by Selena Kitt
“Well come on in.” He took my overnight bag, setting it aside and swinging my hand as he led me into his spacious loft apartment. “What do you think? I know it doesn’t look much from the outside, but up here…”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, squeezing his hand as I looked up at the skylights. The floor plan was wide open, with a giant wrap-around sofa and fireplace its focal point. Even the kitchen was open, with an island in the middle. I made my way to the windows, drawn to the light, and gasped. “You can see the whole city from up here.”
“Want a drink?” he offered. “I’ve got bottled water, Coke, beer, wine… you can drink, right?”
“Yes.” I nodded, glancing at him, seeing that perpetual smirk playing on his lips. “By the way, it's Sister Sarah now.”
“I know.” He squeezed my hand. “But you’ll always be my Clarice.”
“Can I sit down?” I swallowed, glancing around at all the options—sofas, chairs, cushions.
“Sure, come on.” Miles pointed to the couch and I sank gratefully into it. He sat beside me, not too far away, angled in my direction. That smirk was still there, but his eyes were more serious. Even concerned. “Was the bus awful?”
“It wasn’t bad.” I shook my head. Truth was, I barely remembered it. My mind had been… wandering. “Maybe I will take that drink?”
“Sure. Wine?” He got up at my assent, heading toward the kitchen. Surrounded by burnished aluminum and black steel, his kitchen epitomized modern chic design. I could watch him from my angle on the couch as he bent to get the wine bottle from his fridge.
And God help me, I actually admired his ass in those jeans. Firm as Michelangelo's David.
It was a sinful thought and I surreptitiously crossed myself, knowing it was even more depraved because Miles was my stepbrother. If I was making a full confession, unclean thoughts and perverse yearnings of the flesh weren’t a new occurrence for me.
“What is it you do again?” I asked to distract both of us as he poured wine.
“Executive consultant.”
“And what’s that?”
“I feed the bigwigs a bunch of bullshit,” he snorted, carrying a wine glass and a bottle of beer into the living room. “Oops, sorry.”
“It's all right.” I waved the profanity away and accepted the glass. “Go on.”
“I give the top-level executives a bunch of suggestions about what they can do to improve their company and they give me a big check,” he explained, taking a swig of his beer and tipping it toward me with that sardonic little smile of his. “Not exactly the vows of poverty and chastity.”
I waited for a smart-ass remark about St. Peter's Basilica and plenary indulgences. Not that it would be either unwarranted or untrue. The Church's material opulence and its monumental moral hypocrisy provided fertile potting soil for my doubts to grow.
“You should read a history of the Vatican Bank. You think Enron and Jack Abramoff are bad? It makes those shenanigans look like Amateur Night at the Apollo.”
“And Sister Sarah with the sick burn. Nice.” He put up his palm for a high-five.
I actually obliged and he laughed
“Can I get one of those beers?” I asked, nodding toward his as put my empty wine glass down on the coffee table.
“Slippery slope.” He got up from his black leather chair to fetch one out of the fridge.
“Although monks have a long history of brewing beer,” I called. “Why don’t you bring that bottle of wine too?”
“Thirsty?” Miles brought me an open bottle of beer and the open bottle of wine too. He put the wine on the coffee table and handed me the beer bottle. “Got that wine as a gift last year. Been meaning to open it. A client of mine. Long story. Pretty boring, it involves ledgers and accounting.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a gulp of beer and putting it on the table before pouring myself more wine. My head was already swimming, and that was good. Miles watched me sip more wine, eyebrows slightly raised, but he didn’t comment. “Wow, this is strong stuff.”
“Only the best for my Clarice.”
My Clarice. My face felt hot and I fanned myself with my hand.
“Forgot how much I liked wine.”
“Don't you, with the Communion and all?” That smirk. That sexy, sacrilegious little smirk.
Miles didn't shy away from his open atheism and his hatred of the Catholic Church. Like me, he went through CCD and Catholic Sunday School, memorized important saints, martyrs, and popes, and went to regular confession. At least until college. We diverged when I went off to the convent and he went to state college. A couple years older than me, Miles kept his infidel status a secret until he graduated.
“True,” I admitted. “But only in tiny thimblefuls. The priest gets to finish the rest after we get our ration. At least they use real wine still. Some churches use grape juice.”
“Blasphemy.”
“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” I murmured from behind the rim of my wine glass.
“Blasphemy?” Miles tilted his head, offering me a half, puzzled smile.
“Sort of.” I sighed, taking another gulp of wine. “I’ve… I guess I’ve been… having doubts.”
The last word fell from my mouth like a brick.
“Doubts?” No more smirk. His chocolate brown eyes searched my face. “What kind of doubts? You don’t mean… doubts of faith?”
“Yes.” I nodded, swallowing more wine. Second glass gone. It really was strong. I felt warm all over, in spite of the air conditioning. So I picked up the beer instead. “Lately I’ve been questioning… everything.”
“Everything?” He blinked. “That’s quite a scope.”
“Some things more than others, I suppose.” I sighed, leaning back on the sofa and cradling my beer. “It’s been going on a while.”
“I assume you’ve… you know, prayed about it?” He leaned his elbow on the back of the sofa, his chin on his fist. “And… all the rest?”
“All the rest.” I smiled, licking a bead of liquid off the rim of my beer. Miles watched me, his gaze moving from my mouth back up to meet my eyes. “Yes. Let’s just say, I’ve availed myself of all my resources. And… the confines of the convent haven't exactly been… shall we say, conducive to dissent and questioning?”
“I can imagine.” He gave a little nod, taking another sip of his own beer.
“You’ve always been…” I took a deep breath, trying to keep the quiver from my voice. “You’ve got such a level head, Miles. And you’ve always been the best sounding board for me. I thought… if anyone could help…”
“Well…” He blinked in surprise. “I'll do what I can. I'm not sure I can quell those doubts.”
“Faith unable to withstand doubt would be weak indeed,” I quipped.
“Sounds like a famous person said that,” Miles laughed. “You probably know who, Sister Wikipedia.”
I shook my head. “Not this time, no.”
“So, little sister, tell me about your doubts.” Miles settled in, giving me an encouraging smile “I'll try not to act like the asshole.”
“How about Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor?”
“Sounds badass.” He grinned. “You're ducking the issue. Doubts. Lay it on me, sister.”
“Do you remember the summer after I graduated high school?” I asked, putting my empty beer bottle on the coffee table. I saw him shift out of the corner of my eye.
“Sure.” He reached over and picked up my bottle, shaking it. “Want some more?”
“Just wine.” I held my glass and let him fill it.
Then the room filled with an awkward silence. The clock ticked in the vast emptiness of the loft. Outside, traffic buffeted the large windows. An elevated train passed by. I wasn't sure if I should speak or not. Once I started with my confession, I knew it would gush forth from me like a volcano, an apocalypse of words. My crisis of faith hinged on what I’d done that fateful summer—and my lack of regret over those venal acts.
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“Miles…” I cleared my throat, seeking sweetness in the wine. “Do you remember… do you remember what we did?”
“You mean…” He blinked. “Fooling around?”
I nodded, feeling heat flood my cheeks.
“This is about… that?” He got up from the leather sofa and I watched him take his empty beer bottle and mine toward the kitchen. I waited for him to return, this time with another wine glass. He poured himself wine, three-quarters full, and then drank half of that.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath, turning toward me again. “Let’s do this.”
“You sure?” I swallowed, looking into his eyes. They showed a blissful glaze, probably from how quickly he downed the glass of wine.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak…” he muttered, blowing out a breath. “Yes, Clarice.”
His hand moved over the back of the couch to touch mine, and my whole body jolted like a livewire. I nodded, clearing my throat, knowing there was no way out but through.
I didn’t want to go to college.
Our parents pushed me, but I remained unsure. Intelligence and standardized test scores weren't an issue. Cliché as it might have been, I felt like I still had to find myself. So that summer, I stayed home. I didn’t work, I hadn’t applied to colleges. I just stayed home.
Miles also lived at home, commuting to the city for his internship at a big corporate firm. He oozed ambition and a mercenary attitude. He talked about it leading to getting into a prestigious MBA program, preferably somewhere like Harvard or Wharton. But he also delighted in blowing off work and coming home to swim. For all his drive and ambition, he also displayed the morals of a shameless sensualist.
“Man was not designed to work in cubicles,” he told her from his lounge chair.
The internship made him a repository of Office Space and Fight Club quotes.
“Both of those movies are the same, Clarice,” he insisted.
“Didn't see either of them,” I said, flipping the page in her book. “Don't care.”
We were home alone that summer.
His father had married my mother. Both came from “society,” albeit the rarefied Catholic merchant aristocracy. Despite our moneyed background, Miles's father threw himself into the medical field, working as the head of thoracic surgery at the big downtown hospital. Miles regularly had lunches with him, since the internship was a brisk walk to the hospital. My mother came from money, but she devoted herself to philanthropy and humanitarian endeavors.
After attending my high school graduation, they left for a three month vacation in Europe.
“They're secretly swingers,” Miles whispered into my ear one night.
“Shut up! Gross!”
Typical Miles, acolyte of the flesh.
On that summer day, I was in a chaise lounge by the pool, adjusting my sunglasses and soaking up the afternoon rays. I wore a tiny black bikini. I wouldn't have dared wear something so scandalous when my parents were home. But even if I wore a more conservative one-piece, I would get looks from Miles. He couldn't keep his eyes off me. Part of it came from his paternal side, his desire to protect his little stepsister. Although another part came from a desire for conquest.
He wanted me and I wanted him.
We both knew it was wrong.
I’d confessed my feelings to our priest, Father Walsh, and he counseled me into entering a convent. He knew of one particularly suited to my needs in an isolated area of Kansas.
I think I saw it as the perfect solution. No worries about college. No more hot nights wrapped up in damp sheets, tortured by thoughts of my stepbrother. The convent was real—and I could actually go there. Escape. The perfect solution. That’s what it felt like to me, and that’s how I talked about it to Miles.
“Is that what he said? Really?” Miles scoffed when I told him. “Get thee to a nunnery!”
Then he laughed again.
“Fuck you!”
“Language! Your Mother Superior wouldn't like that. Bet she would strip you to your panties and give you a spanking. Don't believe me? It could totally happen. I've seen proof. There are movies on Pornhub.com that show what happens in nunneries.”
“Convents. And gross. You're such a perv. Is everything about sex with you?”
“If it involves sex with you.”
“Asshole. Stop twisting my words around!”
Every conversation was an argument, much to the annoyance of the live-in maid and her daughter. They kept to themselves when our parents left. Probably for the best. It seemed in those lazy hot afternoons we reverted to a feral, yet more innocent, state.
Miles wallowed in the pool and I worked on my tan.
I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind.
Another season of debutante balls and marrying an heir to a fortune?
No.
Going to college to study? But to study what? And what about all the parties, the drinking, the peer pressure? No.
The convent? Father Walsh mentioned the place out in Kansas. But that's so far. I'd miss Miles. I'd miss certain parts of Miles.
Cold water hit my body and I screamed.
“You bastard!” I yelled.
“Not much of a bikini if it doesn't get wet,” he said. With his arms folded beneath his chin, he stared at me from the pool.
“Maybe I should go away to a nunnery or whatever.”
“And miss all this?” He scoffed, pulling himself out of the pool.
Water beaded over his muscular chest, running in rivulets down to his navel. And further.
He plopped onto my chaise lounge.
“Be careful,” I snapped, closing my book.
He shook his head like a dog, sending more water onto me.
“Stop it!” I said, not sure if I meant it or if I was kidding.
“Make me.”
Only then did I notice his hand on my stomach.
“What are you doing? Don't.” I tried to keep my voice even. He may have worked in an office and stared at a computer screen for hours on end, but his rough hands energized me. In another life, I could see him working on a chain gang breaking rocks, his body all sweaty from the noonday sun. Paying for his sins.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.
“I said stop. You deaf?”
“So stop me.”
By this time his hand edged to the fabric on my bikini top. I saw the look in his eyes. Ravenous, hungry, lust-drunk. My chest heaved while he teased the top.
“I don't think that's wise. Besides, you're my brother.”
“Stepbrother, actually. Not related.”
“But it's still a sin,” I objected, trying to catch my breath, with him so close. “I bet if I ask Father Walsh—”
His kissed me before I could finish. Not a brotherly kiss, either. This kiss was all-encompassing, deep and hard. His tongue stroked the roof of my mouth, his hand moving over my ribs, and I felt tingly all over at his touch. I’d never had a tongue in my mouth before and didn’t have any idea what to do, but Miles did. His mouth slanted against mine, teaching me, opening me him.
“Tell Father Walsh what, now?” His breath was hot as he murmured this against my wet, parted lips. I gave a little whimper, my whole body singing.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “This is so wrong.”
“But it feels so right.” He grabbed one of my hands and thrust it against his swim trunks, rubbing it there. I felt his throbbing erection, and it scared me. It also excited me, beyond all reason. I didn’t know what to do, but when my hand closed over it through the material, Miles gave a little groan. That excited me, too.
“We shouldn't,” I gasped, but he kissed me again. This kiss was deeper still, his mouth drawing my tongue into his mouth, a gentle suck. Every time he did that, I felt an aching throb between my thighs.
Then one of his fingers hooked my bikini top and started to pull it down.
“You can't,” I panted, breaking our kiss. I looked into his eyes, seeing the lust th
ere. Oh, this was so wrong, so very wrong. But I wanted him. Every part of me wanted him.
“You want me to,” he said, his gaze moving down to my chest, speaking the words I knew were the truth. “Don't be a liar.”
