Hooked: A Stepbrother Romance

by Iris Parker

  I wanted to run to him and hug his broad back in a never-ending embrace, to grab his familiar shoulders until he spun around and I could give him a long, hard look. I wanted to explain how scared I’d been, how lost and alone I had felt without him.

  How much I loved him.

  I wanted to do all that, but my feet felt like they were made of lead. All I could manage was a single, strangled cry.

  “Simon?”

  The air in the room was stifling, filled with floating anxiety. Simon turned around slowly, and I gasped when I saw his swollen face. My eyes trailed down to the front of his shirt, splattered with bloodstains, and I could feel the tears beginning to fall.

  He was barely recognizable, his jet-black hair coated in grey dust, his lip busted open and still seeping fat drops of hot red blood onto the floor. His chiseled cheeks were battered into a pulp.

  What scared me the most, though, were his eyes. They were the same, but yet completely different. The light had gone out of them, utterly devoid of the piercing quality I’d first hated and then loved. He looked at me with immense sadness for a moment, turning back around to stare out the window once more.

  “Simon…” I muttered my nose facing the broad wall of his back. “What happened? Are you okay? What can I do to help?” I touched his elbow, his skin cold and clammy.

  “Ms. Jones,” the other man began. “You should—”

  More rapid knocking on the door cut him off mid-sentence, and I stood in front of Simon as he stood up and walked towards the door. I was hoping for a moment of attention, a small sign of reassurance, the familiar touch of his fingers on my back.

  None of that came.

  He opened the door in silence, shaking the hand of the small man who entered with a couple of uniformed police officers.

  “Mr. Ferguson. I’m glad you called,” the new man said slowly and professionally. “You’re going to need some medical care for this.”

  Yes, of course he needs care! I wanted to scream. Trembling, I wanted to explain to everyone that I was going to take him to the hospital, and then he would hold me and finally tell me what was going on.

  Everything would be fine, it had to be.

  Again, as if in a nightmare, fear sapped me of my ability to move or speak. I didn’t utter a word as the tall man moved next to me, addressing me in a hushed voice.

  “Ms. Jones, you should leave now. I’m Simon’s lawyer, and I will take care of this,” he said quietly before joining Simon and the police officers. I drifted over to Simon’s familiar bed and sat, my knees wobbling beneath me.

  In the corner of the hotel room, the three men were huddled together and speaking in voices I couldn’t hear or understand. The two police officers stood beside the group, looking as if they were setting up a human barricade that couldn’t be crossed.

  My eyes went to Simon, his pale face completely closed and unattainable.

  Fear coiled in my stomach.

  I stayed on the bed, my hands shaking, until I finally found the courage to stand again. Leaving without a single word from Simon was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, but the sinking feeling in my chest told me that I had no place here.

  I stepped out of the room and into the hotel hallway, turning one last time in Simon’s direction.

  He was looking straight at me, and my heart squeezed in my chest. I opened my mouth, trying to summon the will to speak as his eyes scanned across my face.

  And then his lips formed one soundless word.

  “Go.”

  The lack of comprehension on her face, giving way to despair.

  I’d seen that look from her before.

  God, I wanted to run to her and hold her in my arms.

  I wanted to tell her everything would be okay.

  But…it won’t.

  I’m an asshole. I’m always going to be an asshole.

  She’s better off without me.

  I feel sick.

  I kept replaying Simon’s last, desperate word.

  “Go,” he’d said. Over and over in my head, I imagined his lips forming the O-shape that had managed to bring my insomnia back with a vengeance. Every time I managed to fall asleep, my dreams would cruelly twist to nightmare. Everywhere I looked, I saw the dead look in Simon’s eyes, haunting me, startling me back awake.

  Trapped in my own private world of pain, it took me a long time to register the significance of Adam’s newspaper. Once I did, though, I couldn’t stop rereading the headline over and over.

  ALLEGED GANG LEADER ARGUS HUNT ARRESTED OVER DECADES OLD CHILD MURDER.

  I shivered, staring at the two pictures printed across the paper. Simon’s lawyer in a small inset, next to a large black and white photo of Hunt as a young gangster.

  “What’s the story with that?” I asked, my voice dry and strangled.

  Adam shrugged. “Seems like we might finally be rid of the old bastard. Someone tipped the cops off, from the sound of it. Someone involved in the killing of one of Argus’s old mules, way before you moved here. The paper doesn’t go into much detail, but I’m sure the media will have a lot of fun covering the story. It’s been a damn long time coming.”

  I nodded, incapable of forming a single word.

  A damn long time coming, indeed.

  I took a long, deep breath, grabbing the edges of Adam’s desk.

  “Where is Simon today?” he asked, folding the newspaper back up on his desk.

  I shrugged, Adam’s eyebrows shooting up to ask a silent question. Neither Simon nor I had confirmed his suspicions, and Adam was too private to ask directly, but he had to know something was going on between Simon and I.

  “Are you okay, Em? You look pale as a ghost,” Adam asked.

  My brain felt shrouded in fog, but I still recognized the opportunity when it came to me.

  “Yeah, not feeling great. Could you cover for me for about an hour, please?” I said in a rush.

  “Sure,” Adam answered, placing a warm hand on my shoulder before getting up and heading to the gym.

  Amazed at what I was doing, I stood up and opened the drawer to Adam’s desk, snatching the jangling collection of keys. Picking out the one labeled “archives,” I grabbed the metal key ring and unlocked the staircase in the corner of the room.

  The stale smell of old, rotting paper assaulted me as I made my way down to the basement. I pulled on the string to the exposed light bulb hanging overhead, casting a weak amber light that barely shone bright enough to cast an eerie glow over the rows and rows of cardboard boxes.

  I squinted at the nearest box, recognizing Adam’s curvy handwriting written across its front. I made my way down the shelves at last finding the boxes of member records from 1999-2000. Fifteen minutes of searching later, I’d found the one file I was most interested in.

  Simon.

  He’d been fourteen then, and an old photocopied picture attached to his papers threw me thirteen years back. He looked simultaneously defiant and adorable, not yet having transformed into either monster or gentleman.

  Taking a deep breath of the musty air, I started to read every word.

  Simon’s mother’s name was Evelyn, I learned as I sorted through the thick stack of letters that the counselors had sent to her. Apparently he had been a perpetual troublemaker and had almost gotten banned from the center on a few occasions.

  When Simon had called himself a thug, he hadn’t been kidding, a fact that the paperwork made crystal clear to me. The most interesting information, though, wasn’t from the center at all.

  In the back of the folder was a clipping from an old newspaper article, yellow and fragile beneath my fingers. My heart began to beat faster as I read, a story about two teenagers caught in gang-related crossfire.

  One of them, unnamed, had been grazed by a bullet. I closed my eyes in dread, remembering the small straight scar I knew was hiding underneath his tattoo. Horrified, I continued to read that a boy named Jake Simpson had been struck in the throat, drowning on his own blood wh
ile his friend could only watch.

  Jake.

  Simon had said that name before.

  I felt sick as all the pieces came together, my stomach revolting at the horrible revelation and the stale air. I slammed the folder shut and threw it back into the box, yanking the light off as I bolted up the stairs and straight to the bathroom.

  I stood over the sink, splashing my face with water and trying not to throw up. A million thoughts rushed through my head, all hypotheses about Simon’s life as a teenager. How he’d hated me, not just because his father had chosen my mother over him, but also because I’d had a much fairer chance at life. No trauma, no nightmarish memories of a friend dying in my arms.

  He’d suffered for years, and now clearly his demons had returned full force.

  And he was facing them alone.

  Suddenly I felt suffocated, like time was running out and there was nothing I could do about it. I dashed to the gym and shouted to Adam that I was leaving now, hurrying out the door before he had a chance to answer.

  Booked a flight back to England.

  She was the only person to ever make me happy, and I’ll never see her again.

  I’m going to spend the next few hours getting very, very drunk with very, very small bottles of alcohol.

  Simon’s hotel wasn’t that far from the center, and I ran there as fast as my body could take me. Clearly, there was still a lot I didn’t know about the man, but I still understood exactly how critical this moment really was.

  Ironically, I was in a great position to understand Simon’s misery because of the pain he’d inflicted on me so long ago. I knew that it didn’t take much for self-hatred to resurface, that blaming yourself was easier and more satisfying than looking at the reality of the situation.

  Arriving at the reception hall, I sprinted to the elevators and waited impatiently for the large, luxurious doors to slide open.

  “Ms. Jones?”

  I turned around, coming face-to-face with the tall woman who usually supervised the reception counter. Her expression was solemn, and my skin erupted into shivers as a very hollow dread settled in my chest, spreading until I felt small and completely empty.

  “Yes?” I asked quietly.

  “Mr. Ferguson said you’d drop by. I’m afraid he had to check out unexpectedly, but he left me instructions to give this to you,” she explained, her voice sad as she offered me a small white envelope.

  My breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes as I took the letter from her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, hurrying back to her place at the front desk as I stood perfectly still, frigid air blowing from a nearby vent and making my sweaty skin feel cold and alone.

  The elevator finally dinged, its door sliding open to a future that no longer belonged to me.

  Simon was gone. He’d left without a talk, a kiss, or a promise.

  Without a single word.

  My heart shattered into a million pieces.

  I threw myself against the wall, staring at the ceiling and shivering while I tried to not cry. I don’t know how long I stood there, wishing it was all a bad dream and hoping he’d change his mind and come running back.

  Eventually, I ran my finger along the unsealed flap of the envelope, extracting the small index card that had been nestled inside. A tear finally fell, crashing into the bright white paper and splattering into tiny droplets across the writing.

  “You deserve better. Take care of yourself.”

  I wanted to laugh at his joke, to rush up to his hotel room and run into his arms, telling him that there was no better. That he’d redeemed himself a thousand times over, that he was the most generous man I’d ever met.

  The best lover.

  The most caring boyfriend.

  The perfect partner.

  But, just like that, he’d fallen back into a despair that I could only just barely comprehend. He hated himself, and he was blind to anything or anyone that loved him.

  And most of all, he was gone.

  Emilia,

  I’m sorry I can’t be the man you need.

  I’m sorry for the hurt. I wish I could be there for you.

  I love you more than I ever thought this sad heart could.

  You deserve better. Take care of yourself.

  I hoisted myself up on the massage table, leaning back and stretching my bare legs out as far as they’d go.

  “Such an amazing semi-final, Simon,” Gerald said, a smile of approval etched across his old face. Affectionately called Little Jerry by the team, Gerald was one of the best athletic physical therapists in the business.

  My pre-game jitters had long since faded away, and all the little aches and pains in my body were finally beginning to surface. A couple of muscles had been worked too intensely, and a few stress fractures were looming on the horizon. Nothing that couldn’t be remedied by Little Jerry.

  If only my other aches could be so easily cured.

  “I loved how you got that ball out the scrum and somehow still managed to run past their defense line with Harry and Lynn a minute later. Such a genius team effort,” Gerald bubbled.

  “Thanks, Jerry,” I said with a smile that I had to force onto my face.

  It was just a couple of days into the finals of the World Cup tournament, and excitement was high for everyone.

  Everyone except for me, that is.

  My teammates and I had once again become tabloid fodder, our every action reported and analyzed before the entire nation. While most of the paparazzi had unfortunately subjected the players’ wives and girlfriends to intense scrutiny, a few of us had been hit with an incessant barrage of sexual objectification and speculation.

  I, for example, had quickly been branded “the sexiest bachelor in England,” a label that would’ve been hilarious had it not been so sad.

  The very last thing I wanted was to be reminded that I was a bachelor, or to have all the country’s single ladies reminded of the same.

  Little Jerry’s expert hands had started massaging my left calf in a deep, circular motion, releasing a little of the physical tension I was carrying there.

  “I saw your dad on the news the other day, being interviewed with your mom,” he said.

  “Yeah, that’s…new. And weird, for sure,” I laughed as he moved to the right calf, rolling out a knot beneath his fingers. “He watched the quarter-finals on TV, got all excited, and called to ask if he could watch the next match live.”

  “That’s nice,” Jerry said.

  “I’m just relieved he didn’t try to surprise me,” I continued. “Apparently that was his plan originally, but it’s a damn good thing he reconsidered. I mean, we hadn’t even seen each other in thirteen years.”

  “I imagine that would’ve been a real surprise.”

  “Not to mention my mom was already here. Now that would’ve been ugly. Real ugly.”

  “So you prepared her in advance, then? How’d she take it?”

  “About as well as you’d expect from a woman whose husband abandoned her and their son. Frankly I’m just glad that guns are illegal here,” I commented.

  “Never trust a Yank with a weapon,” Jerry said automatically. “No offense intended.”

  “My mom is actually British, she was born here,” I explained.

  “Oh, well that’s a load better then,” Jerry teased dryly, showing his Irish heritage as he placed his hands on my thigh muscles, applying deep pressure to the few areas I’d been complaining about recently.

  “So anyway, she yelled and cried, refused to see him on the first day. It was real ugly, especially since they got invited to a few press events and had to sit side by side,” I explained. “But then the weirdest thing happened. A couple days after my dad got here, my mom met his new wife, and they took to a weird…liking, I guess?”

  “Women,” Jerry complained. He’d been the English national rugby team’s head physical therapist for over two decades now. He was great at
his craft, dedicated to players and highly focused on work, but not exactly the most enlightened man.

  My mother, of course, had every right to hate my father. But she also had every right to strike up a friendship with Bridget. All the blame fell squarely on my dad’s shoulders; he’d been callous and selfish, as far from noble as you could get. And despite uprooting me from the little stability I’d found in England thirteen years ago, or pleading with me now to spend Christmas with him in California, his attempts at reconciliation had been mostly unfruitful.

  Much like my attempts with Emilia had been and would always be. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree with my dad, as it turned out, and no matter how hard I tried to act like a gentleman, I’d never quite be able to escape my past. I would always be a thug, a lowlife bully who was just trying too hard now. A worthless little punk, as Argus Hunt had so aptly described me.

  “Simon?” Little Jerry’s voice said distantly, as if I were in a dream. Focusing these days had been an ordeal. I was supposedly at the peak of my career, just having snatched victory from the jaws of defeat and qualifying England for the World Cup semifinals, but yet the peak felt very hollow indeed.

  Without her, nothing seemed to matter very much.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “I was asking you how much sleep you’d been getting lately, since you seem so out of it. I mean, you have a damn good presence on the field, but otherwise it feels like you’re just on another world.”

  “I’m here,” I said defensively.

  As here as I’d ever be now.

  “Is that why I had to ask you three times why you seem distracted lately? ‘Cause you were paying so much attention?”

  “Yeah okay, fair enough. Maybe I’ve lost a little of my verve,” I conceded.

  Jerry groaned in frustration. “See? They gone done it again. That sexy bachelor cover was pure bullshit, I said all along. They come and lure our players with promises of cash and photo shoots with sexy women, then suddenly everybody wonders why you don’t like playing as much.”