Dirty Stepbrother - A Firefighter Romance (The Maxwell Family)

by Alycia Taylor

  “Oh, darling! You did so well. Two little boys. Looks like you’re outnumbered in this family. All these boys to protect you.”

  “Have you got any idea what you’re going to name them?” the doctor asked.

  Xavier and I had been talking about names for a while, but nothing had felt right. Suddenly, though, I knew exactly what I wanted to name them. I nodded.

  “You thought of their names?” he said, an edge of surprise in his voice.

  I smiled. “Ben and Tommy.”

  “Oh Holly, really?” he said. The emotion in his voice was palpable. Ben and Tommy were incredible men who had fought hard to save the lives of so many people in the community. It seemed only fitting that we honored them in this way.

  “Really. Beautiful names for two beautiful boys.”

  “Our little fighters.”

  The nurse walked by and smiled at us all. “You have a beautiful family,” she said.

  I looked at Xavier, my father, and the two new members of our family. I imagined them the following year on Christmas day, each with their own little sweater.

  “I have the best family.”

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  MY ROCK BOX SET

  By Alycia Taylor

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.

  MY ROCK #1

  Chapter One

  Elly

  I had been telling myself all day that I was a professional, twenty-two year old woman and silly, old crushes should be just that…..but my infatuation with Tristan had gone a little bit deeper than just a silly crush. Granted, I was only twelve when I first discovered his boy band, called Uptown Boyz, but from the ages of twelve to fifteen, Tristan, the leader and oldest member of the band, was my everything. I went to sleep every night and woke up every morning to his beautiful face. I had borrowed our neighbor’s ladder one day when I was home alone and I’d tacked my poster of him to the ceiling above my bed. It was the best birthday present I ever got—my best friend, Lucy, knew me well. It was there for two years and I don’t think either of my parents ever even noticed it.

  I carried my lunch in an Uptown Boyz lunchbox. I had to hide it in my backpack all through middle and high school because I got a lot of flak about it, but I still carried it to show my dedication. I spent every dime I was able to save from my allowance and babysitting gigs on their new CD’s, and every little girl fantasy I had about growing up and getting married casted Tristan in the starring role as the groom.

  I can’t even describe how devastated I was when I heard they broke up. I can still recall exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was at the mall with Lucy, just hanging out at the food court, when I heard some girl say that Uptown Boyz was no more.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I’d asked her. My heart was pounding and my head felt light.

  “Uptown Boyz broke up.” She delivered the news with a shrug of her shoulders. As though this was no big deal.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, convinced this had to be a mistake or some stupid hoax. They are always saying celebrities have died when they are alive and well—I held out hope that this was the same kind of thing.

  She rolled her eyes and took on a condescending tone. “Yeah, I’m positive. I just heard it on the radio before I came in here. The DJ said that Tristan Rogers was going into rehab for, like, the third time, or something ridiculous like that. The rest of the band just got tired of him always screwing up.”

  It was like a slap in the face. “But without him, they wouldn’t have been anything. They’re glorified back-up singers,” I told her. Lucy was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to get serious about shopping. I spent the rest of the shopping trip in a haze, unable to focus on anything besides the breakup. Then I went home and fixated on it the rest of evening. In truth, it took me months to quietly recover, but I finally did, and I moved on…or at least I had thought.

  Until that night. There I was, seven years later, sitting in a back corner of a seedy bar called Huggys that I’d otherwise never had gone inside of. Why was I there? Because I’d read in a tiny, obscure ad in the L. A. Times that Tristan Rogers was playing this bar with his new band. I had tried to resist. I tried telling myself that I was much too old and mature to dwell on old boy-band crushes. I obviously hadn’t listened, because there I sat. I had come alone for fear of tarnishing the view people had of me. My friends were mostly young professionals in the music and television business and I couldn’t think of one of them who would have approved of this place or the people I was now surrounded by—not even if I tried to play it off as some adventure into irony.

  I sat with my back to the wall on a high stool, sipping my Jack and Coke, hoping that Tristan would come out soon so I could satisfy my age-old curiosity and go home. I had looked him up off and on over the years, searching for any information about him or his band. I didn’t obsess over him any longer, but every now and then when I got bored, I just checked to see if I could find any information about him. What I’d been able to find had been snippets here and there about the band. This one got arrested and that one came out as being gay—all of it pretty typical, but none of it helpful. But the information on Tristan was few and far between. The first couple of years after the band broke up, he’d gotten out of rehab, dated an heiress for a while, and then a B-list actress. He’d gotten picked up on a DUI and had to serve community service and do rehab again. Sadly, his music seemed to have all but died. The day I saw the ad about his band in the bar, I wasn’t looking for him at all. I had actually bought the paper to look at job openings, and, when I had opened the paper, there it was. I let my over-active imagination think that maybe it was fate and that was one more silly reason that I found myself sitting in a bar that was the namesake of a brand of diapers.

  The advertisement hadn’t mentioned Tristan’s previous connection to Uptown Boyz. It advertised his new band as “new age rock”—a far cry from the kind of music he used to sing. I ran my finger around the rim of my drink, waiting. The lights in the already dim bar went down and a spotlight lit up the stage. A woman that looked to be about thirty-five with long, obviously bleached platinum blonde hair and dressed in black from head to toe came on the stage. She was so thin that it wouldn’t have even taken a strong wind to blow her over, just a light breeze. She walked up to the microphone.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, hello and thanks for coming to Huggys tonight. I’m Mandy Silva, the owner of Huggys, along with my hunky husband, Ray, who is over there behind the bar.”

  I glanced over at the bar. The only bartender that I’d seen tonight was a young stud that looked like he should have been the star of Magic Mike. He was still the only one behind the bar. I looked from him to the skinny, slightly torn up woman and I had to wonder what the attraction was.

  “I hope you’re all having a great time and getting your drink on. We have a real treat for you tonight, so I won’t stand here and bore you any longer. Without further ado, I give you Tristan and the Mister Rogers band.”

  The lights started changing colors and smoke floated up from beside the stage as a drummer, and a bass player took their positions on stage. The audience clapped, some hooped and hollered, and I waited for Tristan. The band fired up and it was a good two minutes into the song before he came bursting through a curtain hung along the back of the stage. If I hadn’t known it was him, I would hav
e never recognized him.

  First off, he came out screaming and banging on his guitar. I’m assuming the noise he was making was supposed to be singing, but it didn’t sound anything like the beautiful voice that I remembered. Secondly, the four young men that made up the band the Uptown Boyz were famous not only for their extraordinary talent at such young ages, but for their sense of style. They were trendsetters for tweens, and when they performed, they usually wore starch white or brightly colored t-shirts and casually faded designer jeans. Tristan always wore a silver cross that dangled from his neck and stood out against whatever color shirt he happened to be wearing. He never took it off back then. Their hair was always stylishly mussed or spiked up and they had that scrubbed, fresh-faced look that mother’s and little girls both loved.

  Tonight, he wore jeans, but instead of a designer brand, they looked like he’d borrowed them off of one of the homeless men I’d seen on my way into the place. They had huge holes in them—not stylish ones—and they hung low on his hips, like he’d dropped a pants size since he’d bought them. He wore them tucked into his lace-up black leather motorcycle boots that ended just below his knee. He was also wearing a plain black t-shirt and the silver cross necklace was absent. His arms had tattoos from shoulder to wrist and his hair was messy, long and greasy. His face was still familiar, and still handsome, but a lot thinner than it used to be. His arms were still muscular, but it was very lean muscle. If I had to put a label on his build, I’d have to say where he used to be somewhat stocky he had become wiry.

  Seeing him that night, there and in this state, was somewhat….surreal.

  He sang a few of his screaming, head-banging songs, still slamming his hand up and down against his guitar and between each set he’d slam down another drink or two that someone off stage would hand him. The whole show was more slamming than singing, and every memory I had of him was pretty much shattered. Dejected, I took money out of my wallet to pay my tab and stood up. At that exact moment, he finally slowed things down and strummed his guitar beautifully as he sang a ballad. His voice was raspier than I remembered it, but I could finally hear the old Tristan—the one I fell in love with as a girl. He proved that he could still really sing when he wanted to.

  Chapter Two

  Tristan

  I always loved being on stage. I loved it since I was a kid and did my first talent show—I was six. For me, the applause and, in the old days, the adoration, is like a drug that gives me instant energy. I can’t imagine that a time will ever come when I don’t want to be up there. When I was younger, I used to imagine myself being like Paul McCartney when I got old. I thought I’d be touring at seventy-fucking-five, and maybe I would be….if I lived that long. That seemed doubtful though. I was twenty-eight and I already felt like a fucking old man when I got up in the morning or after a long set on stage. My agent was always on my back, telling me I was wasting my life partying, but I tried it the “good-boy” way and the second that fucking boy band broke up, nobody remembered my name, so fuck that.

  “Hey, Trist, I sat your case over by the back door. I have to take off,” Brad, my drummer told me.

  “Yeah, okay, thanks. Where are you off to?”

  “The wife just called and said the kids are staying out in Anaheim tonight with the grandparents. I haven’t had sex in two weeks. I’m going home to fuck my wife.”

  I laughed. Brad was a good guy who had changed his evil ways for the love of a good woman. She still let him play with us, but I had to wonder for how long. She hated my ass. She thought that I was evil personified.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna get out of here too. I’m gonna grab another drink first,” I told him, scanning the audience. This place was a dump, and if it wasn’t evident in the twenty year old fixtures, the stage that tipped to one side, or the scuffed up Formica dance floor, it was definitely evident in the faces of the lost souls desperate enough to come to a place like this to see a washed-up piece of shit band like ours.

  I picked up my guitar and headed towards the back. I put it in its case and then stepped out back and put it in the van we carried our equipment in. As I went back in the door, I saw Billy. He was the one who stayed semi-sober and drove the rest of us shit-heads around.

  “Hey, Bill. Everything’s good to go in the van,” I told him.

  “You’re not gonna need a ride, man?”

  “Nah, I’ll get a cab or something.”

  “You got anything lined up for tonight?” he asked me.

  “Not yet, but you know me.”

  “Fuck yeah,” he said, giving me a fist bump. Billy was one of the few who still remembered when I was music royalty and still treated me that way. It was cool, most of the time. Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood for him. I planned on getting my drink and grabbing a cab just to escape his endless chatter.

  He took off at last and as I walked back across the bar, I spotted a few skanky looking chicks that I was sure I could at least get a blow-job out of before the night was over. I didn’t see any pussy I’d be likely to touch, not even with a good buzz and a raincoat on my dick—not until I was almost to the door. There wasn’t a sexy, young, actually clean looking girl sitting in the back all alone. She had to be waiting for some big, buff son of a bitch at the bar, I’m sure, but she was looking at me with a pair of wide, blue eyes. My radar is usually pretty damn good, and she was looking at this Uptown Boy like she wanted to fuck him. I figured I had just found my entertainment for the evening. I strolled up to her table and, for a few seconds, I thought she was going to rabbit.

  “Hey there, I’ve never seen your pretty face in here before.” She actually blushed. I seriously couldn’t recall the last time I saw that happen.

  “Hi, I’m Elly. I’m a really big fan of yours,” she said.

  I looked around over my shoulder and said, “A fan? Of mine?” I was trying to be funny, but truth be told, it had been a while since I’d heard those words, especially from a pretty girl.

  She giggled and said, “Yeah, when I was a kid, Uptown Boyz was all I lived for some days. I had a huge crush on you.”

  It was my lucky day. Stepping closer to where she sat on the high stool, I slipped an arm around her. Damn! She smelled good. I was used to girls who smelled like smoke and whiskey—or something worse.

  In what I thought was my sexiest voice I said, “So, what about now?”

  “I’m sorry?” she said, looking just a little nervous about my arm being around her.

  “I was just wondering about that crush. Are you still feeling it?”

  She giggled again, and said, “Maybe, but before we talk about that, I really need to use the restroom.”

  She slipped out from underneath my arm and I watched her fine designer jean clad ass disappear into the ladies’ room. I reached into my pocket and took out the little glass vial I’d stored there earlier. I didn’t even care if anyone saw me. Nobody in this shithole was going to care. I took the lid off and used the little spoon to snort what was left. That was the kick I needed to follow that hot girl into the bathroom.

  She was washing her hands when I walked in. I locked the door behind me and when she heard the click of the lock, she looked up at me, shocked. I wondered if she was going to scream, or knee me in the crotch so for a few seconds, I kept an arm’s length away. She didn’t scream though and she didn’t really even look all that pissed.

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked. I didn’t say anything. I just stepped forward and put my hand on the back of her head, pulling her in for a passionate kiss.

  The most surprising moment of the night was the contented sigh she let out as she kissed me back. When I was famous, I routinely had girls like this. It lasted for a while after the band broke up, but not long. Once my name faded from the supermarket rags and I ran out of money, girls like Elly didn’t want anything to do with me.

  The little sounds she was making as we kissed made my cock swell and press urgently against the inside of my pants. My tongue was exploring her hot
mouth and my hands started sliding down over the sexy curves of her body. Instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, submitting to my quiet dominance.

  I felt a primal desire for this woman. It came from a place inside of me that I hardly knew existed any longer. I stopped our tongue wrestling long enough to slip her blouse off over her head. She looked a little shy about it, but she still didn’t make any move to stop me. She looked fucking hot standing there in front of the rusty sink in her red lacy bra.

  I unbuttoned her jeans and she leaned back against the sink and helped me by moving her hips and lifting up her legs as I pulled them down over her smooth thighs. When I made it down to her calves, she kicked out of them and then shivered. I’m not sure if she was cold because of standing there in her sexy red underwear or if she was just still a little nervous, but it was fucking sexy either way. She stood there calmly as I took off my own pants and boxers gazing intently at my cock when it popped out, ready to give her the ride of her life. I ripped my shirt over my head.

  I used my foot to kick our clothes together in a pile and then I pushed her gently down to her knees. She looked up at me and I smiled at her. I think that made her feel less nervous because she opened her mouth. I leaned back into the wall and she grasped the shaft of my throbbing cock in her dainty little hand and began flicking the tip of it with her tongue. She was stroking it with her hand as her tongue ran circles around the head and down the shaft. I tilted my head back into the wall, loving it; suddenly she opened her mouth all the way and took my cock into the back of her throat. She was gripping my thighs with her hands, nails digging in, as she bobbed her head back and forth. Each time she sucked my cock between her sexy, full lips, she’d let it slide deep into her hot, moist mouth, gripping it tightly with her suction until my balls hit her chin. She’d hold it there until she gagged on it and then she’d pull her head back again and start the whole thing over.