Chapter 1: The Bombshell in the Passenger Seat**

Chapter 1: The Bombshell in the Passenger Seat

The engine of my SUV hummed a familiar, comforting tune as I idled in front of Nadia’s off-campus apartment building. This was the easy part. A three-hour drive, some shitty gas station coffee, and we’d be at the lake house. Summer officially kicking off with my best friend, Marco, and the rest of our crew. Easy. Simple.

Picking up Marco’s little sister was supposed to be the most routine part of the day. I’d known Nadia Lopez since she was a toothy-grinned kid trailing after us, begging to play video games. The last time I’d really seen her, a year ago before she left for her freshman year, she was still that kid in my head: baggy jeans, her brother’s old band t-shirts, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Tomboy Nadia. Annoying, but harmless.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marco: You got her? Tell her not to forget her swimsuit again lol.

I chuckled, typing back: On it. ETA 3 hours.

Just as I hit send, the front door of the brick building swung open. My thumb hovered over the screen, my brain short-circuiting. The woman who stepped out onto the sun-drenched sidewalk was not the kid I remembered. Not even close.

It was like watching one of those makeover scenes in a movie, except this was real life, happening ten feet from my passenger door. The messy ponytail was gone, replaced by long, dark hair that fell in soft waves over her shoulders. The baggy clothes had been swapped for a pair of high-waisted shorts that hugged curves I never knew existed and a simple, tight-fitting black tank top. Her skin, a shade tanner than I remembered, seemed to glow.

She slung a duffel bag over her shoulder and started walking toward the car, her hips swaying with a confidence that was entirely new. As she got closer, I saw the details that made my throat go dry. A delicate silver ring in her nose. A splash of intricate ink—a snake coiled around a blooming rose—that started on her shoulder and disappeared under the strap of her tank top. Her face had lost its childish roundness, replaced by sharp, defined cheekbones and full lips painted a subtle, glossy pink.

This wasn't 'little sister' Nadia. This was… Nadia Lopez, a woman who looked like she could chew up guys like me and spit them out for fun.

She pulled open the passenger door, and a wave of a sweet, floral scent filled the car. “Hey, Nick.”

Her voice was different, too. Deeper, smokier. It vibrated right through me.

“Hey, Nadia,” I managed, my own voice sounding embarrassingly strained. “Wow. Uh, you look…” I trailed off, searching for a word that wasn’t holy shit. “…different. College suits you.”

She tossed her bag into the back and slid into the seat, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. “You think so? I was tired of borrowing Marco’s hand-me-downs.” She buckled her seatbelt, the simple movement drawing my eyes to the swell of her breasts against the thin fabric of her top.

I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the road, pulling away from the curb before I did something stupid, like stare. “Yeah, well. It’s a good look.”

“Thanks.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. It wasn't the comfortable silence of old friends. It was charged, electric. Every cell in my body was screaming at me. This is Marco’s sister. Abort mission. Do not engage. But my eyes kept betraying me, flickering to the side to catch a glimpse of her bare, tanned leg, the way she tapped her painted nails against her phone.

We merged onto the highway, the concrete stretching out in front of us. I tried to fill the void. “So, first year done. How was it?”

“It was fun,” she said, her tone suggesting ‘fun’ was a massive understatement. “Learned a lot.”

“Yeah? Good classes?” God, I sounded like my dad.

She turned to look at me, her brown eyes seeming to peer right through my lame attempt at small talk. “The classes were fine. But I learned more outside of them.” That knowing smile was back, and it sent a jolt straight to my groin.

I cleared my throat, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Think about Marco. Think about Marco punching you in the face. It was the only mantra that could possibly get me through this.

“Marco’s excited for the weekend,” I said, trying to steer the conversation to safer, more brotherly territory.

“He’s always excited to show off the lake house,” she replied, a hint of amusement in her voice. She leaned forward, her scent washing over me again as she plugged her phone into the car’s USB port. “Mind if I play some music?”

“Yeah, go for it,” I said, grateful for the distraction.

But she didn’t pull up a playlist. Instead, she rummaged in her purse for a moment before pulling out a small, cylindrical tube. She popped the top off, and the skunky, unmistakable scent of weed filled the car. She held up a perfectly rolled blunt.

“You mind?” she asked, her expression a playful challenge. It wasn't a question so much as a statement of intent.

My internal alarm bells were screaming. Smoking weed with my best friend’s 19-year-old sister while driving to his family’s house was a monumentally bad idea. It was a violation of at least three major clauses in the Best Friend Code. But saying no felt impossible. It would make me seem like a square, like the boring, predictable ‘good guy’ she probably already thought I was. And worse, it would break the fragile, intoxicating spell she was weaving in the car.

“Crack the window,” I heard myself say, the words leaving my mouth before my brain could stop them.

Her smile widened into a full-blown grin of triumph. She pressed the button, letting in a rush of warm air, then put the blunt to her lips and sparked a lighter. She took a long, slow drag, holding the smoke in before exhaling a thick, grey cloud out the window. She held it out to me.

“It’s good shit,” she promised.

My hand left the steering wheel. Our fingers brushed as I took it from her, a spark of static electricity that felt like a lightning strike. I took a hit, the familiar burn filling my lungs, and passed it back. We fell into an easy rhythm, passing it back and forth as the miles blurred by. The tension didn't disappear, but it changed. The awkwardness melted away, replaced by a hazy, conspiratorial intimacy. We were partners in a small, victimless crime. It felt dangerous and thrilling.

After a few more minutes, Nadia took one last drag and flicked the roach out the window. She settled back in her seat, her eyes a little glossy, her smile lazy and content.

“Okay,” she said, picking up her phone. “Now for the entertainment.”

“Putting on some tunes?” I asked, my voice relaxed for the first time since she’d gotten in the car.

“Something better.” She tapped the screen a few times. “I found this new podcast. It’s… educational.”

I chuckled. “Educational about what? History? Politics?”

Her eyes locked on mine, a wicked glint in their depths. “Something like that.”

A woman’s voice, smooth and seductive, suddenly filled the car speakers, cutting through the haze. “Welcome back to ‘Cheat Code.’ Today, we’re talking about the art of the tease. How to use your voice, your eyes, your body, to let someone know you want them… without ever saying a word.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I shot a glance at Nadia. She wasn't looking at the road, or her phone, or out the window. She was looking directly at me, her lips slightly parted, her expression a blatant invitation.

The podcaster continued, her voice a low murmur describing in intimate detail how to build tension, how to touch, how to taste. The air in the car grew thick, heavy with the scent of weed, her perfume, and something else—a raw, undeniable current of desire.

This wasn't an accident. This wasn't just some random podcast.

This was the first move in a game I didn’t know we were playing. And as I looked into Nadia’s dark, challenging eyes, I realized with a terrifying thrill that I had no intention of folding.