I flip back to the game, drowning out any other noise with the volume of the crowd cheering and announcers yelling about the upset. Sweet. I just won some cash and my fantasy football league for the week. I click the TV off and stand up, stretching as I say, “Fine, cry baby. We can go out.” Cary throws his empty beer bottle at me; it thuds against my leg and falls to the rug, spinning. “Fucker.” I leave the bottle; that’s what a maid’s for. I walk down the short hall to my room but yell back at my cousin, “Get dressed. I’m not taking you anywhere if you still have on that fucking ripped t-shirt.” I can hear him laughing and being a smartass, but he’s being quiet about it. I can also hear him heading to the other room. He knows how far he can push me and when to just shut up and do as he’s told. I grab a quick shower and dress in my usual club crawl uniform—button-down, jacket, jeans, no socks, loafers. It’s casual but nice; I don’t have to say I have money. I don’t have to convince anyone that I’m good looking; I don’t have to try too hard to get what I want.
