"That was awesome," says Tom, my eleven-year-old cousin with a thick mop of red hair and freckles that are testimony to his Scottish heritage, between fits of laughter.
"Again," his brother, Anthony, demands. He is seven and I know my clumsiness has just made his day.
"Maybe later," I say, trying not to sound bitter and blinking fast to hold the tears back.
"Now, leave Cassandra alone, boys," my aunt says, hurrying over to drag them away to a safe distance. Probably to prevent them from pushing me right back in. Although, judging from her amused look, I bet she wouldn't object if I repeated that blunder. Ha ha ha. Let's hear it for funny me.
So where did things go wrong? With him, of course. It's always him. Up to now, things were actually going much better than expected, and I’d even had a bit of fun playing with my cousins, pleased that Mr. Asshole had decided to keep his distance. That was good, I told myself. Disappointing too. But only to the girl with the big secret that no one must ever know about. The one that can never be.
Mom cajoled me into riding with him in his new pickup truck. Grateful that he didn’t try and talk to me, I just sat out my time in silence, taking sneak peeks and admiring the way his shirt sleeves were stretched tight around his muscles and his three-day stubble. By the time we arrived I was glad that I wasn't leaving a wet spot on the seat. Eager to get away from Mr. Cool, and his shades and the messy hair—all a reminder that unlike him, I actually do have to pay attention to my looks.
Unlike him, my hair is all frizzy and my breasts need augmentation. Sitting next to him in my favorite summer dress, yellow with horizontal stripes, only served to make me feel that much more depressingly common. A painful reminder that even if he was just a guy, not my stepbrother, girls like me don't date guys like him. Not on this planet.
Keeping to himself, his answers were short whenever someone tried to engage him in small talk, his eyes hidden behind his shades. The kind of short that made it clear he wasn't interested in talking. The kind of short that tells you you’re dealing with a Grade A jerk who never had to try a day in his life to get along. With his looks, he must be used to everyone wanting to be his best friends anyway. Not that I was complaining, Silence serves me just fine. Better than making a fool of myself by saying something stupid.
Even the weather was co-operating to boost my mood. Sunny with a refreshing breeze. A perfect day, if he hadn't been there. And my cousins never fail at cheering me up with their jokes and endless laughter.
But whatever confidence I had that I would make it through the day unscathed was blown to pieces when it was time for fun and games. Mom's idea, of course. Swing across the river by a damn rope. Folks love it, apparently. Enough to pay for it. Granted, it's not much of a river, but that only makes it worse, not better. It’s maybe eighteen feet wide and, with a little help and encouragement from my uncle, even Tom made it across. Easily.
"Mom," I said, eyeing the rope and the platform from which we were supposed to make the jump, unease creeping up on me, "I don't think—" Before I could finish she had thrown an arm around me, pulling me close and gushing how much I'd love it. Right.
Allowing Dan to pull me out of the water, my dress clings to me like a second skin, and I want to kick myself for not insisting sitting this one out. I just knew I'd screw up, and all thanks to him. Stephan. My stepbrother and tormentor.
"We need some comic relief too, sweetheart," Dan says, giving me a playful wink. All, no doubt, meant to encourage me to drop the sour face and laugh along. But I can't. Not when I feel months of frustration and suppressed anger rising to the surface. Just the thought of fake-laughing over yet another humiliating screw up makes me want to scream and stamp my feet.
"Don't I know it," I say sourly just when my right feet starts to slip and slide over the slippery grass. Thank God Dan has me, but the cousins are in stitches again. Half-laughing herself, my aunt tells the boys to have some mercy, only making it worse.
After Mom decided to play survivalist, I could hardly refuse, could I? I'd be the spoil sport. The one to ruin the party. Mom and Dan would have be cool with it, but the rest of the family would know me for the boring girl I guess I am, wouldn't they? So, with false bravado, I joined in, insisting on going last, as if waiting for a miracle that would save me from what I felt was certain disaster.
He, of course, had no trouble. Casually, as if he'd done it a million times before, he just grabbed the rope. And like Tarzan reincarnate, jumped back and, with feet forward, arced smoothly over the water. My eyes on his broad back, I knew I should have looked away when I felt my knees go weak.
Landing with the grace of an Olympic athlete, he casually let go of the rope and set up camp in the shade of a tree while I was dealing with the heat that exploded between my legs. That's how I stood there, baking in the sun and my own horniness, until it was my turn, with all eyes on me, the back of my summer dress as soaked as my panties.
"You'll see, it's easy," Dan shouted from across the river.
Unable to resist, my eyes turned to him. Standing there like he was the main character in a Hollywood movie, leaning against a tree. Cool. Collected. Not even as much as a smile breaking through. The cool guy, putting up with lesser mortals. Us. Me in particular. His cool demeanor felt like a personal attack on me. Even the smoldering heat didn't seem to bother him, and the sweat spots on his shirt reminded me of his musky smell.
Tearing my eyes away, nervous, I looked down and shut my eyes. Just breathe, I told myself. Just breathe. You got this. Girl power and all that. Screw him, and his shades, and muscles, and sexy as fuck voice. Just pretend he isn't there! When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was his absence. Miracle of miracles! It felt like the first good thing that had happened that day. Not wanting to think about where he had gone, I grabbed the rope with renewed confidence, certain that as long as he was out of sight, I'd make it.
"You can do this, honey," Mom yelled.
"Swing your legs forward," Dan encouraged. You'd say he was coaching junior league, hunched forward as if physically trying to propel me into action from across the river.
"If I can do it, anyone can," Aunt Diane yelled. Thank God Uncle Peter kept his mouth shut.
Not the cousins, though. "Go! Go! Go! Go!" they chanted, the naughty gleam in their eyes betraying what they really wanted: for one of us to screw up and hit the water. Preferably their favorite cousin. Smiling, believing this might just work out after all, I jumped back and pulled myself up as I stuck my legs out, already feeling victorious when I started my forward swing through the air.
Then he had to ruin it by stepping away from behind the tree where he'd retreated. Bare-fucking-chested. I swear the universe stopped dead in its tracks just as the grey part of my brain flatlined. And just like that, he stole my chance at making it safely across. Gone was the sense of impending victory. My brain focused only on the muscles and tattoos, and the perfect smile that he threw in my direction, standing in stark contrast to the eternal smirk that I had gotten used to, his thumbs casually hooked in his pockets.
I’d never believed in the instant chemistry that his presence taught me is so very damn real, and I’d never put much faith in feeling like fainting, either. Not until that moment. My heart jackhammered and heat exploded in my belly; my muscles went slack right when I was in midair. Feeling the rope slip from between my fingers just as I was at the highest point of the arc, only on a rudimentary level of reality registered: I wasn't going to make it. Not even by a close shot.
Next thing I knew, I hit the cold water. Another humiliation for the silly and clumsy girl with the secret crush.
Dan gave me a concerned look; I guess in my wet dress and with my chagrined look, he feels sorry for me. Good. I deserve it. I feel sorry for myself too. "I'm fine," I lie. Forcing out a smile hurts and my body is still in emergency mode, my mind telling me I need to get away from him. Did he do that on purpose? Wait until it was my turn to take his shirt off? Does he suspect? Or is he so used to
girls drooling all over him that it is just a game? Humiliate the stepsister for kicks and giggles.
"Are you certain?" Dan asks. Mom tells me she has spare clothes in the car. I don't know what is worse: that she knew her girl probably wouldn't make it, or that I'm still in a state of shameful excitement over the sight of that muscular bare chest.
Looking up with a hopeful expression, Anthony asks his mother if he and his brother can dive in too.
"No, that's only for grown-ups, sweetheart," Aunt Diane says, barely able to keep the corners of her mouth from preventing the grin that is already there from growing any bigger. Clearly as entertained as the kids, she is civil enough to try not to be obvious about it.
"Don't wait for me with the festivities," I say through clenched teeth, forcing my back straight. That's what I read in an article: posture is everything. Even when you feel miserable, just changing your posture can change the way you feel. It isn't helping, though. Holding my head up high, chin in the air, I set off without thinking.
All I know is that I need to get the hell out of here. Fast. Pronto. Now! To get to the car is at least a twenty minute walk. Awesome. With a little luck, a total stranger will see me and snap a picture to put it on Instagram. Ha ha ha. Yes, this really is shaping up to be a day to remember. The kind you instantly want to forget. The sort of day that makes you wish you had dementia.
"Stephan, why don't you go with your sister?" Dan says. Words that make my heart come to a crashing halt, only to reboot, thundering away like crazy. Breaking out in a cold sweat, my voice sticks in my throat. I think of the horror that a twenty minute walk represents. Then changing my soaked summer dress for whatever Mom decided to pack, and another torturous twenty minutes back. If I had known, I probably would have preferred to drown. "And bring the picnic basket on the way back, son."
Not watching where I'm going, my feet stay stuck behind the root of a tree and I'm on my way down again. Fuck. I pride myself on never using the f-word, as in ever. But that is the only appropriate word, given the situation. Fuelled by all my anger and frustration, I shout it as loud as I can. A loud and resounding "Fuck!" that echoes all along the river, loaded with two months of pent up anger and frustration.
The silence that follows when I hit the earth is short-lived, fast chased away by more raucous laughter from the kids. And I don't have to look up to see that my uncle has decided to join in, no longer able to pretend none of this is funny.
"Oh my," Mom says.
Too angry to move, my face pressed against the earth and my ass high in the air, I wonder exactly how much rotten luck a girl can have. And, as if to underline how hopeless I truly am, my mind just has to conjure up the image of that bare and well-muscled tattooed chest and him positioning himself behind me. Blood rushes to my face and neck when I imagine his hands on my hips and his cock against my contracting private lips, a moan escapes from the back of my throat that is instantly followed by panic when I realize that all eyes are on me. Including his. Those intense blue eyes that reduce me to the intellectual level of a vegetable. No, just a woman with a hopeless crush; in heat.
"Need a hand, kid?" he asks coolly, and I just feel my heart break. Hopelessly in love with a guy who couldn't care less for me. It is all I need to explode, the unshed tears I didn't even realize were there spilling over as I scramble on my feet. Facing my tormentor, I'm beyond caring about the pained and angry expression that stares back at me in the shades that look down at me.
"I hate you," I snap, like I've never snapped at anyone before. Each word sharp enough to create a crack in his cool demeanor. But I feel no satisfaction when his face pales and the smirk is replaced by a thin line, his lips pressed tightly together. He takes a half step back, as if I've physically hurt him. As if. What does he know about pain? He isn't the one with the impossible love standing right in front of him, always taunting him the way he taunts me, with his condescending remarks and body language. I do. Every damn day of the week since he decided to show up and, oh wait, ruin my life, just by being himself.
Instead of relief, my outburst only makes me that much more miserable. I know he doesn't like me, but that doesn't mean I enjoy this war that seems to be the only option between the two of us.
Mom sounds pained and worried when she says my name, and now I only feel that much more miserable. And Dan looks like he's ashamed of it all; he is, but I don't know if it is due to my behavior or that of his son. Maybe both. Even the kids are quiet, staring at me and not yet certain if this is all a source of laughter or not.
"Just have fun without me," I sob and rush off. Ignoring Mom and Dad calling after me, I half run, not caring if I'm making a fool of myself or not. Why should I? It seems that's all I'm good at. Making a big fool of myself.
Stephan
I really fucked up this time. But I have to. There doesn't seem to be a middle ground for the two of us. It’s either fire or ice. Fire isn't an option. But that doesn't mean I'm enjoying playing the role I'm imposing on myself. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when I see her stride off fast on her long legs, sunlight reflecting on her pale skin. And as much as I'm hurting and hating myself, my body can't help but respond to the sight of her wet dress clinging to her body, my cock stirring when I take her in.
If she were any other girl, I'd be able to drop the act and I've thought of what that would be like: unlike anything I've experienced before. That's for certain. But she isn't any other girl. She is my stepsister.
A girl who is unintentionally funny, with a clumsiness that makes her endearing. A natural beauty who doesn't need makeup to stand out, even though she doesn't seem to be aware of it. And she's a smart girl, like her mother. Those sparkling green eyes of hers never miss a thing, and one look and you know she is always thinking, a furrow between her eyebrows as she unconsciously plays with a strand of her blonde hair. Then there is the way she blushes, not half-measured, always coloring the porcelain white cheeks a deep flaming red.
There's a warning in Dad's voice when he calls my name, and I don't have to ask to know what he wants of me: make it up to the crying girl and be fast about it. He throws me a stern look, and I can't say I don't deserve it. I'm angry at myself and don't have to guess how he feels about his one and only son. What a disappointment I must be to him. I may act tough, but that's more habit than anything else. It’s not meant to be taken as a sign that I don't care about others. I do. But growing up where I did, you were either tough or at least acted the part. Thing is, right now my tough act is the only shield I have to hide my feelings.
The looks they throw me are of either disappointment or sadness, and I can't say I blame them. I'm blaming myself, though. But I'm too practiced at hiding what I feel to show it. I even succeed at throwing up my hands, as if saying, "I don't have time for this. Time to babysit the kid."
"Right," I say, my legs already moving, secretly eager to be near her. I know they think I'm rarely at home because I'm an unruly teen, a cocky nineteen-year-old, but it’s really because she’s there. Imagine how I felt when she told me she was family. That's when I knew that deciding to move in with my father and his new family had been a really bad call. If I were strong, I'd move back in with Mom, but I'm not strong enough to resist her draw.
Watching her as I catch up with her, I curse myself for the excitement that makes my cock stir. Still, part of me is happy at the thought of her nearness.
"Cass, wait up!" She doesn't. So I move faster until I'm only feet behind her."Bad form," I say, my way of working up to an apology. "My specialty. The only kind I now."
"Leave me alone," Cassandra says. As always, I'm struck by her natural grace, which stands in stark contrast to the clumsiness that always takes me by surprise, and my cock stirs again. The thin material of her dress clings to her and I can make out her panties and the two perfect half-moons of her ass-cheeks. Inwardly cursing, I look away.
"I'm sorry," I say forcefully, grabbing her by her wrist.
Turning her head, physically dragging me al
ong as she forges on, she tells me to leave her alone again, and I feel I'm being cursed. Each word stings me, and I'm grateful for the shades that hide my eyes. She'd see a whole different me without them.
Refusing to let her go, even though I know that would be the best thing, I feel myself soften at the sight of her wet hair clinging to her cheek when she looks at me over her shoulder, my guilt peaking when she turns her eyes on me, narrowed to slits and loaded with a pain that I'm keenly aware of I'm the cause of. I want to say I'm sorry again, and explain why I'm such an asshole to her, but my voice is stuck in my throat.
Stopping dead in her tracks, she turns her body too fast, no doubt to give me an uncensored piece of her mind, and while my mind tells me I should stop, my body moves forward, like a comet unable to escape the gravitational field of a planet. Mars crashing into Venus. The moment our bodies make contact, I know I'm done for.
The tough act falls away from me like the burden that it has become, leaving me free of the self-imposed prison that would never allow for the smile that spreads and the arms that wrap themselves around her waist. Pressing her hard against me, air flows in my chest and the feelings I've been trying to run from burst to the surface as my cock grows hard fast, pressed against her belly.
There are no thoughts when I bring my face down as she disarms me with the hope that shines in her eyes, her lips slightly parted and dangerously close. It isn't until I feel her warm breath on my skin that I snap out of it. My conscience kicks in with a vengeance, reminding me of who it is I'm holding in my arms, about to kiss. But there is relief too. I may be bad but I'm not that bad. Not bad enough to want to do this to her. Not her. Pulling away, I steel myself, fighting off the impulse to ignore what my conscience tells me to do when I see the hope in her eyes die, fast replaced by the hurt that I'm trying to spare her.
Stepbrother Tormentor 1 of 2: A Steamy Romance Page 2
