A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother

by Blake, Abriella

  “You like that, huh?” he whispers—and his breath tickles my clit.

  I just nod– but once again, Trace takes the opportunity to steer our path. He pushes himself back to standing, yanking the shirt over his head in one neat flick—then, he flops down on the bed beside me and begins to scoot himself up the mattress. “Come here,” he beckons, brushing my thigh. I let myself be guided and manipulated by his hands, until I'm straddling him on the bed. We dry-hump for another moment—my wet sex presses against the shaft I can feel pulsing below his jeans. I reach down and rub his cock, through the pants. Trace bites his lip and pulls my panties off.

  “Come here,” he repeats, this time taking both hands and slapping them tight against my ass cheeks. He pulls me forward, almost dragging me up the strong expanse of his chest. Finally, I understand. I pull myself upward, pulling against his grip—until I hover just above his mouth. For a second there, I'm self-conscious. I've never let a man see me from this angle before.

  Trace's hands pull me back down, until my pussy is flush with his face. Immediately, his eyes roll back with pleasure—just as I feel his rapid, furious tongue slide up and into my slickness. I am so fucking wet already. His hands start to push me back and forth, back and forth, until I'm grinding hard against his mouth. I can feel where his fingers are leaving red imprints in my flesh. It’s here that I finally give in to the strange, wonderful new sensation. I grab hold of my tits and tilt my head back, let my mouth hang open.

  I can feel his round, perfect lips moving upward, as they come to encircle my clit. He drags his tongue across me, and I cry out.

  As he sucks harder and harder on my bursting mound, right as I feel myself about to give—Trace's eyes flutter open below me, and the two of us stare at one another. I smile, but he just pulls me harder against his face. Pliant, I continue to grind—until he moves one hand away from my ass, and begins to nudge a finger towards my dripping entrance. As his mouth continues to toy with me, Trace pushes two fingers up, sharply. Crying out, I feel myself flex and contract around his hand, his mouth—my thighs tremble—and for a second, I see spots. He pulls me down, keeps me clamped against his mouth and hand for a moment—but after a few more shudders, I can't bear it.

  I roll off of him, a little gracelessly. On making contact with the soft sheets, I moan again.

  Trace kisses the center of my back first, before rolling over onto his side. He looks proud. I reach out and poke his nose, because that's about all my spent body can muster. Inches from me, Trace leans over and sweeps a hand down my prone form, as gentle and sweet as a spring breeze. He curls over, spooning me. I feel his cock, half-hard, pressing against my ass. I feel his hot breath on my ear:

  “We can't keep meeting like this.”

  “Oh, let me guess: you've always wanted to say that.”

  “Maybe a little bit.”

  I reach around and tweak his nipple, just hard enough to feel him flinch below my fingers.

  “Uggggh. Hurt me again, baby,” he growls.

  “Do all of your friends on the b-ball team realize how hilarious you are?”

  “Those fools aren't my friends.”

  It's not especially funny, but we laugh anyways; the picture of post-coital. But our joy freezes at the sound of a muffler-less car zipping past our house. I catch Trace's expression, as the super-loud vehicle zooms away. I think I detect the smallest glimpse of fear, flitting over his features.

  He catches my eyes before I can quite confirm this, resuming his prankster face. Then, Trace yanks himself up and into a push-up plank position, so he's hovering tensely over my naked body.

  “Is it weird that we never talk about your life before?” I blurt into the brief silence, during which Trace lowers himself slowly above me before pushing himself back up. Something about those intense eyes, rigid with effort, compel me to spew nonsense. “Because I hope you know that I'm always ready to listen.”

  Trace flicks an invisible lock of hair out of his eyes, lowering himself for another push-up. I grab hold of his waist as he descends, pulling his strong, taut frame flush against me. I like being able to feel his rapid heartbeat.

  “It's not weird. There's just a lot of stuff that I don't wanna talk about. I like to leave the past in the past, you know? Occupy the spectacular now.”

  We breathe for a moment. I enjoy the feel of his whole weight on top of me, even if it's a hard position to sustain for long. Trace's arms enfold us, pinning me tight against the bed. I rub my cheek against his flexed bicep, the vague Celtic symbol—then tilt my face up for a soft kiss.

  “Don't think I'm not onto you,” I breathe into his mouth. “The Spectacular Now? That movie's been on HBO, right?”

  “How do you know? Your parents don't even have a TV!”

  “Well, how do you know?”

  An impish grin crosses his features, and in one abrupt move, Trace lifts himself off of me again. I watch the back of his ass as he jogs to the far side of our love nest, where I notice, for the first time, that a portion of the wall is obscured by one of my mother's old floral sheets.

  “You ready for the thrill of your young life, valedictorian?”

  “I thought you already gave me that, Super Stud.”

  Rolling his eyes, Trace makes a magician's flourish of pulling the tattered sheet aside. Underneath the fabric is revealed; a shiny, new, flat screen TV—with attending PS2.

  “How did you get this?” I demand, rolling up onto my elbows to get a better look. “Trace, do you have some secret job I don't know about? Are you living off a dead uncle's inheritance?”

  “Something like that,” he titters, fidgeting with the few controls running along the side of his secret prize. In another instant, the garage room is filled with cool, LED light, and Kelly Ripa's HD-enhanced face.

  “I'm serious! This is getting weird! First the drum-kit, now you've got a home theatre?”

  “Don't question it so much, wifey. You got a head full of questions.”

  Like a little boy, Trace runs back to me on the bed, gathering me up in a tackle. His fingers start to rove around my skin, finding the sensitive crevices—and I guffaw in Kelly's direction.

  “Oh my god, Trace! Stop tickling me, seriously! I can't breathe!”

  He doesn't take his hands off my body: instead, I feel his hands push down. He cups my sex in one hand, and begins to press against me, sending rhythmic pulses up my body. I'm still wet from mere moments before, but the pair of us, it turns out are insatiable together. We're like Bonnie and Clyde.

  Which makes me think of something.

  An idea so fresh and perfect and breakable that the laughter seems to start in my toes, then travel up to the crown of my head. Trace tears his hand away from me, just as Kelly Ripa's face gives way to a commercial for allergy medication.

  “What is it, crazy? You got the giggles?”

  “Trace. Fuck Dartmouth, and everything else. Apply to music school with me.”

  “Say what now?”

  “I'm not kidding. You're so talented! You'd do so well! You could play in bands, and take lessons from amazing teachers, and if we both got in—”

  I've already decorated our imaginary apartment in Brooklyn before Trace's reaction sinks in. He's silently biting his lip. He's peeled his body away from mine—and now he stands above me, casting around the room for his abandoned pants.

  “Is it too much? Oh my God. I didn't mean to freak you out. We're so new, and I keep forgetting for some reason.”

  “We are very new. It's been four whole days, lady.” His eyes aren't unkind as he slides first one leg into his jeans, then the other—but I sense that something has shifted. Fuck me, if I've blown this—the very possibility knocks all the air out of my chest. I never once felt like this with Eric. I've never felt like this, with anyone.

  “Please listen. I'm not just saying 'apply' because of 'us,' or whatever. You're a really, really good musician, and you should pursue your talent.”

  “Not everyone's like
you, Jo. We don't all get these charming, happy-ending scenarios. Some of us have to work at McDonalds.”

  “I don't even know what that's supposed to mean! Listen—I'm just talking about taking a chance. Apply to Juilliard with me. There's literally nothing to lose.”

  “'Cept like three hundred dollars in app fees and dignity.”

  “Oh, since when do you have dignity?” The goad works. He smiles at me again, and it's like the sun has come out from behind a cloud. I reach for one of his grubby wife beaters, abandoned on the floor—and I slip this down over my shoulders.

  “You look good in that.”

  “Don't I know it. Now say you'll apply.”

  “Joanna!”

  “Just apply with me. It's one day's worth of an audition, and mine is scheduled for a few weeks from now. Just play your kit like you play for me.” I'm so sure this is a good idea that I can hear the whining in my voice. “Do it, Trace, or no more sex.”

  I bite my lip, so he knows I'm joking—but the look that crosses his face is serious again.

  “Are you fucking with me about this? Tell me the truth.”

  “Why would I be fucking with you? I want you to gobble the world!”

  “What? Why? Why do you want me to 'gobble the world?”

  “Because I think you're amazing, and I am one hundred percent, completely smitten with you.”

  Kelly Ripa clicks back on. My foster brother blinks his big beautiful eyes in my direction, and I wait. Time seems to pass slowly.

  “When I was a kid, a lot of people took advantage of me,” he starts at last, running a hand through his damp hair. “Since you asked earlier. I got a lot of abuse, in the system. I don't need to talk about it really, but it's something you should know about me. It's kind of why I don't take shit from anyone, now. Why I used to get mad when you stare, and shit like that.”

  I monitor the silence, trying to determine if he needs me to reply. When Trace leans forward, letting his chin hang against his chest, I stand and go to him. I take his big shaggy head and bring it down, pressing him against my chest.

  “I never want to make you feel bullied, or unsafe, but I'm not kidding when I say I really care about you. I think you're special enough to do really amazing things with music. This is super greeting card-y, but you shouldn't let your past determine your future.” I swallow. “I think you could do some amazing things with me.” Before us, Kelly Ripa starts to laugh at something, a tad maniacally.

  “Okay.”

  “...okay? Does that mean, 'okay!'?”

  “Means I'm in, baby.” He rolls his head upward, and gazes at me tenderly. We smile at one another. “Let's do it. You know I dig you, too—lil miss Stand and Deliver.” He slaps my ass, and all feels forgiven. Then he picks me up and carries me back to the bed. Easing his jeans over his ass, he smiles at me, as he slides inside.

  * * *

  The next couple of weeks are (almost) unadulterated bliss. Sure, I might have abandoned my newspaper duties and failed the English mid-term, to the shock and chagrin of Janice and Earl—but I now spend nearly every night in the garage with Trace, making music, listening to music, attempting to teach some of music's fundamentals, and having incredible, noisy, guileless sex. He fucks me standing up, sitting down, lying down—and always with the perfect blend of tenderness and strength. I feel adventurous, brave, and beautiful. So brave and beautiful that the now constant tottering’s of the girls in AP Chem and Lit have become nothing but dull background noise. It doesn't even bother me that Claudia's started kicking it with Cora Jinkins, Leslie May, and Gabby Weiner. The four of them follow me around from class to class murmuring rude things in my direction. Claudia never murmurs so I can hear her, but her awful laughter is enough.

  Or it would be enough, if I were the kind of person who’s fazed easily. Which, these days, I'm not.

  Trace has gotten some flak from his basketball buddies, too. They don't seem too taken with how I and the upcoming auditions are dominating his schedule. In fact, one morning I find king-of-the-creeps, Hank Gilmore loitering around my locker, his wan face narrow with irritation. Trace and I haven't carpooled with him for days, and I've elected to not ask why.

  “Hey. Freak,” he says to me. I don't make eye contact. All I'm getting out of my locker these days is resin, so it's not like I really need to stay here and take abuse.

  “Doing anything special for Thanksgiving?” Gilmore purrs, matching my stride as I slide past him down the hallway. “You and your twisted family going to an orgy, or anything?”

  “Fuck you, Hank. Least I won't be blowing away my nine remaining brain cells in some van.”

  “Do your hippie-dippy parents even know about how you're schtupping their charity case? Because if they don't already, I bet they'd love to be informed.”

  My throat clenches like a fist, but I resolve not to show my cards. Naturally, Trace and I are on the DL from our parents. I don't even want to think about that can of worms.

  “Oh, wait, I forgot, you’ve had taboo lovers before. It's kind of your thing, right? Girl who walks around like she's got a stick up her ass, but it turns out, the stick is just forbidden cock?”

  I wheel around, quivering with rage.

  “What do you want from me, Hank?”

  “I want you to tell your boy he owes a lot of us money around town, and he can't avoid me forever. I know he's heard me driving by.” Like a villain in a Western this time, Gilmore hocks a neat lougie onto the hallway floor where it sits like a gauntlet in front of me. He pulls a rumpled McDonald's napkin from a jeans pocket, and forces this into my hands.

  “Number's on there. Make him call me.”

  I step over Gilmore's discharge, determined to remain sunny. I trust Trace, I tell myself, in fact he's about the only person I trust. It seems more likely that Gilmore would lie about something weird and crazy, than Trace would keep something for me at this point. The former demon and I have spent whole evenings by now just worshipping one another, drunk on our own talents, histories, and ideas. So what if he's procured a drum kit, a passable tuxedo, and a flat-screen TV, seemingly from the ether? That doesn't make any of these malignant rumors true. People love to hate. I set my chin against the crowd of afternoon kids dawdling between the last two periods. Some of them glare at me, others laugh, and others don't seem to see me. I cannot fucking wait to be out of high-school, I murmur for no one's benefit.

  “Hey,” calls the one other voice I used to trust—and I feel the accompanying set of razor-sharp nail decals on my back. Claudia. Lately, she's toned down her look some, presumably to blend in with her new basic bitch friends. So it's in a pink angora sweater and cargo pants that she tells me;

  “Hey—I saw that thing with Gilmore just now. You should be careful. You and Trace both.”

  “Not you too, Claudia. I've had about my fill of empty threats today.”

  “Look, I'm not threatening you—it's just that I've heard things. Gilmore and those kids have been using him, Jo, okay? There's all this hard drug stuff...when the scandal breaks, it's the kind of thing that will get a goody-goody like you in real trouble.”

  “Are you serious?” I stop in my tracks. Who cares if the whole hallway sees? I care nothing for any of these fuckwads. “First you abandon me after that stupid party, then you start tormenting me with all the other Carrie Bradshaw’s at this school because of a boy you made out with, like, once, and now you're in on a practical joke with Hank Gilmore? We used to best friends, Claudia! This is such bullshit!”

  “Jo! It's not like that, okay?”

  “BULL. SHIT.” I repeat, turning away from my traitor ex-friend in disgust. She yells some more at my back, but I keep my attention (and eyes) fixed on the horizon: home.

  * * *

  When I get to Casa Den-of-sin, Dad and Trace are doing the improbable: bonding. I hover for a moment behind the family station wagon, so they don't see me seeing them play basketball. My Dad laughs and wheezes in alternating currents. His beard bobs up and
down as he trots back and forth, super dorky-like. I can hear in Trace's voice that now-familiar thread of excitement, braided with a teacher's patience. He sounds the way he did that night he told me about the Mean Reds.

  “You gotta arch your hand back, like you're holding a pizza. Like this, Mr. P!” Moments later, there comes the clunky sound of a ball falling through the makeshift hoop. My Dad laughs again.

  “Why Trace, you're a natural!”

  “And you spent a lot of time inside during college.” Dad and kid laugh in unison, and I architect in my imagination the look on Earl's face, were he suddenly learns about his daughter and the basketball player. I'm trying to remember that these people are actually part of my family. This is the part of the foster brother thing that Trace and I have been avoiding like the plague—the fact that, to my parents, Trace is a child, theirs, if only for now.

  “Look at them go.” I jump in the air at the new voice, but it's just my mother—whose sneakily come down the path to land at the trunk of the car. “Oh, Joanna,” she says, in the direction of the Hallmark ad unfolding before us, “This makes me feel just great. You know, your father and I never got the chance to bring another person into the world. But it sure feels good to give a home to someone now, don’t you think?” From the trunk, mom extracts a burlap sack filled to bursting with green vegetable stalks. She doesn't seem to require a reply.

  “It's like he's got a son,” she smiles, nodding towards her gasping husband. She smiles genuinely. My own mother—Queen of the pointed, passive-aggressive gesture.

  Trace looks up and catches my eye, and—I flatter myself—his whole face lights up.

  “J Train!” he cries, cocking a hand in hello. We saw one another hours ago, but it might have been days. All I want, seeing him grin like this, is to take him back into our dark space and have my way with him. I'd like the rest of this Rockwell painting to disappear.