Forbidden Love: Bad Boy Romance

by Amy Faye

  If they were playing fair, then it would be a little cold and mechanical on their part. After all, they were auditioning cellists–not showing off how well the flutist can embellish a piece.

  But that wasn't a guarantee, and she was a background figure even in a small ensemble.

  Her phone did buzz, finally, and she nearly threw her phone out of her hands turning to look at the screen. 'Coming up' was all it said. She took a breath and let out a long sigh.

  A minute later, she rose to answer a knock at the door and found two people waiting outside. A small Asian woman with a small mouth that spread into a narrow smile and a tall man with thick-rimmed glasses.

  "Amy Harmon?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Sara, this is Rich. It's good to meet you. I'm glad you could find someplace on short notice, even if…"

  Amy gave them her warmest smile and guided them inside. "I know. It's a little strange. But on short notice and a budget, a room is a room, and this one isn't so bad."

  Sara nodded. Rich gave a sad smile that fell immediately again into a resting expression that was a little too miserable, typical of a certain type of musician. He said nothing, just stepping inside, and Amy saw the little flute case he carried in one hand.

  "So what have we got?"

  "It's an upright piano in a small side room, this way."

  Amy guided them through the office as if she knew her way around. Thankfully, the entire layout of the office was low, and she could easily see over all the furniture in the place–and so she could see the door to the little music room, where her cello already leaned in the corner on a makeshift rest.

  "It should be in tune–but I'm no pianist," she admitted. Sara pulled out the bench and lifted the keyboard cover. No doubt she'd played cheap pianos before–everyone had–but somehow asking her to do it in any professional capacity felt wrong.

  The little Asian woman stretched her hands across the keys and played a little tune for a couple moments, and then turned to Amy.

  "Okay, we're pretty much ready when you are. Richie?"

  The thin man nodded, and Amy settled into her seat. Her heart raced. "So I don't know how you two prefer to do this piece–"

  "It's your audition," Rich said softly. He leaned in one corner, rubbing oil onto his flute where it fit together, and then quietly putting them together.

  "Well… I've been making notes, on my own."

  She turned her score around, handing it to Sara, who scanned through it quickly before nodding.

  "Is that all alright?"

  Sara handed it over to the flutist, but she didn't wait for him to read it before she turned back and answered. "Sure. Let's give this a try. Count us in when you're ready. We'll make sure everything goes smoothly, and then we'll let you get back to your day."

  Amy gave a hopeful smile, prepared her bow, and closed her eyes, trying for an instant to feel as poised as she could, before beginning to count, even and loud enough to be heard without shouting.

  "One, two, three– one, two, and…"

  The piano began softly, and Amy waited. Right on cue, measure two rolled around and on the second beat, the flute cut in. And then it was time for her to go. Her hands moved as well as they could–

  Through the window of the door, she saw some sort of movement. Her eyes flicked off of the sheet music for an instant, and her worries were confirmed. Someone was there. She kept her hands moving, forcing her body to do what she'd trained it to do in spite of her distraction.

  Brett had a studious look on his face, as if he were trying to memorize the sound of the music that he could no-doubt hear through the door in spite of the sound-proofing. Amy moved her attention back to the score. She needed this to go well.

  He shouldn't have been here. He was supposed to be on the other side of the state, working at some job site. But she'd seen him there, as sure as anything.

  Four minutes later, Amy let her arm relax, let the cello rest against her shoulder, and took a breath. They had one more to do, but she already felt wiped out, as if she thought this were the first part of the audition. Maybe it was.

  Nobody was sitting outside after all. She hadn't been imagining Brett, she was certain of that. As certain as she could be, at least. But he wasn't there now–as if he'd never been there in the first place.

  Sara's voice pulled her out of her confused haze. "Whenever you're ready, count us into the next one."

  Amy scrambled to prepare the score for her second piece, and a moment later she started counting again. She didn't have time to waste thinking about her step-brother right now.

  2003

  Amy swallowed her doubts and forced herself into class. Mrs. Grant was going to start causing real trouble for her if she didn't go. But she kept her head low on the way in, in the hopes that nobody would notice, and to her great relief, as far as she could tell, nobody did.

  She slipped into her seat next to Brett, who pretended not to notice her. Maybe it was better that way. She didn't want to admit it, but it was what she'd rather. There were still a thousand things that she didn't want to talk to him about, and they were past the point where talking would do anything to help.

  It might help her feel better, but it wouldn't change anything important, and that mattered more. If there was nothing to be done than endure their parents wedding, then she'd endure it in silence.

  That was pretty much how class went, too. Silent. They were talking about Da Vinci–such was the wonder of 'intro' classes. They moved quickly enough that if she didn't like something, they'd be doing something else in a few days.

  The class ended when the bell rang; as the kids got up, Mrs. Grant made vague allusions that they might be watching a movie or television show the next day. Presumably about Da Vinci, but who knew anything for sure?

  She was planning to leave immediately after the bell rang, but somehow Brett managed to beat her to it anyways, out the door in a matter of seconds. After he'd ditched her at Homecoming, it was hardly any kind of surprise, and they'd managed to avoid each other over the weekend in spite of family dinners that, at least on her end, Mom was pretty pissed that she didn't come to.

  Amy's shoulders were slumped and she looked up at the world through furrowed brows, with the hope that anyone looking would know without needing to be told that she wasn't in any kind of mood to be fucked with. Nobody wanted to know what would happen if she didn't get the space she wanted.

  But to Amy's surprise, her prickly display didn't have as much effect as she wanted. At least, it didn't work on everyone as much as she'd liked. The same pretty bitch who had given her trouble in the library a week ago had apparently decided it was time for round two.

  Amy's fists balled up. It would be easy to hit her. Perhaps even too easy. She found herself tempted to take a pre-emptive swing without listening to a word. Then she thought how Dad would give her that look that he always gave her when he felt let down, and she realized that in spite of herself, she wasn't going to punch her way out of this.

  "What do you want?"

  The one at the front–she was the prettiest, by a fair bit, Amy thought. She wondered for a moment if it was some kind of social hierarchy–no one but the one in charge was allowed to be the prettiest, or perhaps it was the other way around, and no one but the prettiest was allowed to be in charge?

  "We wanted to talk to you, of course!" She smiled sweetly, in a poor imitation of friendliness.

  "Well, I don't want to talk to you, so…"

  The girl frowned, apparently unused to being blown off. Amy leaned forward, pressing with her shoulder as if to insist that she wasn't going to be stopped. But stop her they did, absorbing the force of Amy's shoulder as she tried to push them back.

  "Amy, come on. You don't need to be so rough with us, you know. We just wanted to talk to you."

  They grabbed her and pulled a little way. They didn't need to go far before they'd dropped away from the hustle and bustle, into a hallway where nobody seemed to go. Even in a schoo
l that seemed as populated as this one, there were still places, it seemed.

  In her old school, Amy would have known all of them. But that wasn't who she was any more. She was a proper student, she studied–at least in theory. She didn't pick fights or smoke, and she'd never had a boyfriend to bring to one of these spots before. She wasn't going to have one now, either, it seemed, either. Not with the way things had been going with Dad and Helen.

  "Is this the part where you try to kick my ass?"

  The one in charge gave her a look, one loaded with disgust. "Is that how you types do things?"

  "My types? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Like we said before, we just wanted to talk."

  "Fine. Then let's talk." Amy laid her head back against the painted-over brick and waited. Either they were going to say something, or attack her, but she would make sure she was prepared for either.

  The bell rang, and they were all officially late.

  "You said you weren't going to Homecoming," said one, leaving the question unspoken.

  "I did say that."

  "You lied to us."

  "Plans change," she shrugged. Her teeth were all on-edge, Amy's fists already sore with the feeling of socking them in the jaw and getting down to a brawl. But she held herself off.

  "Yeah, well, not with me they don't." One leaned in until Amy could smell, ever so faintly, the smell of alcohol on her breath. "And if you want to keep yourself on my good side, you'll make sure that they don't change any more with you, either."

  They didn't turn their backs on her as they left, the ringleader never breaking eye contact until they'd slipped all the way back into the main hall.

  "Stay away from him, you hear me, you goth slut?"

  Amy's jaw jutted off to the side. Yeah, she heard. Loud and clear. They weren't going to hear her response, though. Not until it was already too late.

  14

  Brett

  Present Day

  Brett was waiting for his step-sister when she got back. She hadn't asked him about his work schedule–apparently assuming that he was going to keep the same schedule, from the bewildered look on her face as she'd played–and he hadn't bothered to tell her that yesterday, they'd handed the entire building off to inspectors. As far as he was concerned, the entire project was done.

  She came through the door quite loudly. Maybe she thought nobody would be home, but she made no effort, and as far as he could tell had no consideration, for whether or not she was making any noise.

  As if to confirm his suspicion that she didn't realize he was there, she practically stopped dead when she stepped through the hall and into the living room, when she saw him sitting there.

  Brett had poured himself a glass of scotch whiskey, and was gently nursing it throughout the afternoon, since he'd gotten home.

  "You're pretty good with that thing," he said softly.

  She looked down at her cello and then lifted it over the back of the couch and set it down. "So you were there."

  "I forgot a few papers," he said by way of apology.

  "You got them?"

  Brett nodded and poured some of the amber liquid into a waiting glass. "Come on, we'll celebrate."

  She raised an eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"

  "Your health? I finished the Big Rapids job, I guess that's as good a reason as any."

  She circled around and found her way onto the couch beside him. He slid the cup across the table until it sat just before her, and Amy took a drink, her blonde hair falling away from her shoulder as her head tilted a little way.

  "Cheers," he said.

  He realized his mistake after he drank, as he set the glass down, when his arm threatened to brush against hers and he felt the blood, previously rushing to warm his cheeks, moving to other places and his thoughts rushing to other things.

  "You looked like a real pro, from what I could see."

  "You think so?"

  "You always looked good, so obviously–"

  "You think I look good? I'm your sister, so keep that in mind."

  "I always keep you in mind," he answered. "But I don't think of you as my sister."

  He didn't realize he'd been moving, but all of a sudden he realized that he was way too close to her, and he realized that he didn't care.

  "What did you think of me as?" She wasn't moving away. If anything, she was leaning back at him.

  Their eyes met, and he could feel himself growing more adventurous.

  "Do you want to find out?"

  "Fuck it," she growled, and threw herself at him. He set his weight against her and leaned her back, their lips pressing together, all teeth and energy and thirteen years of not being able to do what they'd both wanted since they first laid eyes on each other.

  His hands wasted no time in ripping her clothes off, his mind full of lust and need and the thought that he ought to have done this years ago. His fingers worked the buttons on her blouse quickly, pulling it roughly down her shoulders.

  Her breasts strained against a bra that was half a size too small for them, and he reached around to open the clasp with a flick and pull one large, dusky nipple between his lips.

  His hardness pressed against her, in between her legs, making promises that he had every intention of keeping. Her hands explored the front of his jeans until she found him, and then she commenced rubbing, as if to ensure that he would be hard enough, but she needn't have worried.

  He was uncomfortably hard, and when her hands struggled to get his belt to come undone he moved down to help, pulling the buckle apart easily and moving down to pull apart the fly on his trousers in little more than a single movement of his wrist, freeing him from the tight fabric.

  She moved, then, everything moving fast and thirteen years worth of need pushing him to move things even faster, pushing him back and moving between his knees. She pulled his boxers away and down his hips, revealing his manhood to her.

  She didn't take things slowly–neither of them wanted to wait around for things to develop. She engulfed the head in one fluid movement and bobbed her head a couple of times, but that wasn't the end goal, and she didn't waste more than a moment wetting it before she climbed up into his lap.

  "Fuck me," she growled in answer to concerns that he hadn't voiced, and then she lined herself up with his cock, and he could feel that she was already slick with arousal.

  His sister moved her hips down, engulfing him slowly, until finally, after more than a decade of wanting nothing more than to be one with her, he had it. Their hips nestled together, him fitted perfectly within her.

  He rolled his hips up into her and groaned at the heat wrapped tightly around his cock. He needed more, needed to fuck her hard. She put a hand on his chest and started to move.

  She went slowly at first, and for a moment he thought that he was going to have to take over, to claim her roughly. But it didn't take her long before she was moving faster, rolling her hips in sharp, rough motions.

  Amy leaned forward, pressing one breast against her brother's face. He didn't need to be told twice, taking the nipple between his lips, arousal pushing him to take the hardened bud between his teeth and pull roughly.

  The woman atop him, a woman he'd needed his entire adult life and never been able to have, couldn't hold her voice in any longer, her hand slipped between them, her hands moving in quick, short movements just above where they met.

  And then, as he felt himself approaching the edge, her movements became even shorter, even sharper, hitting the same spot over and over again as her body started to rock with a powerful orgasm.

  She wrapped around him, tighter than ever, her pussy trying to suck out his seed, and with a groan, he came hard.

  She leaned into his shoulder. "Jesus."

  "Yeah," he answered, almost laughing.

  "Did you cum in me?"

  "Is that a problem?"

  She let out a snort. "You could've asked, first, you know."

  He pressed a kiss into the crook
of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he pulled away.

  "Maybe I wanted it to be a surprise."

  She rolled her hips again, his softening cock twitching in anticipation of doing that again.

  "Well, if it was a surprise–then it's okay."

  2003

  Brett let his feet carry him, rather than the other way around. There wasn't much else to be done. With a great deal of effort, he'd made it almost 6 miles to the mall, mostly on the back of taking a bus up to Ford and then walking through the rain until another bus, heading west, finally showed up as he passed the third or fourth auto repair shop.

  There was a closer mall, but as far as he was aware, they'd closed it, and he wasn't in the mood to figure out how he ought to spend the afternoon with only big box stores to occupy him. He let out a long breath at the thought as he passed by stores and stepped into a music shop.

  He let out a long, unsteady breath, making his way through. The whole place reminded him of her. She hadn't said anything, and he wasn't going to bring it up. That was their usual agreement, it seemed, never having really been spoken. But he shouldn't have ditched her.

  It had saved them both from the awkwardness of having to pretend to be together. It saved them from the awkwardness of having to pretend not to be, which might have been the bigger struggle between the two.

  None of those excuses made him feel any better about having ditched her, though. He owed her an apology, but he didn't really have one. 'Sorry I made the right decision but it hurt you' didn't really carry any sort of weight.

  So apologizing without saying anything seemed, at least to him, like it was probably the right way to go. He let out a long breath. What the hell. A gift, maybe. He'd been dancing around the idea for a while, and finally it started to solidify in his mind.

  But what, even? The whole place made him think of her, but buying a gift was hopeless. There was nothing there that he knew more about than her, and so he'd just be buying her something she probably didn't want in the first place.

  He turned and walked out, a little disheartened. A large central chamber filled with vendor carts waited outside. He ignored them. No, he didn't need a pretzel, and yes, he was sure. No, he didn't need to be sold a new cellular phone. He wouldn't know how to pay for it if he did.