ARROGANT BASTARD by Winter Renshaw

mutters something like, “goodnight.” He’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the main house. I head straight for the kitchen, pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry and ransacking the fridge for something so shove between a couple slices.
    I grab a packet of bologna and a bottle of ketchup and slam the door. My heart nearly falls clear to my feet when a figure standing in the kitchen doorway appears without warning. My eyes focus in the dark until I recognize those virginal Coke bottle curves.
    “Shit, Waverly, you scared me.”
    “Sorry.” She stands there all saucer-eyed before tiptoeing toward me. “Want me to make you something?”
    I’m not sure where this niceness is coming from. Last I knew, we’d left things on a sour note. Maybe she heard Mark yelling at me.
    I pull out a plate and knife and go to town. “Nah. I can make my own sandwich.” I start to cut my sandwich on the diagonal and then freeze mid-slice. “Aw, shit. Am I not supposed to be in the kitchen?”
    Her brows furrow.
    “You know, ‘cause I’m a guy and all.”
    She crosses her arms and fights a smile for a quick two seconds. She wants to smile. I know it. But she won’t allow herself.
    “Be careful with Dad,” she says, her voice hushed. “It’s better to let him get it all out. Just don’t talk back. He doesn’t like that.”
    “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” I shove a third of the sandwich into my mouth at once. Bologna and ketchup sandwiches were a staple at my old house until Juliette came along. Josiah didn’t cook much, and most evenings were fend-for-yourself.
    “I wasn’t mad at you.” She’s still playing the denial card.
    “Okay. If you insist.” I shove the rest of the sandwich in my face, eating like a prison inmate guarding his food, but I don’t care. I’m fucking hungry. I make myself a second sandwich and inhale it as she watches. “You want one?”
    She shakes her head. I consider asking why she’s still standing there, but I don’t have the energy. I’m dirty. I’m tired. I need a shower. Waverly cleans up my mess without saying a word.
    “You don’t have to do that.” I’m trying not to laugh, but the girl flits around me like a goddamned housemaid.
    She wipes up the crumbs and replaces the rag. The dampness rubs against her white cotton pajama top and sells out the fact that she’s most definitely not wearing a bra. Who knew under all those thick cardigan twin sets, Waverly Miller was packing a set of perky, round tits?
    “Go on upstairs, Jensen. Get to bed. I won’t have you making us late for school again in the morning.” Her languid command reminds me the rest of the house is fast asleep. It’s just us two standing in the dimly lit kitchen of the main house.
    “Don’t worry about me. Rich gave me a truck. I won’t be needing your brake-slamming taxi services anymore.” I head out of the kitchen. Waverly follows in step.
    “I’m a great driver.”
    “Not when you’re mad.” We take two steps, then two more. I stop short and she bumps right into me. “You were mad about something today. I don’t care what you say.”
    The warmth of her breath hits my back as she sighs. She’s not going to argue. She won’t even put up a fight.
    “A life of servitude is no life at all.” I have to say it, even at the risk of pissing her off. I want to give her something to think about when she goes to bed at night. I can’t imagine what else might fill that pretty little head of hers. Puppies? Rainbows? Shit. She needs to think about real life, because real life is fucking hard. “You wait hand and foot on everybody else, you keep your opinions to yourself, and you’re giving them permission to walk all over you.”
    “This is all temporary.” She flashes a knowing half-smirk. “I walk a straight line. I get to go to college in the fall.”
    I knew there was more to her than meets the eye.
    I keep climbing stairs until we finally reach the top. The hallway