OUTCAST: A Stepbrother Romance

by Wilde, Ora

  Damn!

  I was so preoccupied with the horror caused by the earlier incident that I forgot about the reason why I went out in the first place.

  The pregnancy test.

  I reached for the paper bag that I hid under my bed. I grabbed the box inside it and quickly read the directions.

  Hold the stick by the thumb grip. Immerse the absorbent tip in the urine system. Set for five seconds.

  Easy enough. But a lump formed in my throat as I read the instruction on how to interpret the result.

  One line means negative. Two lines mean positive.

  I clenched the box with both hands as I went out of my room and made my way towards the bathroom. Anxiety and doubt and horror began to flood my system. My knees became weak that I found myself trudging towards the toilet.

  In just a few seconds, I would find out the fate that awaited me.

  In just a few seconds, I would find out whether my fears were valid or not.

  In just a few seconds, I would find out how much my world would change...

  11

  Second Time Around

  “One line!”

  Mr. Barrington’s booming voice greeted the students that Monday morning. He was the school’s head of security, and the fact that he was asking us to fall in line, single file, as each of us was inspected individually, could only mean that something bad has happened in the campus.

  A long queue formed just outside the main steps leading to the grand hallway, a row that extended all the way to the parking lot. Thanks to my new car, I was able to arrive early and secure a spot near the front end of the line.

  Martha May, who was once my classmate back in junior high, was right behind me.

  “Hey Martha, what’s this security measure all about?” I asked her.

  “Dunno exactly,” she replied, “but I heard some unconfirmed reports.”

  “Unconfirmed reports?”

  “Yeah. Vincent, who’s the cousin of my best friend’s ex-boyfriend, has an uncle who works at the police station. Vincent told her, my best friend, that according to his uncle, some kids broke in last night and vandalized the walls along the hallway.”

  Martha May always had a way of convoluting the simplest of matters.

  But what she shared... about the vandalism that transpired in my school... was enough to bring back the feeling of dread that I had when my own home was violated, and last Saturday when two strangers stalked and verbally abused me.

  As the people in front of me dwindled in number, as I was quickly approaching the security check where the line started, I found myself gasping for air, my body trembling as I feared the worst about what I would discover inside.

  Mr. Barrington asked me to open my backpack, and I did. He slid his wooden stick inside, checking for some tools that might be considered as dangerous, then gave me the thumbs up, signaling that I was cleared to enter the premises.

  Students were gathered in groups along the hallway. They weren’t depositing their things in their lockers, no. They were looking at the writings on the wall... red paint spelling a single word across both sides of the long corridor... a word I was familiar with...

  LEVA.

  I was paralyzed with terror, unable to move my feet, blocking the area near the entryway. The students who were behind me started to flock inside the school, and I was in their way. Some of them bumped into me, some of them screamed at me, some of them politely asked me to move.

  Yet I stood there, sweating profusely, my mind entertaining a lot of menacing ideas made worse by what little I knew.

  LEVA.

  It had something to with Nash. But Nash didn’t even go to my school. He went to another campus and he didn’t even finish his education there.

  So why would those vandals paint that word all over the hallway of my academy?

  Were they sending Nash another message through me?

  Or was that message actually meant for me?

  Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me to the side of the corridor. I was startled by what transpired, so much so that I almost swung my bag against the perpetrator’s head.

  My hands froze, though, when I realized who it was.

  “Andrea, are you okay?” he asked, his voice was filled with concern. “You seemed lost there.”

  “I’m alright, Finn,” I told him. “Please let go of my arm.”

  He did. Sadness inundated his face... a kind of melancholy that not even the joyful colors of his varsity jacket - bright white with streaks of shining green - was able to conceal. His usually dreamy eyes were surly with regret... and even yearning, if I would allow myself to believe that. His short dark hair, often well-combed, was messier than normal... an indication of depression, or a stolen moment of intimacy with Jaynie the Slut, a quickie before school.

  “They’re just probably some bored kids from the other school,” he tried to comfort me, though I knew more than he did. “Don’t let this frighten you.”

  “I’m not frightened,” I lied.

  “Andrea... it’s been more than three weeks,” he suddenly said, capitalizing on the opportunity that he found. I’ve always avoided him - successfully - since that Saturday when I caught him cheating on me.

  “So?” I sardonically quipped.

  “When are you going to give me the chance to explain myself?” he asked, rather animatedly, his hands flapped to express his desperation.

  I looked at my watch. It was five to eight. I was supposed to be in class already, but seeing how the line was still stretched out, I figured that classes wouldn’t start on time that day.

  “You have your chance,” I told him. “But I doubt if your explanation will be good enough.”

  “Okay,” he started to say, “so you saw Jaynie come out of the bathroom. She was just there because she was jogging in the neighborhood and a car, driven by some jackass, ran over a puddle and splashed mud all over her clothes. Our house was nearby, so she asked if she can use the shower and change.”

  “Uhuh.” It was a diplomatic response.

  His explanation - rather, his excuse - was totally unbelievable, to the point that I found it very infuriating as he obviously thought I was stupid enough to believe what he said. First, if Jaynie the Slut just wanted to use the shower, he could’ve offered the communal bathroom downstairs. Second, she went out of the bathroom in a towel. A towel! A very small towel! Why was she comfortable enough to expose herself like that in Finn’s presence, and in his bedroom? Third, Finn knew a girl was using his bathroom, yet he was prancing around half-naked. He didn’t have his underwear on. One would expect him to be decent enough to get dressed when he had company who he wasn’t intimately familiar with. Fourth, Gina, their house help, acted very, very strangely when she opened the door for me. She was usually friendly. And fifth, Jaynie the Slut doesn’t live anywhere near Madrone Lane. She lived at the other end of town.

  “I’m terribly, terribly sorry that you got the wrong idea,” he continued, further fanning my fury which I was trying very hard to suppress. “But it’s really not what you think it is. Nothing’s going on between me and Jaynie.”

  “Uhuh,” I repeated. My dad thought me a cardinal rule that I should always observe whenever I was angry: the less I say, the less I compromise.

  “So... are we good?” he asked, his lips curling into a weird angle that resembled a curtailed grin.

  I looked at his handsome face and I began to miss the happy moments we shared. For nine months, we loved each other and no one else mattered. We dreamed together. We hoped together. We planned together.

  But he betrayed me.

  I’d be lying if I’d say that I didn’t consider giving him another chance. Maybe, that thing with Jaynie the Bitch was a momentary lapse of judgement... a mistake that people commit to learn about love and life... a mistake that is part and parcel of growing up. Maybe, his indiscretion was not his fault, entirely... that she seduced him, and he was only human... a man who was compelled to take a vow of celibacy b
ecause I told him I wasn’t ready for sex just yet? Maybe - just maybe - he still truly loved me, and his error has thought him never to take my trust for granted ever again?

  If I’d take him back, all those wonderful things we planned for college and beyond would push through. I understood that the pain will linger - it may always be there - but if love does conquer all, it should be enough to heal the wounds of treachery and enable us to forge a nice future for ourselves, together and happy.

  It’s been more than three weeks, yet he persisted. Every single day, he tried to communicate with me, to air his side, to ask for my forgiveness. His never wavered.

  Was that how much he wanted me back?

  Was that how much he loved me?

  A part of me wanted to give him the chance he so despairingly wanted...

  But...

  There was another matter to consider.

  I was not the same woman I was before he cheated on me.

  I was different. I had to be different for what was to come.

  I shook my head. I saw his eyes swell. I witnessed his powerful shoulders drop into a seeming heap of helplessness and sorrow.

  And I walked away.

  As soon as I reached my seat in my classroom, I drew out my phone and started to type a message.

  Please meet me tonight. I have something very important to tell you. Just be there. I’ll wait.

  I reviewed the text once again. Then I looked for Nash’s number. Once I found it, I pressed on the send icon, and a tune informed me that it was transmitted.

  I had to talk to him. It couldn’t wait. He has to know.

  12

  In Dreaming

  In my bedroom that night, I waited... something I have become accustomed to ever since we had sex. The first few days after he made love to me were very difficult. I lost countless hours of sleep just gazing at the window, expecting his hooded figure to emerge from behind the glass. He never came.

  The following days were a bit more bearable. The lack of sleep has made it easier for me to rest my weary body. I came to the conclusion that if he will come, he will come... and there was no point in waiting for him.

  That night, however, there was a point in waiting for him.

  A big one.

  And so I waited and waited and waited. Hours passed by and everyone in my household - and quite possibly, the entire neighborhood - has gone to sleep, yet I kept waiting. The clock above my bed heralded the ungodly hours and I never yielded, I kept waiting. The small hand left one and arrived at two and I was still waiting. Two was abandoned in favor of three but I sat there, at the edge of my bed fronting the window, still in wait.

  I lost track of things thereafter.

  The weariness of the day...

  The fears that persisted...

  The choices that had to be made...

  They have taken their toll on my body and I succumbed to the call of slumber. And I dreamt. Of a perfect world where I was free, where I galloped across an endless field of green, where my hands could reach the clouds and I was delighted with how they felt... the mushiest marshmallows that dissipated with my touch, where the sun never sets and a never-ending song played everywhere...

  No, not a song... a tune...

  A lullaby.

  A melody that lulled a child to sleep.

  But I was already sleeping. I was already dreaming.

  Of the warmth and gentle strength of his hands caressing my thighs, circling its surface with the softest of touch... gliding up and down... testing me... inviting me... soothing me to surrender...

  Soon enough, his fingers - deft and reassuring - were playing with the garter of my underwear, teasing to enter and explore the area underneath.

  And they did.

  Straight they went to my pussy, freshly shaven and wet, ready for his digits, ready for him. He rubbed my womanhood with the tenderness of the most loving of kisses, hovering over my slit, barely touching the area below. His fingers slowly dropped on the opening of my cunt, feeling my wetness and spreading my fluid all over the crevice... making it slippery... making it easy for him to enter me. The tip of his finger was the first to go in, surveying the softness of the inner walls of my sex. Then, half of its entirety penetrated me. It wiggled, it joggled, and it moved - like a hook - repeatedly towards him as if he was beckoning me to come nearer.

  My body shivered, and I twisted and turned in bed, wallowing in the ecstasy that he was giving me.

  One finger became two, and I felt a little bit of pain. I groaned. Then I heard his sweet voice telling me to hush. And I did. With much difficulty, I did. My hands reached for the edges of the bed where the sheets folded below its expanse. I gripped the smooth, glossy fabric to help me regain my composure.

  But his fingers continued to play with me... in and out and circularly... my wetness made the slapping sound of his intrusions louder and more arousing...

  A sense of agonizing pleasure, overwhelming in every way, filled my soul and I pulled the sheets from the edges where they were tucked... my bed became a mess of crumpled blankets, disarranged pillows, puddles of my juice, and two lovers lost in the sheer blissfulness of the moment.

  Then he pulled away and I looked at him. His face, as handsome as it always was... his deep-set eyes, brooding and mysterious... his rugged profile made even more enchanting my his perfectly molded cheeks and his strong jawline... his thick black hair that blended with the hood he always wore...

  He smiled, and a dimple formed on his cheek.

  Funny. I haven’t noticed that before. Perhaps it was because I never really saw him smile.

  But he was smiling then. I may have been dreaming... but he was smiling... and he had a beautiful, beautiful smile. Dream or not, I’d take it.

  He removed his hooded sweatshirt and threw it outside the bed. His naked torso was there for me to see... for me to enjoy. Lean and muscular, a sturdy chest and perfectly defined abs, broad shoulders and strong arms that seemingly screamed how able they were to protect me, and the tattoos that extended from his left biceps down to his forearm... with a variety of tribal designs...

  And something else that I didn’t notice before...

  Dangling in the middle of ethnic patterns were two guns, their barrels were placed over each other, forming a cross. Below them were words that I didn’t understand, written in aboriginal fonts... Vive Gladio Peri Gladio.

  If I was dreaming, how could these details be so vivid, so explicit, so real?

  He didn’t give me time to think. He spread my legs and pulled up my nightgown. Then, he removed my underwear.

  He gave me another smile before he buried his head between my thighs.

  His tongue glided over my slit, with the grace of a master’s paintbrush over a much cherished canvass. With every stroke, my arousal escalated. I bit my lip to prevent myself from moaning, but when his tongue started to split my crevice and enter my pussy, my wails escaped my tightly sealed mouth.

  Shhhh, he whispered, and I did as he commanded.

  He continued to lick my pussy with the tip - just the tip - of his tongue, tickling my senses, stirring up my desires, and stimulating my body into rapturous frenzy.

  WIth my own hands, I pulled my nightdress further up, unraveling my breasts... the cold air from the open window slithered around their outline before settling on my nipples, titillating them into a state of feverish hysteria... making them hard for him to know how much I yearned for him and all the things he does to me.

  As he kept lapping at my cunt, I began to touch my breasts, caressing their form, admiring their beauty, celebrating the splendor of my sensuality.

  He saw what I was doing and he liked it.

  His tongue’s motions intensified. His laps became slurps, rubbing my cunt with so much vigor... so much passion... it seemed like he wanted to devour me completely. His fingers parted the outer lips of my vagina, revealing the pinkish flesh inside, nibbling its soft meat, flicking his tongue from time to time, further kindling the thr
ill that has been building up inside me. His slurps became stronger, more forceful, prodding the base of my vaginal opening as he licked upwards towards my clit. He repeated the route, journeying purposefully across the lining of my womanhood, and the exhilaration I felt only grew with each traversal.

  I no longer wanted to moan. That wasn’t sufficient to express how turned on I was. I wanted to scream... but what little prudence I had left managed to stop me from doing so.