In which Lucas Sinclair's older sister spends her whole summer trying to tame Billy Hargrove.
NSFW: 18+ only
Contains Dark themes and sexual content that may not be suitable for people under the age of 18.
Read at your own risk-this essentially is...
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Chapter Two: Sinclair Residence
Zara had been up for hours, already cooking breakfast and tidying up Erica's hair for the day. "I told you not to add barrett's that don't match the color scheme."
"It's literally pink."
"Not the right shade of pink. Do you want me leaving the house looking crazy?"
Zara rolled her eyes, quickly unclipping the offensive accessory and tossing it back into the basket. "You've been hanging out with Tina too much—she's corrupting you."
"As if I'd allow myself to be corrupted," Erica peered at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing brown eyes squinted as she examined herself for any flaws. "This is acceptable for now but you need to practice your french braids for later this week."
"What's going on later this week?"
"None of your business—just make me look cute."
"Erica you're eleven, who do you need to look cute for?"
Erica placed a hand on her hip, the other keeping a vice grip on the barbie doll Zara had bought her for her birthday. "Bold of you to assume I'm trying to look good for someone else. Just learn how to do the damn braid."
"Whatever," Zara huffed in return, one hand still sticky with hair gel as she rushed to answer the ringing phone. "Sinclair residence."
"Zara," Lucas shouted in obvious distress, the distinct sound of the arcade's games chiming through the receiving end of the line. "I need you to come get me now."
She glanced over at the clock hanging on the wall near the front door. "You still have like three hours to spare."
"I won't have any hours left if you don't come get me right now—its an emergency."
"You can't keep throwing around the emergency card—especially when I always show up and there's never really an emergency."
"Zara, please," Her younger brother begged, his prepubescent voice cracking in his urgency and her heartstrings were tugged in a way that only her siblings could.
The response was immediate, first wiping her hand of the excess hair gel before pulling her car keys off the hook. She slid on her shoes, grateful that she'd at least taken some extra time the previous morning to paint her toes.
At the pace of a jog, she rushed to the car, turning the key in the ignition and speeding off before her music even started filtering through the eight-track radio.
