Rome and Florence, which aren’t too far apart, are the art capitals of Italy. The Renaissance and the Baroque Movement were born there. Raphael and Bernini. Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Their work is everywhere and has influenced the very makeup of those cities. This is an art history major’s wet dream. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. I’ve been living for it.
So why is my heart in my throat at the thought of leaving?
After dinner, Dad drives us home. I shoot glances at Trent in the backseat next to me. We should be laughing and giving each other shit, same as always. His silence is killing me.
He glances at me and catches me looking, but this time, I don’t turn my eyes away. He holds my gaze and, after a minute, mouths, “We need to talk.”
I nod.
“Do you need any help with the last of your packing?” Julie asks as we push through the garage door into the kitchen.
“No. I think I’m mostly ready except for last-minute stuff.”
She nods, then, out of nowhere, she goes all teary and wraps me in a hug. “I can’t believe our little girl is going halfway around the world all by herself.”
“I’m twenty, Julie. I’m not that little.”
“Lexie Banks, world traveler,” she warbles in my ear.
“We’ve got the international plan set up for your phone,” Dad says, “so we expect to hear from you.”
“You will,” I say, extricating myself from Julie’s grasp. “I’ll call when I can.”
“Remember the time difference,” Dad reminds me.
“Don’t worry. I won’t call you at three in the morning.” I give him a devious smile. “Much.”
He kisses my forehead. “We love you, kiddo, and we’re extremely proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I make my way to the stairs, and Trent follows. “See you in the morning.”
When we get to the top, Trent hesitates outside my door. “Is it okay if I come in?”
He’s never asked before, and I hate that he feels like he has to now. “Sure.”
We step through, and I close the door behind us.
“Listen, I get how awkward this is, but you’re my best friend, Lexie.” He breathes deep and drops his gaze. “If I did something to screw that up, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I step into his arms, and they’re strong around me without my even having to ask. “I don’t know what happened last night … if it was just the scotch or …” I look up at him. “You’re my best friend, and I don’t want that to change.”
He kisses my forehead. “Good. So we’re agreed. Last night never happened.”
I hug him tighter, never wanting to lose this. “Agreed.”
“Even though it was pretty damn amazing,” he murmurs into my hair.
I smile into his T-shirt. “Mind-blowing.”
“I’m really going to miss you. I don’t think we’ve ever gone more than a few months without seeing each other.”
It’s true. Even though Indiana is a plane ride away, I see my family pretty often. I’m always home for Thanksgiving and winter break, and they come out to Notre Dame for the USC football game because that’s Dad’s alma mater. Anytime one of Trent’s wrestling matches is within reasonable driving distance, I buy a bus ticket, and there’s spring break. But this year, I’m only coming home for three weeks at Christmas, then not again until the end of the school year in May—and maybe not even then if I get the summer internship.
“How will you survive without me?” I ask into his shirt.
“It’s gonna be tough.” He breathes a sigh, then pulls away and looks down at me. “So, we’re okay?”
I smile up at him. “We’re okay.”
He backs toward the door, looking majorly relieved. “Good. Love you. See you in the morning.”
“Love you too. ’Night.”
He closes the door behind him, and I just stare after him for a long time. Finally, I strip to my thong and slide his Loyola T-shirt on. (Don’t ask me why I didn’t give it back.) I hesitate at Trent’s door for a second as I pass by it to the bathroom to wash up and brush my teeth. When I finish in the bathroom, I click off the light, and pull the door open—just as Trent comes up the hall, a towel slung low on his hips.
He stops short in the door when he sees me. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were still in here.”
“I’m done. All yours.”
I start to squeeze past him in the door, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Nice shirt.”
My heart kicks up a notch, and my cheeks flame. His T-shirt hangs to midthigh, but, suddenly, I feel totally exposed. How do I explain this? “It was … you left it—”
“It looks better on you anyway.” His fingertips brush down my arm and accidentally skim the side of my left breast, and I feel my nipple harden—which is uber-obvious since I’m braless. “You should keep it.”
“Thanks.”
“So, I’m going to …” He tips his head at the shower.
“Yeah … okay. Well …’night.”
As I slip past him, his towel comes untucked. In the second before he grabs it and tucks it back around him, I catch a glimpse of his enormous erection. And, God help me, I’m dripping wet. I press my palm against him through the towel.
He closes his eyes and blows out a shaky breath. “Why can’t I stop wanting you?”
In one deft motion, he spins me against the wall and slides my thong down. I kick it off and wrap my legs around his waist as he presses me between his rock-hard body and the wall. He crushes his mouth to mine, and his tongue slashes between my lips and takes possession of me. An animal groan purrs deep in his throat and totally undoes me. My pulse pounds in my ears and throbs between my legs, and any inhibitions I had evaporate like fog in a stiff breeze.
He takes my lower lip between his teeth and looks at me with fire in his eyes, then kisses down my neck as his fingers slide inside of me, working their magic. I’m still sore from last night, but that doesn’t stop sparklers from igniting deep in my belly as his fingertips stroke my most sensitive spots.
“Oh, God,” I moan as he crooks his fingers inside me and works me into a total sexual frenzy. I feel like all my insides are on the outside. Every nerve ending is on fire. When I can’t stand it another second, I reach for his towel and yank it off.
Chapter Four
HE’S HUGE AND hard, and I don’t even care that we don’t have a condom. He shifts me lower on his hips, and I feel his firmness against my thigh. I reach for him and stroke.
“Jesus Christ,” he moans, and I come totally unhinged.
But just as I’m about to press myself lower on his hips, taking him inside me, there’s a crash from downstairs. We both look up, startled, and I hear Julie call something to Dad. Dad and Julie’s room is down there, and they almost never come up, but the reminder jars us both back to our senses.
Trent grimaces and lowers me to my feet. He reaches for his towel, wrapping it around himself. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I’m shaking as I scoop my panties off the bathroom floor. “I …” I bite my lip. “I’ll see you in the morning.” I scamper toward my room without looking back.
But I don’t go to sleep.
I lie under my sheet with his T-shirt hiked up around my waist and close my eyes, picturing Trent on the other side of the wall. I touch the places he touched me, trying to re-create his movements with my less-skilled hands. I imagine him on top of me. Inside me. But my orgasm is disappointing. It’s a shadow of the monster that woke inside me last night, when it was his mouth and his fingers driving me totally out of my mind.
Why can’t I stop wanting you?
His words echo in my head as I finally start to doze off, and I wonder the same thing about him.
TRENT HOLDS MY hand in the backseat of Dad’s car on the way to the airport, but he doesn’t look at me. Going to Rome is the best thing for me right now. I need time away from him to think. Something between us is fundamentally different,
and I have to decide if I want it to stay that way—if I want Trent to be something more … if that’s even possible—or if I want to try to get back the companionship and camaraderie we’ve always shared. I can’t decide that while we’re together because my body keeps trying to override my powers of rational thought.
The only silver lining—I haven’t wasted a second thinking about Rick in the last forty-eight hours.
My phone vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket, reading Sam’s text. Miss you already, gurl. Text me when you get to Rome!
I will, I text back.
My phone buzzes again. Make sure to include pics of all the hot Italian boys you meet!
I smile. I will do my best to indulge your fantasies.
Speaking of fantasies, I’ll make sure that brother of yours doesn’t get lonely while you’re away.
A steel band tightens around my chest as I shoot him a glance. The muscles in his forearm ripple as his thumb drums on his knee to the music from his iPod, giving the appearance he’s relaxed. But the muscle twitching in his jaw reveals how tense he actually is. I push the memory of what those hands are capable of out of my mind and ignore the pulsing ache in my belly as my thumbs type in the only words they can and not give away what I’m really thinking. Knock yourself out.
We get my bags checked, and Dad, Julie, and Trent walk me to security.
Julie pecks me on the cheek. “Call us when you’re making your connection in New York,” she says, adjusting the collar of my blouse.
“And as soon as you get to Rome,” Dad adds.
I lift my eyebrows at him. “You know that’s going to be at one in the morning your time, right?”
“It’s fine. We won’t be able to sleep unless we know you’re safe.” He steps up and hugs me so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t dislocate a rib. “Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you guys too,” I say, turning to Trent.
He just looks at me for a long heartbeat, and I’m not sure how this is going to go. What am I supposed to say? He saves me the anguish of trying to figure it out when he closes the few feet between us and wraps me in his strong arms. “Love you,” he whispers into my ear. He’s said those words to me a thousand times, but today they feel different. They make my insides quiver. He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, and I want so badly to turn that fraction of an inch and kiss him properly.
When he pulls away, I ache. It’s a whole-body withdrawal, and for a second, I’m not sure I can get on that plane.
Julie sniffles, and when I glance at her, she’s dabbing a tissue to her face. “When your father and I met, we hoped you kids would never feel like ‘steps’ to one another, but you two are closer than we ever could have hoped.”
I fight the wince, and I can’t even look at Trent.
“You better be on your way, kiddo,” Dad says, handing me my backpack.
“Arrivederci.” I try to smile as I glance at Trent, but it feels more like a grimace.
As I back toward the security line, Trent’s eyes are pinched, and his jaw is set. He breathes deep and closes them. I turn away and don’t look back.
THE FLIGHT IS long, made longer by the fact I’m terrified of flying—which really stems from my fear of heights. Or more specifically: my fear of plummeting to my death from them. The only way I can get past it is to get an aisle seat as far from the window as possible and put in my earbuds. Sometimes, if I can convince myself I’m on a train, or a bus, or a slow-moving banana boat to China, I can actually doze off. But this time, when I finally doze off somewhere over North Dakota, I dream of Trent. He’s totally invaded my subconscious, taking over and setting up base camp.
I imagine him going back to Loyola—all the girls there—and I can’t deny the jealous prickle in my gut. I don’t want him to be with other girls, honorable or not. Would he tell me if he was sleeping with someone else? When I was just his friend, his stepsister, he would have told me anything if I asked. Now that I’m his lover, would he still? He said he’s never snuck around or lied to girls. Does that apply to me? We’re not technically dating—because hello, he’s my stepbrother—so it wouldn’t be sneaking around if he hooked up with someone else. Would he see it that way? Or would he feel like he needed to tell me?
I chew all the skin off the insides of my cheeks as I go around in circles with that until I’m about to drive myself insane. Finally, I click on the TV on the seatback in front of me and try to find something to watch that will distract me from my fucked-up brother-lover issues.
I’M EXHAUSTED BY the time our flight touches down in Rome. But I’m also excited. During the endless movie marathon that I didn’t really watch, I came to a decision. This is my time to reboot. Here, I can reinvent myself into whoever I want to be. I’m not going to be the girl whose boyfriend screwed around on her behind her back, or the girl who slept with her brother on the rebound. I’m going to be the new, improved Lexie. The one who has her shit together. The one who’s got an entire school year ahead of her in Italy. The one who’s going to blow her professors’ socks off with her witty insights and observations, so she gets an invite for that summer internship.
Next summer is my last before graduation. It’s the last summer I’ll be home. If I play my cards right, maybe Trent and I won’t be under the same roof again except for a few weeks during winter break.
If I just stay on an entirely different continent, I can’t fuck up again.
I’m actually smiling as I flag down a taxi to take me to my new life.
You know those lines in the road? The dotted white ones that are supposed to divide your lane from the lane of the guy next to you? What I find out in the next hour is, in Rome, they’re just a suggestion. I determine within a mile of the airport that my taxi driver is suicidal. Within a mile after that, I realize all taxi drivers are suicidal. As a matter of fact, everyone who drives in Rome seems to be. I wonder if it’s a question on the Italian driver’s test.
Are you a suicidal maniac? Yes □ No □
Only the yeses pass.
We spin through roundabouts at totally unsafe speeds and power down tiny alleys hardly wide enough for the toy car I’m riding in. I swear to God, at one point we take out a fat guy with a bad comb-over whose chair is extending just a little too far into the street at a roadside café.
By the time we bump up a cobbled alleyway and stop in front of a graffitied stucco building, I’m so shell-shocked I can hardly pry my fingers off the torn vinyl seat. The driver, a short, stout, middle-aged guy with some serious BO who doesn’t speak a word of English and probably won’t live to see fifty, dumps me and my luggage on the narrow sidewalk. I stand for a second after paying him and watch his tin can of a taxi speed off. What I’m really waiting for is to see if I’m having an actual heart attack or just an anxiety attack. I never thought it possible for someone to scare me more than Trent, but that automotive experience approached the horror of riding on the back of his motorcycle.
Trent. Shit.
This is my new life. I’m not going to think about my brother-lover problems in this life. But as I grab my suitcase and tow it across the cobbles, there’s no denying that the guilt is back. And mingling with the guilt is something just as deep. It’s that hunger for him. I felt it the whole time we were making love, and even after, like there was no possible way to get enough of him. I haven’t been gone twenty-four hours, and I already miss him so much, it hurts.
I blow out a sigh and fish through my purse for the key they mailed me. Usually, foreign exchange students stay in campus housing, but there is some big remodel that didn’t get finished in time, so they put me in an apartment just across the Tiber River from campus … so they say. I look again at the painted wooden plaque on the side of the building to make sure it’s the right tiny-cobbled-alley-which-is-really-a-road, then at the number next to the door. When I slip the key into the lock, it fits. And then it turns.
Must be the right place.
I walk into a short hallway with a padlocke
d door to the left and a narrow stairway ahead of me. They told me upstairs, so I’m guessing I go up.
I drag my suitcase up the stairs and get it so wedged at the corner near the top that I have to kick it to get it unstuck. But then I lose my grip on the handle, and it topples to the bottom. I decide it’s not worth going back for until I know for sure I’m in the right spot. I trudge up the last few stairs to the door and stick my key in. It opens. I throw my backpack through, then retrieve my suitcase from the bottom of the stairs, careful to turn it sideways at the corner. Once I’ve wrestled it into the apartment and closed the door, I look around.
And it’s charming.
To my right is a dark, wooden, dining-room table and four chairs, and a door on the far wall beyond it. To my left is a small, sunny, sitting room, and past that, through a doorway, a speck of a kitchen barely big enough for one person to turn around in. Next to the kitchen door is a bookshelf with a few books that I’ll have to check out when I have some time, and just behind me is a worn green love seat and a small end table, all of which fill the room except for a narrow walkway to the kitchen door and three narrow stairs that lead to a window. Upon closer inspection, I realize the window is really a very small glass door onto a patio. I unlatch the window-door and swing it in, then climb through. The patio is huge—easily twice the size of my entire apartment, and I expect to find several doors opening onto it, but there aren’t. Only mine.
I move to the low wall at the front of the building and lean my elbows on it, looking down at the street. I’m on the roof of the single-story building next door to my apartment. And it’s all mine. It’s enclosed on three sides by the walls of the two-story adjoining buildings (mine, the one behind, and the one next door), and there are windows in those walls, so it’s not like I can sunbathe nude or anything, but it’s nice. There’s a lounge chair in the corner near some climbing vine with orange flowers, and I can already imagine myself sitting there studying.
A Little Too Far Page 4
