Stepbrother Rogues: A Steamy Three-Story Collection (A Bundle of Standalone Stories featuring Rebel Stepbrothers)

by Stephanie Brother

  “Yeah, when?” I said quickly – too quickly. I am sure I seemed like a loser who didn’t have anything else to do, but the fact was, there wasn’t much going on in our small town. Besides, when was I going to have the chance to talk to him again? I had to take what I could get.

  “Soon, soon!” He demurred, touching my face and sending stars through my body, and my heart jumped. But then it seemed like he was avoiding me – like all I saw of him was his back as he went out the door, or what I always pictured when I closed my eyes: his gaze and then his hands discreetly roaming over my body… his blue, blue eyes, his long lashes, his soft lips coming in for a tender, then hungry kiss.

  But, before very long, my handsome, well dressed, and formerly caring stepbrother, and somehow the love of my life, was gone again, to live his glamorous life in NYC and beyond.

  ***

  When I walked into the seniors’ classroom the next day, everyone was abuzz.

  “Did you hear?” one of the students said to me. “There’s a contest to go on a date with Carter Reagan in New York!”

  I felt like I had been kicked. She was still talking, something about a radio station, something about all-expenses paid, something about an essay contest, but my mind was racing. I couldn’t breathe. Win a date with my stepbrother? How could I let this happen? I tried to keep the shock off of my face, but when I couldn’t speak, soon the girl gave up on talking to me and instead turned to the girl next to her to resume her yakking.

  Mind ablaze, I began formulating my plan. I would win that date if it killed me. Nobody would know I was his step. After all, we had different last names. I never changed my name from my dad’s – despite his absence, it meant too much to me to keep it. Heather Greene and Carter Reagan. Still, should I use a fake name?

  Going over possibilities in my mind, I realized I was shaking, and it wasn’t a stretch to convince my boss that I was sick and needed to leave. I rushed home to drop my things and hurried to the library where I pounced on the free computers to look up this radio contest in secret. I bit my lip as the page loaded.

  It was all there: simply a personal essay contest, where you had to make a case as to why you deserved the date with Carter. The winner would be whisked to Manhattan, where she would spend one day shopping and another in a NYC spa, and then would be picked up in a limo to have dinner and dancing with my step. It struck me as unbelievable. How could he be this famous? The contest entry date was a mere week away. I pored over every inch of the materials, hoping to find some clue as to what they were looking for, but it was hard. Maybe they were just going to pick one out of a hat for all it seemed to matter what you wrote.

  Gazing at the pictures I melted. The promo shots of him peppered throughout the press materials were certainly calculated for maximum heat, but for me the effect was a bit stronger. This was one of the first times I let myself even look into those blue eyes for more than a moment since he had left, and the effect was immediate and visceral. At the same time, its aftereffects spread through me softly and lingeringly.

  A void in my heart where he used to be began to ache, and looking him in the face, even two-dimensionally, I became acutely aware of the pain of his absence. Memories were flooding back to me. We had been so close. When things got scary or bad as young teens, I would always crawl into his bed with him and we would watch movies or just lie there and talk. He’d poke gentle fun at me for dragging one of my stuffed animals he nicknamed “Peeper” into bed to cuddle with us, but somehow his jokes always made me feel special, not offended. Carter was the only one who understood what I was going through, because he was going through the exact same thing too – the pain of losing his mom to that of losing my dad. And then I didn’t know what I was feeling, or what he was feeling, and didn’t realize that, on my side at least, it would turn to love.

  Of course, we didn’t mean to do anything wrong. The closeness, of our laying in bed together was something that we both wanted – no, needed – in that tumultuous time, but neither of us counted on it turning into tangible electricity. I figured when I could feel him getting hard against my leg that it was probably just random, like they taught us about in health class. At least until that one time. I think we were both shocked when I turned over to face him just to say something about the show we were watching, and realized our lips were so close they were nearly touching. The surge between us was palpable. We stared at each other for what felt like five minutes, unable to look away. But while I was afraid, he took both a deep breath, stared deeply into my eyes, and as he pressed his sweet lips against mine, shiny electric stars flew through my body, sparking and bursting with joy. I was feeling things I had never felt, and may have been doing things I shouldn’t have done, but we were young, and confused, and alone, and together.

  It would be good just to be with him again, not just see the back of his head as he left. It would be a chance to talk, to explain things, to try to understand why he left me and us, and…if I’m honest with myself, it would be a chance to finally go on a date, albeit a contrived one, with my model stepbrother.

  ***

  The next week was filled with frantic writing, editing and polishing my essay, to make my vow to win the date come true. Unfortunately it appeared that all the senior class girls were doing the same, each convinced that she would be the one to sit across from the table with Carter with only candlelight illuminating their faces, as she weaved her magic and transformed a radio contest date into a loving relationship. Hmm.

  Could I beat all of them? Would Carter read any of the letters personally? Was it worth it to reveal my identity even covertly, just in case? Or would he immediately throw my letter away in disgust, if he found out I had written it? It was agony trying to decide, with fate in the balance. My stomach hurt. It always did when I got upset.

  Carter used to rub it for me when I was distressed because of my dad, or when it hurt because school wasn’t going well for whatever reason. He’d hold me with one arm and then just rub my belly softly with his hand, sometimes crooning something calming into my ear. I was able to just zone out then, just concentrate on his hand as it gently circled, feeling absolutely cared for and knowing that with him I would always be safe. But it was confusing later, to also get excited, to wish he would not stop his hand from roaming about my belly, and to explore even further – my breasts would pebble in hopeful anticipation to his gentle, sweet touch, and I sometimes I had to resist the urge to push his hand down between my legs, to reciprocate his gentle touch, to make it more insistent, more deep, more loving.

  More.

  Ah, Carter.

  What I wouldn’t do for you to come through the door right now and hold me again, and tell me it’s all going to be ok.

  I put my essay in a big manila envelope, addressed and sealed it and then kissed the seal for luck. I walked slowly to the mailbox, my mind racing, my stomach churning. This was my chance. My chance for a date with a model, Carter Reagan. To meet him not only as a sister, but as a woman. And he wouldn’t know what hit him.

  ***

  Every day I went to school, did my best to concentrate on whatever we were doing that day, and not to pay attention to the girl talk about the contest or whatever else. For most of the people who had applied, Carter was just another in a long line of boys they would crush on and then forget as soon as the next hot number came along. A superficial thing, a passing fancy. For me, there was never another boy I wanted, and I was sad to say, I felt there was never another boy I would want. Sure, I would notice good looking guys at the pool or at the gym or wherever, but it only went that far for me. My heart was locked up in a boy I couldn’t have, a young man that was almost too remote to reach, and maybe it felt safer that way, I don’t know. But the heart wants what it wants, and my heart led me kicking and screaming home from school every day to be the first to check the mailbox, to see if there was a letter there, telling me I had won the trip to see my brother.

  One day before Carter left, things had gone a
bit too far. I had been crying in my room when nobody was home, as it was hitting me yet again about my father’s having left us. My dad never told anyone why he was leaving, he just was gone one day, and he never came back. The persistent thought that it must have been me, must have been my fault, was torturing me. If only I had been a better daughter, he might have wanted to stay. He would never have left if I had just cleaned my room, smiled more, been prettier, done better in school. Not been a failure. I would have talked to my mother about the whole thing but she either wasn’t there or she was in pain herself, and once she met Carter’s dad, she just never seemed as interested. On the outside I didn’t show any of my anguish, except sometimes to my brother, so maybe she just never suspected that I wasn’t handling everything as well as I could be.

  That day was different. Everything was coming to a head. I stood in the bathroom, watching my tears roll down my face in the mirror, strangely detached. I felt almost as if I wasn’t in my body anymore. My mouth was making a funny shape, like an upside-down crescent moon. I remember thinking it looked like the tragedy mask in my drama class.

  It was kind of freaking me out to be so strangely numb to it, and yet obviously in pain, and I couldn’t figure out how to snap the two halves of me, the impartial watcher and the painful watched, back together. In my stricken state, I somehow figured I had to cause myself some kind of pain to make me whole. Reaching in the bathroom cabinet, I grabbed a razor blade, and sat down on the toilet. I pulled up my skirt a bit, exposing my thighs and drew the edge of the silvery blade along the skin. Nothing at first, then a stinging sensation and few drops of blood. But I could feel it – I could feel something aside from my self-recrimination, my self-blame at the abandonment I suffered, and it helped. Emboldened I tried again, and this time, I accidentally slipped, and embedded the blade a centimeter into my thigh. I was shocked to see so much blood, and kept it together long enough to pull it out and put it on the counter, but soon felt extremely woozy, and watched, shocked, as the floor flew toward my face, and then I lost consciousness, laying on the floor, skirt hitched, blood flowing.

  When I came to, Carter was holding me in his arms, wiping my face with a wet washcloth.

  “Heather! What happened, Heather? I was so worried!” He took the washcloth and pressed it to the cut on my thigh. “I came home and heard you crying, then nothing, and then a big thump! I had to break the door a little to get in. Was there an accident?”

  “I cut myself,” I said. “I guess I fainted from the shock.” No need to tell him “the accident” was mostly intentional.

  “Why were you crying because you cut yourself?” He dabbed gently at the wound. I couldn’t answer. “This looks pretty deep,” he continued. “We should wash it.” Carter wrapped me with a big bath towel and got out some hydrogen peroxide. His concern and meticulous cleaning of the cut thawed something inside me, and suddenly I felt everything again, I felt whole, and I felt strong love for him seizing and wringing my heart so that I couldn’t breathe. His tender care was also turning me on, and I wanted him to kiss me better. All over.

  “Carter,” I croaked as he dabbed at my cuts, eyebrows furrowed.

  “Yeah, Heathe?” He was so careful not to hurt me. I tried to stop gasping at the sting of the disinfectant.

  “Carter, I love you,” I said.

  “I love you too. You should be more careful,” he said absentmindedly. I wanted to tell him, no, I mean I love you, for real, with all my heart and soul, but instead I just gritted my teeth and felt that love for him healing and stitching my broken parts back together again, just as he tended to my wound. “I wonder if you need stitches?”

  “Don’t tell mom,” I said. “She’ll flip. It was just a little accident.”

  “Ok, I won’t, but we have to keep an eye on it so it doesn’t get infected.”

  Once he was done, Carter put his arm around me and gently turned my face to him, looking me sternly in the eye.

  “You be careful ok? I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His face was close and I could smell his manly scent, cologne, clean sweat and citrus. My social mask I wore everywhere was stripped from my face. I am sure he could see the love in my eyes.

  “I mean it, you know, Carter? I love you,” I whispered.

  “Love you too, sis,” he said and cleared his throat. His voice was thick.

  I couldn’t help it. I had to kiss him, and I did. I kissed him like he had saved my life because in a way he had. I kissed him because he was my life, right then. And he kissed me back in the same way, hands in my hair, urgent, unabashed, hungry, tender.

  The next day he got the call, and he was gone, with only a goodbye written on a piece of his good stationery. “Bye Heath – had to go. Love, Carter.” I was almost ashamed, but I knew there was nothing I would or could change about that moment. What can you do when you are no longer in control of yourself, when love takes hold of you, and makes its decisions through you? How can you be held responsible for that?

  ***

  The next day I got home to shouting in the house. It was my mom and stepdad fighting. They had been doing so less often lately, so I’d thought that things were going better between them. Based on the sounds coming from their bedroom, I suppose not. I heard something smash as it hit the wall. My mother used to throw things when she was upset. Not at anyone, she wasn’t violent that way, but with enough force to break whatever it was she was throwing.

  After the initial rush and thrill of finding one another, my mom and Carter’s dad just had a really hard time making a go of things, which I suppose was extra tough after the heartbreak they had both suffered already. I suspect my mom felt like she hadn’t really gotten over the shock of my dad leaving, and because of that she had gone too far with Carter’s dad too fast. Also, I think Carter’s departure probably really upset his dad. I worried for them, for me and for Carter.

  Carter.

  With all the commotion, I almost forgot to check the mail.

  ***

  I stood in front of the post box, heart in my mouth, trying to work up the courage to open it and peek in. Finally I closed my eyes and did it before I could think too much. My hand immediately seized a thick envelope! I drew it out slowly and saw the radio station logo on the corner. This is it.

  I stuck it in my coat, and practically ran home to open the envelope in the safety of my room. They wouldn’t send out such a thick envelope if I hadn’t won, would they? What if it were just filled with ads or promo stuff?

  My parents were still fighting, but at this point I could barely hear them. My mind was elsewhere. Finally sitting on my bed, I tremblingly slid my finger under the seal and the contents fell out. The letter read:

  Congratulations Heather Greene!

  Your essay has won an all-expenses-paid trip to New York City to go on a date with model Carter Reagan! You will stay in a luxury suite at the sumptuous Central Park Boutique Hotel, where you will be pampered at PLUSH, the hotel spa. Don’t forget the shopping spree for everything you need for your date with a celebrity!

  All the information including flight numbers and limo service is attach-

  I couldn’t make out the rest of the letter due to the tears filling my eyes. It was happening. I wiped my eyes to check when. The date would be in one week.

  ***

  Buckled into my seat on the plane, I tried to relax. It was a smaller plane, and so though was in First Class, it wasn’t that much nicer than regular Coach. Still it was exciting. The flight attendant handed me a hot towel, and asked if I wanted something to drink. I got a fresh-squeezed orange juice and looked around me. I was the only one who seemed excited. A few others were deep into their work, staring intently at computer screens, while another seemed to be meditating behind big sunglasses.

  I closed my eyes, trying to forget what had happened as I left the house that morning. There had been another fight between my mom and step dad, and it was the nastiest, loudest one yet. But even they couldn’t bring me down, as
my excitement for my trip to see my step was just too great.

  They had hardly paid attention when I had told them I had won the trip, but then again, I left out the part about Carter. My mom just saw the plane ticket, the hotel reservation, and accepted my departure, even driving me to the airport. But I could see the tension in her knuckles as she gripped the steering wheel, and the tightness of her lips.

  “Are you ok, mom?” I had asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she had demurred. “I’m just tense about your stepfather and I. But I am sure it will all blow over.”

  “I hope so,” I said quietly.

  Taking a page out of the book of meditating cabin mate, I closed my eyes and settled in to the soft seats, trying to focus on nothing more than my breathing. It was useless. Unbidden, images of Carter were filling my mind. What would he do when he saw me? Would that electricity still be there? Would he throw a drink in my face, ignore me, or possibly worse – just go on the date and get out of there as fast as he could? Or would he take one look at me standing there in my gown and realize that I was more than a sister? Take me in his arms, look into my eyes, and kiss me deeply, binding together the boy and girl we once were, and the man and woman we are now?