Better than Perfect (4 page)

What the—

She stares at the pointed tine sticking out of my left shoe and her mouth opens in shock. Before I know it, she backs up and slams the door shut. I'm swallowed by darkness as I hear the padlock snap into place. Two thoughts cross my mind: she thinks I'm a thug and I think she's a wackjob.

One of us is right, and it's not her.

I can't believe I just stabbed someone! A thug from Fairfield I've never seen before. He's too cute for his own good, and he's tall, with shaggy brown hair peeking out from a knit cap. If that isn't bad enough, he isn't wearing a shirt and is totally ripped. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was posing for a magazine spread. Did he actually think he'd get away with vandalizing our property with those old spray-paint cans he was hovering over? Those jerks from Fairfield are always causing trouble on our side of town. Jet's warning is still fresh in my mind. I was voted captain and became a target as soon as word got out.

I run as fast as I can toward my house, refusing to panic but not doing a great job.

“Dad!” I yell as I rush inside, hoping he's home and not at work. “There's a guy in the . . .”

My voice trails off as I catch a glimpse of a strange woman in
our kitchen standing in front of the open refrigerator. She's wearing a red sundress and big red earrings to match. I think she's about to steal our food, but when she smiles brightly and says, “Hi! Wow, my baby sister's all grown up!” my mind focuses and I'm stunned.

The woman standing ten feet away from me isn't a food burglar. She's my sister, Brandi. In the flesh. I recognize her now . . . an older and bigger version of the eighteen-year-old who left when I was in fifth grade.

“Umm . . . hi,” I say, dumbfounded.

My dad said Brandi was coming to stay with us for a little while. I didn't believe it, because my sister hasn't called or written or e-mailed or texted me since she left when I was ten. Not even to tell me she'd had a son with her ex-boyfriend Nick, or that she'd recently married some random Navy guy. I found that out when I ran into an old friend of hers.

I haven't seen my sister in seven years. With her bright and cheery “hi,” she's acting like it was yesterday.

“Where's Dad?” I ask, postponing our reunion because there's an intruder in the shed with a pitchfork sticking out of his foot.

“I think he went to work or something.”

“Oh no. That's not good.” I bite my bottom lip as I worry about the boy in the shed. Will I be arrested? Coach Dieter won't be happy to find out that within an hour of being voted captain I stabbed someone. Forget maintaining a 3.0 or higher GPA. Stabbing people in the foot isn't exactly role-model material, but I
have a good excuse. I was defending my house . . . or, more precisely, my shed. What am I supposed to do? Should I call the police or ambulance . . . or both?

“What's going on?” Brandi asks.

“Umm . . . there's a little
situation
out back.” I cringe at the thought of what I just did.

“Like what?”

“I locked a football player from Fairfield High in our shed. They're animals,” I explain quickly as I gesture toward the backyard. “I told him to leave, but he wouldn't. I didn't mean to stab him.”

My sister's eyes go wide. “
Stab
him? Oh, my gosh. Umm. Umm. Umm. What should we do? Umm . . . I got it!” she says frantically. “Derek will help!” My sister slams the refrigerator door and hurries toward the den, yelling, “Derek!”

“Who's Derek?”

Finding nobody in the den, she runs to the living room, her long bleached blond hair flying behind her. “Derek, you in here?”

“Who's Derek?” I ask again. I thought her husband's name was Steve. Supposedly he's deployed and wasn't due back for a while. Did Brandi dump him and already move on to a new guy? I wouldn't put it past her. My sister was never known as the stable type.

“Derek's my stepson, Ashtyn.” I follow as she heads upstairs calling, “Derek, we need your help! Where are you?”

Stepson?
What is she talking about? She's got a son named Julian, but I hadn't heard about another kid. “You have a stepson?”

“Yes. He's Steve's son.”

“How is Steve's little kid gonna help us, Brandi?”

Brandi whips around to face me with furrowed brows. “Derek's
not
a little kid, Ashtyn. He's seventeen.”

Seventeen? My age?

I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. No, he couldn't be. But what if he is?

“Is he tall . . . with blue eyes, a southern accent, and a knit cap?” I ask, my heart beating so fast I wonder if it's going to burst out of my chest.

My sister's eyes go wider. We both realize my horrific mistake and race to the shed. I get there first. Falkor barks like crazy, his long tail wagging back and forth excitedly.

Brandi pounds on the door. “Derek, it's me, Brandi. Please tell me you're, like, not bleeding to death.”

“Not yet,” comes the guy's muffled voice from inside the shed.

Brandi yanks on the padlock. “Ashtyn, we need the key.”

Umm . . . “Key?”

More wide-eyed stares. “Yeah,
key
. You know, those oddly shaped metal things you use to unlock stuff. Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

“You've
got
to be kiddin' me,” Derek moans.

“Don't worry, Derek. We'll get you out in a jiffy,” Brandi cries out. “Ashtyn, where does Dad keep those big sharp cutters?”

“In the shed,” I answer weakly.

Brandi picks up a rock and starts slamming it against the padlock, as if that will somehow magically unlock the thing.

“I can break the door down if you want me to,” Derek yells through the door, “but I can't guarantee the roof won't collapse.”

“No!” I yell. I don't want to be responsible for Brandi's stepson being stabbed in the foot
and
the shed collapsing on him. He could get crushed. There are too many sharp tools inside, ones that could cut off really important body parts. I rack my brain, trying to think of where the key might be. That door hasn't been locked in years.

“Wait!” I call out. Brandi stops her rock assault. “Let me think a minute.”

I ignore the frustrated snort from inside the shed.

I get an idea. “Derek, see if you can find a watering can in the shed. My dad used to hide a spare key in there. If you find it, you can push it through one of the slats. I know it's dark, but—”

“I'll use my cell phone light.” I hear Derek rummaging through the shed. “Found it.”

I never thought those words would make me so happy.

Derek pushes the key through a gap in the slats. Brandi unlocks the padlock and opens the door as I peek around her at her stepson. Derek and his abs are leaning against the workbench. He looks relaxed and maybe a little irritated, but he's definitely not bleeding to death.

“Derek, this is my sister, Ashtyn,” Brandi says as she rushes up to the guy. “Your, um, step-aunt. Isn't it funny that you guys are the same age?”

“Hilarious.” He shakes his head like he can't believe he's in this situation. He's not the only one.

Brandi glances down at the pitchfork lying next to him, then stares at his feet. There's a hole in his left shoe.

“O'migod,” she says, eyeing the hole. “You really did stab him!” She kneels down like a concerned mother hen and examines his shoe.

“Not on purpose,” I say.

“At least she's got bad aim,” Derek says in a sexy drawl. “It just grazed my toe.”

Brandi gnaws on her lip. “What about lockjaw? Julian's pediatrician said you could
die
if you're cut from something rusty.”

“Don't worry, little guy,” Derek says to someone behind me. “I had a tetanus booster last year.”

Little guy? I turn around to see who he's talking to. An adorable little boy with blond hair has joined us, obviously my nephew, Julian. He stares at the hole in Derek's shoe, then looks up at me with fear, as if I'm the Grim Reaper here to collect humans on earth and bring them back to Hell with me.

Brandi pats her son's head. “Ashtyn, this is Julian. Julian, meet your auntie Ashtyn.”

Julian won't even look in my direction. Instead, he looks up at Derek as if he's his hero for life.

“Don't be afraid of her,” Derek tells Julian. “Your aunt's not mean. She's just crazy.”

I manage to stay away from Ashtyn the rest of the day, hoping to avoid the crazy warrior girl who locked me in the shed. Apparently she doesn't feel the need to avoid me, though, because as I'm talking to my old roommate, Jack, on my cell and giving him props for managing to stuff my suitcase with random poker chips as a good-bye prank, she stomps into the den without knocking or an invitation. Her guardian watchdog tags along.

“I have a bone to pick with you.” She crosses her arms on her chest. Her dog flops down on the floor next to her. I bet if he could cross his front legs on his chest to imitate her, he would.

I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Jack, I'll call you back.” I slide my cell into my pocket, lean against the wall, and prop my feet up on the box labeled WINTER CLOTHES I'm using as a mock coffee table. “What bone do you want to pick?”

Her eyes narrow. The girl doesn't miss the double meaning as I throw her words back at her.

She ignores my joke and instead lets out a burst of irritation. “First off, you need to tell my nephew I'm not crazy. The kid won't even look at me.”

I wag my foot. “I'm not the one threatenin' innocent people with pitchforks and accusing them of bein' thugs.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should've told me who you were right away . . . and stop wearing knit hats in the middle of the summer. Obviously my sister didn't tell us she had a stepson, so I wasn't expecting you.”

“She didn't tell me she had a sister, either. And it's called a beanie.”

“Whatever. It threw me off.”

“Why are you so serious? Loosen up.” I wag my foot again. “If it'll make you feel any better, you can rub my foot for ten minutes and we'll call it even.”

She eyes my toe as if I have a fungus. “You think this is funny, don't you?”

“Entertaining is more like it.” I look down at my foot. “So I assume the foot rub is out?”

“Let's just get one thing straight, Cowboy.” She eyes my collection of boots lined up in the corner. “You might be used to getting girls to rub your feet or do whatever you want by flashing that smile or showing your six-pack, but it's not gonna work with me. I'm around football players all day, so seeing a fit body is like seeing a statue. It doesn't do anything for me.”

“Tell me, then. What does it take to get your attention?” I ask.

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

Yeah. And I have a feeling I'm gonna find out real soon.

I can tell Ashtyn is a girl who plays by her own rules and refuses to acknowledge that there's some kind of electricity flying between us. The more she protests, the more I know I've gotten under her skin. I'm about to say some cocky comment until Falkor groans, then stretches out and starts lapping away at his balls. “Your dog has issues.”

“We all have issues.” She stares me straight in the eye. “But don't try to figure me out or get into my business.”

“Ashtyn, the last thing I'm gonna do while I'm here is get into your precious business. Or your issues, whatever they are.”

“Good.” She tosses her braid back. “Then we're on the same page.”

Brandi peeks into the room, her big earrings swaying from side to side. “Derek, how're you feeling?” she asks, concern laced in her voice.

“Ashtyn was just about to give me a foot rub. Why didn't you tell me your sister was as sweet as sugar pie?”

Brandi puts her hand to her heart. “Aww. It's
super
cool that you're so forgiving, Derek. I made dinner and it's ready whenever you are.”

When Brandi leaves, Ashtyn puts her hands on her hips and raises a brow. “Sugar pie, my ass,” she says, then storms out.

In the kitchen, Brandi's dad sits at the head of an oak table surrounded by six wooden chairs. Julian is stuffing his face with mashed potatoes I'm sure are processed and probably don't have actual potatoes in them. I don't think Brandi has ever made anything that hasn't come from a box. Ashtyn is sitting across from
Julian. She glances up and our eyes meet. When I raise a brow, she quickly gazes down at her food.

“Have a good nap, buddy?” I ask Julian as I wash my hands in the sink and pretend Brandi's sister doesn't make me want to find out what it would take to get her attention just for the satisfaction of knowing I can.

Julian nods. I catch a tiny hint of a smile on his face when I mess up his hair and slide into the chair next to him—and across from Ashtyn.

I scan the food on the table. Chicken fingers that don't look like they actually came from a chicken, “just add water” mashed potatoes from a box, and corkscrew pasta smothered with canned Alfredo sauce. I've got to go grocery shopping with Brandi and introduce her to vegetables and chicken that aren't processed to death. Obviously eating healthy is not part of the Parker household plan.

Neither is conversation.

It's silent except for the sound of silverware clinking on the plates and the occasional cough. Is this typical? My dad always has crazy stories to tell and will yank conversation out of you even when you don't want to talk. It's a talent he was born with, or maybe it's some interrogation technique he learned in the military. Either way, it's a skill I don't have. I'm tempted to fling mashed potatoes across the room to liven up the evening, which is more my speed. Would Ashtyn follow along, or would the warrior girl try to stab me with her fork instead?