Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  We glare at each other for a second, and it’s taking everything I have to meet her eyes and not to stare at her trembling lower lip, or further down to where I can clearly see her nipples poking out of her sheer gown. Somehow, somehow, chivalry wins out over my dick, and I let her go, putting her back on her feet. She shivers, and before I know it I’m shrugging my tux jacket off and pushing it towards her.

  “Stop it, I don’t want that.” Her eyes flare defiantly, all the while rubbing her arms with her chilling looking hands.

  “It’s freezing out here”

  “Well I’m fine!”

  I grit my teeth and roll my eyes; “Have you seriously always this fucking obstinate?”

  “It’s my ‘political edge’,” she sneers out.

  “Well, that’s one word for bitchy.” I cringe again inside, wondering how the hell I can go about murdering the voice inside my head that keeps insisting on letting everything out.

  She frowns at me, reaching up to push a loose lock of hair behind her ear and just looking so damn cute standing there shivering; “Is there a fucking point to all this?”

  Ugh, yes, if I could just stop acting like an asshole and ruining it.

  I clear my throat; “Yes, actually. Archer Holdings believes in your campaign.” Christ I sound like I’m giving a board meeting address.

  She purses her lips and clenches her jaw at the name; “Fantastic, well tell them to vote however their little hearts desire in the election. I’ll have my people send over some lawn signs and buttons if they’d like.”

  “Cute” I mutter, seeing her frowning mouth turn up slightly at the corners.

  “So, what, is my Dad trying to buy my love from beyond the grave or something?”

  I grimace, feeling my muscles tense and hands clench, before I have to remind myself that she never knew William Archer like I did; like we did.

  When he found me, I had nothing; less than nothing really. None of us did back then, until he dragged us back from the brinks of our own personal hells. And when I say ‘Nothing,’ I don’t just mean in the material possessions sense of the word either. When a man is broken inside as I was - like all three us were - there's almost no coming back from it. In the very bottom depths of my own nightmare, with the shit I'd seen and the even worse shit I'd done, I'd given up on myself; almost.

  "When a man gives up on himself, that's when he's truly gone" He'd said to me that first night, sitting in that shit-ass bar as he’d pulled the bottle away from my shaky hand when I'd reached for another drink; "And you don't seem like you're gone; not yet."

  'But Goddamn close to it’ is what I would've said, looking at me that night.

  I asked him later what he saw in any of us when he found us in that shithole of a slum-bar on the outskirts of Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I was curious about me when I asked him, but Bryce had been way worse than even I was back then with his addictions. William’s only response had been a single word: "Promise."

  'Promise' is what turned three shell-shocked, burned-out, drugged out soldiers for hire to the worst dictators on Earth into the disciplined new men of means we were today. We'd never be the man who saved us, but we'd pledged our lives to getting a close as possible. And a promise - not just any promise but THE promise - is what brings me out here in the freezing cold, looking at Reagan Archer and wondering how in the world a guy who'd lived through the shit I'd lived through is having the hardest time in the world trying to figure out what the hell to say to her.

  P A S T

  “Reagan! Ray! Do not make me late!”

  “What? I’m here, jeez.” I stomp down the stairs from the second floor landing with a scowl on my face, a scowl that only deepens when Quinn and my Aunt Kelly coo and aww and gush over the frilly, stupid pink dress I’m wearing as I make my appearance.

  “Oh Reagan, you look adorable, honey!” Aunt Kelly gushes; clutching her hands together eagerly before digging in her purse for her camera.

  I groan; “No! No pictures!” I make a face as the flash goes off regardless, setting my jaw even harder as I stomp the rest of the way down the stairs. I am fourteen years old, still very firmly in the grasp of my anti-dress tomboy phase, and I absolutely hate that I’m dressed up like a freaking cabbage patch doll.

  “Well I love my dress!” Chelsea comes bounding down the stairs, and even Quinn rolls her eyes at the exuberance. Chelsea is ten and firmly believes she’s actually a Disney princess.

  “Well you look very pretty young lady!” Aunt Kelly can’t help herself as she snaps another couple of pictures, the flashes making me turn away and shield my eyes.

  “Well I look stupid, stop it.” I groan, pushing her fussing hands away from the dress; “Why do I have to wear this dumb thing?”

  “Because it’s my graduation, that’s why, Ray-Ray.” Quinn giggles and sticks her tongue out as I make a lunge at her, only to be held back by Aunt Kelly.

  “Reagan!” She scolds, looking at my firmly. Aunt Kelly is one of those sweet motherly types who is incapable of looking mad no matter how hard she tries, and even at thirteen, I think I’m aware of this fact and impressed with her attempt anyways.

  “She started it! I hate that name!”

  Aunt Kelly turns and gives Quinn another equally as unimposing stern look; “Be nice to your sister, she is wearing the dress after all.”

  “What’s the point? It’s not like Dad’s going to show up anyways.”

  The silence that descends over the bottom of the stairs is palpable, and I instantly regret opening my mouth as Chelsea’s face falls and the tears start to well up in her eyes. Even always-cool Quinn looks like I slapped her in the face, and my Aunt’s face goes a shade whiter; “Now Reag-“

  “Fuck you, Reagan.” Quinn spits at me as she turns and storms out the front door.

  I don’t know it yet, but me and my big mouth have a long, illustrious future ahead of us.

  P R E S E N T

  Hudson gets weird when I mention my Dad, which only drives the wedge that’s already between us even deeper; the wedge being that I didn’t know my own Father half as well as he did.

  “Look, let’s go get a drink or something and I’ll explain.”

  He can not be serious.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” I remember the last time with him when drinks were involved, and immediately regret it as I feel my face grow hot.

  “Will you fucking relax?” He snaps, looking irritated and still holding out his jacket to me even though we both know I’m not going to take it; “Look, this isn’t about us-“

  “There is no ‘us’, Hudson,” I sneer. I know I’m covering for my own embarrassment with this bitchy act, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Besides, what other way is there to act towards Hudson?

  “Yeah, no shit, babe.”

  I glare at him.

  “Listen, Red,” He scowls at me, his blue eyes somehow looking even hotter when they’re fierce like that. I make a conscious effort to look at his chin instead.

  “Believe it or not, this is about your campaign, which people are actually interested in seeing work out for you.” He shakes his head at me, as if I’m some petulant child; “Get over it being your Father’s compan-“

  “Are you shitting me?” I can feel the fury rising inside as I cut him off and stare at him in disbelief; “You think this is just about me trying to act out or snub my Dad? Do I look like I’m fucking twelve years old?”

  “Twelve year olds are better behaved, Princess.” He grins at me.

  “Don’t call me that!” I snap shrilly; “I don’t want the money because I am not taking campaign donations from a gun manufacturer!” Half my damn platform is about cleaning up the streets and keeping firearms out of the hands of kids; how the hell did Donald OK this?

  Hudson purses his lips - those perfect, totally kissable-

  “We got out of all that, it’s nothing we do anymore.” He says evenly, his eyes staring into mine.

  �
�Sure.”

  He sighs loudly, rolling his eyes at me; “Jesus, have you always been this ridiculous? Look, just come have a fucking drink with me and I’ll explain everything.”

  I know the sneering face I make at him plays entirely into his calling me childish but I just don’t care. I turn back to the doors and see Donald standing behind them back inside the museum, giving me a scowl and shaking his head, and I can practically feel his disapproval from here.

  “Fine; let’s go.”

  *****

  “This is your car?”

  He looks up from the passenger door he’s opened for me with a smug expression; “Yep”

  Of course it is; I roll my eyes, wondering for the ninth time since we walked out of my own fundraising event why on earth I said yes to this.

  The sleek black vintage Charger is sexy as hell, but it’s just so overtly masculine and absurdly macho that I just shake my head as I slide into the passenger side of the bench seat. A car like this, of course, usually says that you’re making up for something else. I instantly feel my face flush scarlet with the memory of that one moment and the size of that thickness pressing against me as he kissed me.

  Hudson Banks isn’t making up for a thing with this car.

  I jump from my naughty daydream when his hand brushes my knee as he reaches for the shifter; “Easy there, hands-y,” I quip, shooting him a look.

  “Oh, relax and put your seatbelt on, Senator.”

  I’m about to respond when he roars away from the curb fast enough to take the breath from my lungs and send a surge of adrenaline right through my core as we tear off into the cold city night.

  *****

  The place we end up going is way fancy; like, the kind of bar that’s got so much class you can hardly get away with just calling it a “bar” anymore at all. As we’re ushered in, I’m suddenly glad we’re dressed the way we are, with him in a tuxedo and me in my gown. Although something tells me when I see the Benjamin that Hudson palms the maitre-d that he’d be seated wearing nothing at all.

  Images of Hudson’s chiseled, shirtless torso, and the big hint of what’s hidden lower flood my mind as we take a seat at the far end of the elegant bar-top.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Huh?” I shake my head, feeling my cheeks burn as I try and clear my head of the dirty fantasies throbbing and undulating through my brain involving the man sitting next me. This is the man I need to loath and despise on pretty much every principal I have, not the man whos cock I should be fantasizing about. I don’t really drink much, and I can actually still feel the half-glass of champagne I had back at the fundraiser buzzing through me, but I shrug apologetically at the bartender anyways; “Oh, uh, wine I guess? Something white?”

  He smiles and turns to Hudson with a curt nod before he moves down to the other end of the bar.

  “He knows what I want,” Hudson says with a wink. He lets his eyes linger down the neck of my dress as he grins; the subtext that I should know what he wants too isn’t exactly lost on me. I clear my throat and look away.

  I let my eyes wander around the demurely lit, sleek and modern-looking room that reeks of money, taking the place in; “Come here often?” The place is full of gorgeous women; all young and hot and digging - and Hudson looks like he’s made out of solid gold.

  “Often enough, sure.”

  Yeah I bet, I think, eyeing the trio of skanks giggling and batting their eyes in Hudson’s direction from the other end of the bar. The jealousy takes me by surprise, and find myself shaking my head; confused by it. Why on earth am I so heated about this? There is no “Hudson and I”; it was one night, five fucking years ago, and we basically just kissed.

  Well, kissed with his shirt half undone and his hand on my skin, teasing across my hip and sliding down across the wetness at the front of my panties. I cough again to clear my throat and my thoughts as the bartender returns with my wine, and something that looks like it jumped off the kids menu at a chain restaurant that he sets down in front of Hudson.

  “Uh, what the hell is that?”

  Hudson shrugs as he takes a sip out of the straw; well, after he pushes aside the ridiculous little bouquet of thin orange slices and maraschino cherries adorning the top of it; “It’s a Shirley Temple.” He says matter-of-factly.

  I snort, a grin teasing my lips; “Are you serious?”

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot; “Of course I am, they’re delicious.”

  I grin in spite of myself, seeing the glimmer of his own in return as his blue eyes flash at me; “Right, if you’re seven years old.”

  “I don’t really drink anymore.”

  I laugh, and it comes out harsher than intended; “Since when?”

  “Since-“ He wags his head side to side as if weighing something; “I just don’t anymore.”

  I stare at him and then the glass of wine I didn’t really want anyways; “Well why are we at a bar to talk then if you don’t drink?”

  He turns and winks at me, that smug smile totally back and spread across his face; “Because you looked like you needed one.”

  I take a big slug from my glass, certainly as an excuse to tear my eyes away from him, but also because the way he looks at me really does make me need a drink.

  “You know you’re sunk without the money, right?” It’s hard to take the guy seriously - no matter how fucking sexy he looks in that tux with the tattoos peeking out - with that stupid straw in between his lips and the cherry stems tickling his nose, but his words jolt me back to our reason for being here just the same.

  “Fine.”

  He looks surprised; “Fine?”

  “I said fine, OK?” As much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right. I know the whole run is over without the campaign money from Archer Holdings, I just hate giving him the satisfaction of hearing me tell him he’s right. He looks impressed with himself; like he’s “won” and I’m submitting to him, and not in the way that just won’t get out of my thoughts being this close to him. “I just don’t see why you had to be here though,” I glare at him; “Don’t you have interns, or fucking servants or whatever to do this sort of thing for you?”

  He smirks at the ‘servants’ line; “Well, there’s a bit more to it than that.” I raise an eyebrow and his eyes sparkle as he winks at me; “It’s not just the money.”

  Oh really.

  “Well, what then.” I’m getting tired of feeling like he’s playing with me, especially since in my head he’s playing with me in a very different way and it’s distracting me to the point of anxious.

  “You’re pissing a lot of people off with your platform.” He says the words carefully, as if choosing them as he utters them.

  “I’m making a lot of people happy with my platform, which is why I’m way ahead in the polls, actually.” Now it’s my turn to be smug as I sit back and sip on my wine.

  He turns to face me fully, his face the most serious I’ve seen from him yet; “Let’s just say that there are things out there that you don’t see that I do,” His eyes drop to the front of my gown and he grins for just a hair of a second; just long enough to tell me he can see how erect my nipples are before he drags his eyes back up to mine

  I roll my eyes; “You know, those of us who don’t make a buck selling guns to third-world war-zones have a slightly more positive outlook on the world.” Ok I’ll admit I need my father’s company’s money, but I don’t need Hudson’s negativity packaged along with it.

  He wraps his soft lips around his straw and sucks gently, his eyes never leaving mine as he sips on his Shirley Temple, and it’s probably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen involving grenadine. I feel an aching pull deep inside that brings a fresh flush to my cheeks, and I can feel my nipples hardening beneath my gown even more despite the warmth of the room. God damn you, Hudson Banks.

  “Well, those of us who have been around those third-world war zones don’t have the luxury of that fantasy, which is why I’ll be sticking around to make sure
you’re ok.”

  I frown; “Excuse me?”

  “Me; around. I’m going to be watching you during the campaign.” He grins, and the motion pulls the skin of his neck just enough that I catch another glimpse of the dark ink there just under his collar, and I’m instantly fascinated with knowing what else is under that shirt before I shake the thought from my head. “Maybe you should think of it as less someone watching you and more just Archer Holdings looking after its investment,” He arches his brow as he sips at his Shirley Temple; “Which is you, in this scenario.”

  I can feel my blood begin to boil as I struggle to keep my temper in check; “You can’t be serious,” I mutter to him through gritted teeth; “I don’t need a bodyguard.”