Stepbrother Bastard

by Colleen Masters

  “And I’m sure that has nothing to do with not wanting to spend a few extra hours with your family tonight, right?” she teases, nudging me playfully.

  “Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, widening my blue eyes with mock innocence.

  “Sure. Right. I totally believe you,” Allie laughs. “Well, I hope you’ll at least try to have a good time. Maybe the whole thing will surprise you.”

  “Maybe…” I allow, “Though whenever my mother is involved, any surprises that crop up don’t tend to be particularly good.”

  “Good ol’ Robin,” Allie says, shaking her head, “I can’t wait to hear what shenanigans she’s got cooked up for you out there.”

  “That makes exactly one of us,” I reply, polishing off my wine.

  After a bear hug and a reminder of my hookup-related marching orders, Allie hits the road. Now there’s nothing standing between me and the impending family reunion besides eight hours of driving split up by one night in the cheapest motel I could find along the way. How’s that for a luxurious getaway?

  As soon as my buzz has faded, I steel my resolve, grab my gigantic suitcase, and bid adieu to my shoebox of an apartment. My iPod is loaded up with Florence and the Machine, Muse, and Bruno Mars. If I have to face the music, it may as well be the kind I can belt out on the highway.

  Chapter Two

  The aged, blue-haired motel receptionist looks at me skeptically as I do battle with my gigantic suitcase, trying to get the damn thing through the front door. Smiling through my embarrassment, I finally roll the behemoth up to the counter under her heavy-lidded gaze.

  “Hi. I’m just checking in for the night,” I tell her, “The name is Porter. Mad—”

  “And how many of you are there?” she cuts me off, crossing her round arms.

  “…Pardon?” I reply, taken aback.

  “How many of your little friends are waiting out there to sneak in the second I turn my back?” she goes on huffily, “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I know how you young people try to take advantage, sneaking around when my back is turned. We charge by the person, not just by the room—”

  “Um. It’s just me staying here tonight,” I tell her evenly, choosing not to be offended by her assumptions.

  “Uh-huh,” she drawls, unconvinced.

  “Ma’am, I’m really just stopping here to sleep,” I press.

  “And what’s a sixteen-year-old girl doing on her own. In a place like this. At midnight. With a suitcase full of god knows what?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “Answer me that.”

  Ah ha. That’s what’s going on here. By now, I should be used to it. Despite the fact that I’m 24, my 5’ 3” height and petite figure tend to give people the impression that I’m a teenager. Most of the time, I’m mistaken for the youngest Porter sister, rather than the oldest. But hey, I’m sure I’ll get a kick out of that someday. Without another word, I take out my driver’s license and slide it against the sticky counter.

  “This should put your mind at ease,” I say briskly, “And as for the suitcase, well, I’m afraid I’m just something of a compulsive over-packer.”

  The would-be gatekeeper inspects my ID, peering through thick bifocals. At last, she seems to be satisfied that I’m not going to be throwing a keg party in my motel room. Or hiding a keg in my luggage, at that. But she’s not quite done with the third degree yet.

  “There won’t be any men stopping here to meet you, right?” she asks, giving me a not-too-subtle once over. “Please tell me you’re not that kind of girl.”

  I can feel my blood rising to a low boil. If there’s one thing I have no patience for, it’s shaming women on the grounds of their sexuality. My mother may be spacier than Sputnik, but she taught my sisters and me to be fiercely feminist in our thinking. I believe that every woman should have the freedom to make her own choices about her body, whatever those choices happen to be.

  “Tell you what,” I say to the woman behind the desk, “Let’s just say that I’m the kind of girl who would like the key to her motel room now, please. Unless you’d rather I find somewhere else to spend my money tonight.”

  “Ugh. Fine,” she says hurriedly, thrusting a square of scuffed plastic my way, “Have a lovely evening, Miss.”

  I grab my key and do my best to make a dignified exit, onerous baggage be damned. My room is on the ground floor of the split level motel, overlooking a leaf-clotted swimming pool and a stretch of highway. In one direction lies Spokane, Washington; in the other, Montana. I’ve still got half a day’s drive before I reach my destination, a lake house my mother’s rented for the summer in her old hometown. At least, she described it as a lake house when we talked on the phone. For all I know, it’s actually a yurt. And come to think of it, she never mentioned renting specifically…we could very well just be squatting. You never can tell with Robin Porter.

  Nudging the door open with my shoulder, I trundle into my darkened room. I decide not to inspect the space too closely—ignorance is bliss. After a cursory sweep for cigarette butts, condom wrappers, or dead bodies, I flop down onto the bed and gaze up at the water stains that blossom across the ceiling.

  Though it’s nearly midnight after a long day of work, suddenly I’m feeling wide awake. This isn’t exactly a penthouse suite, but it’s the first night I’ve spent away from my Seattle studio apartment in over a year. I’ve been working my butt off on the job—trying my best to impress Carol and Brian. Their creative agency, ReImaged, is a pretty small outfit, but we still have our share of huge clients. Though we offer a full range of services, we specialize in event marketing—planning parties and functions that double as interactive advertising for the company at hand. Allie and I have become the dynamic duo of the ReImaged event planning department. I love the variety and excitement that are built into my work, but it’s easy to get swallowed up by a fast-paced job like mine. This vacation is a very rare occurrence, and even now I’m finding it hard to stop thinking about the tasks that are waiting for me back at the office. The second I get back, we’re moving onto our next big campaign for the denim company Asphalt. I’m already chomping at the bit to get started.

  It’s going to be a struggle to stay in the moment during this little getaway. Maybe I should listen to Allie and make the most of it. But what am I going to do for fun here, raid the vending machines and watch porn by myself? Not really my idea of a good time. Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate a good dirty video as much as the next person—but falling asleep to Pay Per View, Point Of View in a crappy motel would just be too depressing.

  As I stare up at the ceiling, a sudden dash of color catches my eye. The glowing shadow falls through the window above my bed, blinking softly in the darkness. Pulling myself to kneeling, I tug open the creaky venetian blinds to investigate. I don’t have to look very far to find the source of the bright light. There, on the next lot over from the motel, is a low brick building facing the highway. The place was totally hidden from view as I drove up. It would be a fairly nondescript structure, were it not for the glaring neon sign blinking above it, luring in weary travelers like moths to a flame. The sign’s directive is simple: “Drink Here” it reads, with an arrow pointing straight to the front door.

  “Can’t very well ignore a literal sign,” I murmur, smiling at the kitschy signage. Maybe a nightcap would help me chill out?

  The anxiety-ridden part of my brain reels against the suggestion, and I immediately question the wisdom of braving a dive bar on the side of the road…at midnight, by myself. But to my surprise, the long-dormant curious side of me insists on an adventure before turning in. I’ve had a lot of trouble getting excited about anything since Dad passed away. Even this slightest spark of interest is out of the ordinary. I can’t just let it fizzle out.

  Squaring my shoulders, I rise to my feet and suit up. And by suit up, I mean making sure that my canister of pepper spray is tucked handily in my back pocket. (Hey, you never know.) I don’t want to wrestle with my suitcas
e again, so my current uniform of boyfriend jeans and a white tank top will have to do. I run my fingers through my long, dirty blonde bob, dash on some mascara, and head out into the warm June night.

  Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I try and look casual, strolling toward the roadside bar. There are a couple of cars parked outside, and a handful of motorcycles to boot. I have about as much experience hanging around with biker types as I do kicking back with Siberian tigers. For all I know, they’re equally dangerous company to keep. The men I’ve dated have always been upstanding, clean-shaven, law-abiding blokes…each one more painfully boring than the next. I’ve never been one to tangle with bad boys. But tonight, I’ll wander into the tiger's cage. Even if only to see one up close.

  With a deep, steadying breath, I step up to the door of the bar. I can hear voices and music from inside, an appealing sort of din. The wide front windows could use a good scrubbing, but I don’t spot any bullet holes. That’s a good sign, right? Wrangling my face into a neutral expression, I push open the heavy door and cross the threshold.

  The signature smell of liquor, cigarette smoke, and sawdust rolls over me as my eyes adjust to the low light of the bar. An ancient juke box wheezes out a classic hard rock tune, which underscores the rumbling tones of male conversation. A group of men in leather cuts are huddled around the pool table in back, in the middle of a game. There are a few women hanging around them, too, rocking micro-mini skirts and bare midriffs. The bar itself, a long slab of rough hewn wood, is spotted with solo men, cradling their beers in silence and watching a hockey game playing on the TV hanging in the corner. There are enough people around to put me at ease, but not so many as to be overwhelming.

  So far, so good. Now maybe I’ll actually be able to relax and enjoy this drink. I sidle up to an empty stool at the very end of the bar and climb up. This place is definitely built for big, strapping men, so it actually does feel like a climb for my shorter self. The guys around me are so engrossed in their games and pints, that they don’t even notice my presence. I have to admit, I’m just the slightest bit put out by this. I half expected all their heads to turn in unison when a new woman walked into their midst, like in the movies. Guess I’m not exactly what you’d call a classic head-turner, though honestly I don’t spend too much time worrying about it.

  I peer around the stoic, handlebar mustachioed man sitting one stool down for me, searching for a bartender. As I run my eyes along the long rows of amber bottles and stacked glasses, a towering figure shifts at the edge my periphery. I swing my blue-eyed gaze toward the end of the bar and find that a tall, broad-shouldered man has appeared there. He stands facing away from me, his muscled back rippling beneath a plain black tee shirt as he reaches into the bar’s cooler for a bottle of beer. His well-worn jeans are cut perfectly to his tapered waist, and I can’t keep my eyes from taking a good, long look at his fine, sculpted ass.

  But it’s not until he turns my way that I feel the rest of the world fall away.

  A crown of loose brown curls tumbles across his forehead, falling to just above his collar. Long enough to be gorgeously scruffy, but definitely not unkempt. His solid jawline is shadowed with dark stubble, giving way to sharp cheekbones and a full, firm mouth that’s twisted into a wry half-smile. He’s got to be over six feet tall, with a perfectly balanced and seamlessly muscled body; a body that strikes me as evidence of both a genetic miracle and a ruggedly physical lifestyle. But while this man would catch my eye any time he entered a room, it’s his eyes that keep me staring at him with rapt, awestruck attention.

  They’re the most beguiling, brilliant shade of hazel I’ve ever seen in real life. Their color seems to shift with every move he makes. Yet it’s the content of his eyes that’s most arresting of all. There’s a depth to his gaze that’s seemingly bottomless. He has the eyes of someone who has seen worse things than most people can imagine, lived through harder times than many could survive. But despite that vast experience, there’s mirth there too. The devil-may-care defiance of a true adventurer. Those right there are the eyes of a warrior. A knight. A man who’s well acquainted with battle.

  And right now, those eyes are swinging my way.

  His gaze locks onto mine with a sniper’s precision, and I watch as that small smile widens just a hair…at my expense.

  “You must be lost,” he says in a rich, clear baritone.

  “Wh-what’s that?” I stammer, feeling about two feet tall.

  “I know every face that walks through that door,” he goes on, nodding toward the exit. “And yours ain’t one of ‘em.”

  “Oh,” I reply, straightening my spine, “I’m just, uh…passing through.”

  Passing through? I chide myself. What is this, a John Wayne movie?

  The man behind the bar nods, amused, and begins to turn away without comment. I feel heat rise into my cheeks at being brushed off. What, is he just going to completely ignore me? I have as much right to be here as anyone else, even if I’m not exactly his preferred clientele. It’s not exactly unreasonable to expect a bartender to take your drink order, is it? I call after him, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  “Could I get a drink, please?” I ask him.

  His head snaps back toward me with a look of indignation. He cocks an eyebrow, giving me a raking once-over that leaves trails of heat all along my skin. A searing pang twists my core—it feels something like longing. Or ire. Or both?

  “Do I look like a fucking bartender to you?” the man shoots back at me, drawing the attention of a few other guys along the bar.

  “Well…You do seem to be tending the bar,” I point out, gripping the edge of my stool to keep my hands from shaking.

  He tosses back his head, giving his dark curls a toss as he lets out a bark of laughter. In one swift motion, he sets the lip of his bottle against the bar and brings his fist slamming down, sending the cap flying.

  “Nah. I’m just in a habit of getting what I want for my own damn self,” he tells me, taking a long swig of beer. I watch those full lips press up against the glass bottle and feel a jolt of sensation run down my spine. He lowers the beer and shoots me an arrogant wink, “Don't jump to conclusions, babe.”

  “Don’t call me babe, asshole,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

  That gets his attention. For the first time, he actually seems to pause and consider me. That pang in my belly rings out to the very edges of my body as his gaze lingers on me. How can I be so viscerally attracted, so automatically responsive to someone who’s clearly an arrogant dick? Maybe it’s just pent-up sexual energy from these past few months of lackluster lovemaking with Paul… Though I suspect this new guy would have the same effect on me no matter when he happened to cross my path.

  Those firm lips of his part, locked and loaded with a scathing comeback, no doubt. But before he can utter a syllable, an older voice rings out behind him.

  “Hawthorne!” shouts a graying, barrel-chested man marching toward the bar from the stock room. “What part of ‘wait to be served’ don’t you understand?”

  “Don’t know what to tell you, Jimmy,” my sparring partner shrugs, knocking back his beer, “I’m not real good at taking orders.”

  “No, that’s my job,” grumbles Jimmy, taking his rightful place behind the bar. He catches sight of me sitting there and goes on, “Speaking of, what’ll you have, sweetheart?”

  I spot the dark-haired man watching me out of the corner of his eye. His very gaze feels like a challenge. A dare. And as usual, I find myself unable to pass it up. Normally, my drink is a mojito. But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go over to well, here.

  “Bourbon. Neat,” I tell the bartender, whose eyebrows raise at my order.

  “OK. Coming right up,” he replies, turning away.

  The tall stranger leans against the rough wooden bar, nursing his beer. He smiles at me with more amusement than kindness.

  “Bourbon, huh? Was that for my benefit?” he asks condescendingly.

&
nbsp; “Oh, absolutely,” I drawl back, my words dripping with sarcasm. “I’m very invested in impressing you.”

  “I tend to have that effect on people,” he replies nonchalantly. I try not to notice the way his built arms flex as he brings the beer to his lips. There’s not an ounce of fat on that body of his—just muscle, sinew, and tons of ink. He’s rocking a full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. I find myself wondering where else he’s tatted-up. Wanting to find out for myself…

  “Here you go,” Jimmy says, setting a lowball glass on the bar before me. Not exactly a light pour, either. But it’s not like I can back down now.

  I take the glass in my hand—the strong, smoky smell of the booze threatening to singe my eyebrows right off my face. The arrogant stranger’s hazel eyes are hard on my face, his lips twisted into a rakish grin. But now that I’m feeling rightly competitive, I’m dead set on wiping that smug look off his face. Bracing myself, I bring the whiskey to my lips and knock back a long swig—half the glass at least. The powerful burn hits me like a sledgehammer at first, but then that satisfying, fiery buzz warms me all over. I have to say, I get the appeal.

  Smiling triumphantly, I look up to watch the stranger’s reaction…but no one’s there. He’s already fallen into conversation with another regular at the back of the bar, having totally lost interest in me. I’m far more disappointed than makes any rational sense. What do I care about holding the attention of some guy at a bar? Some intriguing, sexy guy I can’t stop stealing glances at no matter how hard I try…

  “Pull yourself together, Porter,” I mutter under my breath, settling down to sip my whiskey and lick my wounds. Maybe I’m out of flirting practice after an entire young adulthood of monogamy. Though, come to think of it, I don’t think I was ever in the practice of flirting to begin with. This whole random hookup challenge of Allie’s might be a bit harder to complete than I thought.

  “Well look at you, drinking all by your lonesome,” a grainy, sneering voice says from over my shoulder.