Stuck-Up Big Shot: A Hero Club Novel

by Sierra Hill

  This new incarnation of a more mature and rebellious Melodie was someone I was slowly beginning not to recognize or relate to. But seeing as she was my best friend, I knew I had to stick by her no matter what. I knew her stepdad had been a dick before he left them, and her mother had recently died. Those incidents alone were enough to change a person’s heart and demeanor.

  I reminded myself that it was just growing pains and a period of change for Mel, and I’d stay by her side and wait it out.

  Resigned to acknowledging Mel’s question about sex, I close my book, and give her my full attention, propping my elbows on the table and cupping my chin in my hands.

  “I’m ready. Tell me all about it.”

  She giggles and leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “Boys like girls to put their wieners in their mouths and have girls blow on them.”

  The words themselves are shocking. The image conjured in my head is incomprehensible. I shake my head, narrowing my eyes, and scrunching my face in confusion.

  “I don’t get it. Blow them like you blow out birthday candles?”

  Mel rolls her eyes at my apparent stupidity and pushes back from the table, heading over to the counter to grab two bananas hanging from the fruit rack.

  I watch her as she peels back the layers on one before handing it over to me, which I accept with uncertainty. Then she peels the other and stands in front of me to demonstrate.

  “Okay, pretend this is a boy’s penis.” I nod dutifully at this description, glancing between the bananas in our hands before returning my gaze to Mel.

  “This is what you do.”

  As I watch her desecrate the fruit with her mouth and tongue, I wonder to myself why in the world any girl would do this? If this is what sex is supposed to be like, I will never do it.

  Aren’t boy’s private parts dirty and gross? I mean, they hold them when they pee and play with them like they’re Lightsabers. This, I know for a fact, after seeing Teddy and Cooper having a sword fight with their wieners when I walked by the boy’s bathroom at the Y in the third grade. And their penises looked nothing like this banana in my hand.

  The banana slides between Mel’s lips, gliding in and out, her spittle making the fruit go soft and mushy. But she continues until at the very end, before biting off the tip of the banana and chewing it with a satisfied grin.

  “There. Now it’s your turn.”

  How in the world did I get myself into this? It’s one thing to watch my friend demonstrate the proper techniques of blowing a banana, but for me to do it too? Geesh, this is getting more and more awkward.

  Mel takes my hesitation as defiance and puts one hand on her hip and lets out a haughty huff of irritation.

  “Sutton, if you don’t learn now, you’ll screw it up the first time you’re with a boy. You don’t want him to tell everyone what a baby you are, do you?”

  This is a rhetorical question with a hypothetical boy because I am never planning on doing something like this with anyone. Ever. You can count on that.

  I inhale through my nose and release the breath through my mouth, opening it just wide enough to nudge the banana inside, wrapping my lips around the soft but firm substance and sucking awkwardly.

  The noise I make has Mel cracking up hysterically, so I add more for show. I moan lewdly, swiping my tongue out and around the fruit, closing my eyes and swirling my hips like I’m playing with a Hula Hoop.

  But then out of my peripheral vision, I see Miles standing at the archway into the kitchen, his expression holding absolutely no humor or laughter like his sister’s.

  With my lips still seated firmly over the banana, my eyes dart to his, where I see a tempest of icy blue ocean swirling in his gaze. His lips part ever-so-slightly before he presses them together and clenches his jaw tight. His nostrils flare, and his heated gaze penetrates through every particle of my body.

  The hold I have wrapped around the banana loosens, and it falls to the ground with a smooshie thud, while I stand still in awkward silence. Miles’s face contorts, his features sharp and in warning, as he glances between Mel and me.

  His voice is a bark. Tight and angry. “What the fuck are you two doing in here?”

  With no warning, he strides in with purposeful steps, bending down to sweep my banana off the ground and then yanking Mel’s out of her hand. She is laughing uncontrollably, seemingly giving no shits at being caught doing something so dirty.

  “Just go away, Miles. We’re only practicing for when the time comes.”

  Miles disposes of the uneaten fruit in the garbage bin with a curse before spinning back around to glare at us. Mainly at his sister, but with darting glances at me, to ensure I know I’m included in his big brother speech. He steps in close, practically overtaking us with his tall, lean body that smells like fresh clean boy and a dusting of body spray.

  I gulp and my body wars with the mixed signals rushing through my bloodstream like a current of electricity. There are zings of elated excitement in places I’ve only been vaguely aware of down “there,” and then there is the crushing pain as if I’ve been slapped across the cheek, caused by the level of disgust in his tone and harsh words.

  “This is not what good girls should do.” His voice shakes with vehemence. “What the hell is wrong with you, Mel? Do you want to be known as the town slut?”

  Panic washes through me now, a wretched horrifying terror shooting through my veins begging for this to be over, or better yet, never have happened. Wishing Miles never would’ve walked in on this scene.

  No, no, no. This wasn’t even my idea. I’m a good girl, not a slut. Neither of us is like that. Please, I beg of Miles silently. Don’t believe this is who we are. We’re just kids, playing and pretending we’re adults.

  The sound of Mel’s defensive, mocking laughter has me nearly jerking away from her. Her face has turned to stone, defiant, and refusing to be reprimanded like this. Refusing to accept the shame her brother pours over us like a waterfall of hypocrisy.

  She jabs an angry finger into Miles’s T-shirt covered chest. “Don’t you dare say that to us. You’re the one who was down in the basement last weekend getting lord knows what STD’s from that little skank, Jessie. Don’t be so damned two-faced, Miles.”

  Her comment seems to hit a nerve, and Miles steps back as if he’s been attacked by a snake, his stern features softening until his whole demeanor changes. Melodie, for her part, stands her ground, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

  “Fine, I’m sorry. I take the words back. I didn’t mean them. I just don’t want either of you to do something that could get you hurt. Boys can be stupid and thoughtless. I only want to protect you, Meli.”

  Using her nickname, and the way his voice softens, seems to do the same thing to Mel’s hard exterior. She melts into the hug he gives her as he wraps his long, brawny arms around her and holds her tight.

  I swallow and look down at my feet, once again feeling like the invisible third wheel. Melodie and Miles have such a strong sibling connection, made even stronger because they’ve had only each other to rely on since their mother died.

  Realizing they have left me out, Miles opens his arm to me and smiles, nudging his chin for me to join them.

  When I do, my heart pounds out a wild beat inside my chest, my breathing turning erratic, as I feel for the first time what it might be like to be loved by Miles.

  It’s more than comfort and brotherly protection that I want from Miles.

  But at my age, I can’t possibly put into words just exactly what it is I want from him.

  I only know my heart beats for something more.

  16

  Miles

  “Morning, Ben.”

  Ben Schilling looks up from his desk with a smile and a warm greeting. Our marketing manager at Morgan Financial is an upstanding guy, but one I haven’t had the time to get to know all that well.

  “Hey, Miles. How’s it going?”

  Now that I know he’s Sutton’s cousin, it give
s me all the more reason to chat Ben up to find out more about her—covertly. The woman who has been on my mind for weeks. Who has burrowed under my skin and has me waking in the middle of the night from residual melancholy dreams about my late sister.

  I don’t know why she evokes those memories.

  “Come on in and have a seat. I’m glad you stopped by this morning because there’s an upcoming event I need you to attend in Graham’s absence.”

  Inwardly groaning at having to do something social, I pull out the brown leather desk chair across from Ben and take a seat. I lift my foot and cross a relaxed leg over my knee, unbuttoning my suit jacket.

  “What event are you talking about?”

  One aspect of Ben’s job is to get us out into the community and volunteer to help those in need. The last charity event Ben arranged that I attended with Graham was a thousand-dollar-a-plate auction to raise money for low-income families in the projects.

  Ben riffles through some papers on his desk, which looks like an explosion happened because of the mess of files dispersed everywhere. For all the good Ben does, he’s a disorganized mess. Definitely not at all how my office looks.

  Some might call me a neat freak, but as I’ve learned, you can really control only a few things in life, and keeping my life organized is one of them.

  The one thing I don’t mind a little messy and dirty now and again is my sex life. That’s when I enjoy letting go, rough and raw.

  “Ah, here it is.” He hands me a brochure from across the desk, which I accept and give a cursory read through.

  When I return my attention to Ben, he continues with a jovial grin.

  “We’re hosting a volunteer event to help out a local outreach program for troubled youth. You know, kids and teens that have fallen into the cracks of society. Those who have run away from their homes due to abuse or neglect. Some kids have dabbled in drugs, or been sex trafficked, or caught up in gangs.”

  He frowns in displeasure, and the moment he mentions abuse and drugs, my body stiffens and my pulse cranks up, my heart pounding like a jackhammer trying to beat out of my chest.

  I swallow and nod, hoping to look calm, but Ben seems to notice my physiological change and tilts his head in question.

  “Everything okay, Miles? Need some water or something?” He swivels in his chair, opening a mini fridge at the corner of his office to extract a small bottle, handing it to me with concern etched across his forehead.

  I accept it gratefully, unscrewing the top and taking a swig, hoping it’ll rid me of the wave of dizzy lightheadedness thrumming through my head, a dull buzz in my ears swarms like bees.

  This event hits too close to home.

  My sister died of an accidental drug overdose ten days before her eighteenth birthday seven years ago.

  No one outside of my grandmother and the people in our small town knows anything about Melodie’s death, except for Graham, because I was a wreck for a good portion of grad school. And I don’t think Ben knows anything about my personal life outside of the office.

  As blandly as I can make the sound of my voice, I ask, “What are volunteers expected to do?”

  He runs his fingertips over the keyboard and taps away to bring up the information he needs, reading it aloud.

  “They will assign volunteers to various tasks, including cooking, cleaning, assisting with art and craft projects, helping with career mentoring, etcetera.”

  He levels me with his steely gaze. “You’d be an excellent mentor.”

  I choke out a laugh. “If you say so. I know nothing about kids, though. I’m not exactly the best communicator.”

  Ben leans back in his chair, dubiously staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “You’re kidding me, right? Graham is always remarking how great you are with bringing on new clients, and they rave about your ability to solve problems and clarify the terms of their financial investments.”

  “Well, yeah,” I concur because that is true. I’m damn good at my job and have earned the accolades and praise.

  But teens? I couldn’t even fucking get the truth from my own teenage sister much less communicate with troubled youth I don’t have any relationship with.

  I frown. “But this is different. Kids are different.”

  Ben’s quiet for a moment but finally runs a tongue under his front lip and leans forward.

  “Listen, Miles. I don’t want to make you or anyone else uncomfortable. That’s not the point. But these kids, they don’t have anyone else. What you’re giving them is your time and attention. You’d be connecting with someone who might otherwise be out on the streets, alone and feeling unwanted. Just being there proves you care, and that’s what they need.”

  Well, shit. When he puts it that way, how can I refuse?

  Agreeing, I nod and stretch out my hand to shake his. “Fine, you’ve recruited me. Which, I might add, I’m pretty impressed at how smoothly and easily you roped me in.”

  Ben chuckles and throws his head back in amusement. When he returns his gaze, and we make eye contact, he asks, “Hey, I didn’t mean to dominate this conversation. You came by for something else. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  Suddenly, my mouth dries up, and I reconsider asking Ben anything about Sutton. Does it really matter at this point? What would I even do with that intel? A relationship is out of the question. She’s far too young for me, and I’m not interested in starting anything with the demands of my work schedule.

  I wouldn’t mind hooking up with her, and maybe she’d be open to having a fun, neighborly fuck-buddy arrangement before Graham and Soraya return home from their trip. We could leave it at that, and she’d return to whatever she did before.

  I give myself a mental bitch slap because that sounds callous and sordid even to me. But I honestly don’t know what it is about her that calls to me. That’s why I’m compelled to know more about Sutton.

  There’s something there that just keeps tugging at me like the edge of a dream. She’s familiar. She brings out a long-dormant part of me—and I want to understand it. To either turn it up or turn it off completely.

  Biting the bullet, I indulge in my original decision to ask Ben about his cousin.

  “There’s this weird six-degrees of separation between you, me, and oddly enough, your cousin, Sutton.” Ben tips his head, expressing his interest in where I’m going with this. I clear my throat. “She’s dog sitting for Graham while he’s out of the country. Which puts her right next door to me at the moment. Small world, huh?”

  A smile so warm and genuine lights up Ben’s face, it makes me wonder if he’s in love with his own cousin, as absurd as that might seem. Crazier things have happened, right? If it weren’t a thing, then why is there something called “kissing cousins”?

  “You know Sutton?” he asks, clearly amused by this knowledge. “Ah, man. Isn’t she the greatest? I’m so glad it worked out for her with Graham because she was really freaking out about where she would live or how she would make ends meet for school this fall.”

  A scowl forms at the edges of my mouth, and my brows furrow. “School? She’s still in college?”

  I know Sutton is younger than me by a few years, but I have no clue how old she really is. When I first met her, the night of the fire, she looked wide-eyed and young, and I estimated her to be around twenty, maybe twenty-one tops.

  Ben shakes his head. “Nah, she’s in grad school at NYU. She’s almost twenty-five, but it’s taken her a little longer to finish her masters. She’s been working on and off to supplement her tuition and living expenses. She was crashing on my couch for a while, but I think she wants her own place. I don’t blame her. Sleeping on my couch can’t be comfortable.”

  “She doesn’t have any other family here in New York?” I ask, prying even further into her family situation, but trying not to sound creepy.

  For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I’m so vested in learning about Sutton. I remind myself I’ve just come
off an emotionally draining weekend, and it’s probably something to do with that. She’s the age my baby sister would be if she were still alive. I shouldn’t find her remotely interesting or have any feeling for Sutton.

  Ben shakes his head. “No, I’m it. Her parents still live in a little seaside town in Connecticut. Since there are no substantial jobs for her to go back to in the summer, she stays in the city.”

  I’m about to mention that I grew up in a small seaside Connecticut town too and am ready to ask which town when one of his employees pops their head in to ask a question.

  Which is my cue to get going. I slip out of the chair, saying hello to the woman, whose name I don’t know, as I walk past her toward the door. Before exiting the office, I turn and wave back to Ben.

  “Thanks for your time, Ben. I’ll talk to you later this week about the volunteer event. See you later.”

  And as I walk back to my office, with Sutton at the forefront of my mind, thinking about what I learned about her background, I come to a conclusion.

  I will pursue this attraction. Assuming Sutton doesn’t slam the door in my face when I ask her out.

  17

  Sutton

  When Ben asked me if I’d be interested in volunteering at Holly’s Hope Place, the shelter for troubled teens, I jumped at the chance. Mainly because I want to help kids who have lost their way—either through their own poor decisions or by circumstances beyond their control.

  That may sound like an overconfident and self-important life goal, but it’s why I’m studying social work and applied psychology. Applying what I’ve learned in real life, non-clinical settings, is a rewarding experience. You might say I take after my mother in that way.

  She’s been a teacher and volunteer for various charitable and non-profit organizations over the past twenty-years helping those in need. Whether it’s working at a local food bank, reading to young students in a literacy program, or chairing a school supply drive each fall, my mom has always had compassion for others.