Beauty and the Running Back (15 page)

Stepbrother Billionaire

By
Colleen Masters

Chapter One

* * *

“I thought you said this was going to be a small gathering,”
I shout, raising my voice above the blaring music. I can feel the pounding bass
line vibrating through my body as I hesitate at the edge of the gigantic house
party.

“Did I say that?” my best friend, Riley, grins back. “I
meant to say that this was going to be an ‘epic rager unlike anything you’ve
ever seen’.”

I roll my eyes at her as we’re swallowed up by the teeming
crowd of our classmates. I should have known better than to think that Riley would
spend her Saturday night anywhere but at a legendary party. She and I have been
best friends for all seventeen years we’ve been on the planet. But even so, our
ideas of what makes a “good time” are starkly different. If I had any sense at
all, I would never have let her drag me to this party. I’d much rather be
curled up at home with my sketch pad and a cup of tea. But seeing that the
damage is done, I suppose there’s nothing to do but try and have a good time.

“Here you go ladies,” a burly junior boy says, sidling up to
us with a red plastic cup in either hand. “First drink’s on me.”

“Warm beer, now with extra roofies?” Riley says, cocking a
perfect eyebrow at him.

“We’re all set, Champ,” I tell the boy, producing a flask
full of my dad’s very fine whiskey from my purse. It’s not like he’s using it
much, these days. “Better luck next time.”

“What a couple of buzz kills,” the kid grumbles, sulking
away.

“Great party so far Ri,” I laugh sarcastically, unscrewing
the top of the flask.

“Just remember, Abby—in less than a year, we’ll never have
to deal with high school boys again,” she points out, accepting the flask as I
pass it her way.

“I can’t wait,” I say wistfully, “I know you’re not supposed
to wish away your youth or whatever, but the sooner high school can be over
with, the better.”

“What? You’re not enjoying your glory days?” Riley asks with
mock astonishment, gesturing toward our fellow partygoers.

I look around at the party unfolding all around us. Some
rich kid’s parents are out of town, and the entire school has descended on
their McMansion to spend the night getting wasted, listening to someone’s
crappy iPod playlist, and making questionable choices about who to sleep with.
I nearly step on two people going at it right in the foyer, writhing all over
each other in a drunken tizzy. With a wild yell, some kid tries to swing on the
crystal chandelier, only to miss and fall flat on his face to onlookers’
uproarious laughter.

“If these are our glory days,” I say to Riley, “We’re in
serious trouble.”

“Come on,” she laughs, slipping her fingers through mine,
“I’m sure we can find a quieter corner somewhere. There must be, like, a
hundred rooms in this place.”

I let Riley tug me off through the party, ignoring the tipsy
dudes who make lesbian jokes about us along the way. As gorgeous as my best
friend is, with her silky black curls, tanned skin, and amazing curves, I’ve
never been the least bit interested in “experimenting” with her. We’ve only
ever loved each other as sisters. But the fact that I’ve never had a real
boyfriend leads some people in my school to question whether I’m into guys at
all. The short answer is, I’m plenty into guys. But finding one that’s worth
the time of day at my Connecticut high school has proven to be impossible.

Well...just about impossible, anyway.

The party is just a forest of legs and torsos from my
vantage point. At five foot three, I’m what you might call “vertically challenged”.
Being petite is great for hide-and-seek, but not so great for feeling like
anything close to an adult. Or being treated like one. But in a couple weeks’
time, the world will have no choice but to acknowledge my adulthood—at long
last, I’ll finally be turning eighteen. The only question that remains is how
quickly I can get out of town and be on my own once I’m officially a grown-up.
As Riley and I climb the sweeping staircase and sidle into the master bedroom
suite, we pass a passed out classmate who’s had his face graffitied with
permanent marker penises.

Yep. Adulthood can’t come soon enough.

We poke our heads into the master bedroom, and I note with
relief that it’s far quieter in this corner of the house. Maybe we can just
hang out here and ride out this shit show in peace.

“Uh-oh,” Riley mutters, glancing down at me with a wicked
glint in her eye. “Look who’s here, Abby.”

I peer around my best friend, scanning the dozen or so
people already hanging out in the master bedroom. It only takes half a second
for me to see who it is she’s talking about. My solar plexus rocks on its axis
as a very familiar set of blue eyes turns my way from across the room.

“Shit!” I squeak, ducking back around Riley’s taller form.
“I didn’t know he was going to be here!”

“The entire school is here, Abby,” Riley laughs, “You could
have guessed.”

“He’s supposed to be too cool for this sort of thing. Or
whatever,” I say, rolling my hazel eyes. “Come on. I don’t think he saw me.
Let’s just go—”

“Hey, Sis!” a rough baritone calls from across the room.
“What are you doing here? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

I groan as a volley of chuckles goes up around the room, and
turn to see Emerson Sawyer, my blue-eyed nightmare, striding toward me. He’s
easily six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a tapered torso, and effortlessly
defined muscles. His mop of shaggy, chestnut brown hair is artfully tousled, a
stray lock swooping across his forehead. He’s making jeans and a crimson tee
shirt look as good as a three piece suit, and has a lit cigarette cradled in
his full, firm lips.

Naturally, my personal nightmare looks like an absolute
dream come true.

“Don’t call me that in public. Or ever,” I tell him,
crossing my arms to hide the fact that my heart is slamming against my ribcage
at his approach.

“Why not,
Sis
?”
he grins rakishly, taking a long drag of his smoke.

“Because it’s creepy as hell,” I reply, exasperated, tucking
my long, ash blonde hair behind my ears. “And it’s not even true.”

“Sure it is. For all intents and purposes,” he shrugs.

I’ve known Emerson Sawyer for nearly four years, now. Or,
rather, I’ve known
of
him for four years. Our Connecticut town has two elementary schools that feed
into the same high school. Emerson and I attended separate grade schools, which
were pretty starkly divided between the richer and poorer families in town, but
ended up at the same high school together. I noticed him the very first day of
freshman year, when he mouthed off to our sex ed teacher for taking a hard line
in favor of abstinence (the most characteristically Emerson thing
ever
). He, on the other
hand, had no idea I existed. Until this year, that is, when both of our
lives—personal
and
social—got turned upside down.

“What’s the matter? You ashamed to have a brother from the
wrong side of the tracks?” Emerson presses, jostling me out of my thoughts.

“Don’t put that on me,” I snap back, “As if you can stand
having a prissy rich girl for a would-be-sister.”

“You are kind of a bummer,” he says flatly, “But if it makes
you feel any better, it’s your personality I hold against you, not your money.”

I stare wordlessly at Emerson, knocked into sullen silence
once again by his masterful putdown. By now, Emerson has figured out exactly
how to get to me.

About two months ago, I got the shock of my life when my
widower father, Robert Rowan, announced that, after four years of refusing to
date, he had just met the new love of his life. Her name was Deborah, he told
me. They’d met at AA and “really hit it off”. He talked about her incessantly,
stayed out all night like he was a teenager again, and generally weirded the
hell out of me.

After just two weeks, Dad told me that he was in love, and
wanted to introduce this Deborah to me as soon as possible. I begrudgingly
agreed to be around for dinner the following night to meet his mystery woman.
We lost my mother Sandy to a terrible car accident just before I started high
school, so the idea of a new woman in my father’s life was a little hard to
swallow. Still, I did my best to put on a happy face and be as supportive as
possible. I’ve never been very good at saying “no” or standing up to my dad, so
it’s not like I had much of a choice.

As our doorbell rang the next night, signaling Deborah’s
grand entrance into our family’s life, my dad asked me to answer the door. It
wasn’t until I was en route that he mentioned Deborah’s son would also be
joining us for dinner. When I swung open the door to welcome our guest and her
plus one, I’m surprised that my jaw didn’t crack from hitting the floor so
hard. There, standing on my doorstep, was Emerson Sawyer. And I could tell from
the blank, disinterested look in his eye that he had no idea who I was.

“What’s this?” Emerson interrupts my thoughts, grinning as
he snatches the metallic flask out of my back pocket. A trail of sensation
sears along the skin just above my belt as his fingers brush against my bare
flesh. Goosebumps spring up where his fingertips glanced against my body. It’s
like my every cell is hard-wired to respond to him. I need to give each and every
one of those cells a stern talking-to.

Emerson knocks back a slug of booze without checking to see
what it is first, and lets out a raucous hoot as he tastes the strong whiskey.

“You brought the good stuff!” he crows, draping a muscled
arm across my shoulder. “This must be from Daddy’s stash, huh?”

“Give it back, Sawyer,” I demand, trying half-heartedly to
push him away from me. If I’m being perfectly honest, the feel of his hard,
solid body against mine is something I’ll never stop secretly jonesing for—but
he can never know that.

“Come on, Sis. Sharing is caring,” he teases, holding the
flask up in the air, just out of my reach. Mocking my height—or lack thereof—is
one of his favorite hobbies.

I sigh, refusing to engage in his game. Sometimes, I miss
the days where Emerson didn’t even know my name. We don’t go to a gigantic
school—there are about three hundred kids in our senior class. So for the first
three years of high school, I was able to harbor a huge, unrequited crush on
Emerson without ever actually having to speak to him. Emerson’s a lacrosse
player, part of the “in” crowd. Because our school is so diverse,
socio-economically speaking, popularity doesn’t depend on how much money your
family has. If it did, I might actually be known around school as something
other than “that short girl who’s always drawing.” But the gods of popularity
did not decide to favor me, it would seem. My very petite, nerdy, soft-spoken
self is just about invisible in the halls of McCarren High School. In fact,
these days, the thing I’m best known for there is being the daughter of the guy
Emerson’s “hot mom” is dating.

Oh, goody.

“Just take the damn flask,” I mutter, turning on my heel to
go, “I’m out of here anyway. Enjoy yourself, Sawyer.”

But as I attempt to make my grand exit, Emerson steps
directly into my path, his staggeringly built body blocking my way. I collide
with his muscular form, my hands landing flush against his abdomen. I have to
swallow a moan as I feel his insanely cut six pack rippling beneath my fingers.
I step quickly away, catching Riley’s amused gaze. She knows all about my
feelings for Emerson, being my best friend and all. Hopefully, the other dozen
people here in this room can’t see right through me, too. Especially Emerson
himself.

“Don’t be such a downer,” he laughs, handing me the flask
and extinguishing his smoke in someone’s discarded red cup. “Stay and have fun
for once in your life.”

“I’m not a downer. You’re just a pain in the ass,” I reply,
snatching the flask out of his strong hands.

“Hey. I had a very troubled childhood,” he says
over-dramatically, laying a hand over his heart and arranging his features into
an anguished pout. “I can’t help myself.”

“Who am I, Officer Krupke?” I ask, laughing despite myself.
“Give me a break.”

It’s no wonder Emerson is so popular, with his wicked sense
of humor, his bad boy good looks, and his devil-may-care attitude. He could
have his pick of any girl in our school, of that much I am absolutely certain.
I’ve been keeping careful tabs on his romantic life for years now, and he
definitely doesn’t seem to be the “relationship type”. He’s hanging out with a
new girl every weekend, just about. And it seems that this weekend is no
exception.

“Hey Emerson,” a breathy voice says from over his shoulder.
Two thin, manicured hands slide around his torso from behind, and a beautiful,
green-eyed face peeks around his built form.

My heart clenches painfully as I recognize Courtney Haines,
a gorgeous redheaded girl in our senior class. She’s our resident thespian, the
beautiful star of every single school play, talent show, and choir concert.
She’ll probably head to New York after graduation and become some Broadway
sensation. But right now, she seems pretty happy in the role of Girl Who Gets
to Make Out With Emerson Sawyer Tonight.

I have to admit, I would be too.

Stop that
,
I chide myself, shaking off my discomfort.
You’re
not allowed to like him like that anymore. Your parents are dating. Plus, he
thinks of you as an annoying little gnat...when he thinks of you at all. Get a
grip, Abby.

“Hey Riley. Hey Abby,” Courtney Haines says, draping
Emerson’s arm over her shoulder. “Glad you guys could make it to my little
shindig!”

“This is your house?” I exclaim, looking around in wonder.
My dad’s place is pretty stately, but her home is truly a den of luxury. It’s
more of an estate than anything else. Our area of Connecticut is chock full of
gigantic homes, but her family’s puts them all to shame.