Born Wrong by C. M. Stunich Page A

that I'm considering installing a sump pump.
    “You will not believe what just happened to me,” I whisper, but only because I know he's asleep. His alert moments are few and far between, but he's gonna make it. Of course he is. It would take a lot more than a sniper rifle to kill my asshole of a brother. The nurse gives me a rude once-over, but she doesn't leave. Fine. I don't really give a shit anyway. What I'm going to talk about – no, no, what I need to talk about – will be plastered all over the Internet tomorrow anyway. “I went Crazy Sydney on some guy's ass.” The nurse raises one of her drawn on brows, but keeps fiddling with Trey's equipment. “Like, super Crazy Sydney. I fucking French kissed the man in front of a reporter. Or interviewer. Or whatever it is that they're called when they're sitting there looking twice as smug as a bartender on St. Patty's Day. I wanted to slap the pretty off that bitch.”
    I reach into my purse and fumble around for a cigarette, slipping it into my mouth and moving over to the balcony doors before the nurse can burst a coronary.
    “You'd have done the same thing if you'd been there, bitch,” I say as I push the glass aside and step out into the warm afternoon breeze. I have to say, the temperature here is a lot more pleasant than it was back in Detroit. Ugh. So glad that phase of my life is over. I deal with this; I deal with my photo shoot; I find a new place to live. In that order. I light up my cigarette and take a few drags on it. “There is no room in there for a sexy boy with blizzard kisses,” I tell myself as I lean over the balcony railing, fake tits smashing against the metal. It almost feels good though. They're so sensitive, I can hardly take the pressure of my dress laying across them. Besides, the railing's warm, and Dax, Dax was like a cold burn, turning my fingers and toes to ice, giving me frostbite in all the worst ways. I could hardly move when he was touching me, definitely couldn't think. I've never felt that way before. Never. Normally, sex, or at least sexy stuff, is supposed to be hot. You know, he's sweaty, you're sweaty, hot groping hands and heated mouths. But this was like … like I was being soothed by his touch, brought down from that realm into a whole other ballpark. It might still be baseball, but the rules have changed.
    I shiver and toss my cig over the railing. Probably not supposed to do that, but there are a lot of things in life you're not supposed to do. Those are always the most fun.
    “Syd?” Trey croaks as I come back inside and pause with my back against the warm window. “You okay?”
    “Everything's fine,” I tell him, moving over to the bed and gazing down on his pathetic ass. My baby bro has never been the smartest tack in the box, and he is annoying, but I still love him, even if we don't see much of each other. I touch a hand to his sweaty forehead. His brown hair is tousled and tangled, lying across part of his face and nearly obscuring his eyes. “You don't worry about any of the bullshit or the drama. Let me figure that out, okay?” He stares at me, but he doesn't make any indication that he's either heard me or that he'll listen to what I'm saying. Could be the drugs or could be his stubborn ass nature. I bend down and press a small kiss to his cheek before standing up and turning towards the door.
    “Who?” Trey whispers as I reach out for the handle, pausing just a moment to glance over my shoulder at him.
    “Who what?” I ask, watching the nurse out of the corner of my eye. Dumb bitch. She's giving me a woman once-over. The kind where other chicks check you out, just to see who's prettier. I'm definitely prettier.
    “Who'd you go Crazy Sydney on?”
    I watch my brother's expression carefully as I answer.
    “Dax McCann?” I say, more as a question and less as an answer. His groan is enough for me. I grab the handle and move out of there before I get any Turner-esque comments from the peanut gallery.