Crude: A Stepbrother Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  Hudson Banks isn’t making up for a thing with this car.

  I jump from my naughty daydream when his hand brushes my knee as he reaches for the shifter; “Easy there, hands-y,” I quip, shooting him a look.

  “Oh, relax and put your seatbelt on, Senator.”

  I’m about to respond when he roars away from the curb fast enough to take the breath from my lungs and send a surge of adrenaline right through my core as we tear off into the cold city night.

  *****

  The place we end up going is way fancy; like, the kind of bar that’s got so much class you can hardly get away with just calling it a “bar” anymore at all. As we’re ushered in, I’m suddenly glad we’re dressed the way we are, with him in a tuxedo and me in my gown. Although something tells me when I see the Benjamin that Hudson palms the maitre-d that he’d be seated wearing nothing at all.

  Images of Hudson’s chiseled, shirtless torso, and the big hint of what’s hidden lower flood my mind as we take a seat at the far end of the elegant bar-top.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Huh?” I shake my head, feeling my cheeks burn as I try and clear my head of the dirty fantasies throbbing and undulating through my brain involving the man sitting next me. This is the man I need to loath and despise on pretty much every principal I have, not the man whos cock I should be fantasizing about. I don’t really drink much, and I can actually still feel the half-glass of champagne I had back at the fundraiser buzzing through me, but I shrug apologetically at the bartender anyways; “Oh, uh, wine I guess? Something white?”

  He smiles and turns to Hudson with a curt nod before he moves down to the other end of the bar.

  “He knows what I want,” Hudson says with a wink. He lets his eyes linger down the neck of my dress as he grins; the subtext that I should know what he wants too isn’t exactly lost on me. I clear my throat and look away.

  I let my eyes wander around the demurely lit, sleek and modern-looking room that reeks of money, taking the place in; “Come here often?” The place is full of gorgeous women; all young and hot and digging - and Hudson looks like he’s made out of solid gold.

  “Often enough, sure.”

  Yeah I bet, I think, eyeing the trio of skanks giggling and batting their eyes in Hudson’s direction from the other end of the bar. The jealousy takes me by surprise, and find myself shaking my head; confused by it. Why on earth am I so heated about this? There is no “Hudson and I”; it was one night, five fucking years ago, and we basically just kissed.

  Well, kissed with his shirt half undone and his hand on my skin, teasing across my hip and sliding down across the wetness at the front of my panties. I cough again to clear my throat and my thoughts as the bartender returns with my wine, and something that looks like it jumped off the kids menu at a chain restaurant that he sets down in front of Hudson.

  “Uh, what the hell is that?”

  Hudson shrugs as he takes a sip out of the straw; well, after he pushes aside the ridiculous little bouquet of thin orange slices and maraschino cherries adorning the top of it; “It’s a Shirley Temple.” He says matter-of-factly.

  I snort, a grin teasing my lips; “Are you serious?”

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot; “Of course I am, they’re delicious.”

  I grin in spite of myself, seeing the glimmer of his own in return as his blue eyes flash at me; “Right, if you’re seven years old.”

  “I don’t really drink anymore.”

  I laugh, and it comes out harsher than intended; “Since when?”

  “Since-“ He wags his head side to side as if weighing something; “I just don’t anymore.”

  I stare at him and then the glass of wine I didn’t really want anyways; “Well why are we at a bar to talk then if you don’t drink?”

  He turns and winks at me, that smug smile totally back and spread across his face; “Because you looked like you needed one.”

  I take a big slug from my glass, certainly as an excuse to tear my eyes away from him, but also because the way he looks at me really does make me need a drink.

  “You know you’re sunk without the money, right?” It’s hard to take the guy seriously - no matter how fucking sexy he looks in that tux with the tattoos peeking out - with that stupid straw in between his lips and the cherry stems tickling his nose, but his words jolt me back to our reason for being here just the same.

  “Fine.”

  He looks surprised; “Fine?”

  “I said fine, OK?” As much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right. I know the whole run is over without the campaign money from Archer Holdings, I just hate giving him the satisfaction of hearing me tell him he’s right. He looks impressed with himself; like he’s “won” and I’m submitting to him, and not in the way that just won’t get out of my thoughts being this close to him. “I just don’t see why you had to be here though,” I glare at him; “Don’t you have interns, or fucking servants or whatever to do this sort of thing for you?”

  He smirks at the ‘servants’ line; “Well, there’s a bit more to it than that.” I raise an eyebrow and his eyes sparkle as he winks at me; “It’s not just the money.”

  Oh really.

  “Well, what then.” I’m getting tired of feeling like he’s playing with me, especially since in my head he’s playing with me in a very different way and it’s distracting me to the point of anxious.

  “You’re pissing a lot of people off with your platform.” He says the words carefully, as if choosing them as he utters them.

  “I’m making a lot of people happy with my platform, which is why I’m way ahead in the polls, actually.” Now it’s my turn to be smug as I sit back and sip on my wine.

  He turns to face me fully, his face the most serious I’ve seen from him yet; “Let’s just say that there are things out there that you don’t see that I do,” His eyes drop to the front of my gown and he grins for just a hair of a second; just long enough to tell me he can see how erect my nipples are before he drags his eyes back up to mine

  I roll my eyes; “You know, those of us who don’t make a buck selling guns to third-world war-zones have a slightly more positive outlook on the world.” Ok I’ll admit I need my father’s company’s money, but I don’t need Hudson’s negativity packaged along with it.

  He wraps his soft lips around his straw and sucks gently, his eyes never leaving mine as he sips on his Shirley Temple, and it’s probably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen involving grenadine. I feel an aching pull deep inside that brings a fresh flush to my cheeks, and I can feel my nipples hardening beneath my gown even more despite the warmth of the room. God damn you, Hudson Banks.

  “Well, those of us who have been around those third-world war zones don’t have the luxury of that fantasy, which is why I’ll be sticking around to make sure you’re ok.”

  I frown; “Excuse me?”

  “Me; around. I’m going to be watching you during the campaign.” He grins, and the motion pulls the skin of his neck just enough that I catch another glimpse of the dark ink there just under his collar, and I’m instantly fascinated with knowing what else is under that shirt before I shake the thought from my head. “Maybe you should think of it as less someone watching you and more just Archer Holdings looking after its investment,” He arches his brow as he sips at his Shirley Temple; “Which is you, in this scenario.”

  I can feel my blood begin to boil as I struggle to keep my temper in check; “You can’t be serious,” I mutter to him through gritted teeth; “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  Hudson shrugs nonchalantly, that smug look never leaving his face; “Well, agree to disagree then.”

  I can feel the heat rising in my face to match the growing volume of my voice; “I’m serious, Hudson, I’m not doing this. I’ll call Dona-“

  “Donald agrees with me, actually.”

  Dammit; this is a setup. Donald’s not worried about something happening to me, he’s worried about me going off his by-the-book scr
ipt and doing something to shake up the campaign in a way he can’t control. Hudson might think he needs to “protect me” or whatever, but I know the real reason for all this is so Donald can have someone babysit me.

  Fuck that.

  I’m out of my seat and storming across the room before Hudson can put down his stupid kids drink. At the front door, I feel his strong hand grab my arm, pulling me around. “Relax, Reag-“

  “Do not tell me to ‘relax’!” I hate when people say that to me.”

  “Fine, don’t relax then;” His voice is stoney, even though he’s still got that stupid smug look on his chiseled jaw. “Look, where are you going?”

  God, the nannying starts already.

  “Home, Hudson. I’m going home.” I yank my arm out of his grasp and turn back towards the door.

  “I’ll drive yo-“

  “I’m taking the train or a cab like a normal person.” I spit at him.

  “Fine, I’ll meet you there then I guess.”

  I freeze; “What do you mean?”

  He frowns; “Didn’t Donald tell- Oh. Fuck.” He chuckles and looks at the floor, a lock of his dark hair falling over his face. He runs a hand up through it and pushed it back as he raises his eye to look at me with that smug grin I’d just started to forget about; “Well, if you were mad before, you’re gonna be fuckin pissed now.”

  I shake my head; “Hudson what the fuck are you-“

  “I’m moving in, Reagan.”

  My jaw drops.

  “I mean my place would be better, and safer, but Donald and I both thought there was a snowball’s chance in you agreeing to that one, so your place it is.”

  That smug prick is grinning at me like this is hilarious; like HIM of all fucking people moving into the guest room of MY apartment is the funniest Goddamn joke in the world.

  I don’t even respond, I just turn on my heel and march out of the restaurant; guess I’m just fresh out of punchlines.

  P A S T

  I’m back in the broiling heat, the shrieking chaos and the pure, undiluted hell on Earth of war - back in Helman Province; back in Afghanistan. My back’s to the wall, my pulse racing in my ears like a goddamn jet engine as I count to three before whipping around the corner and firing. The gun jolts in staccato, hammering pulses through my shoulder as I focus on the shelled-out office building where they’ve taken defensive positions. I barely even hear the mortar warning through my com before the Humvee forty feet to my left just fucking erupts in fire and light, and I can fucking feel the hot flash of death cross my face.

  I’m screaming as I run, ignoring everything in my earpiece and barely registering the singing sounds of bullets flying around me as I pound the turf as fast as I can towards the raging, burning hull of the truck. I’m ten feet from it, the heat almost unbearable when I can hear Logan’s voice barking in my ear; ‘NOT Bryce’s Humvee.’

  Yeah but who’s-

  Later, I’ll swear to everything in this world and the next that I could hear the fucking bullet the second before it tore through my shoulder. I’m down, face-down in the dust and ash as more metal screams over my head, and all I know in that moment is that despite every thought I have on freedom, and my country, and about good triumphing over evil, if I die there, in that fucking desert, I’m going to have words to say to whatever God is waiting for me on the other side.

  P R E S E N T

  I grunt and blink the sweat out of my eyes as I swing again, feeling the rivulets of moisture drip down my face and neck to dribble down over the ink and scars of my bare chest. The air burns in my lungs and my arms are one fire, but I just keep swinging; always swinging. The glove connects with the bag, every muscle in my arm screaming in pain and triumph at the perfect hit and the aching, numbing soreness I know will follow. Some guys when they got back, they drank or fucked it away; like I used to. Other guys like Bryce took it worse and turned to self medication, and the whole dark, broken dream that comes along for the ride with that. The fucked up part is, the pain never actually goes away. You can numb it a million different ways with drugs and sex and whatever else you can think of to distract you from the fact that part of your soul is missing, but it’s always there, right below the surface.

  I swing again, swallowing the burning in my throat as I pant, pushing myself harder, longer; don’t stop, never stop. My breaths coming short and hard, my head swimming as I connect with the bag again, and again, and again - I connect with the bag one more time before the pain is so real I can’t actually lift my arm again, and I collapse onto the living room floor. I can barely breath, or see through the sweat, but I laugh as I glance at my stopwatch and realize I’ve been punching this damn bag for an hour straight.

  I’m getting too old for this shit.

  I also realize I was supposed to call Logan when I got home and let him know how things went.

  Oh, yeah, you know, fantastic. Hey buddy, thanks for sending me into the fucking LION’S DEN back there with Reagan Archer.

  I know he and Bryce have no idea what happened with Reagan and I that one time - the time I got so close to everything before I let it all blow away - because if they did they’d have probably killed me by now. Well, Bryce maybe, but Logan for sure. But, I also know neither of them are blind. I mean, I’d like to think I play things close to the chest, but you don’t go through what we went through without being able to read the other guys like an open book.

  *****

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?!“

  I wince as I hold the phone away from my ear. Ok, I made two mistakes tonight. The first was taking Reagan Archer out to what was basically a thinly veiled date; the second - and maybe the dumber of the two - is telling Logan about it.

  I’m supposed to be at Reagan’s, but after the way she stormed out like that, I knew pushing it by going over anyways was not going to lead to good things. So I’m back at my penthouse, with two of my guys keeping a low-profile guard on her building.

  “Hudson, you’ve pulled some stupid shit, but this is beyond the fucking pale.” I can practically feel the venom leaking through the phone from his voice before he barks into the receiver again; “You fucking idiot!”

  “Logan!” I yell, reaching for the pack of emergency cigarettes I keep behind the spoons in my silverware drawer and tapping one out; "Look, it was stupid, I know. I-"

  "Did you fuck her?" Logan spits out, his voice ice cold; that tone he only takes when he’s about to fuck something up - like, in this instance, my face, the next time he sees me.

  "Wha- No! Come on man!” I stick the God-knows how old cigarette in my mouth and light it, coughing on the dry, ancient smoke that fills my lungs like burning sand.

  "Oh, and smoking; nice. Good fucking job, Hudson; hell of a night you're having."

  "Will you calm the fuck down!" I spit out, making a face. The cigarette tastes like a horse’s asshole; well, at least what I imagine the butt of a horse tastes like at least. “Of course I didn't, what’s wrong with you man? She’s not that kind-“

  "That wasn't meant as a dis on her, idiot. That's 'cause I know you."

  I suck at the horrible cigarette, feeling the bile rise in my burning throat; "The hell is that supposed to mea-"

  "The guy who slept his way through half of Italy and Turkey? The guy that almost got us shipped over to the fucking U.S. State Department in Cairo because he couldn't keep his fucking dick in his goddamn pan-“