigh, you should go,” she says, and I realize she’s been watching me, eyes bright and mischievous.
“Wouldn’t it be funny to see Trevor up on stage, strutting for a bunch of desperate housewives?
I think half my friends would bid, even if their husbands killed them. Wouldn’t that be so hilarious?”
I force a laugh, but it comes out strangled. “Sure,” I say, and my hand is shaking just a little as I turn the page. “Yeah, really hilarious.”
Slowly, I page through the rest of the spread even as my mind tries to picture Trevor striding up and down the stage, bare chest gleaming.
OMG, I have to see this! My pulse races as I halfheartedly page through the rest of the spread: all the bachelors, lined up in identical tuxedos, grinning like sharks.
Trevor is in the center, taller than the rest, mouth curled just enough to show he knows this is a joke and he’s in on it.
The other men are bankers, accountants, CFOs, real estate dudes, even a minor league hockey player. No one else matters.
My eyes trace Trevor’s silhouette. There’s a hot pulse in my wrist, a flush climbing my neck.
I feel ridiculous, juvenile. But the fantasy is already alive and squirming: what would it be like, to stand in the audience and bid on my gorgeous stepbrother?
To win? To take him home, just for a night, and see if he’s as untouchable as he pretends?
Victoria stands, smoothing her robe. “I have to get ready for Pilates,” she says, and floats out of the room, her cup still half full. “Have a good day, you two!”
Henry grunts, already lost in the sports section of the paper.
“You too, toots,” he mumbles, frowning as he takes in the latest baseball stats. Meanwhile, I sit there for a long moment, not moving, not breathing, just staring at the magazine. Trevor Cahill, my stepbrother with the huge cock, is going to be sold, and I want to buy him.
How? I have no idea. But I have to come up with a plan.
I close the magazine with a snap. The sound is sharp and final, but it does nothing to quiet the static in my head. Trevor’s going to be mine, come hell or high water. I just have to figure out the how.
The sun is higher now, glaring off the marble, but the heat in my belly has nothing to do with the weather. I picture the auction, the stage lights, Trevor bare chested in a spotlight. I picture him looking out at the crowd, knowing exactly who is there for him.
My heart thunders once, loud enough to drown out the world.
I take another sip of coffee, lukewarm now, and let myself scheme.
This is going to happen.
It has to, because I still have my v-card.
And I want my stepbrother to take it.