by Hazel Kelly
S T E P B R O T H E R
W I T H B E N E F I T S
A N O P P O S I T E S A T T R A C T R O M A N C E
Hazel Kelly
© 2020 Hazel Kelly
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, organizations, and settings is purely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Cover Artwork – © 2020 L.J. Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations
TABLE OF CONTENTS
P R O L O G U E
O N E
T W O
T H R E E
F O U R
F I V E
S I X
S E V E N
E I G H T
N I N E
T E N
E L E V E N
T W E L V E
T H I R T E E N
F O U R T E E N
F I F T E E N
S I X T E E N
S E V E N T E E N
E I G H T E E N
N I N E T E E N
T W E N T Y
T W E N T Y O N E
T W E N T Y T W O
T W E N T Y T H R E E
T W E N T Y F O U R
T W E N T Y F I V E
T W E N T Y S I X
T W E N T Y S E V E N
T W E N T Y E I G H T
T W E N T Y N I N E
T H I R T Y
T H I R T Y O N E
T H I R T Y T W O
T H I R T Y T H R E E
T H I R T Y F O U R
T H I R T Y F I V E
T H I R T Y S I X
T H I R T Y S E V E N
T H I R T Y E I G H T
T H I R T Y N I N E
F O R T Y
F O R T Y O N E
F O R T Y T W O
F O R T Y T H R E E
F O R T Y F O U R
F O R T Y F I V E
F O R T Y S I X
F O R T Y S E V E N
F O R T Y E I G H T
F O R T Y N I N E
F I F T Y
F I F T Y O N E
F I F T Y T W O
F I F T Y T H R E E
F I F T Y F O U R
F I F T Y F I V E
E P I L O G U E
N O T E F R O M T H E A U T H O R
O T H E R S E R I E S
B Y H A Z E L K E L L Y
P R O L O G U E
The first time I laid eyes on James Mason, the world stood still.
Unfortunately, the tether ball I’d just spiked didn’t, and when it ploughed into the back of my distracted head, I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
I don't know why I was so dumbstruck. All he did was ride up on his skateboard and call my best friend’s name.
Perhaps it was his confidence that roused me. Or the funny cowlick at the front of his dirty-blond hair. Or the way his jeans sagged on his hips… Not that I’d ever noticed the way a boy’s jeans fit before.
But it wasn’t my name he called that day, and it never will be.
Because guys like James Mason don’t fall for bookworms like me. And even if they did, that farfetched dream died the day he became the stepbrother I never wanted.
Not that I don’t want him. On the contrary, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. Just not like that. Not as a brother.
Sure, I love the idea of him wrestling me to the floor and pinning me down with the weight of his body. But there’s nothing familial about the way I wish he would pull my hair, the way I wish he would pull me close.
I’ll be taking that secret to the grave, though, because our families have been through enough.
Besides, he doesn’t see me that way.
So I keep biting my tongue. As hard as it takes to keep my secret.
And only when I’m alone do I ever imagine that it’s him.
O N E
- James -
As promised, there was a key under the orange flowerpot to the left of the back door. It was slightly dirty when I picked it up, and as I dusted it off, I noticed it left a key-shaped spot on the step that reminded me of the chalk outline at a crime scene.
Of course, the real crime was that I had to crash at my dad’s in the first place. Not that I had much choice. My would-be home was on the verge of condemnation, and as happy as I was for my best friend and my little sister, I couldn’t share their love nest for one more day.
On the plus side, at least my dad’s place was empty, a reality that sank in as soon as I let myself inside. It was so quiet I could hear the ticking of the wall clock in the kitchen even as I wiped my shoes on the welcome mat in the mudroom.
It was nice, actually. That silence that only exists in suburbia. I felt like I could hear myself think for the first time in weeks.
I kicked my shoes off and wandered into the bright kitchen, which sparkled as homes in Winnetka were practically required by law to do. Even at a glance, I could see that everything was in its place to the point that it felt more like a show home than the house of two former addicts.
Out of force of habit, I opened the fridge and gazed into its glowing interior, expecting it to be empty. To my surprise, there were a few basics inside. Half a dozen eggs. A block of cheddar. A few pots of Greek yogurt. Nothing that would keep until my dad and Nance got back from their adventures in Florida, though.
Okay, so I suspect adventures is a strong word unless there’s a sect of particularly rowdy Bible study groups in Orlando I didn’t know about. Whatever. They must’ve been pretty excited about their trip to forget there were eggs in the fridge.
I swung the door shut and sighed, a sudden wave of tiredness taking me by surprise. Then again, keeping my cool with the builders that morning had required all my patience, and every time my mind flashed back to the black mold in the basement of my dream house, adrenaline pumped through me all over again.
I shook the overwhelming problem from my mind and headed up the stairs with my small suitcase, pausing in front of the first bedroom door on the landing. Against my better judgment, I set my bag down on the sand-colored carpet and pushed the door with my fingers, the faint smell of jasmine wafting out of Brie’s room as it swung open.
My heart jumped when Hermione came into view, her eyes full of surprising depth for a cardboard cutout, but my breathing returned to normal as I eyed the rest of the room, which looked exactly as I remembered it. It was still done up in soft whites and pinks, and the corkboard over Brie’s wide desk looked no less stuffed than it ever had, a veritable mess of Polaroid snaps, dried flowers, and ticket stubs.
The only thing that looked different was the white bookshelf to Hermione’s left, which had grown so crowded with novels the overflow had spread to the floor.
As always, I felt drawn to enter, drawn to be near Brie’s things. Drawn to riffle through them. I’d never stepped foot in her room before, though, and I wasn’t about to start now. She was my stepsister whether I liked it or not, and the less I knew about her life, the better.
Sure, there was a time when things were friendly between us, but that was before our parents got married. Back when she and my little sister were inseparable. Back when I used to think she was…
/> Never mind. It doesn’t matter what I thought when I was a horny teenager who didn’t know the future any more than he knew his own limits. All that mattered was that I knew the latter now. Which is why I pulled Brie’s door shut and continued down the hall to my room, a Cubs-tastic oasis I’d be calling home again for who knows how long.
It was an odd sensation, being in my old bedroom. Like crawling into a time capsule. The plastic baseball trophies on my bookshelf were as shiny as if I’d won them yesterday, and my Clint Eastwood piggy bank was still perched at the corner of the wooden desk I never spent enough time in, forever waiting in vain to turn my spare change into a fistful of dollars.
Unlike Brie, however, I’d never been a child in this house, never spent a carefree day here. I was seventeen when I moved in, and I still didn’t know if I’d made the right call. I thought I was doing what was best for everybody at the time, but there was no best for everybody. My dad made damn sure of that.
A shudder ran up my spine when I recalled how cold the courthouse was the day he and Nance got hitched. They were in such a hurry to make their lives together official, they couldn’t even see the wreckage they were leaving in their wake. Or maybe they were just too blinded by love to care.
I saw it all, though. The tears pooling in my little sister’s eyes. The resentful tick in my older sister’s jaw. And then there was Brie, who seemed as ashamed of her mother as she was embarrassed by her new stepdad. Not that I could blame her. The guy wasn’t exactly father of the year material.
To be honest, I felt bad for her. Far as I was concerned, she was getting the rawest deal of all. Because while my mom and sisters at least had each other to lean on, she didn’t have anybody. Not anyone I considered sane, anyway.
But Brie wasn’t my problem. Logically, I knew that. Yet I still thought I could solve something by moving in here with my dad, thought I could be the bridge that kept everyone from drifting further apart.
So naïve. Just as well I let that dream die or I would’ve been ripped in two long ago.
Whatever. Everyone grew up and pretended to move on with their lives as planned. Even me. But as I sat on the edge of my Cubby-blue bedspread, I found myself wondering about the short bookworm with honey-colored hair that used to live down the hall.
Last I heard she was getting her masters at nearby Northwestern. Something to do with creative writing. I smiled at the thought of her writing poetry in the dimly lit corners of dive bars while nursing whiskey ginger ales she bought with crumpled singles. She was old school like that. I always liked that about her.
Frankly, there were a lot of things I always liked about her. The way she smelled, for example. The way her eyes almost disappeared entirely when she laughed. The way she was always scribbling on napkins and shoving them in her pockets. Seriously, whatever became of all those fucking napkins?
No matter.
Brie was a tough nut to crack, and I gave up trying to figure her out a long time ago. Not because I didn’t like her, but because, deep down, I suspected I really, really did.
T W O
- Brie -
There was something hypnotic about the sound my skinny bike tires made as they rolled along the smoothly paved roads. Then again, after a few whiskey ginger ales, there was almost nothing I didn’t find interesting. From the rustling maple leaves that lined the perfectly manicured street to the impressive lack of potholes on the five-mile ride between Kaffeine and my house, my senses were like dry sponges just begging to be saturated.
When I hit Linden, I stopped pedaling and coasted the rest of the way, focusing on how the warm evening air felt floating over my skin. My eyes danced from one dimly lit house to the next until our mailbox came into view, a mailbox that was starting to become an evil character in my life about whom I was having vivid, vengeful fantasies.
I swung into the middle of the empty street, like I half expected the mailbox to shove a stick in my spokes, and made a wide turn into the driveway. Before my back wheel even cleared the curb, I noticed the entryway light was off. My nose scrunched at the sight, and I made a mental note to check the timer Bill had hooked it up to tomorrow morning.
I hopped off my bike, my strappy sandals clacking up the driveway as I walked it to the side of our detached garage and parked it next to the recycling bin. Then I dug in my jacket pocket for my keys and…shit.
My eyes fell shut as panic seized my heart, and I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to take a deep breath before I gave in to my frustration. Then I grabbed my purse from my bike basket and marched over to the back door to trigger the automatic floodlight overhead.
As the pit in my stomach already suspected, my keys were nowhere to be found. I pulled my temporary phone out, which was acting as a constant reminder that I’d been robbed, and dialed Crystal’s number from memory.
She didn’t answer. Not that I was surprised. I couldn’t hear my own thoughts in that bar, much less my phone. Plus, she had a lot on her mind thanks to Darnell’s latest bullshit. Still, her raspy voice invited me to “drop some good news at the beep.”
“Hey, Crystal. It’s Brie. If you get this, will you have a look around for my keys? I think I let Danny borrow my bottle opener and forgot to get ’em back… Which is hideous on so many levels… Anyway, I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime, try not to sleep with that asshole, yeah? Just because his shoes are clean doesn’t mean he is. Love you!”
I sighed and shoved my phone in my pocket, sending out a silent prayer that my keys would turn up. I wasn’t done feeling bad about my phone yet, and losing things made me feel like I was adulting poorly. Plus, my work keys were on there, and I didn’t need another lecture about what a big responsibility it was to be charged with the security of the North Shore’s favorite soft serve.
As for the house key, worst case scenario I could get a spare made using the one we kept under the flowerpot and Bill would never have to know.
Except the key wasn’t there. I squatted down and stared at the place where I expected it to be, half convinced I could see where it had been. I even patted the ground in case the whiskey had somehow gone straight to my eyeballs, but my fingertips were met with cool concrete. Panic rose in my chest as I checked under the other pots only to come away empty handed twice more.
I fell back on my butt and put my head in my hands, pulling my hair gently as much out of frustration as to remind myself that it wasn’t okay to get comfortable and sleep outside. Fortunately, I already had a plan.
It was a shitty plan, but I knew it would work. I knew because I used to sneak in and out of the basement window all the time. In fact, it sort of became my go-to move senior year shortly after I discovered the joys of drinking peach schnapps on the sixteenth green at Twin Groves Country Club.
I smiled at the memory. Well, everything except the peach schnapps part. How embarrassing. Hopefully everyone would forget that part long before I made it as a writer. Otherwise, how could I possibly expect anyone to take my opinions about literary fiction seriously?
I tried to picture Margaret Atwood discussing symbolic imagery while sipping a shot of peach schnapps, and the idea was so ludicrous it gave me the strength I needed to get up and on with it. Was there anything funnier? Sylvia Plath doing Jell-O shots? Ernest Hemingway pounding Malibu?
The cool grass tickled the edges of my feet as I walked around the side of the house until I reached the closest window well. It was darker than I would’ve liked down there, and I found myself wishing I was either drunker or hadn’t recently binge-watched a terrifying show about serial killers. Then again, if experience had taught me anything, it was that wishing was a waste of time.
I sank down and swung my feet over the rim of the well, reaching my toes down as close to the pit of gravel as I could before dropping the rest of the way, my loose sundress poofing around me in the moment before the gravel crunched underfoot. Then I squatted down and forced the small window open, which proved much harder than I remembered, and I wondered if maybe
there was something to be said for peach schnapps after all.
So far so good, though. Except for the fact that I was wearing a dress, but that couldn’t be helped. The window was too high up the basement wall to go in any way but feet first, but it’s not like the sump pump was going to be offended by the sight of my bare ass.
It wasn’t until I swung my left foot in the small opening that things started to go wrong. I couldn’t see through the dark, so I’d never know what I kicked. All I knew was that I’d never heard a louder sound in my life. It was like a whole shelf of paint cans came down like rain, and the clatter that erupted from the window well woke at least four neighborhood dogs in an instant.
So much for my previously pleasant buzz. I was lucky I didn’t have a heart attack. Even after the noise subsided, my heart was hammering so hard it felt like I was being repeatedly defibrillated.
Eager to put this day behind me, I stuck my other foot in the square opening and turned carefully on my belly, once again sliding towards my destination with pointed toes, my face crinkled with concentration.
I tried to ignore the barking dogs, tried to ignore how fast my heart was racing. Tried to stay calm.
But when the basement light went on, I scrapped that plan and started screaming bloody murder.
T H R E E
- James -
The crash was so loud I thought the roof had fallen in, and I was on my feet before my eyes had even adjusted to the dark, my hand slapping mindlessly beside the doorframe until I found the light switch.
I didn’t want to believe the noise came from inside the house, but I swear to God I could feel that it had. I think that’s why I grabbed my baseball bat, not that there was a lot of thinking going on. I was on defense. I had no strategy. This wasn’t my house. If someone was breaking in, I would’ve happily given them the contents of Nance’s jewelry box before I swung a bat against their temple, but my body didn’t seem to know that.
