A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother by Blake Abriella

Author:Blake, Abriella [Blake, Abriella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hearts Collective Publishing
Published: 2015-02-20T08:00:00+00:00

* * *

We're standing on the cement steps in an actual line outside Hank Gilmore's house. Two girls teetering in front of us wear knock-off Louboutin’s maroon soles, and one is in a curly blonde wig.

When Claudia asks them who they're supposed to be, the wigged chick rolls her eyes and tells us, “We're both Carrie Bradshaw. Duh.”

“Carrie Bradshaw actually wore Manolo Blahnik’s,” Claudia says, tossing her tousled hair. Tonight she's gone for the ever-classic, “sexy cat” costume—a.k.a., cat ears, a dollop of paint on her nose, and a skintight pleather body-suit. I have decided to communicate to the world that I've fully thrown the towel in—via a hand-made toga, courtesy of my mother's white sheets. Call me Aphrodite, or more accurately, whoever the sad, loser God is. Hermes. Pan.

“I heard the whole basketball team is like this den of sin,” one Carrie says to the other. “Hank's been dealing cocaine since the eighth grade.”

“To who, Jane? Where did you even hear that?”

“I dunno. Around.”

“We've never even met anyone who does cocaine. You should keep your mouth shut.”

“But just look at this house! This house is such a shithole, compared to the way he dresses. He's definitely getting money from some other weird place.”

“This is so gossipy and declassee. Very un-Carrie.”

Claudia takes a firm step forward, blocking my view of the two rubes in front of us. She's got a goofy expression on her face, though.

“Don't eavesdrop, Jo. It's rude.”

We're finally advancing in line. It's like we're at a New York City nightclub, instead of loitering outside of someone's mom's house in suburban Baltimore. My phone pings in my pocket, and I dive for it. My heart sinks strangely, when I see it's just Eric, telling me to “be a good gurl :-)”

“I don't know why I thought this was such a good idea,” I murmur, tugging at the fabric of my faux toga. Claudia barely acknowledges me—her eyes are clamped on her own iPhone.

“Trace says he's inside. He says he'll meet us by the beer pong table.”

“Peachy.”

“Well you could try to sound a bit more enthusiastic. You're technically my back-up date for the evening, in case things go horribly wrong with me and your bro.”

I smile for a second, broadly, into the night. Claudia catches the tail end of this and gives me a weird look.

“Hey, we're going in. Look alive, Prine.” She tugs my arm, giddy. I swallow hard and totter up the steps, trying to banish visions of Trace in a gladiator or knightly get-up. I know now that he's not some fictional hero, come to save me.

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