by Nikki Wild
I laughed again. The sound was still almost completely unfamiliar to me. “No, it’s not like that. I still pay attention to the road, obviously. Riding the bike is second-nature to me now…it’s purely instinct at this point.” She looked unconvinced, so I added: “But if it makes you feel any better, I’m always very careful.”
“Sure he is!” Dad chimed in. “I’m sure you’d never do anything to endanger yourself…maybe nothing too dangerous.”
I reflected for a brief second. “I’ve tried to stay safe.”
It was technically true.
Technically.
Five
Saffron
Pensacola, Present Day
The private flight down wasn’t all that bad, but that’s primarily because I had my iPod’s earbuds jammed into my ears – and a good book in my lap. Every once in a while, I’d glance over at Sawyer. I’d expected him to put on some bullshit display of arrogance, but he sat further ahead, facing the window. He barely seemed to move, although it was clear that he wasn’t asleep.
Weird.
Dad’s friend Hensley picked us up from the runway when we arrived, loading up the back of a large black sedan with our luggage. Sawyer gave him a hand, then grabbed his motorcycle helmet and mounted his cycle – of course he’d insisted on bringing that thing along but there was no way it was going to fit into the plane. Dad had paid someone an almost criminal amount of money to ship it down here over the last couple of days.
While Hensley pointed out a few things here or there – updating me on how Pensacola had adjusted in the years since we’d been here last – I couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten into Sawyer. He’d actually been almost pleasant to live with for the last couple of days, although part of that was that he wasn’t around much.
Since he had arrived with a duffle bag and the clothes on his back, Dad had taken him shopping around, although Sawyer never seemed pleased about this, and he never appeared to come back with much. It was when he went off alone that he returned with a few bags of clothing – the essentials, from what I could see. It was clear that he packed lightly and minimally, even down to the clothing that would last him the summer.
Although, maybe he was just planning on buying clothes while we were here. I felt silly thinking it, realizing that I could have spared the trouble and just snapped some clothing up after we arrived and got settled in – but I liked my things, and didn’t see the point in buying more.
Despite the lifestyle my mother’s marriage had offered me, I remembered us being broke before – and I didn’t like to live in too much excess.
It wasn’t long before we arrived at the family villa. Seeing the Beach House brought me straight back to before – before our family had come together, only to be pulled apart. None of us had been here since that fateful night that Sawyer had left, and my time here had become some sort of a bitter memory.
No, bitter’s not quite the right word.
After we pulled in, Sawyer parked and dismounted his motorcycle, and I climbed out of the sedan. He wandered over the to side; Hensley began removing our luggage from the trunk, and I took a moment to soak in the sight.
Standing tall and proud, the Beach House sprawled upwards and outwards in its entire exquisite, Spanish-Mediterranean splendor. Coated across its textured walls with a creamy, pale orange, our vacation home was a proud monument of cultural adherence and beauty. The eye-catching roofing, staggered across the connected buildings, was clad with the traditional standard – imported, rounded European clay tiles. The entire structure was lined with countless black iron windows, consistently applying the same aesthetic to the two second-floor doorways; symmetrically built on either side, these doorways stood framed by exquisite wooden balcony enclosures.
My fingertips graced the thick, creamy orange stairway hand-rest, curving upwards along the steps to the front door. I ran my hand along the edge, feeling the rough texture that matched the Beach House walls.
I felt like I was home again.
“Welcome home, Saffie,” Sawyer whispered in my ear.
Well, apparently I wasn’t the only one.
I turned to glare at my glorified babysitter. While I expected him to have another one of his patented cocky smirks across his face, I was surprised to see him gazing up at the walls with wide, thoughtful eyes. It was clear that he was having the same sort of reaction I was…and I quelled the sarcastic retort that had sprung to mind.
“You really missed this place, didn’t you?” He asked.
“…You might say that,” I admitted cautiously.
“Yeah. I think I did too.”
The moment was surreal. After all this time, I was finally back here, and so was he…but his entire jackass deal was nowhere in sight. He even looked sad as he took it all in. His shoulders were slumped, and there was something in his eyes…something I couldn’t put my finger on…
“Well, we’d better get you lot inside!” Hensley chuckled loudly from behind. We snapped out of it, turning to face the charmingly boisterous driver. His arms were full of luggage, and we quickly scrambled to give him a hand with everything.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, I can easily get this all inside…”
“Nonsense, Hensley,” Sawyer told him. “You’re not our personal servant. Let us give you a hand with this.”
“Well…if you insist…” he remarked with a soft smile.
We followed our associate up the stairs, where he paused to set down his armfuls of suitcases. Whipping a thick keyring from his pocket, he sifted through a dozen keys in the blink of an eye.
“Here we go! Mister and Missus Samuels, may I humbly welcome you back to the Beach House…”
With a hard turn of his wrist, the door loudly unlocked, and he stepped aside while pushing it open.
Sawyer and I passed beside him and into the large foyer. With a flick of his finger to the light switch, the room was quickly bathed in light.
Oh fuck, I thought to myself. It’s just as beautiful as I remember it.
Beautiful, stained hardwood floors stretched across the villa – accented perfectly by the off-white paint across the crisp, modern walls. Various pieces of exquisite décor tastefully surrounded us – predominately represented by a modest array of paintings on the wall and display pieces from world travels available on accent tables or nearby shelves. Above us hung a beautiful crystal chandelier, twinkling in the splendor of its own lights. My eyes trailed past it and up to the second floor, wrapped in exquisite black iron railings as it stretched across the foyer.
“I’d forgotten how much I missed this fucking place,” I heard Sawyer murmur beside me. “Never thought I’d be back here again…”
My brow furrowed. Had he seriously meant to leave us forever?
I opened my mouth to press the issue.
“Well, you’re free to dawdle as much as you’d like, but preferably after you’re both situated on the luggage front!” Hensley laughed from behind. “Although, I don’t blame you…it’s nice to see the house getting some use. It’s been dreadful checking on things here while it collected dust.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised it’s in as good shape as it is,” I admitted quickly. “I’d honestly expected to walk in on cobwebs…and sheets over the furniture.”
“Oh, you don’t seriously think your parents were going to have you stay here if that were really the case?” Hensley popped up beside me, peering slyly into my eyes.
I tried to turn away, but he’d already seen them.
“My word! You did! For shame, Ms. Saffron! Of course they bid a crew of housekeepers to whip the house back into shape! Must have been about two weeks ago, if memory serves…why, they even came back yesterday, just to freshen it up!”
“That makes sense,” Sawyer commented. “I’m happy they had the foresight to do so.”
“You too?” Hensley shook his head in mock disappointment. “Well, this will just have to be our little secret,” he smiled. “Can’t have your parents knowing you
think so very little of them…”
Sawyer and I shared a smile.
As we started moving our things towards our rooms, I couldn’t help but reflect on how different my stepbrother was being. His usual jackass demeanor had evaporated upon us arriving here. Even on the drive, he’d been distant. It was almost as if he hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near me.
But that had changed when the Beach House came into view.
He acted like he had before, in those brief flashes. Instead of antagonizing me, he was calm, agreeable, and almost carefree.
It had been a long time since I’d seen him relaxed.
Then again, it had been a long time since I’d seen him.
It occurred to me that he might have changed. The first impression had left a little something to be desired. He had visibly been the same unrepentant asshole he was when he abandoned us, but now…
I was starting to have my doubts.
Hensley left to check on some things around the Beach House while we continued moving our luggage to our rooms. We’d packed enough apiece to last us the summer, and it showed in the volume of suitcases.
Surprisingly – or maybe not – Sawyer had fit his possessions in less than a quarter of what I brought. It’s not like I had packed heavily, either. I’d limited myself to maybe ten pairs of shoes, and roughly three outfits tailored to each of them. A girl never knows what she’ll need to be prepared for, right?
“Do you need a hand with this?”
I glanced over at him as I paused. In the moment, I was struggling with one of my largest suitcases, trying to extract it from the vehicle.
“I…wait, are you already done?”
“Yeah, I finished up a few minutes ago. Looks like you could use some help.”
“Sure, if you…don’t mind…” I responded, standing back.
Sawyer slipped into place in front of the deep trunk. With the heat, he had pulled off his unbuttoned over-shirt and the top beneath, revealing a trimming, black tank top. For the first time, I was seeing the definition of his strong, toned arms…and a slight gasp caught in my throat.
The muscles rippled as he effortlessly extracted the suitcase from the vehicle. I couldn’t peel my eyes off of his skin as I realized how built my stepbrother was. I knew he had bulked up in the intervening time – I would have to be blind to have not noticed – but this was way more than I had thought. Without his leather jacket or sweaters, Sawyer couldn’t hide his muscular build anymore.
But it wasn’t all just mindless bulk. His musculature was streamlined, allowing him to move easily and carefully. He had stopped short of becoming an amateur bodybuilder, but it was still a distinct difference from the underdeveloped teenager of my past.
“Something the matter?” Sawyer smiled coyly.
I realized that I had been staring at his build…and long enough for him to have noticed.
“No, no, nothing, I was just…”
“Admiring, maybe?”
“Oh, quit it.” I admonished him. “Let me just grab this…”
I reached for the suitcase, but he lifted it out of the way. It didn’t escape my notice that I’d struggled with the damn thing, but he was effortlessly maneuvering it around with just his wrist.
“No, I said I’d help you with this, remember? If you’re having this much trouble with getting it out of the car, how do you expect to get it up to the second floor and across the house?”
He had me there.
Pausing to grab another of my suitcases with his free hand, he followed me as I carried my small one and led him back into the Beach House. We climbed the staircase on the immediate left, and then continued onward into the left wing. We passed down the corridor towards our bedrooms, between frames featuring extraordinarily talented painters local to Pensacola.
Mom had always been a fan of underappreciated artists. Even when it was just the two of us, and although she could barely afford to do so, she proudly displayed a few works from her friends in the dining room. After the marriage, Mom loved to support their work as well as that of local artists, often paying above what they would ask for even their larger prints. Chet had always seemed not only encouraging of this, but also delighted by it – it seemed to be one of the ways in which she enriched his life, the way that he treated it. I never remembered much art in his house before Mom and I moved in. It just seemed to be the kind of thing he never paid much attention to, at least not until they met one another.
This hallway brought back fond memories. I was present for a number of Mom’s art purchases, and could distinctly recall most of these pieces in small, impromptu galleries – either thrown together on the boardwalk or in rented, single-day accommodations. Chet usually didn’t come along – he told anyone who would listen that he didn’t have the “eye” for that kind of thing – but he never criticized any of her choices in design.
I mentally left myself a note to peruse all the art that sprawled across the Beach House again…maybe after we were already settled in.
Lugging my suitcase with me, I plopped it down on the floor and turned to face Sawyer. “Alright, thanks. There shouldn’t be more than a few…”
He paused in the doorway, staring strangely at my bed. I followed his gaze and realized that I had carelessly left a suitcase open…the one filled with my underwear. Countless bras and pairs of panties were sprawled around, seemingly overflowing from the case.
“Oh! You pervert!” I shouted at him, grabbing the suitcases from his hands and dragging them out of the way of the door’s arc. “I can handle the rest of it myself! Get out of here!”
“Sis, it’s not my fault that you…I mean, I’m sorry.” He muttered quickly, averting his eyes.
“Can it!” I told him off, slamming the door in his face.
I knew it wasn’t right to blame him. He had no idea that I had started unpacking that stuff. In fact, it was my fault that the case was even open. I had completely forgotten about it when he offered to help. But I still had my pride…along with some seriously conflicting feelings in my stomach.
I hated that I loved his stupid muscles so much. Even more than that…I hated the elation I got from him seeing my exposed case of panties.
Off to a great start, Saffron.
Six
Sawyer
New Orleans, Five Years Ago
A few hours after the encounter outside Happy Pat’s, I dropped onto a couch in the back of the bar. It had to have been three in the morning, and I was exhausted after the pumping adrenaline had completely warmed off.
“Holy shit, bro, you’re fucking unreal.” My surprise recruiter told me. He brought me a rag and some hydrogen peroxide for the cuts on my eyebrow and cheek, along with some antiseptic. “I thought we were fucked. You came in for the fucking clutch, man! Definitely earned your share. Hell, Skippy’s a drunk fuck anyway. Probably a liability to the team. If you wanna do this shit again, you are in.”
“What was your name again?” I mumbled, holding the rag to the bottle and tipping it. “Didn’t they call you, what was it? Slippery Pete?”
“Fuckin’ A, they did!” He laughed. “Slippery Pete, that’s me. And you…oh man, you have officially graduated from Fucker. Hell, I don’t know what we’re gonna call you…”
“The name’s Sawyer,” I muttered.
“No it ain’t. Sawyer’s weak. That’s a prissy little bullshit name. You need something hardcore…let me think on that one…”
“I need somewhere to sleep,” I told him. “Getting pretty tired of the streets. Know a place?”
“Fuck, just crash right here. It’s what I do. “ There was the lumbering sound of the other occupant as he passed a corner, coming towards us. “You don’t mind, do ya, Gary?”
Slippery Pete turned to the bar owner, who apparently moonlighted an illegal street fighting ring underneath the shelter around the back. Easily in his mid-fifties, with an extra layer of flab over his bones, age had not been kind to Gary. Grimy, graying hair puffed off of his head in
a thick burst, and he looked like the kind of slimy, dirty business owner who was probably crawling with his own personal plague of fleas.
“New guy guaranteed a good turnout for next weekend,” Gary muttered, casting an eye my way. His thick jowl hung in a grimace from his face, but he still seemed pleased nevertheless. “You fight like that, you get a couch. You drop the ball, and it’s back on the streets. Ya hear?”
“Yessir,” I nodded. It wasn’t the most pleasing arrangement, but it was a compromise I could live with.
“Another thing,” Gary mumbled, wiping his face off with a stray rag, “you fight good. You also fight sloppy. You need skill. Training. You stick around here, you fight in my ring, and I’ll see to it that you’re made all proper-like.”
Adjusting the pad against my brow, I listened intently.
“Buddy of mine, Chen…he runs a dojo nearby,” Gary continued. “His old man’s a regular here. I’ll see about landing you some classes. You want a trainer, you gotta pay. But you can do without in the beginning.”
“Thanks,” I nodded. “I’ll fight for you.”
“Good,” Gary replied, pointing around the corner in the back – past the Employees Only sign. “Now, go take a fucking shower. You smell like shit.”
The bar owner wandered towards the door. As he passed through, I spotted a staircase behind it, likely leading up to his living accommodations above Happy Pat’s. Who DIDN’T live in this piece of shit bar?
Slippery Pete chuckled. “Dad’s never been that friendly to the fresh meat. I think the old fucker likes ya.”
Pensacola, Present Day
I quietly cursed at myself as I stared at the slammed, locked door. Why did I freeze up so much? The years I had spent brawling in the cage, and all it apparently took was a suitcase of my sister’s panties to throw me completely off my game. But I knew the answer – I’d wondered about it while I grew up with her, masturbating to the idea of her strip-teasing me down to those silky underclothes before dropping them at the edge of my bed.
