Page 43 of Sleeper: The Palisades Edition

“Then I think I’ll be okay. There will be three of us. I am a big girl. You do realize that, right? I can handle all kinds of things.” She straightens up. She’s looking at me, really looking at me, daring me to look back at her.

This girl. She can explain sunsets to a five-year-old and convey her maturity to a twenty-eight-year-old, and I’m starting to wonder ifI’mthe one who can’t handleher. She is so many things, and I don’t want to risk losing any of them.

“I’m just looking out for you. You’re kind of my responsibility right now.”

“Even on my night off?” She arches an eyebrow and takes a step closer.

“You’re still my kids’ nanny. You’ll always be Nico’s little sister.”

“I know who I am. And I’m a lot more than that.” She frowns and pushes herself away from the counter. “I keep wondering when you’re going to figure that out,” she says as she brushes past me.

I hear the door to her room close, and I don’t have a fucking clue what just happened.

But if she doesn’t like that I’m the responsible guy, then it’s not my job to explain everything to her. That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been. It’s one thing to fuck around with someone on location, but this is real life. This is my life. She’s better off with some twenty-four-year old asshat who can take her to hipster downtown cocktail bars on a Tuesday night and to a party in Los Feliz on Saturday because his buddy’s house-sitting for Jon Hamm and it’s totally cool for them to hang out there! And then they can just fuck all night in his shitty studio apartment that’s off of Fairfax and grab Sunday brunch, maybe catch a matinee at The Grove.

Fuck, that sounds great.

I wouldn’t trade my kids for anything, but just one Saturday night of mindless twenty-four-year-old fucking and then doing whatever on a Sunday? I could have used one of those. I could still use one of those.

But that’s my life, not hers.

Her future is still wide open.

“Okay, I’m off,” she says from the doorway.

Fucking hell.

She’s wearing a tiny leather jacket over an even tinier top that does not cover her belly button, and why does she have to wear those black high heel boots over those tight faded jeans? Why should any other guy beallowed to see how good her ass looks in those boots and those jeans? Why is her hair all fluffed up? She put on eyeliner? Lip gloss? Oh hell no, little girl.

“Not exactly the outfit vibe we discussed.”

“If I wear a bulky sweater and sweatpants, Harley will just force me to wear something of hers that’s even sluttier.” She shrugs. “Good night.” She turns to walk toward the garage, and I watch that ass walk away from me, andfuck you Other Guys—fuck you for thinking about all the things you want to do to that ass. I know what you’re thinking.

“Wait.”

She pauses, resting her hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“There’s no garage door opener in the truck. I’ll close the garage door for you.”

She lowers her head, laughing. “Great. Thanks.”

She flings open the door, and I catch it before it slams against the wall.

Well well, look who has a fiery temper.

Fuck, she smells good.

Fuck.

“Drive safe,” I say sternly, knowing it’ll piss her off. “Don’t drink too much.”

“I’ll drink however much I want to—it’s my night off.”

I shut the door behind myself, grab her arm, and pull her to me.

“Don’t drive angry.”

She glares up at me, chest heaving, eyes shining. “Stop trying to push me away when you know I can’t go anywhere.”