Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance

by Harper, Callie

  There went the fantasy. I should have known. When something seemed too good to be true, it was. That innocent, ‘ravish me as I never have been before’ vibe she’d been giving off? That had to be an act. If there was one thing I knew how to spot it was a scheming gold-digger, and that mother of hers wore that label like a blinking neon sign on the Vegas strip. No one with a mother like that could ever be that unpracticed, that real, that natural. Jewel had a good game going. She had that breath of fresh air thing down pat.

  “So your mom is Candice Kidd?” I asked her, condescension thick in my voice. She looked down at the floor, not meeting my eyes.

  “Why don’t you go clean up,” her mother urged her with a crazy, bright laugh. I noticed Jewel had a canapé stuck to her dress with a big cream cheese smear.

  Candice turned to my father and apologized, “I’m sorry, darling.” The maternal instincts on that one were strong. My father really knew how to pick them.

  I almost felt bad when I saw tears swim in Jewel’s eyes. She did as she was told, turning and disappearing into the crowd quick and fast. Not before I got one last look at her luscious ass, her small waist flaring into a generous swell and curve.

  I turned away, angry at myself for getting played. She’d lit a spark in me, made me almost forget myself, woken me up from my boredom like a cool breeze. But it wasn’t real. None of this scene was. The best thing to do was turn my back on it, all of it. I knew that, but it turned out sometimes even a 21-year-old world-weary, jaded son-of-billionaire could get played like a sucker.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jewel

  I thought it couldn’t get any worse. That scene at the fundraiser, when my mom had almost found me getting down and dirty with her boyfriend’s son against a wall? I’d thought that was as bad as things could get.

  It got worse. They got married. Valentine’s Day. So romantic.

  At least our parents hadn’t done a big wedding ceremony. I knew my mother wanted it, but she wanted to be married to Tucker Leland Helmsworth II even more, on any terms he wanted. She told me that they’d tied the knot after-the-fact, after they’d eloped in some place called Turks and Caicos. So now I had a stepbrother, Tucker Leland Helmsworth III.

  The Valentine’s Day they’d eloped, what had I been up to? Out for a romantic evening of my own, roses and candlelight with my boyfriend? Not by a long shot, not a nerd like me. I’d spent the night playing poker with my geek-squad friends. We played for lunch, as in who’s buying who lunch next week at school. We liked to pretend that poker was cool, that it wasn’t as dorky as staying in on a Friday night to play board games or Dungeons and Dragons. But, honestly, it was the same thing. We drank lemonade instead of liquor, chewed gum instead of smoking stogies, and kept our clothes firmly on, thank you very much. No strip poker for this Victorian era women’s social club.

  I didn’t tell anyone what had happened at the party over Christmas break. My friends would be scandalized, and not in that fun ‘tell me more’ kind of way. I’d spent my entire life defining myself as the opposite of my mom, from the way I dressed to the kinds of people I hung out with. They didn’t play that way.

  They wouldn’t know what to say about Tuck. How I’d thrown myself at him, moaning as he’d played with my breasts, pressing against him and practically begging for his touch. Now he was my stepbrother.

  Excellent.

  The only thing to do was forget it, pretend it had never happened, avoid him like the plague and count the minutes until they got divorced. Because they were going to get divorced. It was only a matter of time.

  I’d only met my new stepfather, Leland, once, at that party, but I wasn’t impressed. He reminded me of a stuffed pheasant, pampered and glossy, the kind of man who got facials and mani-pedis. I guessed as a billionaire you did whatever the hell you wanted. The world spun on his axis, who was going to say no to him?

  Certainly not my mother, but I could tell you I heard the clock ticking on their marriage. He wasn’t the type to grow old and gray with. Let me rephrase that. He wouldn’t grow old and gray with a woman growing old and gray by his side. He’d trade up, turning in his older model for the newest, sleekest thing money could buy. Right now, that was my mom who still had enough va-va-voom in her 30-something tank for his 50-something engine. But it wouldn’t last.

  I was sure Tuck was exactly like him. I’d played right into his hands at the party, believing every hackneyed line, feeling sincerity in every practiced touch. I was sure he’d had a laugh about it afterwards. I’d been such ripe, low-hanging fruit. He was a player and I’d been played.

  I’d just have to avoid seeing my hotter-than-hell stepbrother until the marriage was over. And then I’d never have to see him again.

  My plan worked until spring break. One month. It was nice while it lasted.

  Late March they insisted we join them in New York City. They were going to throw a huge party with anyone who was anyone attending. Of course their two children had to be there. Scandal if we didn’t show. How about if we made out in the middle of the dance floor? Would that be scandal enough?

  But, see, thoughts like that weren’t allowed. They were right out. If there was any way I was going to make it through the six day ‘family vacation’, I’d have to avoid Tuck and focus on other things. Like the mountain of schoolwork I had. Or I could think about depressing things, like the way Tuck had looked at me at the party after he’d met my mother.

  He’d sussed out my mom quick, sizing her up as she’d draped herself on his father’s arm. Then when he’d turned back to me it was like he was seeing a carbon copy of her, just as shallow and money-hungry.

  The only person thinking worse thoughts about myself was me. I hated the girl I’d become at that party. How had I gotten so caught up? I’d let a total stranger who turned out not to be such a fucking stranger after all press me up against a wall and paw my breasts, cup my ass.

  I guessed that’s what I got for letting my guard down. I thought I’d learned my lesson by watching my mother’s freak show unfold over the years. No, apparently I had enough of her in me that I could make a total ass of myself, too. I could be the idiot who went out and let a handsome stranger sweet-talk me into almost anything.

  My mother didn’t talk about Tuck much. She mentioned him a few times, but it sounded like the party line, like she was reading from a PR print-out. For all I knew, she was. I didn’t know how billionaires rolled. Maybe they had their own marketing teams? I heard about how Tuck was doing well in school, how he was a varsity athlete in wrestling and majoring in business, a chip off the old block. Bully for him, chip chip and tally ho, whatever rich people said. I wanted nothing to do with either of them. Especially since my cheeks still burned with embarrassment over how much I’d wanted him, how quickly he’d melted my panties. I’d been ready to do whatever he’d wanted in that corner at the party. Had we been given another few minutes, who knew what would have happened?

  I’d managed to avoid Tuck completely since that disastrous first encounter. Now my luck had run out.

  §

  A driver met me at the airport in New York, whisked me away in a limo and took me to an Upper East Side penthouse that made all the other penthouses cry in jealousy. Leland Tucker Helmsworth II had money. MONEY. It wasn’t as if I’d grown up poor, my mom had made a chunk of change modeling and then with her movies, but it always seemed to go as quickly as it came. And she’d always spent it on clothes, treatments, nips and tucks, trainers, investing in her key commodity—herself.

  Our house in L.A. had been a modest bungalow, near enough to Beverly Hills that she could say that’s where she lived, plus districted to bad public schools so the sales price got knocked down $100K. Compared to their penthouse our home looked like a shack.

  The private elevator opened to a foyer—no entryway or mud-room here, thank you very much, but the French pronunciation of foyer. I set my bags down and started tiptoeing around, marveling at the cavernous living room with the 20-foot cei
ling and priceless masterpieces. We’re talking Rembrandt, people, plus a giant Picasso over the grand piano. The spectacular gourmet kitchen had two sinks, two stoves, two pantries, two of everything my mother wouldn’t touch at all. Cooking wasn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. And I wasn’t one to talk. Food was something I tended to forget about, then remember at 6 p.m. that I hadn’t eaten all day and scarf a couple slices of pizza.

  I heard some voices. Investigating, heading down a hallway, I discovered French doors left partially open leading out to a roof deck. With a hot tub, of course, didn’t every New Yorker have a private hot tub? One person was climbing out. Holy hell, it was Tuck. Without a shirt.

  All those muscles I’d felt under his tux at the party? They were as amazing as I’d imagined, maybe better, his shoulders huge and broad tapering down with every ridge and ripple of his abs defined. And he had tattoos. I brought my hand out to the doorframe to steady myself, taking in every line of his ink, bundled at his shoulder, trailing down around his bicep, one at his corded wrist. I needed to stop staring before he caught me.

  “Hey, sis!” He gave a slow wave from the side of the hot tub. He’d caught me. I blushed furiously. What the fuck was he doing calling me sis? “Want to come join us?”

  A girl looked over at me from the hot tub, her dark hair slicked back, her full rack bobbing on the surface of the water. Oh. My. God.

  Rushing away so fast I was surprised I didn’t smack directly into a wall, I bolted away as quickly as I could. But not before I heard their laughter rising up, mocking my innocence. It was going to be a long six days.

  §

  At first, it was easy. From what I could see, Tuck stayed drunk or hung over pretty much the whole time. He went out every night all night with friends from prep school, friends from college. The whole time he was home his phone would light up like the entire world was texting him, sending him hilarious pics from the rager the night before and suggesting more for the night to come.

  At least that’s what it seemed like. I kept to myself. I had a stack of books to get through so I could get a jump on the rest of the semester. I’d been selected to be a research assistant for a biology professor 20 hours a week, an unusual honor for a sophomore. He said he’d also recommend me for a coveted summer internship at the Marine Mammal Center in L.A., and while I was excited about the doors this professor could open in the future, I knew those 20 hours were going to be hard to find this spring. I needed to plan ahead and get cracking on the books. Lucky for me, I had absolutely no social life at all and nothing but time for studying.

  We barely even interacted. He mostly acted like he didn’t even remember we’d met.

  Mid-way through the week, our parents trapped us into a family dinner. The big wedding celebration party was Saturday night. I guessed they figured we had to have at least one dinner together under our belt before we presented ourselves to the world as one.

  Cook had prepared something for us. I didn’t know what it was, a small flightless bird. Maybe quail. I pushed around my food, no appetite. I wished I did want to eat, the deafening silence around the table threatened to swallow us up in awkwardness.

  “How’s school going, Jewel?” Leland finally asked.

  “Fine, thank you.” I was so grateful I was there on academic scholarship. I didn’t have to take his money to succeed.

  “You’re studying all the time,” my mother criticized me, right on cue. “We’re in New York! You should go out at least once!” She thought I was such a killjoy.

  “I have a lot of things I need to take care of.” I looked down at my plate, not saying the rest of what was on my mind, telling her how some of us met our responsibilities. Some of us didn’t look to others to bail us out, finding a sugar daddy to solve our problems.

  I saw Tuck look at me, then her, and I could see him assessing our relationship. I didn’t want him doing it. For some reason I felt like he could see too much.

  “Are you having a nice break from school?” my mother turned her attentions on Tuck. “I’ve seen you going out. How wonderful that you have such a wide social network.” So subtle with her subtext: jab, jab, Jewel, you’re a hermit.

  He shrugged. “Same old scene.”

  “Not enough fight in the nightlife here for you?” Leland asked wryly, springing into the conversation again.

  “Is that a clever reference to fighting?” Tuck asked him. “Like a play on words?”

  “I don’t want to get too sophisticated in my manner of speech with you.”

  “No, I have a rock for a brain,” Tuck agreed.

  “You said it, son. Not me.”

  Ooh, Leland was cold. I didn’t like that. In an instant, I could tell he could be mean as a snake.

  Clearing his throat, he continued, “I simply think you could be spending your time on something worthwhile.”

  Tuck pushed his food around, same as me. Only I heard him mumble under his breath, “Some people think a black belt is worthwhile.”

  “What’s that?” Leland asked, looking up sharply from his dinner. Tuck shook his head and we all went back to silence.

  He had a black belt? When had that party boy cleaned up his act and focused long and hard enough to do something like that? Earning a black belt took persistence, grit, determination. I didn’t know he even had those words in his vocabulary.

  After another minute, Tuck stood up and left. Leland excused himself for a moment. I wondered if he was going after his son to smooth things out, but somehow doubted it.

  “He’s very angry at Tuck,” my mom explained to me under her breath. “He started an underground fight club at school.”

  Why did that send a surge of heat through me? I’d never been into fighting, never been into sports at all. The closest I got to athletics was yoga, which I loved and did almost every day, but that was a far cry from a fight club. It might be the opposite.

  “What kind of a fight club?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Some sort of cage fighting. Mixed martial arts.”

  “Oh.” I suddenly got an image: Tuck, shirtless, all that raw power and coiled tension unleashed against an opponent. I felt a pull, deep in my core. Man, this guy was dangerous.

  “He almost got kicked out for it,” my mother continued, practically tsking her disapproval.

  “But his daddy bailed him out,” I concluded.

  “Well, he had to. He can’t have his son kicked out of school.” She shook her head. “Imagine, underground fighting. It’s not fitting of the Helmsworth name.”

  “Did you seriously just say that?” What, did she think she was in Downton Abbey? Were we doing a period piece here? Because last I’d checked she was the same Candice Kidd who’d had photos turn up a few years ago on a gossip blog showing her snorting coke off of her rocker boyfriend’s chest. Just saying.

  “I am taking this marriage seriously,” she hissed. “And you’d better, too.”

  I smiled at her and sipped my water, not saying what I was thinking. I’d choose Option B: blink and miss the whole of it.

  §

  The next day I was curled up on a sofa in the den in my comfiest sweatsuit, surrounded by an armada of highlighters, stickie notes and pens plus my laptop, laser-focused on the all-consuming quest to extract any and all knowledge from my texts. Then Tuck waltzed into the room looking like a porn star, all hard-bound muscle and only wearing fitted boxer briefs. Of course I got distracted, it was a totally normal reaction when some giant near-naked man sauntered through the room yawning and stretching like a lion after a big meal. Only what he’d eaten last night had probably been women, lots of them, leaving a trail of huge, screaming orgasms all across the city.

  These were the kinds of thoughts that popped into my head when I saw him. It was exactly why I needed to avoid him.

  “Better stop staring at me, sis.” He grinned, sleepy and sexy in all the wrong ways. “Mom and Dad will think something’s up.”

  “What!?” My book and pen fell to the floor.<
br />
  “Just sayin’.” He winked at me like we were in on a private joke.

  “Nothing is up!” I scrambled after my belongings, pulling them up back with me to the couch.

  “It’s OK, sis. It’ll stay our little secret.”

  “There is no secret!” I insisted, though I felt heat sneak and creep its way through my body. It was impossible not to, the way he looked at me.

  “No?” He took a step closer until he stood before me, looking down at me on the couch, making me feel tiny. And then he sat down next to me, close. Too close. Heat practically radiated off of him.

  “Is this what you do all the time?” He pointed at all my books, my highlighters, my laptop and stickie notes.

  I huffed, annoyance helping a good deal to fend off my physical reaction to him. “Unlike you, I didn’t get into college based on my family’s name.”

  “You think you’re all that, don’t you?”

  “I think I’ve worked hard for what I have.”

  “Unlike me?”

  I shrugged.

  “You think you’re better than me.” He sat there so close I could smell him and I hadn’t forgotten that scent, musky and masculine, making me so weak in the knees I was glad I was sitting down. “You’re probably right,” he whispered.

  Frozen to the spot, I couldn’t seem to make myself pull away when he reached over. Tracing his fingers along the inside of my wrist, he murmured, “Your pulse is racing.”

  I licked my lips and tried to think of something smart to say, or at least smartass. But little Miss Wit that I was, my mind went blank. All I could think about was the power of his hand wrapped around my wrist, the roughness of his calloused fingertips along my smooth skin.

  “Do you remember when we met?” he asked in a low whisper.

  “No! I mean, yes, but I don’t…” I fidgeted, anxious and flustered under his attentions. We couldn’t talk about what had happened when we met. I thought that went without saying. It was the type of mistake best never discussed, not now, not ever.