Stepbrother Obsessed

by Devon Hartford

  “Skye who?”

  “Skye Albright.”

  “Nice name. But I’ve never heard it before. I’d remember a name like that.”

  Dante has been estranged from his mom Catarina, my stepmom, since he moved to Baja California to live with his dad at age 14. According to Catarina, she and Dante had a huge falling out and haven’t spoken since. That was seven years ago. Dante doesn’t know the first thing about me, not even my name.

  Dante frowns. “What? No way.”

  “Yes. Your mom married my dad this past June.”

  Dante’s eyes volleyball in their sockets. “My mom got married?”

  “To my dad.”

  “And you’re my stepsister?”

  I nod morosely.

  His brows knit with dark humor. “No way. You’re totally bullshitting me, right?” Hope shines in his emerald eyes. He doesn’t want to believe it’s true.

  That breaks my heart more than anything else. “Is your mom Catarina a real estate agent?”

  “What the…” His eyes pop. “No way. No fucking way! How did you know?”

  My stomach knots. “Because I’m your stepsister.”

  “Really?” His disappointment is obvious.

  “Yeah,” I sigh.

  His face sags with sadness. “I’m so sorry,” he says softly.

  Me too.

  Between his gorgeous good looks, his cocky sense of humor, his arrogant attitude, and his surprise compassionate side, my stepbrother is the grandest prize among men that a woman could ever hope to catch. I’ve never met a boy or a guy or a man like him, and I don’t know if I ever will again. I may still be in high school, but seriously, when you know, you know. Your heart never lies, and the truth is, my stepbrother is the most desirable man on the planet.

  And he’s totally off limits.

  The artificial wave machine clunks and makes a fake wave that kicks out across the huge pool. The people closest to it cheer and scream with glee while my heart sinks.

  When the wave reaches me, it slams into me and tears me away from Dante, knocking me underwater. I don’t bother to fight it. The blue doom washes over me like a cold suffocating blanket. I let it overtake me because I suddenly feel dead inside.

  I hope I drown.

  After tumbling under the wave for awhile, and despite my morbid desire, my head bobs up above the surface, and the last thing I hear is Dante shouting:

  “Skye!” Panic and concern strain his voice.

  I may be ready to give up, but with that one word, that one syllable that is my name, I know that Dante Lord is going to fight for me, no matter what happens.

  I just hope I can be as strong as him…

  oOoOoOo + O+O+O+O

  Okay, okay.

  Right now, you’re all asking yourselves, “How the heck can you NOT know he’s your stepbrother?” Some of you are saying, “How dumb are you, Skye Albright?”

  I’m no genius, but I’m not dumb.

  It all makes sense. I promise.

  Before our kiss at Blazing Waters, Dante and I had never met face to face. Well, not before that morning. I’ll get to our first meeting in a moment.

  Here’s the deal. Catarina rarely talks about Dante. When she does, she always cries. And the oldest pictures I’ve seen of Dante were from when he was a skinny 14 year-old skater punk with a spiky dyed-black mohawk. In my mind, that’s Dante Lord. He doesn’t have wavy beach blond hair or five day’s worth of facial hair. Nor does he have flames tattooed on both forearms. Or muscles. Lots of muscles.

  Little Dante Lord is not the model of manhood I kissed today.

  On top of that, he never told anyone he was coming to town. His visit was a total surprise for everyone. How was I supposed to know that the tan man I was all over at Blazing Waters was the boy in the photos?

  I wasn’t.

  As for him not recognizing me, Dante didn’t know I existed.

  So we didn’t recognize each other. It’s that simple. Maybe if we had, things would’ve played out differently. But they didn’t. They only got worse.

  You know what they say: You can’t decide who you fall in love with. Your heart decides for you. No matter how much of a mess it makes.

  So, how did Dante and I go from zero to kissing without exchanging our real names?

  It all started that morning, long before the kiss in the wave pool.

  oOoOoOo + O+O+O+O

  FIVE HOURS BEFORE THE KISS

  My best friend Roxanne Slaughter and I are standing in line at 7-Eleven, waiting to pay for our stuff. I’m holding my breakfast: a bottle of chilled water and a bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms. Roxanne is holding a steaming cup of coffee and a doughnut.

  I ask, “Don’t you think it’s a bit hot for coffee?”

  “I run cool,” she says seriously.

  We both have flip-flops on our feet and are wearing bikinis under our T-shirts and shorts. She doesn’t look cold to me.

  “It’s not like you’re a reptile,” I say sarcastically. “And it’s already like eighty five degrees outside and it’s not even nine a.m.” Me and Rox live in The Valley, as in, The San Fernando Valley, and it’s summer and it’s going to be super hot today. It was 95 yesterday and it’s supposed to be hotter today. I smirk, “Do you realize you’re perspiring?” I reach out to touch the beads of sweat on her forehead.

  She waves my hand away and backs up. “I want coffee. Shut it.”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting an iced coffee or something?”

  “An iced coffee would totally give me hypothermia,” she growls impatiently.

  “You might get heat stroke drinking all that hot coffee,” I joke.

  She glares at me, “I am not hot, okay?”

  “How about coffee ice cream?” Now I’m just pestering her for fun. We’ve known each other since second grade, so this is usual for us. “Or a coffee Slurpee?”

  She rolls her eyes, “They don’t even make coffee Slurpees. And coffee ice cream has like zero caffeine.”

  “You need to seriously consider a twelve-step program. Caffeine is highly addictive.”

  “I’m not addicted to caffeine, Skye.”

  I snicker, “That’s what addicts always say. You know the community center across from the library hosts twelve step meetings all the time. You should totally check them out.”

  She glares at me, “They don’t have twelve steps for caffeine addicts.”

  “I’m pretty sure they do,” I tease.

  She opens her mouth to respond but shuts it just as quick. Her eyes flash and she whispers, “Hottie alert!”

  I hear the door chime as someone comes into the 7-Eleven. At the moment, my back is to the door. Rox and I are both totally boy crazy, so I turn to look.

  She yanks my wrist and hisses, “Don’t look! He’ll see!”

  I hiss back, “Then why did you call hottie alert if you don’t want me to look?”

  “Wait till he’s not looking right at you.” Her eyes follow the mystery man behind me. “God damn it, he’s hot,” she moans.

  Now I really want to look.

  Rox yanks my arm again. A few seconds later, she mutters, “Okay, it’s safe to look.”

  I turn slightly and glance over my shoulder. The first thing I see are the aisles bristling with candy, potato chips, pretzels, and sundry junk food. Past all of that, standing in front of the wall of refrigerators, I spot the towering broad shoulders and shaggy hair of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I am not exaggerating.

  Wow.

  It’s like this guy sucked all the beauty out of the room when he walked in. He inhaled all of it in a three mile radius. Wherever he goes, he is the hottest thing there. The sun doesn’t stand a chance against this guy.

  In other words, he is miraculously hot. It’s the only way I can describe him. Yes, I notice specific details like his perfect nose, lush lips, perfectly manly beard stubble, and his longish surf-blond hair. I have a thing for surfers, it’s one of the reasons I�
��m applying to San Diego University, a.k.a SDU, which is walking distance from the beach. SDU isn’t my dad’s first choice, but he can suck it. Luckily, there’s no way I’ll get into USC or UCLA like he hopes.

  Back to Mr. Miracle.

  I can’t see Mr. Miracle’s eyes because they’re hidden by black wraparound shades, but the shape of his cheek bones and his jaw are just… perfect.

  To make matters worse, or should I say more perfect, Mr. Miracle is wearing a worn out leather motorcycle jacket. Wanna bet he has tattoos under that jacket? And, did you know it’s a federal law that a guy as hot as him has to ride a motorcycle? I have no doubt he has his federally mandated motorcycle parked outside. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an entire gang of bikers waiting for him, like he’s their king or leader or whatever.

  With chins hanging against our chests, Roxanne and I gawk in awe as Mr. Miracle opens one of the fridge doors and pulls out a sixer of Heineken. Rox and I both openly stare, but the second he turns toward the register, we spin our backs to him. Not that I want to. Somehow, it makes me anxious to not look at him. Not because I’m afraid or anything, but because I just have to look at him.

  Boots clack the linoleum behind us as Mr. Miracle gets in line. I literally feel his presence wash over me as he closes the distance. It’s that sixth sense thing where you know someone is behind you, but in a good way and on steroids. My entire back vibrates. My body screams at me to turn around and throw myself at Mr. Miracle.

  Roxanne starts to snicker like an imbecile.

  Without a thought, I slap her stomach with the back of my hand.

  She snickers more.

  My cheeks burn with embarrassment. He must know Rox is snickering about him. Hot guys always do. I desperately want to turn around and apologize for our bad behavior. But I can’t. Because I know if I do, I will make an ass of myself. Not that it matters. Guys this hot don’t notice girls like me. They usually hang around Victoria’s Secret photo shoots. You know the ones: the “Angels” photo shoots where every girl in it is a Perfect Eleven? Yeah, those women. That’s who a guy like Mr. Miracle goes for. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no troll, but Mr. Miracle is in a league of his own.

  “Next!” the uniformed clerk says from behind the register. He looks bored. Obviously, he isn’t gay, or he would be drooling at the sight of Mr. Miracle like we are. He arches his jungle-thick unibrow at us.

  Neither Rox nor I can move or speak.

  “Next,” the clerk asks impatiently.

  We still can’t move.

  “Ladies?” It’s Mr. Miracle. His voice is music. It should win a Grammy for best male voice ever. It is low and gravelly and more manly than Superman. Or Bigfoot. Or if Superman and Bigfoot had a love child. I don’t know. But I can literally feel that one word—Ladies?—hum through my body, hypnotizing every inch of me with poetry and passion.

  I am frozen in place.

  I swear, this has never happened to me before. Yes, I’ve gone guy crazy a million times in the past. But I’ve never lost the ability to control my own limbs.

  I. Can’t. Move.

  Neither can Rox, apparently.

  The clerk glances between me and Mr. Miracle. Then he glares at me. “If you aren’t going to pay, you need to get out of the line. Other customers are waiting.”

  “Uhh…”

  Suddenly I’m flung forward because Roxanne shoved me into the counter. My water bottle skids across the top and clatters to the floor behind it, along with my bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms.

  The clerk sighs like I’m an idiot while he bends down to pick up my food.

  Not only does he have that over-pronounced unibrow that no caveman would be caught dead with, but he also has one of those curly hipster mustaches, which makes him an idiot, so I don’t feel so bad. But I’m still totally embarrassed.

  Roxanne nervously sets her coffee and doughnut down next to my stuff.

  The clerk rings in everything.

  Rox pulls her debit card out of her wallet and pays.

  I don’t know how she can remember how to use her fingers to punch in her password when I can’t remember how to bend my knees or lift my feet off the ground to walk. Can you blame me? I’m still trapped in the cocoon of sweet confusion caused by Mr. Miracle. I don’t want to move. I want to be as near to Mr. Miracle as I can. That’s all that matters to me in this moment.

  Is that weird?

  It doesn’t feel weird.

  It feels entirely and unequivocally (that’s an SAT word I learned the other day)… right. Like this feeling is more important than a high score on the SATs or getting a 3.75 GPA (as if). Right now, all I need is this man. I imagine that if he were to look me in the eyes and smile at me, then my life would be complete. It’s stupid, but at the moment it makes perfect sense.

  And yet, I can’t turn around to look. I’m a swooning statue.

  The clerk hands a receipt to Rox.

  She fumbles with her wallet. “Take your stuff,” she barks at me. “I can’t carry everything.” She jams the cold water bottle into my stomach.

  That breaks the spell. The bottle bobbles in my fingers and I almost drop it on the floor when Rox hip bumps me toward the front door. I lunge for my M&Ms and swipe them off the counter. Can’t start my day without breakfast.

  Rox grabs my elbow and leads me out, causing me to drop my M&Ms. I lean down to pick them up and nearly trip all over myself.

  We’re such an embarrassment.

  I can’t imagine what Mr. Miracle is thinking, and I can’t get out of here soon enough.

  The door chimes as we push outside into the heat.

  “That was humiliating,” Rox groans as she strides up to the driver door of her mom’s old Toyota.

  “You think?” I bark. “You made me fall all over myself like a total spaz!”

  She rolls her eyes. “Get in. Let’s go before he sees us.”

  “Wait, I…” I don’t know what, but I’m not ready to leave. I stop and look around.

  A somewhat old racing motorcycle is parked two spaces over from Rox’s Toyota. Told ya. It’s the only other vehicle in the parking lot. It’s definitely Mr. Miracle’s. No motorcycle gang waiting for him, but with his rough and ready good looks and leather jacket, he’s more than enough man for ten women.

  “Come on, Skye. We can’t hang around after that. We look like idiots.”

  Roxanne isn’t normally this anxious about guys. We’ve made fools of ourselves in front of guys plenty of times. We have a blast at the mall stalking cute older guys from store to store. Then again, the guys at the mall are never this hot. And we never look this foolish.

  “Skye! Let’s go!!”

  My mind is still too jumbled to make a coherent argument about why we should stay. All I can manage to mumble is, “But…”

  “Skye!!”

  I glance back at the doors of the 7-Eleven. With all the bright sunlight reflecting off the glass, I can’t see inside. For whatever reason, every fiber of my being is telling me I have to have one last look at Mr. Miracle before we go. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, something deep in my body is pulling me toward him. I can’t help myself.

  “Get in the car already!” Roxanne barks. She leans over in her seat and flicks the passenger door open. “Skye!”

  Her anger is making me angry. I almost blurt, “What’s your deal, dude?” But instead I whine, “I can’t!”

  I don’t know why seeing Mr. Miracle one last time is such a big deal, but it is. I turn and take a step toward 7-Eleven. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know if I’m going to do anything. Maybe I’ll just stare openly at him when he walks outside and hope he stops to talk. Or not. Maybe he’ll ignore me and climb on his black motorcycle and ride off into the sunset. Either way, I can’t leave without finding out. If Rox and I go now, I’ll never forgive myself.

  “Skye! I’m going!” Rox closes the driver door and starts the Toyota’s engine. She wouldn’t leave me here, would she?
r />   Panic sets in.

  At the same moment, the 7-Eleven door chimes for the third time this morning.

  I whip around to face the double doors.

  Mr. Miracle walks out and straight over to his motorcycle.

  Damn. He didn’t even notice me. He probably thought Rox and I were a bunch of clumsy kids. Not the women he’s used to. The Perfect Elevens, which I’m totally not.

  Sigh.

  Wait a second.

  He isn’t riding off into the sunset.

  Hope soothes my sense of defeat.

  There’s a backpack tied down to the back of his bike with a little red net. The backpack looks like the traveling kind, not a school knapsack.

  Mr. Miracle busies himself unstrapping the net and the backpack. Then he starts stuffing cans of Heineken into the pack. The first four cans go in easy. The last two won’t fit. It’s obvious there’s no more room in the already bulging backpack. Frustrated, he glances around, noticing me and Roxanne. He considers us for a moment.

  Heat waves shimmer up from the asphalt between us. Or maybe they’re coming off my body. I can’t tell for sure. But it sure is hot. I mean, I went past simmering and came to a boil the moment I laid eyes on Mr. Miracle inside the store. Now it’s worse. I’m dying in my T-shirt and shorts. Something inside me tells me this would be a good time for me to strip down to my pink bikini. No reason. Just cause it’s hot.

  It would also be a good time for Mr. Miracle to pull off his leather jacket. And everything else.

  No reason. Just cause he’s hot.

  None of that happens.

  Instead, Mr. Miracle heaves a sigh and looks at the two extra beer cans he’s holding. He looks up and grins at me, flashing the most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. His wide mouth is sumptuous and delectably—two more of my SAT vocab words—kissable.

  He holds up a can of beer and says, “Want one?”

  Is he talking to me? He can’t be talking to me.

  He arches an eyebrow over the frames of his black shades. It’s the most perfect sculpted eyebrow I’ve ever seen, and it doesn’t even look tweezed. Just ruggedly perfect and swoon-worthy in every way possible.