by B. B. Hamel
His grin got larger. “Yeah? Going to tell mommy and daddy that I tried to fuck your tight little pussy?”
I shook my head. “Never going to happen.”
“We both know you don’t keep coming back for the shit pay.”
“Why do I keep coming back then?”
He got close, so close to me. I backed up completely against the filing cabinet and felt his hot breath on my neck. The thrill of a job well done was ringing in my veins, my heart pumping fast, my pussy soaked through yet again. His eyes were burning into mine, and I was practically begging him to kiss me, to bend me over and lift up my inappropriately short skirt.
“I can’t figure it out. I think you want to ride me until you can’t think.”
“Figure this out,” I said softly. “You’re my boss and my stepbrother. It’s never going to happen.” As much as I’m starting to want it to, I thought to myself.
“Your loss.” His mouth was so close to mine. “I keep thinking about how you’d taste.”
The phone began to ring, and I practically jumped up into the ceiling.
He pulled back and laughed at me.
“Going to get that?” he asked.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.” I quickly moved around him, though he didn’t give me any room. Our bodies touched for a moment, sending a thrill through my chest.
I grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Is this Easton Wright? Private, uh, detective?”
“This is his office. How can I help you?”
“I need some help.”
I grabbed a pen and asked exactly what we could do. Meanwhile, Easton disappeared back into his back room slash apartment, probably to take a nap.
The woman sounded young and angry. She said she thought her husband was cheating on her, probably with someone from work. We made an appointment for her to stop by and finalize the price, and then I hung up.
“Got a client,” I called out.
“Cheating husband?” he grunted from the other room.
“How’d you know?”
“It’s always a cheating husband.” I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, his shirt off.
I gaped. His tattoos covered his muscular body, all ripped and perfect.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Going to take a shower.”
“Okay. Can you keep some clothes on while I’m here at least?”
“No.” He walked over to the door, carrying shower supplies and a towel. “Do me a favor. Clean up that filing cabinet while I’m gone.”
I frowned at him. “I thought you told me not to do that.”
“I had some things you weren’t supposed to see in there. It’s fine now.”
Some things I wasn’t supposed to see? That was a bit mysterious.
“What, are they like classified FBI files?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay. Have a good shower, boss.”
“I’ll be thinking of you.” He smirked as he opened the door and was gone.
What a frustrating asshole. Suddenly he wanted me to reorganize for him when earlier he had freaked out about it?
And of course he was walking around without a shirt even though it was completely wrong. Sure, I wasn’t exactly dressing conservatively to see him, but still. It was part of my job to be a distraction, at least for the other people around us. That’s what he said, anyway.
I got up from the desk and walked over to the cabinet, sliding it open. As I got to work, I couldn’t help but dwell on that last comment he had made. I imagined his hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking himself slowly as the water covered his ripped body. He’d grunt my name as he came, thick spools of cum dropping onto the shower floor.
I shook my head, my heart racing. What was wrong with me? I was having dirty thoughts about my stepbrother.
Instead, I lost myself in the job of reorganizing his absolutely chaotic files.
I kicked my feet up on the desk and read the paper.
We’d been in his office for hours. Nobody had called; nobody had come in. He’d come back from the shower and had gone straight back into his living space, leaving me to finish filing on my own.
I got through the whole cabinet before lunch. After that, I was bored as hell. I could look at Facebook for only so long before I wanted to literally tear my eyes out. I mean, how many selfies was I supposed to like? I was super into baby pics and cute dogs—bonus points if the babies were with the cute dogs—but I couldn’t do that all day.
So I decided to enrich myself with the newspaper. I flipped through the flimsy pages, skimming the typical bad stuff.
But one headline caught my eyes. “Handless Hooker Found in Ditch,” it said, and it was the sort of salacious thing you rarely read about in a place like Mishawaka.
I skimmed the article. The body was found not too far away, closer to Chicago than to our town, but still out in the country. Apparently the body was only a few days old. The girl was young and pretty, and probably a prostitute, though they hadn’t identified her yet.
Then came the gruesome details. I almost couldn’t read about it. Apparently she had been sexually assaulted and beaten. But the weirdest thing was, her fingers had all been chopped off. She was missing some toes, but not all of them, and her tongue was cut out as well.
The police said they had no leads yet. It was all pretty messed up. How could someone do that to someone else? I knew evil existed in the world, but it was always at a remove. Always through the news. But for some reason, it was really hitting me hard, that somebody would do something so horrible to another human being.
“What’s up?”
I looked up, startled. “Nothing,” I said.
“Your face looks white.”
“It’s just this article.”
He reached out his hand. “Let me see.”
I gave him the paper and he began to read. “It’s pretty messed up. I was just thinking that it’s hard to imagine another person could do something like this. I don’t know, for some reason it was just hitting me hard, you know?” I paused, noticing the look on Easton’s face. “Are you okay?”
He glanced up at me, and I’d never forget the look in his eyes. It was haunted, dark and deep, like he was seeing something he never expected to see, something more terrible than I could understand.
“Fine,” he grunted. “You should go home.” He turned and walked into the back room.
That was weird. That look had shaken me, really spooked me, but I had no clue why. I stood up and followed him, standing in the doorway. I watched as he poured himself a shot of whisky, downing it.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Go home, Laney.”
“Was it that article? Do you know something about it?”
He threw the paper in the trash and turned back toward me. The fear and shock was gone, completely replaced by something else, something I hadn’t expected.
Rage. It was all rage and anger flowing through him.
I stepped back, not sure what was going on.
“Go home,” he growled.
“We can talk about it, if you want.”
“I’m fine.” He stared at me. “I need you to go home now, Laney.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He didn’t respond, just poured himself another drink. I looked at him for another second and then turned back toward the front room. I gathered my stuff quickly and left, throwing one last look back toward him.
He looked far away and haunted.
I closed my eyes and thought about him.
Easton, the most frustrating man I knew. Only when I was alone in my bed, safe from his cocky eyes, could I really give in to what I thought about him.
I had never met anyone even remotely like him. He was in turns confident, dark, mysterious, and way too fucking handsome. Sexy, actually, the way he moved and talked, the dirty things he said to me.
We weren’t really related, of course. Which was why I didn’t stop myself from slipping my fingers down under my panties to feel my soaked clit.
I imagined what he would do to me if I let him. I wanted him to slide his hands up my ass, to kiss my neck, to whisper in my ear. I wanted him to clear off the desk in one flourish and tear off my skirt. I’d get down on my knees and feel his thick, hard cock, run my hands up and down his length, feel how stiff he was for me.
And then I’d wrap my mouth around him and suck his cock hard. I wanted to taste him, his salty skin, make him grunt and groan. I wanted to suck him hard and fast until he lifted me up and threw me down onto the desk.
I rubbed my clit in furious circles as I thought about him thrusting deep inside me. I’d put my hands on his muscular chest as he fucked me deep and rough, filling me up, sliding in and out in agonizingly rough strokes.
Easton, his thick cock, his striking eyes, I wanted every inch of him. I wanted him as much as I hated him. I hated his drinking, his brooding, his anger. I didn’t understand any of it, and he wasn’t willing to let me get past his gruff exterior.
But I wanted to drill down deep, as deep as he could fuck me. I whispered his name softly to myself, testing it out, feeling how it felt on my lips. I rubbed my clit, soaking wet, as I gently said it.
And then someone knocked on my door.
Instantly I stopped, poised and alert. I glanced at the clock. Why is someone knocking at midnight? I thought to myself.
“Dad?” I called out.
“It’s me.”
That voice. What the hell? Was this some sort of joke?
“Easton?”
“Can I come in?”
I was about to panic. Had he heard me? I was just touching myself, thinking about him, and suddenly he appeared.
“Hold on.”
I quickly got out of bed, bright red, and rushed to get dressed. I threw on a clean pair of panties, pajama pants, and a sweatshirt. I checked myself in the mirror and was a total wreck of course, but that couldn’t be helped.
I slowly opened my bedroom door. Standing there in the hallway was Easton, leaning against the wall.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed at him. “It’s late.”
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pure intentions. Fingers crossed.”
I stared for a second. “Okay. Fine.”
He followed me inside. I sat down on the bed, crossing my arms, as he proceeded to look in my closet and under my bed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Checking.”
“I see that. Have you gone insane?”
He stopped in front of me, frowning. “Seen anything weird lately? Creepy guys standing around?”
“No. Not at all.” I could smell whisky on his breath, but he seemed clear-headed.
“Good.” He finished looking and stood up, shaking his head. “Sorry about this.”
“Easton,” I said softly, “is this about earlier, that article?”
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing important.”
He was already halfway out the door. “Wait a second!” I said, following him. “How did you get here?”
He looked back at me. “Cab.”
“And how are you getting home? I doubt there are any running this late.”
“Walk, probably.”
“You idiot” I said, shaking my head. “Just stay here.”
“Stay with you, sis?” he asked, grinning for the first time. “Seems like we shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Is this business?”
“Something like that.”
“Stay in the room next door. It’s empty.”
“I’d rather stay in your bed. You can wrap those legs around my face, let me taste your pussy.”
“Go to sleep, Easton.”
“Your loss.” He turned and left. I heard the room next door open and then close.
I shut my own door, locking it. I climbed back into bed, my head reeling.
What was that? He had acted so strange back at his office, but this was even stranger still. What was he looking for?
It had to do with the article I read. Something about that murder rang a bell for him, and he was probably worried.
But why worry about me?
I pulled the covers up over my head, mortified and worried. I was terrified that he had heard me whispering his name as I’d touched myself, and I worried that I was somehow in danger. He seemed to think there was a possibility.
I fell asleep thinking about him, alternating between worry and lust.
In the morning, I woke up slowly. I got up and stretched and then padded softly down the hall. His room’s door was already standing open, the bed an empty mess.
6
Easton
I looked through the binoculars at a normal-looking suburban home. There was nothing remarkable about the place, except maybe that it was being watched by a private detective and his stepsister.
He was supposed to be in there, and supposed to be cheating, but I hadn’t seen a single peep from him or from his supposed mistress for hours. The client had told us that he brought her home when she was away for business conferences, but she had never been able to prove it.
So far, she seemed paranoid. I made a little note in my log and glanced over at Laney. She looked like she was sleeping, but I knew better. She’d been strange all day, and I couldn’t really blame her, not since the night before.
How could I explain to her what that was all about? Partially fueled by alcohol, but mostly fueled by my own paranoia, I took a cab over to my mother’s place just to check up on my stepsister. She had no clue why, of course, and could never guess. I wasn’t even sure if my mother knew, though she probably did.
The article had tipped me past the point of no return. For the last few months I’d had my suspicions, had my hunches, but there was no proof, only a string of seemingly disconnected dead bodies popping up across the country, slowly honing in on me.
The girl with her fingers removed was a message, a clear sign.
It was a message to me from the past. From a violent, deadly past. From a man I’d thought was gone for good.
“What’s that?” Laney said, pulling me back into the present.
I followed her gaze and saw it. There was a woman walking up the sidewalk, wearing a bathrobe and slippers.
“A neighbor?” Laney asked.
I began snapping pictures. “That’d make sense.”
“She looks like a normal person.”
“Of course she does.” I snapped away as the woman walked up the driveway, glancing around nervously. “These people aren’t monsters.”
“But they’re cheaters.”
“Yeah, they’re cheaters. They’re not good people. They’re just not monsters.”
“I don’t see the difference.”
I was quiet for a second. “I know monsters. And believe me, these people are probably shitty and selfish and confused, but they’re not bad.”
We watched as the woman in the robe knocked on the door. After a second, our mark answered and quickly ushered the woman inside. I snapped a few pictures, getting a nice one of his face looking around outside.
“Now what?” Laney asked. “We bust in, catch them?”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. And go to jail right after that.”
“So we’re just waiting here?”
“Pretty much. We’ll get pictures and report back on what we saw.”
“Sounds pretty lame. We should catch them in the act.”
“I almost never catch them in the act.”
“Why not?”
I thought for a second. “You just don’t need to. Most people don’t need proof. They just need someone to confirm their suspicions. These pictures will probably be enough.”
“What if they’re not having sex in there?”
“They are.”
“Maybe they’re just p
laying board games. Maybe he’s just lonely.”
“And maybe I piss sugar.”
Laney laughed. “You know, some people actually do piss sugar.”
“Okay, and my shit smells like roses.”
She made a face. “Don’t be gross.”
“I’m just saying, trust me. I know people. I’ve been doing this for long enough to tell you they’re fucking.”
We lapsed into silence, and I hoped she was beginning to understand what it was like to be a real private detective. Most of the job was about waiting, patience, and intelligence. More often than not, we didn’t bust into someone’s house and take pictures. Instead, we sat around and waited and watched, learning as much as we could, and then we let the client decide on their own what the truth was.
I couldn’t count how many clients had blamed me for their spouse’s cheating, at least at first. Even when they had their suspicions, they couldn’t fathom that it was true. But people are always people, inherently flawed and broken. Eventually they saw the truth.
“So are we going to talk about last night?” Laney said finally.
I glanced at her. “No, we’re not.”
“You were looking for something.”
“I was drunk.”
“You weren’t drunk,” she said. “Not that drunk at least.”
I leaned closer to her. “You’re right. Sober enough to remember how fucking cute you look with bedhead.”
She blushed. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not. I’m always thinking about how best to slip my fingers inside your panties and to make you come.”
She looked away, and I couldn’t read her expression. “Come on. Something about that article set you off. We both know it.”
I turned away from her, not wanting to get into it. “It’s a long story.”
“We have nothing else to do.”
“Sorry, sis. Not today.”
“So are you going to show up at my room every night from now on? Check under my bed for monsters?”
“The only monster in your life is me,” I said, smirking at her. “Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried.”
“So do you want me to show up at your room every night?”
“No,” she said quickly. A little too quickly.
