Risk: A Military Stepbrother Bad Boy Romance

by Lucas, Helen

  Still. I had gotten registered for my GED class without any problems at the school. I stopped by the pizzeria to see my mom and she had embraced me, sobbing—after all, I hadn’t been “home”—calling it that felt wrong—in years. And now, I was here. Here with my… Sister.

  “No one’s home, I bet,” Sarah murmured as we began turning on lights. “Dad usually gets home late and so does Maria… uh, your mom, I guess.”

  “What about your sisters? I remember… There was Christina, and who was the little one? Dakota?”

  “Well,” Sarah said sighing, sinking down onto a couch in the ornate but dusty and decayed living room—this really was an old Southern manor house that had seen better days. They didn’t have slaves to keep everything clean anymore. “Christina is at Powell University—“

  “That’s just down the street, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Dad teaches law there part time. But… She doesn’t really come around anymore. Mostly, she just doesn’t talk to dad.”

  I wonder why.

  “Gotcha. And Dakota?”

  Sarah bit her lip, a somber sadness blanketing her pretty freckles.

  “She’s our wild child, I guess. She comes home later than either dad or Maria—I think they’ve just given up with her.”

  “Shit. Isn’t she only…”

  “Fourteen. But she stays out with boys… Does things… You know. Bad things.”

  I nodded. “Sucks.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”

  I don’t like sitting still, and before long, I found myself on my feet, wandering around the living room, picking things up, turning them over, putting them back down. Pictures—old and new, going back maybe a hundred years, even including old black and white daguerreotypes of Confederate soldiers posed in front of the stars and bars, brandishing their bowie knives.

  On the walls were hung portraits of Logans going back centuries too. More and more that I didn’t like about this family, about this house—the smug, sneering, probably drunken faces that leered down at me from the paintings were the same as the face that I remembered raging at my mother years ago.

  Meanwhile, Sarah had spread a bunch of brochures and pamphlets over the coffee table in front of her. I peered over her shoulder. Colleges.

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked. She jumped a little bit. She had been fondling them, as if in a dream. It was as if she had forgotten I was there.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “So think about it,” I ordered.

  She smiled a bit and sighed.

  “I just… I never thought I would leave the state. But my counselor is really encouraging me to look at some pretty… fancy… places. I don’t know if we can afford it.”

  “Uncle Sam would pay for it.”

  She laughed now.

  “I don’t think I’m the military type. But maybe I could get some sort of financial aid.”

  “I think you’d fit in with these kids,” I said, picking up a brochure for Princeton. It showed a bunch of pretty girls of all races, smiling, wearing their Princeton sweatshirts on an autumnal campus. They all sat around in a circle, calculatedly casual, as if the photographer had just happened upon a perfectly heterogeneous group of co-eds having a light, intellectual discussion one Friday afternoon after class. As if.

  “Ugh, no, I’d never fit in somewhere like that… Just look at them…”

  “I’m looking at them,” I replied. “And I’m looking at you.”

  She flushed hot pink. I liked that.

  “And what do you see?” she asked, her eyes barely able to meet mine.

  “I see a kid who should probably get the hell out of Laramie, the hell out of Georgia, as far away from your dad as possible.”

  Sarah closed her eyes, nodding slowly.

  “You’re right. I know you’re right. But…”

  “But what?”

  “But it’s scary.”

  I took her by the shoulders, looking deep into her crystal blue eyes, pulling her close.

  “Listen to me, kiddo—“

  “Kiddo?” she giggled. “I’m not that much younger than you. How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  “And I’m seventeen. I’m not your kiddo.”

  “You’re my kiddo if I say you’re my kiddo,” I replied coolly. “And kiddo, listen—if your dad is the same person he was four years ago, then you need to get the hell out of here and don’t look back. Especially if your counselor thinks you have a shot at a place like Princeton.”

  “Really?” she asked. Somehow, she had drawn ever so slightly closer to me and I could smell that sweet scent of her shampoo.

  “Really.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered. And leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry, we like, barely know each other,” she continued. “And I’m totally dumping my problems on you… But it’s like, I feel like I just don’t have anyone around here who believes in me, you know? I guess it’s the classic middle child syndrome… I just feel forgotten.”

  “I can believe in you,” I said, my voice low and controlled. I slid a hand around her waist. She felt good in my arms.

  No. No. Shut it down. She’s your sister, man. Turn off the charm. Turn it all off and keep it in your pants.

  “Thanks,” she said, leaning in for a hug. I felt the soft squish of her tits against my arm and my cock definitely twitched in my pants. Damn it all to hell.

  “I’m glad you’re back. It’ll be nice to have someone else around. And you’re taking a GED class at the school?”

  I pushed her away, gently but firmly.

  “Yeah, that’s right. It seems pretty lame but… You know. It’s something I’ve got to do, I guess.”

  “Well, you’ll see me at school every day now. We can sit together in the cafeteria and everything,” Sarah said, giggling, looking back at her college brochures. “You can defend me from my bullies and everything.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you have bullies?”

  She laughed uneasily. A glint in her eye told me she might.

  “No, not really, I guess… Having bullies would require someone to pay attention to me…”

  “I’m paying attention to you,” I said without thinking.

  “I—“ Sarah started when we heard the door opening. I realized suddenly how close we were sitting together on the couch. I stood, just in time to see my mother coming in.

  Maria Calabruzzo. Logan, now, I guess—I guess it’s been Logan for years, though all of my ID’s still say Calabruzzo. She had aged, definitely, and she looked tired, with lines drawn deep into her tanned skin all over her face.

  “Damien…” she whispered when she saw me. She was wearing a smock from her pizzeria—Maria’s (very original name, I know) and she had bits of cheese and sauce splattered all over it, but nonetheless, she dashed to me, embracing me hard, Italian spilling from her lips.

  “Damien, damn it, look at your mother! Oh, I’ve missed you, hun,” she rattled off in rapid-fire Italian, so fast that I barely understood.

  “Ma, ma, calm down,” I murmured back, using Italian I hadn’t spoken in years. “Sarah is here. I think she’ll feel left out.”

  “Sarah, Sarah,” Maria said, turning to my sister. “Come here. You’ve met your brother? Give him a big hug and a kiss. We’re Italian. Brothers and sisters kiss each other all the time.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, sis,” I said, teasing. “Come here and give me a big ol’ Italian kiss.”

  Sarah blushed but she stood up and came over to us, came into our arms. I drew her close and kissed her, her eyes wide and giggling as our lips touched.

  “See, not so bad,” I whispered as I pressed another kiss to her lips, even letting my tongue graze them. I felt her shiver in my arms. My mother didn’t notice.

  “Sarah, your papa will be home early, so I’m gonna’ make up a big mess of lasagna for
everyone… You seen your sister at all today?”

  “I saw Dakota this morning when she left but…”

  “Poor girl will be out till whenever o’clock…” my mother murmured, whisking us both into the kitchen. “Those boys and girls she hangs around with, I don’t like them one bit. She don’t listen to me. I wish your papa would talk to her. Talk to her, not hit her, you know.”

  And then my mom turned to me, looking hard, right in my eye.

  “Listen, you boy, you don’t go making trouble this time.”

  “Ma, if Harry hits you…”

  “It’s his house, he do what he wants. I got a house, I got a business, I’m fine. I don’t need you fighting my fights for me, you understand?”

  I scowled. “Fine. Whatever. Be his punching bag if you like.”

  My mother poured us all glasses of wine and began cooking as Sarah and I sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen as surprisingly warm, sunny even—my mother had made it her own over the years and that made me happy. Maybe even Harry had changed.

  I felt Sarah’s leg against mine as we chatted and giggled. From the blush on her cheeks, I could tell that she wasn’t used to wine. After her first glass, she was leaning on me, giggling over every little thing.

  This continued for an hour, and then two hours, with my mother having us taste the sauce for her, teaching Sarah Italian words for spices and herbs. Suddenly, though, we heard the front door open and slam shut.

  “That’ll be dad,” Sarah whispered, her flushed face suddenly going pale.

  SARAH

  I can’t help but have a mini-panic attack every time my father comes home. I never know if he’s going to be a jerk or not. One day, he’ll be sweet and loving, every girl’s dream daddy. Another day, he’ll be cold, cruel, drunk.

  Without thinking, I grabbed Damien’s hand under that table.

  “That’ll be dad,” I whispered.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo?” he asked. “You act like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I didn’t even feel like correcting him or fighting him on kiddo.

  “Harry, papa,” Maria cried as he entered the kitchen. “Look, look—my boy is home.”

  My father is a tall man, about Damien’s height, though without Damien’s dark, Mediterranean complexion. He’s got a ruddy face from years of drinking in the unforgiving Georgia sun and a pot-belly for the same reason. Still, he cuts a strong, imposing figure in his suits, held up with suspenders.

  “Well, well, well…” he said with a not-totally-happy grin. “Look who we’ve got here.”

  I realized I was still holding Damien’s hand under the table. I let it go, hoping no one had noticed as he stood up and approached my father.

  “We’re not going to have anymore trouble this time, are we, boy?” my dad asked as Damien shook his hand.

  “I don’t know. Are we?” Damien asked, looking my dad coolly in the eyes. The two men stared each other down. I felt my own heart pounding in my chest.

  My father broke the silence first.

  “I expect we won’t, boy. You done us proud in the service. Purple Heart, Bronze Star, everything!”

  “He done dangerous things!” Maria cried, swatting at Damien. “I wish you never joined up!”

  “Well, I’m here now, ma,” Damien said with a sigh, shooting a grin at me.

  My father retired to the living room where he lit up a cigar and poured himself a glass of bourbon. Dinner was soon ready and the four of us gathered at the table in the dining room. I noted that my dad had already finished his first glass of bourbon sometime in between the kitchen and the table.

  “Sarah, where in the hell is your sister?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her all day.”

  He scowled. I saw the anger beginning on his face.

  “This is a family dinner and she’s part of the family.”

  “Dad, I didn’t know it was going to be a… Special occasion,” I said, feeling my stomach clench as the anger burned brighter and brighter on his face. I looked at Damien and then I looked down at my plate of lasagna.

  “You’re always on your goddamned iPhone and I pay through the nose for it every month. Why don’t you text her and find out where she is?”

  “I thought you had a rule against phones at the dinner table.”

  He scowled. “I don’t appreciate the lip, young lady.”

  “If you had told anyone that I would be home today, maybe Dakota would have known to be home for dinner,” Damien cut in. “I don’t think it’s Sarah’s fault.”

  “Boy, I respect what you’ve done in the service, but that don’t mean it’s your place to tell me how to raise my girls.”

  “Ain’t nothing about telling you how to raise your girls. It’s about you keeping it a secret, apparently, from my sisters that I was coming home,” Damien replied coldly.

  “Is the lasagna too spicy?” Maria cried out. “I know Damien like it spicy since he was a little kiddo.”

  “It’s great, ma.”

  “Yeah, Maria,” I put in. “Really tasty. Like always.”

  I liked Maria, but she tended to be pretty distant at home. She worked long hours and she had to cook and clean at home too. I had no idea why she and my father ended up together, but she didn’t seem to like him much. But she was a whole different person when Damien was home.

  The men cooled off, but I could tell that the tension which had just been on the verge of erupting was still present, still ready to explode all over my life. Dinner proceeded as if nothing had happened, except for the dark looks on their faces.

  After dinner, I was assigned to take Damien to his new room. It used to be Christina’s room, back when she still lived with us. It had been years since she lived there, but her stuff was still there.

  “This is my room?” Damien asked with a casual drawl, raising an eyebrow as I showed him his new home. Christina wasn’t a girly-girl by any means, but it was very obviously a girls’ room: an old Justin Bieber poster over the bed, several framed photos of horses, pink curtains, half a dozen Gossip Girl books still scattered over the desk.

  “Yeah… Yeah, I guess it is,” I said with a shrug. He hadn’t brought much of anything and I couldn’t think of anything I could tell him to make it better—he didn’t have anything with him to redecorate with.

  “Whatever,” Damien said with another sigh. “It’s better than a tent. Or barracks.”

  He stripped off his jacket and tossed it on the bed. I felt a shiver go up my spine as I saw his muscular, tattooed arms.

  “So, what do you say…” Damien started to murmur, drawing near to me, but I never got to hear what he had in mind. Shouts and yells had already begun to drift upstairs.

  “This is the last fucking time, Dakota…” my father was yelling.

  “Dad, you don’t fucking own me…” Dakota slurred back at him. I heard Maria’s sobbing. A usual night.

  “What the fuck?” Damien asked, turning to me. I shook my head, sadly.

  “It’s the same old shit… They do this all the time. Dakota stays out late, comes home drunk, dad screams at her, but nothing ever changes.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  We heard the hollow slap of my father’s hand colliding with my little sister’s face.

  “Fucking hell…” Damien muttered and started downstairs.

  “No, you’ll just make it worse!” I cried, grabbing his arm. God, but it felt strong. He pushed me off.

  “I’m not going to let my little sister get pushed around like that,” Damien growled and before I could do anything, he was already stalking downstairs like a wild animal freed from his cage.

  DAMIEN

  “Harry, lighten up on the kid!” I roared as I stormed into the kitchen, ready, no, itching for a fight. Just let him fucking try it.

  Dakota sat at the kitchen table, slumped over and sulking. Her face was puffy and red—partially from crying, it looked like, but just as much from drinking.

  “Who the fuck are yo
u?” she slurred when she saw me.

  “That’s your brother,” Harry grunted. He was nursing his left hand. The wall next to him had a dent in it; that’d be a bitch to fix. But I put the puzzles pieces together immediately: he hadn’t hit her. He’d hit the wall instead.

  Well, I couldn’t get too worked up over the destruction of antebellum interior design, I guess.