by Harper Bloom
Copyright © 2015 Harper Bloom
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction, which means all names, characters, places, dialogue, and everything else are products of the author's imagination entirely. Any resemblance to actual people or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Stepbrother Reunited
I got to work early this morning by a good 15 minutes. Most people wouldn’t understand it, but I love my job. When I was a kid, what I wanted to be more than anything else in the world was a waitress. I wanted to wear a white apron and smile at people, pour their coffee, find out what they were doing or where they were going. That was before I knew the reality of it, of course: the bad shifts where nothing comes out of the kitchen right or the weird nights when the kitchen and I are both totally killing it and tips are still lousy. When you’re a kid, you don’t think about how much your knees and hips are going to ache after a ten hour shift. But here I am, and I still love my job so much I get here early most mornings. The only thing that’s really changed since I was a little girl is that I call myself a “server” now instead of a “waitress”.
The diner is quiet at this time of the morning, which is another reason I like coming in early. Around seven, my regulars will trickle in and start telling me about the news and butchering the better jokes from last night’s Jimmy Fallon, the ones that I slept through. My regulars always tip at least two dollars, even if all they have is a cup of coffee and a donut. That’s not why I love them, though. It’s because Harry always brings in new pictures of his grandkids and Pete lets me touch the scar in his side where he took a bullet in Vietnam. I love them because I’m a part of their lives. Again, I know this doesn’t make sense to other people, because it’s not how they live their lives. This is the best family I’ve ever known, the one that gets together every morning at a diner.
I was tying my apron on (at least that’s something I got to keep from my girlhood dreams) and about to leave the break room to start the day when my co-worker, Mindy, came through the door, wide-eyed and grinning. “Chloe,” she hissed, “you can’t go out there yet.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s here!” She shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet in an excited little dance.
“What? Who?”
“The guy. The sexy guy you told me came in twice last week.”
“Who, Giorgio Armani?”
“Yes! It’s gotta be. How many guys that look like that come through this dump at five in the morning?”
That wasn’t his name, of course, it was just the nickname I came up with for him. I didn’t know his real name because he never paid with a card. He always paid with cash, with a crisp hundred dollar bill peeled off from a gold money clip that looked like it was squeezed around at least fifty more bills just like it. He didn’t let me keep all of the change, but he did usually leave more than what he ate cost. The cash alone would be enough to make him the subject of gossip around the diner, but the rest was making him a legend.
He always wore tailored suits, expensive ones. I had no idea if they were actually Armani suits but maybe they were. I don’t know much about high-end men’s clothes, since my boyfriends tend toward the kind of shirt with their names sewn on the left breast on a patch. I don’t know much, but I could tell enough to know that the guy’s suits probably cost more than I made in two months of good tips. He was handsome, too, with a square jaw, full lips, and dark wavy hair he left too long on top to be something buttoned-down, like a lawyer or a banker. I didn’t know what color his eyes were, because I’d never seen them. He always wore a pair of dark aviators, even inside the diner. With that kind of screen up, it was impossible to know exactly what his expression was, but I could guess.
It would have been a lot easier to flirt with him if I could have seen his eyes, but I had some other hints he was interested. The first time he sat in my section, he had his face tilted towards me the whole time I took his order. Most people look back at the menu a few times, even if they know exactly what they want, as if they want to make sure “pancakes” haven’t run off the page between when they decided and when I asked. Even my regulars, who order the same thing every damn day, even they will glance down at the menu if one is open in front of them. Not this guy. He was focused on me, on my face, the whole time. He told me I had a pretty name.
The second time he came in, he sat in a booth in my section for more than two hours. He ate his burger relatively quickly and was doing something with his phone, but mostly when I looked over he was watching me.
I’m used to getting hit on at the restaurant. I guess that’s one of the benefits, too. Most men, though, they’re more overt about it. Sure, anyone but the real creepers starts off saying how nice I am, or what a pretty smile I’ve got. In the end, they all go for the same thing: T & A. I’m a big girl, but built like an hourglass. I know how my black pants hug my ass. I get how the two or three inches of cleavage that show over the top of my buttoned work shirt turn some men’s brains into jelly. I get called “fat bitch” a lot when I turn them down. Funny how I was hot just before I said “no,” isn’t it?
I do say “yes” sometimes, to the ones who ask me out on proper dates, who are usually semi-regulars at the diner. I’ve gotten to know them a little, to see they’re not total assholes. One night, when I was working the overnight shift and feeling sort of wild, anyway, the diner was totally empty except for these two guys on their way back from a concert out of town. They were both flirting with me and I was flirting back because they were cute and I didn’t have anyone else to wait on. I ended up sitting in the booth between them while I kissed them both and they felt me up. They gave me their numbers, said they’d like to do more, but I never called. They never came back into the diner again, as far as I know.
What I’m trying to say is that I don’t mind flirting with customers and I don’t mind more than flirting, if it feels right. I wanted to do so much more than flirt with Giorgio Armani. The last time he was in, when he’d watched me for two hours from his booth, I’d nearly soaked through my panties I was so turned on. Now that he was back, and in the early morning where there weren’t too many customers yet and I knew Mindy would cover for me, I was going to see just how much he wanted me.
“Mindy, can you cover the sections for me for a just a few more minutes? I need to make some adjustments.”
“On one condition,” she said, holding up her index finger like a strict schoolteacher.
“What?”
“You have to tell me all about it. And I mean All. About. It. That guy is sexy as hell.”
“I promise,” I said, shooing her out, “now go make sure everyone else is covered while I put on my push-up bra.”
Yeah, okay, I’d been hoping that Giorgio Armani would make another appearance. But only lucky girls get to hope; the rest of us have to make some plans. I dug through my tote bag for my “going-out” bra and the high-heels that I’d never wear for a real shift but couldn’t deny made my ass look great. I’ve got some great natural gifts, but everything looks better with a little lift. I changed quickly. My diner uniform shirt buttoned fine over my regular bra, but as much cleavage as my black satin push-up bra made was too much for the top buttons. Good thing I always wore a camisole under my shirt, anyway. That’s Big Girl Lesson Number One, right there: don’t trust the buttons. The buttons are not your friends and will let you down when you least expect it. I left my uniform shirt open over the white cami, my black bra showing through it like a shadow.
I checked m
y makeup quickly in the mirror over the break room sink. I wish I’d gone a little heavier on my eyes that morning, but I didn’t know when I woke up I was going to have my chance to seduce a millionaire. At least my hair looked good, strawberry blonde and pulled back into a braid that was loose enough to leave some strands to frame my face. I rubbed my clear lip balm off on the side of my hand and replaced it with a shiny red gloss. I think my lips are my best feature. “Pretty girl,” I told the mirror. “Pretty face.” It was something I heard from my dad often growing up, so it was easy to say. What had taken a couple years to get out of my system was what had always followed when he’d said it: Too bad you’re so fat.
That was as good as it was going to get before six AM for Giorgio Armani.
I left the break room through the narrow hall that led to the steel double doors and the counter beyond. Mindy was rolling setups, her back studiously turned away from the far corner where Giorgio Armani sat in one of his gorgeous ash gray suits and his aviator shades. I glanced around at the other diners, who were all deep into their morning papers or their plates of eggs. Mindy cast me a sly wink as I pulled the coffee pot off the burner and went to go warm up Armani’s cup.
“Good morning,” I greeted him with my most solicitous purr, “nice to see you again. You see anything you… like?” I bent forward as I refilled his coffee, enough to put my cleavage on display but not enough to look totally ridiculous. I’m a professional, after all. I’ve had some practice with this.
“I want the two egg breakfast, eggs over easy, double bacon, and sliced tomatoes instead of toast.” As usual, Giorgio Armani didn’t bother looking at the menu. He looked straight at me. I couldn’t tell if it was my face or my boobs that caught most of his attention through his dark shades, but I hoped it was a little of both.
“Is there anything… else… I can get for you?” I asked, draping my fingers lightly over the back of his hand and raising a suggestive eyebrow. A man who was into it couldn’t miss the signal at all, but one who wasn’t probably wouldn’t see anything buy an overly-friendly waitress.
“Well, I think there is,” he replied, covering my fingers with his other hand. “What time do you get off work?”
“Not until three. I just got here.”
“What I have to say is worth leaving early to hear.”
“I’ll bet, I smiled at him. “But it’s probably not worth losing my job over. Maybe another time will work?”
“No, Chloe, I’ve waited long enough.” He held my fingers firmly in his, which sent desire shooting through me. “I want to talk to you alone. Now.”
“Let… let me put your order in.” The intensity of his voice sent fantasies of him pinning me to the wall and having his way with me spinning through my mind. I wanted that. Badly. “Watch the double doors. Come through them about a minute after me and follow me to the break room. We won’t have long, but Mindy can cover for a bit.”
He nodded and released my hand. I walked back to the counter and put the coffee pot back on the warmer. It was a good thing Giorgio Armani always ordered the same thing, otherwise I would have totally forgotten it with how much his touch, his hunger, had scrambled my brain.
He followed my directions perfectly and soon was walking down the hall with me to the break room. I had always seen him sitting down before, so I hadn’t realized how tall and broad-shouldered he was until he was standing next to me. He finally took off his sunglasses when we got back into the dingy room and I closed the door. His eyes were a light blue, like a great pair of old jeans.
I traced my hands up the lapels of his suit, savoring the feel of the fabric before pressing my body against his.
“Chloe, I-“
“Shh. This first. I’ve wanted it too long.” I ran my fingers into the thick dark waves of his hair and pressed my lips against his. He didn’t react at first, but soon the tip of his tongue was sliding against mine. He tasted like coffee. I opened my mouth to him, to accept more of his kiss. He responded with his left hand rubbing over my ass and his right caressing the side of my breast. My body was on fire with wanting him, even if it was just a sordid break room quickie. I ground my pelvis against him and felt an answering hardness. He broke our kiss with a gasp, and his hands fell away from my body.
“It’s not that I don’t like this as a ‘hello’,” He said, lightly pushing against my shoulders to put distance between us, “but Chloe, I’m your brother.”
“What?” I backed away from him quickly, both palms instinctively raised in defense. It felt like my stomach had dropped to the floor. “I don’t have a... a… oh. Trent?”
“Yeah,” he said, running one hand through his hair. “I knew you didn’t recognize me, but I didn’t mean to let it go… this far. I didn’t recognize you at first, either. I was only sure after the second time I came here. You changed your last name and dyed your hair.”
“No, I dyed it black before,” I said, almost in a trance, “this is my natural color. Wait… you were looking for me?”
“Yes. I have to tell you-“
“No,” I shook my head, violently. “No, I don’t care. You need to leave.”
“Chloe, Dad-“
“Is a bastard! I don’t want anything to do with him. Not him, not his money, not anything. I don’t know what he told you, but the only reason he sent you looking for me is probably because he needs a kidney or something. Well, he’s not going to get it from me.”
“He doesn’t need a kidney.”
“What?” I demanded, exasperated, “what is it, then?”
“Chloe, Dad’s dead.”
I was on the floor on my knees just about the time I realized my ankles weren’t going to hold me up in my high heels. “Dead?”
“Yes,” Trent said, gently, touching my arm. “Last Friday, he went to sleep and he never woke up. The doctors think his heart stopped.”
“He went peacefully in his sleep,” I said, shock still making my lips cold and numb, “there are soldiers who die hurt and alone, and that prick gets to just go in his sleep? Where is the justice in that?”
“I didn’t have the problems with him that you had,” Trent said. “I can’t even begin to imagine. But I wasn’t exactly his biggest fan, either, you know?”
“No,” I said, looking up at the stranger in the gray bespoke suit. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you, Trent. I haven’t seen you in ten years.”
***
So, just to clarify, I did not try to get up on my brother – not exactly. Trent is my step-brother. My mom married his dad when I was eight and he was twelve. I didn’t actually see Trent a lot growing up because his mother had custody of him throughout the school year. We got along well enough at holidays and over the summer, though. Of course, it isn’t very hard to get along when you live on a ranch with two swimming pools and its own movie theater. All of our summers were as good as they could be there, except for the one when my mother died.
Maybe I should back up even further. My mom and my biological dad were never together. I don’t even know his name. I’ve never tried to find him and I’m willing to bet he hasn’t tried to find me. My mother was working as a cocktail waitress at a casino when she met J.B. Morse. She didn’t know who he was except for a high roller who apparently had enough pull with the casino that he could request her as his personal server. He was handsome back then, although he was twenty years older than she was, and he must have been charming. Mom wasn’t shallow like that, not the way I remember her. Sure, expensive gifts were nice, but the two of us got by fine on what she made. She wasn’t a gold digger.
After three months of being Mr. Morse’s personal cocktail waitress, she stopped working. He paid for our apartment and bought her a new car, she entertained him whenever he was in Las Vegas, which was often. Three months after that, we went to go live at the ranch. I knew Mr. Morse was rich, but I had no idea he was stupid-crazy-Texas-oil-money rich until we moved. He married my mom in a simple ceremony by the waterfall that trickled
into the outdoor pool. It was a beautiful day and everyone treated me like a princess.
It was also the last good day.
Dad, as I had been coached to call Mr. Morse, had been married and divorced twice before he married my mother, and it wasn’t because he was just unlucky in love. Their courtship in Las Vegas had been ideal because they only saw each other for a few hours at a time, a few days a week. Living with Dad all the time meant Mom never got to stop being his personal cocktail waitress. He expected her to drop everything, especially if it was something for me, and cater to his every desire.
Once, I nearly drowned in the pool because he needed her for something when she was teaching me to swim. She was sitting at the edge of the pool, coaching me in using my arms and legs to get from the middle to the edge. When she didn’t come when he called fast enough, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the house. I was left struggling to reach the side and get out with no help.
The biggest problem was that Dad wanted more children, or, more accurately, more sons. The longer they were married without Mom getting pregnant, the nastier he got to both of us. When I was twelve, the doctors finally figured out why Mom couldn’t conceive: she had fast-growing tumors all over her uterus. By my thirteenth birthday, she couldn’t get out of bed. By my fourteenth, she was dead.
