My stepbrother is an asshole.

I mean, he was right. It is insane for us to hook up. It’s even more insane for my first time to be with him. But it’s also what I’ve wanted since I first met him. For a girl who’s had so many fantasies fall flat— having this one yanked out from under me is especially painful. I keep replaying that moment when he changed, when he went from gazing at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world to gaping like I was some sort of freak show. Was it something to do with my body? The fact that I’m a virgin? Because if his hang-up was truly our by-marriage-only relation, then we wouldn’t have even made it so far as the bedroom, right? It’s not like he suddenly found out, seconds before thrusting into me, that our parents were married.

Between getting mugged and getting turned down flat by my long-time crush— after he initiated the whole freaking thing— suffice it to say that my first night as a New Yorker sucked.

The days that follow are marginally better, I more or less throw myself into unpacking my boxes, buying the last few textbooks I’ll need before classes begin the following Monday, and eavesdropping on my suite mates talking about how insane the whole sorority rush process is. It’s entertaining, but a pretty weighty reminder that while these girls are perfectly nice, I don’t have much in common with them. I don’t have much in common with anyone I’ve come across so far, to be honest; the other third year students have already established their friend groups, and the freshmen are more interested in partying than I am, these days.

I knew it would be like this. Hell, a big part of the reason I transferred was that I wanted to become anonymous, part of the cityscape instead of my mom and stepdad’s secret-keeper. But now that I’ve seen Xander, I want…

Well. I can’t have what I want, apparently, so there’s no point in focusing on it, right?

“How’s your first week going?” my mom asks when she gets me on the phone a few days later.

“Okay,” I say, exhaling. “How are things there?”

“Fine. It’s pretty depressing without you here, though. You know, if you don’t like it come December you can always transfer back—”

“It’ll be fine, Mom,” I say. “Besides, I’m excited for my classes. They don’t teach any magazine writing classes there.”

“Derek says magazines are a dead industry anyway,” my mom replies, and I roll my eyes. Derek is her boss— and the guy she’s sleeping with behind my stepfather’s back— and for a dude I’ve never met, he sure does seem to have a lot of opinions on my decisions.

“Tell Derek I didn’t ask for his opinion,” I answer shortly.

“That’s not very nice,” my mom says. “He’s going through a hard time right now.”

“Because his girlfriend is married?” I ask bluntly.

“Josie!” my mother hisses into the phone. “I told you that in confidence.”

“You didn’t tell me anything, Mom, I just saw you two going into a hotel. Christ, it’s not like there are many reasons to go to a Hampton Inn in the middle of a small town.”

“It was a one-time thing and it’s done,” she says, and I know she’s lying, and she knows I know she’s lying, and whatever. What. Ever.

“Anyhow— your stepfather is going to transfer some more money to your bank account. I think he got a little nervous last night— he doesn’t want you to try to take on a job while you’re in school.”

“Thanks. That’s nice of him,” I say, and this is another lie— but this time, my mom has no clue.

And sure, my stepfather is a nice enough guy to me, but he’s dropping money into my account to buy my silence. I found out about his affair just before I decided to transfer.

He and my mother are ridiculous. If both of them want to have affairs, why not just break the fuck up already?

This is why I had to get away from the two of them, their claustrophobic relationship, their petty dramas, the way they constantly pulled me back into their twisted toxicity with little regard to the effect any of it had on me.

Once I’m off the phone with my mom, I check my bank account, curious to see just how much silence my stepfather thinks he’s bought. I do a double take when I see the balance— it’s several thousand dollars, and from the looks of it, there’s another few thousand “pending”. That’s not hush money, that’s help-me-bury-the-body money. This has to be a mistake. I look at the transaction history, opening up deposit notes to see where some banker typed an extra “0” on accident.

Instead, I see two totally different deposits. One from my stepfather for a thousand dollars, and the remainder from…

Xander.

Well, I mean…I think it’s Xander. It’s a company named “HaleTrope”, which I happen to know was his gaming handle back when he was in high school, back when I tried to get into video games just to impress him. It didn’t work, which is just as well, since it wasn’t long after that that his dad started punishing Xander’s outbursts by taking away said video games.

I stare at the number in my account, fluctuating between rage and delight. I mean, let’s be honest— seeing a fat number in your account can never make you that angry. But what the hell? How did Xander even get my account information? And why does this feel exactly like the “hush money” my stepdad is giving me?

Hell no.

I grab my phone and scroll through to Xander’s number. I’m tempted to just send him a series of furious texts, but that feels like letting him off too easy. So, I tap his name and listen as the phone rings.

Which means I’m not listening long— he picks it up almost immediately.

“Josie. Is everything okay?” he asks, sounding worried. I hear something in the background, a flurry of male conversation, a few laughs, some glasses clinking like he’s at a very small bar.

“No, it’s not okay,” I say as pointedly as possible. “Did you put money in my bank account?”

I hear him exhale and try not to feel too tender about the relief in the sound. “Yeah— listen, can we talk about it later? I’m busy.”

“No, we can’t. First off, how the hell did you get my account info? And secondly, what is that, hush money? Don’t tell our parents about what we did money? Or was it just basic thanks-for-the-ride, hooker style money? Because I am not okay with any of those, Xander, and I am really not okay with you violating my privacy by going into my bank account.” I’m gulping for air by the time I’m finished, because I forgot to breathe during my diatribe.

Xander makes a growling sound on the phone, then drops his voice, trying to be discreet. “It’s not any of those things. It’s my-stepsister-is-new-in-town money.”

I’ve caught my breath and am ready to go again, “That you gave me after not caring to even contact me for three years, and oh, yeah, it just happened to arrive a few days after we almost fucked—”

“Fine, fine, call it hush money then, whatever,” he snaps.

“And my bank account? How did you manage that?”

“I saw your bank name on my computer from when you logged in to cancel your cards. bank there too. I’m a good customer. It wasn’t hard.”

I was ready to argue about the huge, massive, insane invasion of privacy, but I fall short— because let’s be real, this isn’t a huge, massive, insane invasion of privacy. I mean, it’s still an invasion of privacy, but it’s minor league at best.

“If you don’t want the money, write me a check, I’ll take it back,” Xander says, voice hard. “I was trying to do something nice for you.”

I swallow, both because it sounds genuine— Xander wanted to do something nice for me— and because I’m remembering the thing I actually wanted Xander to do. To validate the feelings I’ve had for him for ages, to want me, to have me…

His rejection still burns at my core, and no amount of bank account padding is going to fix that.

“I don’t want your money,” I say stiffly.

“Then write me a check. I can’t talk right now, Josie, I’m at work.”

“You work at a bar?” I ask, suddenly surprised out of my anger. No way can he afford that type of apartment or to drop major cash into my bank account if he’s a bartender.

He just makes an annoyed grunt in response. Of course, why should I have expected an actual answer from my asshole stepbrother?

“Fine. I’ll write you a check. Bye,” I say, the acid drained from my voice. I hang up the phone, perplexed. That really, really sounded like a bar— and given the hour, it makes sense that he’s at one. Maybe it was a business meeting at a bar, and that’s why he said he was at work? But what kind of business?

I press my lips together. I’m not the sort of girl who jumps to conclusions, but when I combine what I know about Xander à la three years ago— high school dropout, social rebel, quick to argue, anger issues, and no future plans— with the Xander I saw the other night— gorgeous apartment, luxury lifestyle, money to burn, late night business meetings in a bar— I can’t help but assume that chances are he didn’t make his riches as a plastic surgeon to the fabulously wealthy. I guess there are other ways to make a million, these days, but I also don’t think he’d have invented the next Facebook without my hearing about it. Which…leads me to think that maybe Xander’s money comes from something darker.

My stomach twists. What has Xander gotten himself caught up in? And am I caught up in it too, now that he’s moved money into my account? Should I tell our parents? No, no, I can’t do that— if there was any chance of Xander telling me what’s going on, it’ll be shot the moment he finds out I went to our parents with any news of his life.

My anger has entirely faded now, and I’m left…worried. Sure, I’m still pissed at Xander for rejecting me and making me feel like a total loser, but that doesn’t mean I want him caught up in an international drug ring or…something else Law & Order worthy. He’s too good a person for that— after all, he’s the kind of guy who will drop everything and rush to help his freshly-mugged stepsister, even though he barely knows her. He’s the kind of guy who picked a fight once with our parents at the exact moment I brought home a less than stellar report card, all to take the heat off me. He’s the kind of guy who somehow got me a pack of wine coolers to take to a party my junior year, not because I actually wanted them, but because I was afraid I’d look like a nerd if I showed up without any and was way too scared to try to buy them myself. And when said party got busted by the cops? He picked me up and got me the hell out of there so fast that I knew he must have been sticking close by.

My point is just: Xander has always taken the hit for me, and I heard enough second-hand stories from classmates to know that he did the same for them, too. If he’s caught up in something dark, it’s because he had no choice, and if he had no choice, it’s because I drove him away from home— even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

It’s my fault. So I’ve got to at least try to fix it, right?