My Stepbrother's Secret
Page 3
I look around some more, standing there at the doorway like a fool. There is a shelf to my right, a dark wood shelf that is filled with trophies—basketball, football, baseball . . . even fucking BOWLING. The wall above the shelf is covered with laminated certificates, academic honors and shit. I almost roll my eyes at all this show of achievement. What’s he trying to prove? Do you really need to have EVERY fucking thing you’ve won on display here?
Now I feel movement to my left, and I almost jump out of my skin when I realize that Caleb has gotten up off the bed on which he was sprawled and is now walking up to me. He looks so tall in this room, so lean and hard, his perfect stubble evenly spread over that chin that looks like it was sculpted out of pure marble. He’s in those same low-cut jeans, but with no belt on, and his navy t-shirt looks old and worn, maybe something he’s had for years. The shirt is kind of short for his long body, and I gasp when I look down at his waist and realize that his jeans are hanging so low that I can see his lower abs and pelvis, and I can make out the outline of a thick, beautiful vein running down the side of his abs, down into the darkness beneath those jeans. I stare at his crotch for a moment, marveling at how heavy and full it looks, and I swear I catch a faint aroma from him, a smell that is turning me on. Oh, my lord. Oh, my fucking LORD!
Caleb has walked past me, towards the open closet door just past the trophy-case. There are a bunch of clothes piled up on the floor, and he pushes them with his foot, shoving them into the closet as he tries to force the door shut. I look at the clothes and feel a weird sensation when I realize there are some women’s panties mixed in there, along with some other stringy items that look like they’re made of lace or silk or satin. What, do these women leave their underwear here? Or does my pervert brother buy this stuff for them to dress up for him. Does he make different women wear the same underwear? Does he get some sick pleasure out of knowing that all these women are sharing the same fucking panties? Is he really some sex freak? Is that what his mom was trying to warn me about, that I should get used to some wild sexual activity down the hall from me, maybe even in MY ROOM!
I blink and look away when I realize that he caught me looking at those clothes. I turn back to those shelves again, unable to make eye contact with him, unable to look into his deep blue eyes, worried that he’ll see right through me, see my irrational attraction to him, an attraction to a guy who’s not only my stepbrother, but a guy I barely know!
Feeling like the messed-up teenager that I am, I touch one of those football trophies as I desperately try to think of something cool and witty to say.
But Caleb suddenly speaks before I have a chance.
“Those were all over the house,” he says quickly. “My mom had them on display in the living room, the kitchen, everywhere.”
“Sure, why not,” I say, trying to find my voice. “She’s very proud of you.”
Caleb just rolls his eyes now. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I brought all that stuff up here before I took off for Europe, when I heard you guys were moving in. I guess my mom arranged all of it on these shelves when I was away in Europe, and—”
“Oh, yeah, how was Europe?” I say, turning red when I realize that I am talking really loudly because I am nervous, not to mention that I just totally cut him off.
Now suddenly he smiles at my nervousness, a full, beautiful, genuine smile, and it catches me completely off guard and I swallow hard. But then, just as suddenly, the smile is gone and his expression goes dead, and he’s that brooding guy with the dark stubble again, and I wonder if this is some act, some bullshit tough-guy front he’s putting on.
Now he walks across the room slowly, hands dug into his pockets, and he shrugs carelessly. “It was all right. I didn’t like London so much, but Berlin was cool.”
“Wow,” I say. “Berlin.”
And I just nod my head because I have nothing to offer. I don’t know shit about Berlin. I barely know anything about London. But something inside me pushes me on, forces me to keep talking, and I do it, somehow finding the confidence in my shivering body to keep going, and I ask him why he didn’t like London, I ask him about his fellowship, I ask him about his music, his songwriting, his favorite bands. It is all small-talk, trivial shit, but I can sense him opening up even as I feel a deep warmth inside me as I watch this strange guy who is now my stepbrother, my family . . . watch him speak with such poise and self-assurance, now and then showing me a glimmer of that beautiful smile that feels so real, so genuine.
Who is this guy, I think as I laugh at something he says and see his eyes twinkle when he sees how happy I am suddenly. Who is this guy who seemed like such an asshole when I first met him and is now actually having a conversation with me, his new little stepsister, the girl who’s invaded his home, taken over his private studio, cramped his style with his women.
Well, maybe not cramped his style too much with the women, I think as I remember my warm sticky sheets, and now I glance at his crotch again without really thinking about it, and I swear it looks bigger, with a bulge showing, a bulge that wasn’t there when I walked in.
And now I see that he is looking me up and down, not caring whether I see him inspect my young body, my boobs that I’m trying to stick straight out under my thin blue t-shirt, my smooth white thighs, the curve of my little ass in these washed orange shorts, my bare feet with their short, pink-painted toenails.
And suddenly I feel terrified again, exposed, completely self-conscious. In my filthy fantasies I could easily imagine him undressing me, touching me, pushing his tongue, his fingers, finally his cock into me, making me moan, whimper, howl. But here, now, as I watch him lean back on the bed, completely at ease with himself, his crotch looking stiff and heavy in those low-cut jeans, I know that I would freak the fuck out if he actually made a move.
What the hell is wrong with me, I think. Why am I such a schizo freak about this? Why am I so fucking mixed up?
But later that night, as I lie in my warm bed with the lights turned off, a gentle breeze flowing through the crack in the window, I realize why I am so mixed up.
Because before today, it was just an irrational physical attraction to this man, my stepbrother. It was just a kiddie crush, in a way, as filthy as my thoughts were. But now, after spending an hour with him, talking to him, listening to him, seeing him smile like that . . . yes, now I realize that it’s quite possible . . . quite possible . . . quite possible that I’m falling for him.
I’m falling for him.
And that’s what’s fucking me up. Suddenly this thing got really complicated in my mind. It’s one thing to imagine him fucking me, taking my virginity, bringing me to the kind of orgasm that I saw registered on those other women’s faces. But it’s a whole different game if I actually fall in love with him.
Because he’s my fucking BROTHER! Stepbrother, yeah. But he’s FAMILY! We live in the same house! What would my dad say? What would his mom say? What would people in town say? What would my other relatives say? This shit is taboo for a reason.
But now slowly I calm myself down, remind myself that in so many ways I’m still a kid, so inexperienced. How would I even know if I’m falling in love? Can you even fall in love so quickly? Especially with a guy I know so little about! I mean, I know about what he’s DONE, what he’s ACHIEVED, but do I know HIM?
And I feel a shiver pass through my body now, a strange feeling from deep within, a sense that my body is trying to say something to me, trying to tell me that you don’t need to intellectualize everything, you don’t need your brain to understand everything. You just need your heart. And your heart is what? It’s part of your body. In fact it’s the centerpiece of your body, isn’t it?
Which means you need to release some of your inhibitions, let go of your hangups and insecurities, stop thinking so much about it and just follow where your body leads.
Just follow your body, Allie. Trust the unspoken intelligence of your body, your animal nature, your primal needs. Trust in it, and follow it.
7
And now every evening, once my dad and stepmom and I are done with dinner, I help with the dishes, talk to them a bit, and then, with my heart beating like a drum, climb those carpeted stairs to the third floor, pluck up the courage to knock on Caleb’s door, and force myself to walk in and say, “What’s up?”
This goes on for a few weeks, and soon I notice that my bed isn’t unmade anymore, my sheets are cold and dry when I get home from school, and my room smells like me again, not Caleb.
I am almost disappointed, but something about that excites me too. I’m not sure what it means—hell, it probably doesn’t mean anything, just that Caleb has found a new place to fuck his women. But I also can’t help but notice that Caleb is going out less at night, is home more often, certainly home after dinner, in his room, almost like he’s waiting for me, little Allie, to knock on his door and walk in wearing my little green shorts and my girlie-girl t-shirts.
I wonder if he looks forward to our little chats every evening, and soon I start to allow myself to believe that he does. He is still moody sometimes, switching from that smile to a deadpan expression without warning. I still don’t quite get it, and I’m not sure if it’s a front, an act, or if there really is a kind of darkness in him, something that is disturbing him, something that’s unresolved in his mind, in his heart.
Then one night, without really meaning to, I stumble on it—or at least part of it.
We are talking about football for some reason, even though I don’t know shit about it and think it’s kind of boring. But growing up I had always sort of liked the sound of football games on TV playing in the background on Sundays. It was the only time my dad was really relaxed, and we’d eat a big lunch or late breakfast and my dad would just chill on the couch while I lay around on the floor playing with toys early on, my computer later as I got older. So I just mention that about my dad, and then I make the mistake of asking Caleb about his dad.
“So I’m really sorry about your dad,” I say to him, looking him in the eye for as long as I dare. “It must have been really hard.”
He just stares back at me with those blue eyes, and the hint of a smile that had been on his handsome face is just a memory now. He is cold all over suddenly, it seems, and he just stares at me blankly, and in that moment I feel like I don’t know him at all, like he isn’t even there anymore, like his soul has left his body and I am staring at an empty shell. It kind of freaks me out, actually, but like a moron I go on.
“Yeah,” I say, talking fast again as Caleb stares me down. “That’s gotta be so hard. You guys are so strong for getting through that.”
Finally Caleb blinks, but his dead expression doesn’t change. Slowly he swings his legs off the bed and stands up, walking towards me.
I am sitting on his swivel chair near his desk, playfully moving it up and down, turning it around, spinning myself like a kid, and he comes up to me and grabs the chair and just fucking PUSHES it backwards with all his strength, and although the chair has wheels and so it slides back without tipping over, I am startled at the violence of his act and I SCREAM as I felt the backrest smash into his desk, knocking over pencil holders, books, framed pictures.
I try to stand but Caleb is right in front of me and he pushes me back down into the chair, and now I just stare into his cold blue eyes, those eyes that suddenly look incapable of the warmth I had seen in him in all our evening chats. Those twinkling blue eyes are now fierce, angry, staring a hole in me.
“Your dad’s alive, right?” he says to me, his deep voice sounding strained, the sound coming out in a low, menacing tone. “Isn’t he? I mean, last time you checked, your dad was alive, right, Allie?”
“What?” I say, completely confused and flustered, nervous as hell. I feel so vulnerable under his grip right now, and his anger is overpowering me. “What?”
“ANSWER ME!” he shouts, and I just cover my ears like a child and try to turn away, try to stand up again, but he pushes me back down again, down hard, and I try to stand up once more but he doesn’t let me, won’t let me, and so I just sit there trembling, fear and panic surging through my tiny body.
“Yes,” I finally say, raising my voice to a high-pitched squeal. “Yes, of COURSE he’s alive. What are you talking about, Caleb?”
Now Caleb straightens up fully, and I shiver as I look up, my face at the level of his waist, my eyelids fluttering as I reel from this sudden burst of rage.
“What I’m saying is . . .” Caleb says, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, look at me, Allie. Fucking LOOK at me!”
I had turned away for a second, and now I look at him again, too scared to disobey him, too scared to disobey this schizo freak stepbrother of mine.
“Okay,” he says, still staring me down with that ruthless look, those burning eyes. “What I’m saying is, you have NO fucking idea what it’s like to lose your father. To have your father fucking DIE on you. So don’t tell me you understand how hard it was or how strong I was or whatever the fuck bullshit you think you know about me, about my life, about my family.”
And now he just STORMS to the door and pulls it open, turning and looking back at me. Then he beckons with his head like I am a goddamn DOG, a pet to be ordered around, and he just points at the door.
“Get out, little Allie,” he says, his voice low, his tone so devastatingly serious that I almost burst into tears right there. “Get the FUCK out.”
I stand up and stumble over to the door, still freaked out, confused, almost angry at Caleb for getting angry at me. What did I do?
And maybe it is because of this anger in me that I say it, but as I walk past him, past this beautiful man that my body wants but my brain is warning me to stay the fuck away from . . . yes, as I walk past him, I look him in the eye and just mutter out one sentence:
“You say I don’t know anything about your family,” I whisper. “But you know what? I AM your family now, asshole.”
I am your family.
8
The next day forward I don’t go to Caleb’s room after dinner. I am hurt, confused, offended . . . and I am sulking. I make it a point to stamp my feet as I walk up the stairs, just so he’ll know I am done with dinner and back up on the third floor. Then I SLAM my door closed, sometimes a couple of times, just to make a point, and I sit there in my soundproof chamber like a punished child.
I guess a part of me is hoping Caleb will stop by, apologize, maybe even give me a hug, pressing his body against mine, giving in to the attraction that I tried to tell myself I had seen in him, the attraction that I felt in myself at such a deep, almost primal level.
And although a part of me hates Caleb right now, that attraction is still there in me, I know. His weirdo behavior notwithstanding, my body wants what it wants, and that freaks me out, fucking TERRIFIES me. I have never felt this kind of attraction for a boy, and at times it puts me into a deep state of depression when I drive myself crazy thinking about how stupid I am, how fucked up I am. I mean, even if Caleb weren’t a schizoid who is clearly fucking four or five different women right now, he’s still my STEPBROTHER. What do I expect is going to happen? That this brilliant, hot, older guy who’s got women lining up in the driveway is going to suddenly show up in his little sister’s doorway with a fucking erection? This isn’t even a fantasy, I tell myself. It’s just fucking PATHETIC.
I’m just lonely, I tell myself as I sit here in my empty room. I have a new life, a new family, and I’m uprooted. My dad has a new wife to keep him busy. My stepmom has a new husband to make things exciting. My stepbrother’s life hasn’t really changed that much. It’s just ME that gets the worst of it. This is fucking bullshit and I HATE it!
But I slowly get over it in a couple of weeks, resigning myself to the fact that I just need to get through this year in school and then I’ll be off to college hopefully, to a new start, a new life, MY life this time. And so I force myself to stop t
hinking about Caleb, to just imagine that he doesn’t exist. And I almost succeed.
Almost.
Because the following week, I get home from school and walk into my room and immediately feel my hair stand on end when I smell that familiar smell—HIS smell, his scent, his musk. He was in here today, I realize. He was in here again.
And sure enough, the comforter is untucked again, the sheets underneath looking crumpled, the smell of sex heavy in the cloth. I feel conflict rage through me as I stare at my bed, and a part of me wants to just storm into Caleb’s room and confront him like a normal person might do. And I am about to do it, but then something, maybe that same unspeakable instinct of mine, stops me.
No, I decide. You know what, I’m going to catch him in the act. I’m going to fucking catch him in my bed with one of those sluts he brings home. Then he can’t deny anything, and I will have the power. I can threaten to tell my dad, tell my stepmom. No doubt they would be freaked out by the twisted nature of it. Perhaps my stepmom will even kick Caleb out of the house. Who knows. Either way, it would give me some way to get back at this weirdo brother of mine.
So the next day I bike home as fast as I can after school, praying that Caleb is still fucking his flavor-of-the-week hot chick in my bed. But as I screech around the corner, I see a green Lexus zip past me and I catch sight of flowing blonde hair that is undone and messy, red painted lips that are all smeared, light gray eyes that have that look . . . THAT look.
I am disappointed and I fling my bike against the garage and storm up to my room. But I can’t get rid of the image of that disheveled blonde driving past me, that look of deep satisfaction in her eyes, like she was in heaven or something. And so although I have spent weeks telling myself I wouldn’t do it ever again, when I get to my room I just break down and give in to those confusing urges that are raging through my body, sending those tingles up and down my inner thighs, sending hot blood rushing into my puffy little clit, forcing wetness out of the tight lips of my pink slit. Somehow the emotions of anger and conflict surging through me are heightening my arousal, screwing up my senses, driving me to the edge of insanity, and I almost burst into tears as I furiously rub myself to orgasm, my thin legs spread shamelessly as I smell my own sex even as I feel the warm stickiness of Caleb pressed up against the smooth skin of my bare bottom.