"Nope. Not doing it," I tell Lucy, crossing my arms.

The motel room is a mess. Crusty man socks litter the floor, his jeans kicked into a corner. Men, I’m learning, are slobs—especially bachelor ex-cons who just got out of prison. You’d think prison would’ve embedded like a militaristic fastidiousness in him, but it seems like they didn’t do such a great job with him.

Not that I have much room to speak. The bathroom counter is seventy-five percent mine, with makeup palettes and hairspray bottles scattered across the fake marble. It’s not dirty, though. The counter itself is clean. There isn’t even any makeup smeared in the sink—something I can’t say for my roommate back in Connecticut.

Still, Lucy insists that I gather all of Cliff’s clothing and head to a laundromat. I need to wash a few things, too, but that’s beside the point. Family or not, I’m no one’s laundress—especially a man nearly two decades older than me.

Lucy and I eyeball each other across the room, her trying to decide how stubborn I’m being and me just, well, being stubborn. But, I remind myself, our ancestors didn’t fight for us to vote and do other people’s laundry.

"You can do his laundry," I say, both eyebrows lifted. "I’m not a maid."

Lucy puts her hands on her hips. She looks more like my mother than my big sister. "Livvie," she says, exasperated. "You need to do laundry anyway. And this way, I can run to the grocery store."

She won’t say it, but we’re running out of money. We won’t be able to stay down here much longer. It doesn’t matter how handsome Prince Charming is. Lucy only gets paid monthly, and I’m a student working under the table. If I don’t show up, I don’t make money. Since I haven’t been in Connecticut for the past week, I have zero dollars to my name. Even my cigarette stash is running low—especially with Prince Charming smoking them too.

I’m not trying to be bitter or cranky. Maybe it’s having been cooped up in a motel room for almost a week straight, but my mood is pretty sour. There’s no doubt about it—I would definitely not survive prison.

Lucy gives me her big sister stare, the one that says "You better not tell Mom or I’ll kick your ass." Now that we’re adults, it just means "Do this thing or I’ll still kick your ass." Sometimes I don’t think younger siblings have it very fair. Not even adopted ones.

I throw up my hands. "Fine." Stalking away, I grab my own laundry. "But I’m not picking up all of his dirty socks off the floor."

My mood is pissy. I’m being completely unreasonable. But I can’t stop. I’m two minutes away from taking out all of my frustration on Lucy, and none of this is her fault. Maybe I’m even a little bit jealous.

I flop down on the bed. I don’t like these ugly, complicated feelings. I just want to have a good time, a couple one-night stands, and finish my degree. It’s not too much for a girl to ask.

Lucy sits down next to me, smoothing my hair the way she always has, from the moment I was dropped off at her house as a tiny, scared foster kid. "It’s okay, Livvie," she singsongs in a soft, soothing voice.

Guilt pits in my stomach. She shouldn’t be comforting me. I’m the one who should be stroking her hair, apologizing for acting like a whiny little kid. Sitting up on my elbows, I shake my head. "No, it’s not. I’m sorry." A lopsided smile crosses my face. "I’m just . . ."

"I know." She grins back. "It means a lot to me that you came here with me. It’s pretty tough of you."

My shoulders lift and fall. "I guess.”

I really don’t want to be a burden, the poor little sister who freaks out if she’s out of her comfort zone for too long. I want to be adventurous, like the woman I slip on when I go out to bars in New Haven. The woman who flirts with Cliff so easily is only a small part of me. I’m really just ninety-percent rabbit.

Lucy slings an arm around me. "I’ll tell you what. Handle those crusty man socks, and I will buy us drinks tonight." She tilts her head to the side. "I think Cliff can drink."

A dark bar and Cliff. The thought sends a thrill through me, this weird fluttering in my stomach. "Huh," I say. So that’s what butterflies actually feel like. I always thought the saying was just a made-up cliché.

"Deal?" my sister asks.

I don’t want to give in too easily. For one, I don’t want to be so cheap. Booze can’t always win me over. Well, okay, it totally can, but I have to at least appear to put up a fight. Plus I don’t want to seem too eager at the prospect of pumping aphrodisiac into the hot guy who has suddenly strolled into my life. Because no matter how often Lucy insists we’re family, Cliff is not my cousin. I didn’t grow up with him the way she did. He’s just another item on my list to tick off.

"Come on, Liv," she pleads. "I’ll get us shots and mixers, not just beer on tap."

I’m not playing her. Lucy would’ve bought Red Headed Sluts anyway because she hates beer. If anyone is rigging this, it’s her. That’s how the two-sister dynamic works. Both of us are equally manipulative, in a totally loving, best friends forever way.

I lift my chin. "Tequila shots."

Lucy grimaces. "I don’t think I can do those anymore."

"Oh please. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty-two. And even then . . ." I shake my head at her. "Who else is going to drink with me in the nursing home?"

Groaning, she tilts her head back. "Fine." She falls back onto the bed, eyes bugged out, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.

"You have to do at least two shots before you can keel over," I tell her, prodding her in the ribs with a finger.

She automatically wriggles away, but a tiny giggle also escapes. It’s like we’re kids again, and she’s lunging up from her fake-dead position bellowing "I’m back alive!" It was one of my favorite games, and she’s always been happy to oblige me.

This thought makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to budge on the tequila. Someone has to get sloppy drunk with me, and since Uber is our designated driver, it might as well be Lucy.

"Fine." She stands from the bed. "But I’m not at all responsible for my behavior tonight."

Nodding, I stand too. "Good. Neither am I." I toss her a wink, then I follow the trail of shed socks around the room and try to figure out how I’m going to collect them without touching them. I decide that Cliff loses ten hot points for leaving them out, another ten for sweating so much, and ten more for not doing his own laundry. This is actually helpful because he’s now hovering at seventy percent hotness, which means I don’t want to bang him so badly anymore.

Nothing like domestic bliss to put things into perspective.

"I’m beginning to understand why married people have such boring sex lives," I remark to Lucy as I pinch a tiny corner of the sock between my fingernails. Depositing it into the dry cleaning bag provided by the motel, I sigh and steel myself for the next one.

"Finally, she comes to the dark side," Lucy mutters.

I glance over. She’s sitting at the desk, pen in hand, making a grocery list. We have a mini fridge and a microwave, so my expectations are pretty low. "Is that why you never want to get married?"

There’s no answer because the door opens and all six-plus feet of Cliff bursts into the room. His brown eyes are actually smiling, and someone must’ve taken pity on him because his wild beard has been tamed back into a goatee. He instantly earns back twenty hot points.

"I have good news." His gaze flits from me to Lucy, then back to me.

One of my eyebrows lifts attentively, but I’m so busy wondering why he’s telling me that I miss whatever good news he wants to share.

"That’s awesome!" Lucy flies across the room and flings herself into his arms.

He wraps her in a bear hug, an amused look on his face. "Isn’t it? You don’t need to go grocery shopping now."

She relaxes into his embrace. "I know," she says dreamily. "We can take the train back and eat at my place."

Clearing my throat, I shake my head. "Uh-uh, we have a deal."

Stepping back from Cliff, Lucy presses her lips together and gives me a little nod. "Yeah, you’re right. We need to celebrate!" She hugs him again. "I’m so glad you’re coming home," she says into his chest.

A twinge of jealousy runs through me. I want to be hugging him, celebrating his good news. It’s totally absurd. I don’t know him, and I don’t plan on it. One night is enough for me, and then it’s occasional family gatherings. No hugs or lullabies. I’m going to reintegrate him into society by fucking his brains out, then it’s back to class for me.

"And I’m glad I don’t have to do laundry now." I toss the bag to the side, then reach for my cigarettes.

"Not so fast," Lucy says. "It’s still gotta get done. I’m not putting his dirty clothes into my suitcase with my clean clothes."

Cliff glances back and forth between us. He holds up his hands. They’re huge and square, perfect for massaging naked breasts. Twenty more hot points, which puts him at 110. Off the fucking charts, even with the crusty socks. Fuck me. I think I’m actually going to swoon.

"You don’t have to do that." He smiles at me—really, for real smiles—and nods toward the bag. "Toss that over. I’ve got it."

Lucy snorts. Both of us turn toward her. "Dude, you don’t even know how to do laundry."

He scowls at her. "What do you think I am, a fucking rock? I can figure it out."

My sister’s lips press together, and I can practically see the laugh throwing itself at her closed mouth, trying to break through. "What if Livvie goes with you? She’s gotta do her own anyway. And mine." She smiles sweetly at me.

"Tequila," I remind her.

She nods. "Have fun."

* * *

The laundromat is empty, thank goodness. It’s going to be embarrassing enough for the guy to have to be taught how to do laundry. I show him how to load the card at the kiosk, then take him over to the machines.

"You just throw everything in," I explain, reaching for my laundry bag. But I don’t take my own advice. Reaching for everything slowly, I pause every time I get to a lacy little thong, making sure he sees it. "Then," I bend over slowly, "you swipe your card, set your time . . ." I straighten and pour detergent and fabric softener into their respective compartments, the liquid a slow drizzle.

When I sneak a glance at him, he’s making zero effort to conceal the fact that he’s staring at me. Suddenly it really sinks in that we’re alone. There’s an employee somewhere, probably reading a magazine or watching evening television. Porn-esque thoughts stampede through my head: Cliff shoving me against the machines, his teeth digging into my lower lip as he sucks on it, his knee between my legs.

A whimper escapes my lips.

The heat in his eyes is searing, flames edging toward my skin, threatening to consume me and reduce me to ashes. And I’m not even at all scared. I want it so bad, I’m shaking.

He takes a step toward me.

Swallowing hard, I move in. I’ve never been one to let anyone else make the first move. I reach for his shoulders, my lips already parting. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been in my life. This is going to be it, the sex that rockstars write songs about. The kind of sex I can look back on when I’m married with two-point-five kids and I’m covered in baby goo. It’ll be the lay to close my list.

I step forward. He closes the distance between us. Rising up on the balls of my feet, I take aim. He reaches behind me. My eyes flutter as I realize he’s going to lift me up onto one of the tables and take me right here.

A beep sounds.

I open my eyes. Cliff takes a step back and turns away. The washing machine begins to fill, water and soap sluicing around my clothes.

"Thanks for your help," he says over his shoulder, already setting up his own machine.

Heart thundering in my chest, I make a beeline for the door, a cigarette already between my lips. Bad girl, bad girl, bad girl, my heartbeat punctuates my thoughts.

* * *

Two suitcases stand next to the motel room door, our clothing packed and ready to go. The plan is to hit the bar, have a few drinks, then make the overnight train back up to Connecticut. I like this plan a lot, because if I’m drunk enough, I’ll actually be able to sleep on the damn thing. Sometimes Lucy truly is brilliant.

She’s also a pain in my ass.

"We have to make sure we’re like fifteen minutes early before boarding. We can’t miss this train. I’m leaving the room keys right on the desk, so we’re fucked if we miss it. Okay?"

This is the third time she’s given us this spiel.

I just nod and continue averting my gaze from Cliff. I’m still so embarrassed. One week, and I’m forever going to be the dirty little cousin in his eyes. It’d be nice if he was completely oblivious about the whole thing, but since he’s been avoiding me too, it’s not likely.

"Why are you guys so quiet?" Lucy narrows her eyes at us. "I thought we were all excited about this drinking business." She pins me with the super-concerned big sister look.

I want to tell her that was before I made a complete ass of myself, that I’m now thinking I should’ve waited until we had enough social lubrication to make bad decisions together, but Cliff is already judging me hardcore, and Lucy absolutely can’t know. So I just shrug. "I’m tired."

"Good," she says. "That means you won’t drink too much."

On the contrary. I’m going to wash this entire day away with Jose Cuervo and enjoy every second of my hangover tomorrow. It’ll be like punishment, and it’ll take my mind off my still-present lady boner.

There’s this patronizing notion that only men need regular sexual affection. Maslow had it right, though—everyone needs sexual healing. And between my last semester, this entire bizarre trip, and now my totally disastrous attempt at seduction in the laundromat, I need some major penile therapy.

Following my sister and Cliff out to the waiting Uber, I pray that there will be one unattached man around my age in the bar who won’t mind getting freaky in the bathroom with me. I need to scratch this itch quick, and masturbation ain’t gonna do it. Sometimes, a girl just needs some cock.

The Uber drops us off at the least promising looking bar ever. Its facade is small, the bricks grimy. Even the OPEN sign in the window is flickering. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I traipse inside, hoping the interior is better.

It isn’t.

The place is so small, there isn’t even a pool table. That kills my ol’ "Hey handsome stranger, let’s play a quick game" routine, and completely eradicates my "Wanna dance?" fallback. Worst of all, there is literally no one here.

A lone woman is tending the bar. She’s old enough to be my great-grandmother and looks worse for the wear. This bar wouldn’t attract anyone, never mind handsome men in their twenties. I hope she at least makes decent drinks, though I suppose she can’t really fuck up tequila shots.

She doesn’t even smile as I lean on the bar. Pale eyes stare placidly back at me, zero fucks given whether I tip or not. It’s unnerving, but I smile anyway.

"We need six shots of tequila," I tell her, "and open up a tab."

Cliff makes a noise behind me, something between a throat clearing and a growl. It’s primal and vibrates through me, even if it is dubious. "I’ll just take a beer," he says, voice rumbling.

Why, I wonder, does he have to be so goddamn sexy? Especially if I can’t have him.

I peer at him over my shoulder. "Beer? You wait twenty years and you just want a beer?"

Brown eyes challenge me to keep making fun of him. A flicker of that heat from earlier returns. "I want a lot of things," he says in a low voice.

My eyes widen and I grip the bar to remain standing. It occurs to me that he may be fucking with me. I would, if I were him. "I really think you should do shots with me," I whisper back. I bite my lip, wondering what I’m getting myself into. If he’s purposely toying with me, there may be a good chance I’m getting my bathroom bounce tonight. But his statement shakes me: I want a lot of things. I need to know if he’s one of those guys who get very attached very quickly. For all I know, he’s been planning his wedding for the last two decades.

"Fuck it," he says, turning to the bartender. "Nine shots of tequila."

She remains standing there staring at us, as if she’s booting up. Jesus Christ. I might have to climb back there and serve myself.

Suddenly she jerks away and gets to it. Cliff and I exchange glances, and I wonder if anyone else is here with her. Who the hell leaves an old lady to run a bar by herself? I glance around for Lucy, because she so needs to see this.

At first I don’t see her. She’s tucked away, sitting at a high table in a corner. Her legs are draped over her suitcase, her thumbs flying over the screen of her phone. Somehow I’ve got to get her to unwind.

I need to help her get laid when we’re back in Connecticut. I know she isn’t totally devastated over her breakup, but I worry about her, living in that condo all alone. She doesn’t even have a dog.

The sound of a tray sliding over the bar brings my attention back to my mission. I turn to find a tray of nine shots, lime, and salt. Our geriatric bartender winks at me, then shuffles away.

My head whips in Cliff’s direction, but he didn’t see it. His eyes are burning into me. It’s like he already knows how this night is going to end. We’re just following a script, playing our roles. My shoulders relax with relief. He won’t be one of those clingy guys. This will be so easy.