Fuck It (Yama Yama)

Jackass.

I was right to hate him. Mind games are the absolute worst.

“Bro code is real, Sicily. It’s the same as girl code, only a little saner and less stringent,” he states dryly.

“Girl code? What the hell is girl code?”

I should have kept dreaming up inventive ways to kill him. I have the perfect opportunity right now. While he’s staring at me like I’m a freak show, I could be coating him in honey and leaving him for the ants or something.

He suddenly groans. “I forgot you were a cheerleader,” he says on another long breath.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand, growing increasingly volatile.

The prick honestly looks amused. I think he enjoys pissing me off. It’s like foreplay to him or something, and then he has fun with his hand, since he’s not getting any from a partner.

“It wasn’t meant as an insult,” he says with that same smirk that always irritates me. “I meant, cheerleaders have different rules. You all date the same guys, no matter who has already dated them, and brothers aren’t off limits.”

“That’s very narrow-minded of you to generalize women like that,” I bite out. “And for the record, I wasn’t allowed to date in high school, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He runs his index finger over his lips as though he’s remembering our kiss as well. “Oh, I remember. Roman was the family rebel for having a girlfriend and friends.”

I have no idea how we’ve strayed so far from the original conversation at hand, but I hear the horn honk outside, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Anderson’s eyebrows knit together as he darts his gaze toward the front door.

“Who the hell—”

“My Uber is here,” I grumble, picking up my purse and my phone, then walking toward the door.

“I can take you—”

“Good night, Mr. Harper,” I say quietly, my back turned. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow. Business as usual.”

I don’t turn around to hear what he has to say or to see the look on his face. I’ll admit I shut the door much harder than necessary behind me, because I’m not that mature.

My pregnant Uber driver has her backseat loaded down with what looks like a bunch of baby stuff, so I take the passenger seat up front.

With a mumbled set of pleasantries, I decide to do something that is…even more immature than slamming a door. Pulling out my phone, I dial my parents.

“Sicily?” my father asks, unsurprisingly sounding alert and awake even this late.

“I need to speak to you and Mom. Now,” I grind out.

I hear rustling, and then my mother’s wry voice comes on the phone. “We’re both here.”

“Good. Now I can tell you both at once that you ruined my life.” Totally dramatic, but certainly therapeutic.

“What has you so dramatic at this hour?” my father asks on a sigh.

“I’m bad at sex because of you,” I tell them, ignoring their surprised sounds of indignation and mortification. “And bad at doing people stuff, like flirting. I’m too direct because I have zero finesse. I have zero finesse because all I ever did was whatever activities you had put on our wheel-of-life for the day. That’s not normal! You made me awkward and terrible at everything!”

“Sicily, what on earth—”

“I don’t know how to play games because I have no game,” I go on, cutting my mother off. “I might know how to have good sex now, but I may never get to try it because I have no game! And I don’t know what girl code is! TV does not rot your brain; it gives you insight into the world when your parents shut you off from it, and I’m about to start watching it! A lot! That way, hopefully I won’t die alone and have my nine cats feeding on my body when no one notices I’m missing!”

With that, I hang up, wondering if my rant sounded as stupid to them as it did to me. I almost forgot the pregnant Uber driver at my side.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Oh, no worries. I can’t drink to drown my misery, so I Uber people to hear their family drama. Keeps me sane and not feeling so alone,” she says, gesturing to her protruding belly with one hand. “My baby daddy just left me for my mother. We all have our own shit.”

Okay, maybe my life isn’t that bad…

I call my brother anyway, and he answers in a sleep-gruff tone that promises I just woke him up.

“Sicily? You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. Would you really give a damn if one of your friends dated me?” I demand.

“What the…who the hell wants to date you?” he asks, his voice rising a few octaves.

“Answer the question, Roman.”

“Yes, I’d give a damn. That’s crossing a line. You don’t date your friend’s sister,” he snaps.

“Fine. Kasha is my friend. I demand you divorce her.”