Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella)

by Brother, Stephanie

  Becka’s eyes spilled over with tears again, and after much cooing and patting of the kind that always made her feel pathetic, she shook it off and haltingly put her muddled thoughts into words.

  “I know I don’t know him that well—not that I ever new him—but whatever. Part of me is sad because of that, more than anything else. I wish I’d just kept in touch with him, you know? Over all these years? Since he’s my stepbrother, you know? Then I wouldn’t have this problem on my hands. I suck at doing all that kind of mushy stuff. I regret all the people I didn’t bother to really connect with because I was too busy being, well, hot.”

  “But so hot!”

  “Jere!” Mick scolded his friend. “Go on, Becks,” he said, turning back to Becka.

  “I guess I’m worried now that I was actually an asshole to everybody. What if I’m no better than that Wendy bitch?”

  “Eeeeeew, no. No. I promise you, you’re not like Wendy. I mean, maybe there are teeny tiny little germs of similarity between you, but trust me on this one if nothing else.” Jerome could not sound more confident, and it made Becka feel a smidgen better.

  “Wendy?” Karen asked disbelievingly, “That redhead with the bod and the attitude? Yeah, that psycho didn’t leave Fitz alone for a month after he gave her that little bit of ink. She kept drifting around the store like we were frying her bacon. She’s the reason Fitz doesn’t sit at the front desk anymore. That little bitch is the worst.” She stopped when Mick patted her knee and made the kill sign.

  Becka buried her head in her hands and whimpered gently. Mick stroked her back, and Karen, after a moment’s hesitation, started up again.

  “So your parents are married to each other. Big whoop! It’s completely legal for you two to date, did you know that? You can even get married. Fitz can be a little too sensitive sometimes. He’s a bit freaked out by the idea of having slept with his little stepsister, but he’ll get over it. He’s an old-fashioned kind of guy, and it just doesn’t occur to him half the time that a lot of people aren’t on that wave-length. Hell, a lot of people. Fitz thinks everything is supposed to be candy boxes and roses and no kissing ‘til the third date.”

  “Well he sure blew that with me.”

  “He did. He really, really did. And he’s freaked out that not only did he break his normal routine, but he did it with you of all people, his stepsister. I bet you anything, that big old tat-covered softie craves a little old-timey style romance. Or at least, y’know, he’ll tolerate a conversation. And also, seriously, get that tattoo finished before he starts slapping it on every pretty girl who reminds him of you.”

  “You could finish it?” Becka ventured, and Karen shook her head and grinned broadly.

  “Nope! You’ve done your wallowing, girl. It’s time to take your medicine.”

  Becka groaned and drank from her fizzing glass.

  “So, that salad looks great, guys, but I for one am going to need to eat it on top of a pizza,” Jerome said, bouncing into the kitchen with his empty glass and phone, dialing on speaker before wailing down the receiver: “Yeah, a large cheese pizza, stuff that crust from both ends, and if there’s any olives, I will destroy your world, ohhhhhhh and extra sausage? You know I’m going to need extra hot thick sausage…”

  The other three looked at each other and smiled, and then they laughed.

  “You gays,” Karen snorted at Jerome when their giggling finally subsided. “Always with the god damn sausage cracks. That pizza place must be so over it.”

  “Oh, come on, Karen, it’s the highlight of their day! Who doesn’t want to hear fifty cracks about thick sausage pizza from drunk gay guys?”

  “Well if it get’s them through the day, then well done, Jerome!”

  “To Jerome!” the man himself called out from the kitchen, and the three started laughing all over again, clinking their glasses and draining the cocktails therein, toasting to dear Jerome and his bottomless reserve of penis jokes. He returned bowing and bearing the bottle, dispensing with the niceties of lime and soda in favor of the simpler slugs of white rum as required. Becka was at the warm heart of their group, cradled by the couch and her dearest friends, and she thought that maybe all this wouldn’t turn out so bad after all. But rather than think of the future, she simply sat there, and just let herself enjoy the moment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Becka inhaled sharply and took the first few steps toward Dickie’s Emporium. She thought about stopping for a chai latte but she didn’t feel like facing the cute guy behind the counter. Alex? Yeah, Alex. Becka was determined to start using names if she knew them. Her old habit of discarding every detail of her conquests didn’t seem so fun anymore from her new perspective.

  She’d finished the Bacardi and ate pizza and salad with her friends, as they did a full inventory of their bad habits and vowed to be better. Becka knew Jerome wasn’t really going to stop scaring people with outrageous proclamations, and Karen wasn’t going to be nicer to customers, and Mick wasn’t going to call his mother every week. But even beset by these minor issues, to Becka, her friends were perfect. It was she who needed to change.

  She started by booking an appointment through Karen. She kind of hated that she wasn’t strong enough to just call Fitz and get things going again, but she really wanted to be face to face the first time she spoke to him after their forced fall-out. She didn’t want to hear that doubt-tinged voice, the hints of sadness and dashed hopes; she didn’t want to hear Fitz tell her No over a tiny little speaker.

  So she kept her appointment. She showered and dressed. She didn’t bother trying different outfits, or twiddling with her hair. She knew she looked a little sallow in the reflections of the store windows and sleek cars lining the curb. She was here to get her tattoo finished, and maybe, maybe, convince the love of her life to ignore their parents and start things afresh. Her palms were sweating, and she wiped them on the flanks of her black jeans. Her heartbeat rang in her ears as she wrenched the door to Dickie’s open, and the familiar scene beckoned her further. She and Fitz had kissed leaning against this desk, under that light, on that couch. After her first session, they’d kissed their way to the door, unable to extricate themselves from their passionate grip. It felt like a movie now, or a cartoon. Two grown people making out like lovestruck teenagers. It dawned on Becka that everyone was like a lovestruck teenager: that’s what love does. Young or old, everyone is as fresh, and new and vulnerable in love as the very first time. Some just hid it a little better.

  Karen greeted her with a wave and a finger pressed to her lips.

  “Hey, Fitz, your two o’clock is here.”

  Becka waited in silence while the sound of utensils dropping and stools scrapping raw linoleum wafted through the curtain. Then shuffling footsteps, and then—Fitz. He looked drawn, too: but Becka was convinced his straggly hair and gaunt cheekbones looked infinitely more heroin chic than her own pink puffy baby face.

  They stood there in silence, just looking at each other. A thousand words seemed to pass between them over six feet of space, the distance felling non-traversable. But somehow, when Fitz eventually sighed and, with an air of futility, waved Becka through the curtain, shaking his head sadly, Becka managed to cross that distance. She waited, shuffling from foot to foot while Fitz dug out his design, annotated with ink color codes and shading notes. He gestured, still silent, for Becka to lie down. Becka pulled off her t-shirt bashfully, a far cry from the proud peacock who shed her coat so readily a month before. She knew her flat abs weren’t going to get her through this. She didn’t want to push Fitz.

  “So you trust me with this thing?” Fitz said, a hint of levity and zest under the hard-baked crust of his uncertainty.

  “You’re a professional. I trust you,” she replied, wrapping the towel he handed her under her bra again, just like she did last time.

  Fitz grunted in reply, and Becka lay on the table silently. The smell of the leather made her nostalgic, and she remembered the pleasure she had experienced
the last time she was here. But she was too nervous for the memory of fleeting encounters to rouse her.

  “Remember, no wriggling,” Fitz murmured, and Becka smiled in a way she hoped wasn’t too pitiful. She was just glad to feel his touch on her body again, the new yet comforting feel of those rough palms spreading against her burning flesh. Even the biting sting of the tattoo pen didn’t seem to hurt like it once did. Becka felt anesthetized to everything except the heaviness in her heart, and the desire—no, the need—to make this man happy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The silence drew on as Fitz changed inks: from aquamarine, to teal, to chartreuse to carmine to aubergine to goldenrod. One by one, the panels in her tattoo filled with ink drained from that buzzing implement, and every panel took Becka closer to never seeing this beautiful man again—unless she started talking. It was almost too much to bear, and her whole body seemed to be pumping potent hormones at her to force her to run away or punch something or most painfully—to push Fitz against his desk and ravage him. She’d read that sadness could make people horny, but Becka didn’t believe that the last few weeks. Now, all of a sudden, she totally got it.

  To distract herself from her impending doom, Becka tried to small talk to Fitz while he changed the inks. At first, he was gruff. He held up his hand and paid too much attention to a process he must have done a million times before. Becka was not too perturbed by this elaborate wrangling of machinery, so she continued trying. As the rows of ink packs were spent one by one, Becka took each one as a challenge. She felt some of her old pluck return as she tried to bait him.

  “Knock knock… C’mon, knock knock!”

  Nothing, Fitz would just shrug, and bite his lip to hide a smile (or stop a tear). Becka could feel his hands shaking a little, and she thought about kissing those quivering fingers. For the first time in weeks, Becka felt like she could maybe make things right. She kept her voice soft and just tried to enjoy her proximity to the object of her desire. Her sex drive was stymied with woe all those weeks, and the sadness in her had only lightened a little. But now, with the pool of warm light cast by the bulb dangling above her, and the smell of the leather heated by her skin, and the stunning man stroking her tenderly under her breasts with damp towels after each panel he filled in… Becka was starting to feel the familiar stirrings of lust. She hadn’t expected it, so deep was the stew of her misery before now. Every now and then a little moan slipped out of her and she’d draw in breath sharply, Fitz tsk-tsking her for the movement.

  The hours wore on, and Fitz started to respond, or at least his grunts and mumbles bore a hint of communication instead of gruff command. Becka was gratified to see, when sneaking a peek at him as he fiddled with his gear, that he was flushed and breathing heavy. It didn’t come across as angry. Becka wanted to fold him up and keep him safe. She wanted to take all the hurt from those sorrowful eyes and see that naughty dirty charm again. She wanted to kiss away the tears she was sure she saw brimming there. She wanted to fix this, and be with him.

  Fitz reached the last color in his stack and with extra diligence set to filling in the remaining specks of bare skin. Becka knew she had to say something now, or she may never get the chance.

  “I think our parents are wrong, Fitz.”

  The buzzing stopped short and the pen clattered to the surface of the tool-strewn rolling caddy. Becka saw Fitz breathe in sharply, a catch in it—and a tiny sniff. She closed her eyes and felt the hasty application of the moist towel on her torso and the feel of cooling lotion smearing across her skin.

  “Please say something.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” came his reply, after several moments had passed, which felt to Becka like lifetimes upon lifetimes. “I guess I’m just kind of… kind of a dinosaur. Too old-fashioned.”

  “Sexy dinosaur,” Becka murmured and then mentally slapped her forehead. That was the old Becka, still tumbling away somewhere in there, trying to make light of serious situations, sabotaging any chance of a connection with mindless innuendo.

  But luckily, Fitz gave a soft, half-hearted ‘ha’ in response. The dejection in his voice made Becka’s heart cry out, and she caught Fitz’s hand in hers and held it tight. She rolled over onto her side, careful of the plastic wrap Fitz had applied, and looked up into his eyes.

  “Please, we’re not doing anything wrong. Give us another chance.”

  Becka watched as Fitz’s eyes held her gaze for a moment, as they crept down the length of her semi-naked torso, lingering over her perfect bra-clad breasts. She felt her ears ringing as Fitz checked her out, and under his watch, she felt herself getting moist between her legs. She saw Fitz notice her hastened breathing, saw his tongue dart once in the corner of his mouth. She dropped her gaze to Fitz’s hips and allowed herself a faint smile as she noticed his cock grow stiff, drinking in the sight of him.

  She still had it. They still had it. How could anyone ignore an attraction this strong? She wanted to pull Fitz down and suck his tongue, have him pinch and tweak her nipples, slip in and out of her anywhere and anyhow he liked until she, until both of them, felt better.

  “Please, Fitz…” she whispered and licked her own lips. She wasn’t surprised when he, face burning with shame and grief and lust, turned away from her, but it still hurt. She tried to ignore the frenzied throbbing between her thighs. What mattered now was getting a second chance. “I want to take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go. I want you to tell me everything about you since you’ve moved away, and I want to tell you some things you’ve helped me realize about me. I… I think I love you, Fitz. I want you to give me a chance to show you I mean that. Please say yes.”

  Fitz stood with his back to her, head downcast. Eventually, in a voice no bigger than a whisper, he said the words Becka longed to hear.

  “Cafe Montmartre at 8 PM,” he said, then moved swiftly through the beaded curtain. Becka heard the click of the heavy metal door and a muttered protest from Karen before she even found her shirt.

  “So, that went okay.” Karen was standing at the door to the back room, an eyebrow raised at still undressed Becka.

  “We’ve got a date, I guess.” Becka shrugged, squirming to hide her excitement from the amused and intimidating Karen in the doorway.

  “I heard. But that’s not what I meant.” Becka blushed and pulled on her t-shirt. “I meant he was sporting enough wood to open a lumber yard when he walked out, and all you did was just get a tattoo. He’s either got a serious latent needle fetish, or you guys are so hot for each other, it’d be a crime not to get it on.”

  “You think?” Becka asked, aware of how pathetically pleased she sounded and not caring one bit.

  “Oh Becka, I’m not saying you don’t have your work cut out for you. I mean sure, you gave him the Eiffel tower of erections in a totally non-sexy setting, but he also preferred to run that baby into oncoming traffic than sit around with you.”

  Becka’s face fell at Karen’s characteristic bluntness.

  “Hey, I’m not saying it’s impossible: far from it. I’m just saying you’ve got your work cut out for you either way. But hey, you sure do turn him on! Good news!”

  The throbbing between her own legs finally subsiding, Becka took a moment to consider Karen’s conclusions and determined that yes, she was right to be optimistic. Whatever else was going on in Fitz’s mind, he clearly still wanted her. She’d have to work hard to get him to look past the hurdles. She might have to beg. She might have to plead with him, prostrated before him while he sits in an easy-chair, stroking his thick, veined shaft… She didn’t realize she was gliding her hand along her hard-as-rock nipples as the thoughts raced through her mind.

  “Whoa there, calm down, girlie. Still in the room. Geez…” Karen scolded, laughing as she turned on her heel and went back to her desk. “No decency…” she muttered theatrically, and Becka laughed too. She didn’t have time for monkey business anyway. She had a date to prepare for.

  Chapter Sixteen

&n
bsp; Cafe Montmartre stood on a quiet, leafy corner. Soft lights and white tablecloths provided the backdrop for the smooth tinkling of piano music, the chime of wine glasses and silverware, and muted conversations. It was the kind of romantic place Becka used to think would be improved with go-go dancing cages and a few blistering DJ sets. Now it seemed perfect, the ideal place to go with someone who really meant something, and deserved to be shown.

  As usual, despite Becka’s meticulous timekeeping, Fitz was there waiting for her. He must have been early. Becka could feel the crinkle of the plastic wrap under her new BCBG dress, and the tender skin beneath it. The color definitely stung more than the lines had, but Becka couldn’t tell if that was a product of the greater area covered or the absence of numbing lust. She was lusty, sure, but not in the same way. It had a sharp keening quality to it. She didn’t want to fuck. She wanted to make love to the man in the same button-down black shirt, the cuffs linked with subtle silver barbels instead of rolled back up his muscular forearms. His hair was mussed back, and he looked nervous and still a little sad, a perfect rockabilly bundle of vulnerability and sex.

  Becka let the penguin waiter show her to the table even though she could see Fitz from the street window. She allowed the obsequious staff member pull back her chair and splay her napkin for her. She accepted sparkling water and a glass of pinot grigio from the ice bucket beside the table, poured with a flourish, before they were finally left alone.

  “I was going to get Shiraz but… but I remembered you don’t drink red wine.”

  “I told you that?” Becka smiled, going for casual but convinced it was coming off more like axe-murderer.