A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother

by Blake, Abriella

  “There's no word yet, Joey.” He tousles my hair. “But, they think they found some of the other boys last night. One or two from the basketball team. The Gilmore kid. A few of the parents are going down to Virginia, where they've been apprehended.”

  My groggy throat clenches.

  “Apprehended?!”

  “Shh—you'll wake your mother!” He motions vaguely, in the direction of the car. “By the garage. I'll grab you a spelt bar.”

  I gingerly gather up my violin, a sliver of resin, the sheaf of pertinent papers on my desk, (and) strings. The overnight bag I packed is waiting by the door. Just think, I murmur to no one. This would be a happy day for most families. Instead, I'm trying not to let the word 'apprehended' stick in my mind.

  Turning to say goodbye to my room (dramatically, as if I'll never see it again...) I see my iPhone, buzzing with messages on the mattress: there's a slew of “Cheer up!” texts from Claudia, and “Break a leg!” texts from Mr. Gavin, and a single, “Call me!” from Loren Kiehl. I'm just about to turn my phone on silent when a final alarm, briefly thrilling as it comes from an unknown number, pings in: “It's Eric. Have fun at Dartmouth this weekend. That place is your future.”

  Deciding something, I leave the iPhone to chime on the mattress. Now's the time to focus, if there ever was a time.

  I've made my choice.

  * * *

  I take a deep breath, before the three crusty auditors: one cranky-looking lady, flanked by two men with glasses so opaque I can't see their eyes. Staring them down, it strikes me, from a blur of feelings: I am not afraid.

  It's like Trace says, about the Mean Reds. Or, how my Dad told me the story of George Clinton, who told his guitarist to play like his mother had just died. I set my instrument to my shoulder, and attempt to feel my way through Ernst. I pretend the demon is right there in the room with me. I pretend Eric Mahoney, Loren Kiehl, Hank Gilmore, Tracy Harter, even—these people are the strings. For a few minutes, I am finally the master of all the things that have tried to make me a puppet.

  When I open my eyes, I couldn’t swear to this: the cranky lady is very faintly smiling. Silence reigns for a moment, but I keep my eyes fixed on hers. I'm not sure what I expect— A 'congratulations!' perhaps?—but it's enough when, after another second, she nods. Very slowly. Just once up, and down.

  “Ms. Prine, you'll be hearing from us,” she says. The other auditors follow suit: they smile, genuinely, and stand to shake my sweaty hand. When I exhale a breath, I hadn't realized I was holding, it comes out as a laugh.

  When the heavy studio door slides shut behind me, I start to shake. But, these aren't the terrified tremors from before, they feel like waves of release. All my skin feels sensitive, and my heart races. I can't stop laughing. Collapsing against the wall a few paces out of what I hope is earshot, I let myself sink down.

  “That good, huh?” a familiar voice says.

  I take him in from the bottom-up, and I'm reminded of what it was like to see him for the first time, stepping out of Melanie's car. He's not in basketball gear today, neither a Bond costume—but he looks perfectly fly in dark-wash denim jeans tapered to his slim hips and a blue pin-striped button-down, the color of sky. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, so I can see the edges of those familiar, coiling tats. It's only been a few days, but I swear he looks cosmically older, somehow. Just the slightest bit changed. Two gnawed-looking drumsticks peek out from his jean pocket.

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  His dark hair has been gelled or slicked, so the mop of curls is tamed away from his face—but a few rebellious tendrils fail to keep line, falling down to frame that defiant jaw. He's clean-shaven. His eyes are clear, too. And bright. And smiling.

  “YOU!”

  “Me.”

  I can't tell who runs toward the other first, but the next thing I know is that I'm gathered up in Trace's arms, being pulled up to him. The air leaving my lungs has changed form, and now my rattling laugh comes out mingled with heaving sobs. I grasp at the neat, pressed surface of his button-down, I bury my grubby face into the folds of his collar. I live for a second in that expensive, so-particularly-Trace cologne. I press my whole body against his, so I feel his breath, his resolve, his muscles contracting and pushing back against mine. That's a neat thing I've noticed—our bodies just fit together in a way mine hasn't with anyone else, ever.

  “We thought you went to Virginia,” I sob. “With Gilmore and those guys. Trace, the police have been looking for you! They apprehended your friends! And my parents –” The words trip on my tongue, and he brings me in closer. “Shhhh,” he murmurs, his deep voice hoarse. He rubs my back.

  “I didn't go,” he says into my hair, after another moment of my basically using him as a human tissue. “I came up here a few days early, to see if I could get some practicing in. Turns out, you have to be accepted to Juilliard before you can just up and use their studio spaces.”

  “Where did you go?”

  I tilt my head up, and he cracks a grin at me. It falls brilliant, like a yolk in a bowl.

  “Lotta drummers in the subway here,” he says.

  When we laugh together, it feels for a second like no time has passed. This could be the garage, three days ago. I punch him on the shoulder, but I'm too weak with relief to really make him keel.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Not believing in you. Being scared.”

  Trace furrows his brow, and places his big hands on my shoulders. He pushes me a few inches away, and seems to look at my face again.

  “You weren't wrong,” he says, slowly and clearly. “Jo, I've stopped doing all that stuff. Okay? No more drugs. I never did them anyways, I just sold shit. And now: I want to do this.”

  Claudia's voice comes to mind for some reason. I imagine her standing here, how she might react. As long as the police aren't after you, I could care less, I see her saying. Something about that makes me want to laugh a little. But I bite my tongue, because drugs are serious.

  “Good,” I say. “Because you don't need to do that anymore.”

  His expression softens again, but he continues to stare into my eyes. Once more, I fight the urge to laugh—at what, I don't know. Then, it's his mouth—the soft, familiar sweetness of his lips, pressing hard into mine. I push back, equally dire. I draw my sore hands up to the back of his neck and draw him toward me, never wanting to let him go. I search the caverns of him, letting my fingers begin to run up and around his face, pressing and pulling against the contours of his perfect cheeks. My fingers find his strong, smooth eyebrows. His silky lashes. His very skin is like salve to me. I gobble him.

  It feels like minutes we're entwined, but when he pulls me away, finally coming up for air, I concede to reality. His mouth is raw with the remnants of my lipstick and his eyes are hazy, but still he manages to sound serious.

  “I've gotta go, babe. My audition's in fifteen.”

  “Oh my God! Umm, break a leg?” I'm still clinging to his face, though he's moving his hands up slowly, gently breaking our connection. His fingers drift down to my wrist, where they hover.

  “Say you'll come with me, goofus,” he says softly. Trace draws my hand up to his lips, and brushes my knuckles with a soft kiss. “You're my muse, after all.”

  I have more questions, and more misgivings. But, for these crucial seconds, I say nothing. I look into his deep green eyes, as complicated and curious as an ecosystem. He wants me, I want him—so yes, I will go.

  Epilogue

  Dear Claudia,

  Hey, lady. Don't know why I'm writing you snail-mail, especially a mere week into college life, but I miss talking to you face-to-face and this feels closer to the real thing than texting. How is Michigan? I wish you hadn't gone so far, bitch. Sorry I called you bitch. Anyways –

  I set my pen down, distracted by the sounds of live music drifting in from down the hallway. Three days of Juilliard and each one is like a deleted scene fr
om the movie Fame—people perform everywhere here, and whenever they get the chance. It sounds like it would be insufferable, but it's actually inspiring to be surrounded by so many people with their own—for lack of a better term—“garage secrets.” Every person here is so driven by their own star. My roomie, for example. She's a dancer, and judging by how many tutus and ratty shoes she's brought to college, I'd say she's the most serious dancer I've ever met.

  She's also, thankfully, off practicing a fair amount. Classes haven't even started and still she spends mornings locked in the studios, hobbling around on pointe.

  There's a knock at the door. I rise, with my heart beat, and there he is: slick like oil. He leans against the doorframe, one eyebrow cocked. Since I helped him buzz away the familiar corona of soft curls a few days before we drove up (our voices bent low in the hall bathroom, so as to not wake my parents)—it takes an extra split second to remember my suitor. With most of his hair gone, his smooth, perfectly round head competes for focus with his heavy brows, forever green eyes, and long lashes.

  “Settling in okay?” he drawls, doing a bad impression of a Southern gentleman. I bite my lip, bending forward to scan the hall for any peeping Toms. But then, I catch myself: one cool thing about shipping off to college is that no one really knows we lived in the same house during high-school. No one would think to make a creepy insinuation about our relationship, because here in the city, the taboo's flown the coop.

  I tuck two fingers into the collar of his familiar, ratty wife beater—which, it turns out, is about par for the fashion course in the jazz department. I pull him gently into my abandoned dorm room. The door ekes shut behind us, then clicks closed. I exhale a sigh, and hear it reverberate around the room. The sound seems to land back in my chest just as Trace goes in for the kill, pressing his lips to mine, reaching up and beginning to root through my hair. I let the weight of my head fall back against his palm, enjoying the look of the strong tendons in his arms as they jump to action. He holds me fast, like always.

  “Shouldn't we put a sock on the door, or something?” he murmurs into my teeth, in between a string of pecks that fall like petals on my face—soft. But I don't take the time to respond with words. Instead, I push back against him, bringing a palm up to feel the muscles flexing in his chest. I situate my fingers, so as to feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding.

  Trace's tongue moves faster and harder into my mouth, sucking and roving with an animal intention that's also precise. I begin to fumble, behind us, for a surface. Zoe's desk is nearest. It’s a good thing she hasn't set up her computer or anything yet, because once Trace realizes where we're headed, he brings his hands downward and squeezes my ass tight. He backs me toward the flimsy dorm furniture, and the moment I feel the backs of my knees hit the small wooden knobs he scoops me up and places me on top of the smooth wood.

  I do not protest.

  He nudges my knees apart, pressing himself into the space my open thighs create. I let my arms drift across his profile, so they feel first his strong shoulders, then his bulging biceps, then his slim rib-cage. When I reach his jeans, I bring both palms around to press up against his manhood, which is already straining for release. I look up: Trace tilts his head back, ceases kissing for a moment. He groans.

  “She won't be back for a while,” I say, bringing my lips to a bare spot on his throat, where I begin to suck him, lightly. Trace's arms take my cue. He lays his hands flat on my thighs, beginning to knead my flesh through the denim. I arch my back. His movements grow more eager, more desperate, as he finds the edge of my thin t-shirt, and the tender flesh beneath. He slides one hand up my shirt, squeezing and prodding slow, until he's landed on my right breast. There, he jerks my bra aside, quick, rough—but resumes caressing me softly. His fingers skitter over the silver chain dangling between my tits, the little violin he gave me. My nipples stiffen, under his fingers.

  “Be honest. You've always wanted to say that,” he says, his mouth now training on my ear. He nibbles my lobe softly, his tongue flicking gently at its outline. When he breathes on me, a tingle runs down my spine. I can't help but smile.

  With my thighs, I draw him a little closer in—so now his erection is pressing against my own sex. He starts to push up against me, and even through our jeans I feel the delicious friction. His mouth travels back to my face, but instead of kissing me, he just clutches the back of my head, holding me in position just inches away. Our noses nearly touch. I feel his ragged breath on my face. All the while, his eyes are boring into my own—as naked with desire as anything sexual we've ever done with all our clothes off.

  The pressure doesn't last; I want to kiss him too badly. I strain from his grip until we're connected again, his lips so firm against mine that it's hard to feel our own borders. I extract only briefly, to remove my t-shirt. Trace reaches his arms around me to flick open the clasp of my bra with one lazy gesture, and I feel the last pieces of clothing drift away from me. It's kind of cool in this room, but I'm already glazed with desire. And like usual, he takes a moment to drink in my topless frame, and his eyes are rapt and reverent and hungry, and I'm proud.

  He gets down on his knees.

  I bend low, so his head is snug between my breasts—but Trace has already turned his attention to my jeans. His fingers are more frantic and stronger than ever as they tug on the button and zipper keeping his mouth from my pussy. In a gesture that's now become nearly pat (emphasis on nearly), I wriggle out of my pants, so he can drag them off me. My thighs are already sticky with need, and he can tell.

  Looking up to gaze into my eyes, Trace moves a hand towards my waiting entrance, and very gently begins to rub against my pulsing clit. He starts to play me with a single finger, his rhythm increasing with my breathing. Leaning back, I press my hands against the wood of the desk to angle my hips for him, so he can reach more of me. He smirks that ridiculous Trace-smirk, and his eyes widen while he slides a second finger upward, into my soaking heat. I let out a quiet moan.

  “Suck me, baby,” I whimper, towards the ceiling—and no sooner have I released my want than Trace's pillowy lips have landed on me, have already begun to frame my clit. He slides his tongue out slowly, lapping me with a single smooth motion, as his finger continues to thrum my insides. I find myself gyrating against him so hard that the back of the table begins to thump against the wall.

  “You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs into me. I buck against him harder, no longer bothering to keep my voice down. It doesn't matter to me that it's daylight and the walls are thin. I feel my innermost muscles contract around his fingers; I feel the muscles in my thighs clench up. He starts to suck me harder. He brings a third finger inside, curling his digits inside me like he's beckoning me. I press down on his head with the flat of one hand, glancing downward so I can see his smooth scalp, his rapid motion, my swaying breasts—and as I watch his lashes flutter, I come. I come like a flood.

  I don't realize how loud I've been until I open my eyes and see Trace, his expression impish. He makes a lazy trail of kisses along the red, ripe flesh of my thighs, which quiver on contact. I come so hard with him sometimes that it's hard to be touched right after the fact—but today, I attempt to sink into the goodness exploding out of each of my cells. Today, I want more.

  Trace rises slowly before me, still moving his hands across my tender, naked form. He cocks an eyebrow at me again as he brings his hands to his own jeans, and undoes each button so deftly he could be painting. I feel my face crack wide into a grin, my sapped sex pulse with a new craving. He eases his jeans down over his hips, and I reach up to help him with the snug elastic of his boxer-briefs.

  I take my time exposing him, teasing him a little. His cock is rod-like, perfectly hard against my hands. I cradle his member, encircling it with one hand as I ease the last fabric off his hips. I rub the silky-smooth surface of his taut ass, the prominent bones in his hips—then settle my attention on his wide, smooth bulk. When I look up, I see that Trace's eyes are closed.

>   I bring my lips to the tip of him, then slide my tongue forward to taste his salt. His eyes stutter open, and a groan escapes his lips. I widen my mouth around him, leaning forward to take as much of him as possible down my throat. I rise off the sticky desk a little, position myself so I can suck him down.

  “Yes,” Trace whistles—and again, I watch the way his face moves as he finds the throes of pleasure. His eyelids dance, his lips tremble. I suck a little harder, I drink his cock back to the very limit of my throat.

  I move my free hand across my own skin, spiraling towards my wet center. Finding a rhythm of my own, I begin to play with myself, while still sucking on Trace's huge, hard cock. When his eyes next flutter, they’re wide with satisfaction and surprise. He flexes against my tongue.

  “Come up here,” Trace says. His pumps increase, pressing more and more intensely against my mouth. His jittery hands find my haunches. With considerable effort, he takes himself in his hand, drawing his cock away from my lips. A translucent thread of pre-cum dangles from his tip.

  “Open your legs,” he commands. I obey. I position myself so I'm sitting splayed on the desk, wide and open and ready for him. I can feel my body straining with want—every muscle, every cell. He takes another moment to fuck me with his eyes before bringing his hips forward. With the same precision of gesture, he slides himself toward my sex. I start to groan and quiver before he's even inside.

  The actual entrance is always, in one way, the best part. Feeling him slide slowly up, straining against my edges—then finally come to rest at the deepest part of me. He fills me up so neatly. I could be the glove to his hand.

  Trace is concentrating hard as he hovers inside me for a moment, and I can tell he's already straining not to come. Smiling, I press my hands up and flush against the wall, angling so I can grind harder against him. Meeting my challenge, he grabs onto my ass, drawing me in deeper, deeper, deeper than I might have realized was possible. He pushes into me with slow, incremental motions for a while, before pulling himself almost all the way out. I gasp as he grins and presses back, harder this time.