Forbidden Love: Stepbrother Romance

by Amy Faye

  She had let him go this time. He could have made an excuse to avoid her, but he wouldn't. Not if she'd just come up and talked to him. It would have been slipping into the same routine that had gotten him here in the first place. He'd have smiled and indulged her, joked. It was sickening that more than anything, he wanted not to enjoy himself. But all he'd be doing by getting along, by hanging out, by making friends—all he'd be doing was making life harder for Mom.

  And, like every time she brought home a new guy, he had to try not to assume that this was going to just be another repeat of last time. That he wasn't going to be disappointed, yet again. Because she deserved better than that.

  He let out a breath, and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was to the sound of a bell ringing. He checked his watch. The digital numbers read out '2:27.' Brett rubbed his eyes. What the hell? How had he slept so long?

  He pushed himself out of the chair, his muscles protesting, his joints sore. Sleeping in a chair, no matter how comfortable, didn't exactly agree with his body. In thirty minutes, practice would get started. Normally, he would be waiting here—now, though, he wanted nothing more than to leave.

  He let out a breath and slipped his jacket back around his shoulders, heading for the door. Jen waved as he left, not looking away from the computer screen for more than a moment. He stepped through the doors. The entire student body surged through the halls, slowly funneling towards the doors. Maybe he should have waited another few minutes, but he just couldn't stand being cooped up another minute.

  It wasn't too hard to fight the flow of traffic, knowing that was what he had to do. Just keep an eye out for openings, and take them. Don't move too slow, don't move too fast. There wasn't any place for him to be anyways. It wasn't long before he made it past the bulk of people, and it was easier to move.

  Brett wandered the hall, peering through doors, seeing teachers talking to students who had stayed behind with questions. Some taking notes, some sitting staring at computer screens on their desk. He kept moving. His legs started to loosen up, his back starting, slowly, to regain normal function.

  He took the stairs down into freshman hall, looped back and took the same route back, past the library, around to the front of the school, drawing a big, tangled knot with his steps, letting the blood flow back to his body. Finally the halls were almost entirely empty, threatening to leave him alone, which was how he'd have preferred it to begin with.

  "Brett!"

  He stopped and took his time turning around, leaning up against a wall to wait. Somehow, he'd missed the small herd of girls who, from the look on their faces, had been looking for him. He didn't take long to recognize them.

  Carly was captain of the soccer team, and she had a couple of soccer team lackeys; they seemed to get along well with the cheerleading squad, and together they managed to form the closest thing to a 'clique' that the school offered. They were pretty, in an artificial, self-congratulatory way.

  "What's up?" He said it casually, but he didn't doubt for a moment that they were fully able to hear the tone in his voice—the implication that he wanted to know why they were there bothering him.

  "How was class?"

  "It was fine," he lied. They didn't share any classes, and he preferred it that way.

  "Hey, homecoming is in a couple weeks, isn't it?"

  He rolled his eyes, not caring whether or not she saw. "What's your point?"

  "Well, I was thinking, wouldn't it be wild if—"

  "I'm not going, Carly."

  She frowned. "What, like, you don't have a date?"

  "I'm not planning on going."

  Her frown broke into a smile that might have been the seeds of a laugh. "Don't be silly. It's homecoming. You're the captain of the football team. Isn't that, like, part of your—I don't know. Contract?"

  Brett's eyes rolled again. He tried to hide it with a blink. "What, like, it would be weird if I didn't go?"

  "Yeah, exactly. It'd be super weird. You can't be serious, you're really not going?"

  "I'm not going. I don't like that kind of shit."

  She made a face. She didn't have any room to complain, of course. It wasn't like he was standing her up. He didn't owe her a damn thing.

  "I heard that goth girl asked you," Carly offered.

  "No," he lied again. There was no reason to get Amy involved in any of this. "I barely know her, anyways. What makes you think we'd talk about a dance?"

  "So you're saying she's not—"

  "I'm saying she's not on my radar, and—I shouldn't have to say this, Carly, but neither are you."

  Her look, previously only somewhat disappointed, shifted to full-on annoyance. "Yeah, whatever."

  Brett took a deep breath. "I have to get to practice, unless you've got something else to talk about."

  "No." She made it sound like she was dismissing him—as if he needed her permission to go. "Go on."

  He straightened his jaw, hoping to hide his temper. "Thanks for your permission." He forced his way past, straightened his shoulders.

  Nobody ought to start anything with him at practice—they were going to find Brett surprisingly ready to finish it. A joking mood, it wasn't.

  9

  Amy

  Present Day

  There were plenty of hours in the day when Brett was gone. In a certain sense, it was a good thing. Amy had more than enough opportunity to practice. There was hardly anything but time, after all. That was a minor consolation, but it was a consolation nonetheless.

  Bringing her car, as well, proved a good decision—in Phoenix, when she was tired of practice or needed a break, then it was easy to find something to pass a few minutes. She knew every place that would provide the opportunity within walking distance. In Ann Arbor, though—she couldn't deny, after having a few hours to herself, that there seemed to be quite a bit to do around.

  But where it all was—that was a mystery, and not one she would solve in a day. Not sufficiently to find all the places worth walking, at least. Even still, there was an uncomfortable solitude that came with waiting for someone to be at home, particularly in a house large enough to have situated a family of six.

  So when the door-bell rang, some part of her ought to have known better than to hope for someone she wanted to talk to. But with all the time that she was spending alone, it seemed like a golden opportunity.

  That was, at least, right up until she opened the door, and found herself face to face with a complete stranger.

  "Hello, um. Is Brett at home?"

  "He's at work, did you want to leave a message?"

  Amy joined her 'guest' outside. It was, after all, only polite. The young man didn't look uncomfortable with staying outside, which was good. He didn't have much choice in the matter, after all.

  "Oh—wait, you're Amy, aren't you? I heard you were in town."

  Amy couldn't help blinking. "Yes, and—I'm sorry—who are you?"

  Whoever he was, he seemed surprised to be asked. And then, in the blink of an eye, it had suddenly dawned on him. "Right! I guess we never did meet. I'm Jim. I'm Brett and Danielle's cousin?"

  "Oh, yeah. I remember, I heard about you. No, we never met, did we?"

  "I guess we just missed each other," he answered, laughing a little nervously. "Hey, I don't mind staying outside, but you think I could get a cup of coffee? It's going to be a long drive back up, and I'd like to get a little heat in me before I go."

  "Oh, I didn't realize who you were. Come on, I'll get a pot started."

  Amy opened the door and left it open. She heard Jim closing it behind. There was a resemblance, now that she knew to look for it. He wasn't as tall, but then, none of Brett's side was. He was an outlier. His half-sister was much smaller than him, and she'd never seen nor heard about his father.

  "So, you're Helen's… sister's?"

  "Just right," he said. "She was a good woman, my aunt. Shame about what happened to her. Just a real shame."

  "Yeah, I was really sorry
to hear about it."

  Amy pressed the button, and the low hum of the heating element started to sound through the kitchen. It was one thing to speak well of the dead, another entirely to pretend that she and Helen had been on good terms.

  "So—I don't want to step on any toes here. So stop me if I'm getting too personal, right?" Jim had a pleasant expression, a little distant. His face was slenderer than Brett's, but he could have been the spitting image of Dani in a few years. Well, fraternal twins at least.

  "Alright." What else was she supposed to say? No, fuck off?

  The sound of coffee pouring through was audible, now.

  "So what's the story with the split?"

  "I'm not sure what you've heard," Amy began. Nor, she left out, was she sure how much she wanted to tell.

  "Well, there's obviously talk. I don't have to tell you that."

  Amy turned and looked over her shoulder at the pot. Maybe half-way finished, now. She pulled the pot, and the coffee maker politely waited for her to reinsert it before continuing.

  "Here you go," she said, trying to keep her face amiable. "Do you take milk and sugar? I don't know if Brett's got any cream—"

  "I'll take some sugar, if you've got it."

  Amy turned and opened a couple of pots before she found something that looked like sugar.

  "Here you go." Jim smiled and took the teaspoon she offered and starting to dish sugar into his mug. "So what's the talk?"

  "Well, keep in mind we're closer'n you, up in Traverse City, but we're not exactly in the neighborhood, right? So this is all just talk."

  "Okay—"

  "Well, you know the story with Brett's dad, right?"

  "Not really."

  "Left. Just up and walked out, before he was even born. There was a lot of bad blood, I guess."

  "There would be."

  "So some folks are saying that's pretty much what happened—me, I don't know—but the idea goes that your dad just decided he didn't want to deal with three kids."

  Amy knew she shouldn't react to it. But she could feel herself reacting anyways.

  "No, that's not how I remember it at all," Amy said. Her jaw clicked together. She remembered it the opposite—she remembered being chased out of the house, her dad wanting it to work but it just didn't. Dad was never the kind of man who just ran away. It wasn't some kind of point of pride—that was simply how it was.

  "Like I said, just talk. I don't mean to step on any toes. But if there is a story there—"

  "Not really. Shit happens." Jim blinked, and Amy knew she shouldn't have cut him off, but she could feel something in her gut building up into a temper that she needed to keep under control as best as possible, and that meant getting out of the conversation.

  "Yeah. Hey, thanks for the coffee. Tell Brett that we send our love, and I'm gonna stop by the grave and then be on my way back up."

  "Thank you for stopping by. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

  "You bet. It's the least I could do. We're family, after all. And good luck with, you know, your stuff."

  "Thanks. Drive safe."

  The door closed behind him. Amy was careful to give it enough time not to seem like she was closing it furiously. But the truth was, she was angry. The very implication—they didn't know Dad. She should have taken some comfort in that. Nobody would have made that mistake if they knew him. but there seemed to be plenty of people who thought they knew enough to talk shit.

  If she were smart, then Amy would have let it go. It was a good thing, then, that she wasn't.

  2003

  Amy had hoped and planned to avoid Brett yesterday—it was a good plan, at the time. He was someplace that she knew she could avoid, and as long as she avoided class, she would avoid him. But that hadn't worked. Now, the risk was the exact opposite. It was clear he was just as keen on avoiding her as she was him. There would have to be a conversation that neither of them were ready to have—not today.

  But one of them was going to have to go someplace else. If they both went to the library, then they would just have another awkward run-in. If they both went to class, then they had to sit there and it would be the absolute worst. It was only if one of them went, and one of them didn't, that they could avoid each other.

  Maybe she was overthinking it. She could just go in, and if he were there, she'd leave. If she couldn't leave, then she would just not talk to him. If she left, and he showed up in the library, then they could just not talk about any of it. That would be the easiest way, right?

  So that's what she did. The bell rang, and Amy struck a trot down the hall, peeked her head into the room, and sure enough—there he was. He had his head back, as usual. He looked a little strange, to her, sometimes. He had a body that encouraged a girl to think about how well he could use it.

  Lounging, like he often did, though—it didn't completely do away with the effect, and so it created an effect like a jungle cat. They sleep, and relax, and play, and then in a flash, all of that turns around and they're putting every ounce of their two-hundred-pound bodies into the effort to attack their prey. Amy didn't want to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of whatever he was capable of when he was angry.

  She took a deep breath. Alright. That made the decision very easy. She slipped back out through the door, changing the date on her planner pass as she walked, and then right up the steps and through the halls to the library. She dropped the planner on the desk, a subtle invitation to examine her pass if they wanted to, and signed in. Thankfully, the student librarian was too busy with reading some lengthy web article that was turned away too much to try to read from across the desk. She was in without any trouble.

  She made her way over to the corner again. If there was one comfort, it was the confidence that Brett absolutely would not be there, this time, and she wouldn't have to awkwardly walk away. And, sure enough, they were empty. Amy settled into one of them, curling her legs up and leaning against an arm.

  She pulled out her sketch pad. She was supposed to be doing art, after all—skipping class didn't mean that she wasn't supposed to be doing it. Flipping through the pages was like having her hair ripped out by the roots.

  Amy was many things, and she was even good at some things. She'd been good in band, but the band here didn't have a string section, and she wasn't going to go looking for one. She wasn't the same girl she was in middle school anyways, and Mom wasn't there to tell her that she had to do it any more.

  Amy had just about managed to get her bag stuffed comfortably under her head by the time that she felt eyes on her. She sat up and blinked.

  "Can I… help you?"

  There were three of them. Enough that even with the looks on their faces, she couldn't do much but wait for them to start something, because whatever they were thinking of starting, she was going to be on the wrong side of it.

  "You know," one of them started—the other two followed her lead, settling down into chairs as she did. "We heard you and Brett have been getting along very well."

  Who were these girls supposed to be, and why were they here?

  "Not really," Amy spurred. She could feel adrenaline surging already, setting her on-edge before she had even really gotten the conversation started.

  "Oh, there's no need to pretend, we know all about you asking him out."

  "It was just on a dare. You can back off."

  If that was what this was about, she was in exactly the wrong mood to be talking to some prissy little bitch who—no. She wasn't going to start a fight, and that was all that line of thought would turn into, if she let it.

  "Oh, good. We were just worried, because you seem so… how can we put this delicately…"

  One of the others piped up, right on cue: "Self-assured?"

  "Yes. Very self-assured. Very spunky. It's charming, really."

  Amy's lips pinched together. "Thanks."

  The girls looked at each other with an unpleasant sort of self-satisfaction that came from getting her to say wha
t they wanted, even if it was sarcastic. Who knows—maybe that was what they'd been hoping for.

  "Of course! You know, we're always around, if you need any, I don't know—makeup advice, or hair suggestions? Fashion help? Lord knows, we've been known to take on a charity case or two before."

  Amy's teeth pressed together hard. She forced them loose, but she knew she was hiding her anger less than she wanted.

  "Why don't you just leave me alone?"

  "What? Oh, you poor dear—of course! I'm sorry if we bothered you!" The lead bitch got up and put on a concerned expression that was too much to be real. "We'll let you get back to, whatever."

  "Yeah, thanks," Amy growled. She watched them walk away, ready to pick a fight, but not ready to see the look in Dad's eyes when she got suspended for it.

  What the fuck had she gotten herself into—and what was she going to do to get herself out of it? She took a breath. Well, there were options, of course. The problem was that most of them were off the table at this point.

  But with girls like that, there were always options. Most of the ones that she had available to her just happened to lead into being humiliated—she'd have to move carefully, and whatever was going to happen, she was up in the air.

  10

  Brett

  Present Day

  The drive home was as long as it had ever been. When he was going home, the hours seemed too short. Finding somewhere to lengthen them, to give himself just a little bit more time, seemed to be of the utmost importance. But now that he wanted very little other than to get home, it seemed like 3 hours would be an eternity, and there was very little he could do to speed the process up more than a few minutes.

  It was just a reality of working on the other side of the state, having to drive to the interstate and stay on it for 200 miles. It was also a reality that the woman he'd always wanted was laying around in his house, no doubt a bit lonely, and she'd all but thrown herself at him the night before.