I pound my fist against the solid door repeatedly. “Let me in, asshole, I know you still live here.”

My dad is such a fucking piece of shit.

I amble backwards, unsteady, as I look around for a security camera to flip off.

He’s a piece of shit with a nice place at least. There’s two cameras pointed in my direction, protecting his fancy-ass pad. I give them both the middle finger, just for good measure.

He’s probably in there banging his new wife over the kitchen table or some shit, too busy to come to the door and let his own son in.

Nothing new there. Wife number three doesn’t know what the hell she got herself into when she married my douche bag dad.

I smack the door again. Maybe I need a new tactic. He might not let me in, but she might. “Be a good little wife and let me the fuck in!”

I wonder how old this one is. The last one was closer to my age than his. It was actually pretty gross. Absolute fuckin’ laugh when she tried insisting I call her mum.

Disgusting old man probably went even younger this time.

“Just a minute!” a female voice answers, and I smirk lazily to myself.

Winner, winner.

Guess I’m going to meet the new Mrs. Andrews in the flesh. What a treat that’s bound to be.

The door opens a crack and a set of dark eyes stare at me through the gap, frowning. “Who are you?”

I sway from side to side before stumbling forwards into the door.

Maybe Griff was right… that last shot at the club was one too many after all.

“I’m not calling you ‘Mum’,” I say as I push the door, and the chick gasps, scrambling out of the way.

The door swings back and I step forward, colliding with her.

“Oh my god, where are your clothes?” she shrieks.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart, the old man upstairs not have a set of abs?” I grab her hand and rub it against my stomach.

She shoves me away, and I stumble into the wall, chuckling as I drop my bag to the ground.

“Get out or I’m calling the police.”

I really look at her for the first time. Warm brown skin, dark curly hair and a toned, tight body.

“Jesus,” I mutter to myself as my eyes rake over her exposed flesh in those tiny shorts and tank. My dad has even younger taste than I do.

This one doesn’t look much older than a teenager, hot as fuck, but young. Way too damn young.

Sick, geriatric bastard.

She tugs her robe closed and glares at me. “Get. Out.”

“C’mon, jailbait, is that any way to talk to your new kid?”

She scowls at me, her hands on her hips and her eyes on my chest. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dear old dad didn’t tell you about his favourite son?” I smirk.

Dad clearly went for looks over brains with this one.

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “Wait, you’re Lukah?”

“Congratulations. Ten points to the new girl,” I drawl as I push off the wall, stumble yet again, then clumsily make my way down the hallway to where the old man used to keep a couch.

I’m tired as shit; I don’t remember it being such a long walk from the club to this overpriced penthouse. I doubt I’d make it upstairs to a real bed if my life depended on it.

I hear her shut the door and then the padding of her feet on the wooden floor behind me.

“No one told me you were coming.”

“Well surprise.” I throw my arms in the air. “Because here I am.”

I drop onto the couch, my Santa hat falling off my head and into my lap.

“Where are your clothes? And what’s with the hat?”

I chuckle as I look up slowly at her. She’s real fuckin’ hot, this one. The thought of my dad taking her to bed makes me want to hurl. I don’t know how he gets these women in the first place, let alone gets them to stick around long enough to marry.

“Well?” she demands.

“Well, jailbait, usually when you strip, you take clothes off.”

“You’re a stripper?” Her voice rises an octave.

“Only on Fridays.” I chuckle, my eyes closing of their own accord.

“And the Santa hat?”

“Ho, fucking, ho.” I yawn. “It’s Christmas, what the hell do you think?”

“Your dad isn’t here, you know?”

“Don’t. Give. A. Fuck.”

In fact, it suits me better if I don’t have to listen to him and his bullshit lectures.

“He and my mum won’t be back until the morning.”

I blink drowsily at her; her robe has slipped open again, showing a slither of skin between her tank and shorts. Jesus.

“Are you even old enough to get married?”

“Did you hit your head on the way over here or something? You’re making no sense.”

“I’ll tell you what makes no sense,” I say as I kick off my shoes, “someone as sexy as you, marrying a prick like my dad.”

She laughs, a disbelieving laugh. “Ew. You think I married your dad? No offence, but that’s disgusting. He’s like sixty. How much have you had to drink?”

“Sixty-five,” I inform her, ignoring her question, because who keeps track of drinks when they’re free? Not me, that’s for damn sure.

“Whatever. I didn’t marry anyone. My mum did.”

Her mum… my dad… then that means…

“I’m your new stepsister,” she confirms, looking all hot and pissed off.

I chuckle groggily.

Stepsister. Yeah right.

I really am wasted.

My brain drifts, sleep taking me. I don’t know what the hell was in those shots, but this dream is a new one, that’s for damn sure.