A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother

by Blake, Abriella

  “Great! Cooler! I'll be right back, then.”

  “Great. Grab me a Natty, while you're down there?”

  “Definitely!” I yell, already from a few feet away. I see Gilmore make an oddly furtive motion, out of the corner of my eye—and when I turn fully, I see that he's fussing with a tiny plastic bag. Whatever. People can do what they want, I guess, but Eric's words do come to mind—hard drugs strike me as a little “high school nonsense-y.”

  * * *

  Descending the rickety stairs—here at this obvious end of the party—I take a hasty survey of the Gilmore basement: three broken-looking rocking chairs, coated with a fine dust, are shoved into a corner; one mangy carpet covers most of the ground and two weather-beaten looking posters for a band called Cream adorn the walls. I don't see a cooler anywhere, which means Hank was just weirdly fucking with me. I hate all of this.

  Just to be sure, I inch down the short staircase, venturing a little further into the room. Most of the basement is lit by one of those free-standing paper lanterns, the kind that come cheap at Ikea. I make a little shadow puppet with two fingers, and watch this move against the cement wall.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Startled, I drop my imaginary puppet. I know who the voice belongs to. Sure enough, right on the threshold: it's Trace. He's not wearing his typical basketball gear, having forsaken the casual look for a crisp tuxedo, cufflinks and all. He looks even better in this than in his typical wife-beater. His curvy muscles appear tamed in a classy shirt.

  Well. Almost. Call it a draw.

  “Someone sent me on a beer run to No Man's Land. What are you doing here?”

  “Same story.” Trace holds my gaze for a second. He takes another, experimental step into the basement. Then his expression seems to cloud over, and he turns his back to me.

  The second this happens, I hear a small rain of giggling and the sound of the door slamming shut and bolting behind us. Voices, approximating evil spirits, go 'oooooooooh' from the upstairs.

  “Oh, come on!” Trace grunts, pushing his shoulder against the locked door. I hear his teammates laughing on the other side of the wall, shouting back a whole montage of obscenities.

  “What's the deal?” I ask.

  “They're still fucking hazing me, man,” Trace says, without looking up. He starts to wail on the door, but nothing happens. If anything, the sounds beyond the threshold begin to disperse.

  “Don't fucking leave me here!” the demon shouts to the wall. He's got that old flash of anger in his eyes again—the one I don't like. We breathe in the silence for a beat, him listening for activity outside the door. But after another moment or two...there's nothing. It seems that the team has abandoned us.

  Still, Trace tries the lock again, his shaggy head shaking with fury. His curls have grown so long since that fateful first day on the porch that he has to keep flicking the hair out of his eyes. Finally, the shaking stops. Because he's a person who can't ever quite be still, Trace begins to pace. He treads back and forth on the worn basement carpet, running a hand across the nape of his neck. He's like a caged tiger. In fact, I swear I hear him growl.

  “Who are you supposed to be? A groom?”

  “Bond. James Bond. And who are you supposed to be?” Trace walks a few paces into the basement, and kicks the edge of a rocking chair with his shiny shoe. “A ghost?”

  “Is it so miserable to be stuck in an enclosed space with your foster sister?” I try. “Worth the Mean Reds?” I even bat my eyes, in attempt to be playful. But Trace looks up at me through the thatch of his hair and seems unamused. He says nothing—just redirects his attention to the closed door before us. Then he rears back, and I jump. I tell myself he wouldn't really be violent. Not with me. But just the same, a little frightened thrill dances down my spine.

  I close my eyes, instinctually waiting for an impact—but the sound that arrives in space is the slap of a palm against wood. When I look up, Trace's hand is flush with the closed door, which still has not given an inch. He looks up, toward the ceiling. He lets out an animal wail.

  “Jesus, Trace! What is your problem?”

  “My problem?!”

  “Yes! What did I even do to you? What did the door do to you?”

  “Don't even step to me, Jo. I swear.”

  “But a week ago, we were getting along so well!” Jesus Christ, and now I'm crying. Eyes, please stop. You're an embarrassment, I slap at my face like a petulant child, but I think he still catches me in the act. “What about the Mean Reds? And the stairs?” My vision continues to blur, despite my best effort at composure. Trace is becoming an outline, the basement a big brown blur. Eric was so right. I don't belong here.

  When I look up again, I discover that the demon has come closer. I flinch—he's so stealthy—but I find myself melting when, after another moment, he places a paw-like hand on my shoulder. Though the gesture feels tender, his palm is so heavy. Its pressure is soothing, though. Somehow.

  “Look, whatever. Now you're dating Claudia, so.” I picture Claudia then, circling some other room at the party in her fabulous, curve-hugging dress. Wherever she is, I'm sure she's surrounded by a coterie of fawning boys. She's probably throwing her hair back as she laughs, the picture of well-adjusted fun.

  “And you're back with that asshole, so...”

  “Hey! Don't bring Eric into this, he's not an asshole!”

  “Jo, seriously?” Trace pulls his hand away, and I feel the lack immediately. “I've spent so much time being around people who don't give a damn about me. Who don't care about what I have to say, or what I think, or what I am besides a body. Whether I should live or die, even.” He's pacing again. “I can see that shit a mile away. The way you played the other night? Don't—listen, you don't just stay with someone because it's easy, or because it's all you know. You can't let people use you like that! You are strong, you don't have to be pushed around. You don't have to settle for second.” He turns his green eyes on me. I flinch again, I can't help but flinch.

  “What is that, a locker room pep talk? You don't know him that well. And I only gave him another chance because—well.” I hear myself saying words, but they feel limp and half-hearted in my mouth. I don't feel like fighting, let's just say. And then I'm conjuring Eric again. His vacant expressions at the EC fair, or that day in the art room. His beautiful, innocent wife who deserves better than both of us. His—

  Mouth. Trace's mouth is on mine. His hand is on my face, fingers firmly cupping my chin, pulling me up towards the feeble light. His hand is on my face and I'm tasting sweat and spearmint gum, I'm falling onto the cushion of his plump lips. Again, they're surprisingly pillowy. Just the right amount of softness and aggression, combined.

  Without waiting for a response, Trace pushes deeper—he guides his hand down to grip my neck, so our faces come closer together. I feel the grate of his stubble on my cheeks and lips—that pleasing feeling between a scratch and a stroke. I open my eyes for a startled second and find myself confronted by his long, elegant lashes, fanned out so finely. I'm happy to keep my eyes open for a moment. He looks beautiful, and so intent. Trace is even more beautiful up close, even with his eyes closed, I can't help but admit that Eric has never looked at me like this. Even with his goddamn eyes closed, I can tell the difference.

  We are standing, but I'm growing weak in the knees—which is something I didn't even know really happened except in fairy tales. Trace intuits me; he somehow understands my body, and before I know it, he has pulled his other arm around my middle, securing my back with his flexed palm. It's here that I begin to kiss back, with abandon. I tilt my head so he can work himself farther into my mouth, I swivel my hips so I'm gently pressing against his abdomen. I feel the outline of his shaft against my thigh, through his dark, pressed slacks. And I almost yelp.

  Because if I really feel what I think I feel...it's huge.

  I feel the shape of Trace's mouth shifting; he's smiling now, against my teeth. I open my eyes and find
myself staring straight into the warm jungle of his green irises, taking note of the flecks of gold and brown I find in their complicated surface. His eyes aren't icy at all. They're warm. They're the living antidote to every harsh word, every rough touch. I look into his eyes and know deeply, intractably, that the man in front of me is good and kind and, yes, he cares about me.

  “I've wanted to do that for a long fucking time,” he murmurs. His breath flutters against my lips. “From the second I saw you, really. Looking fly as hell in that...Disney princess sweatshirt.”

  I exhale—fully, freely, from the very bottom of my diaphragm—but it comes out as a shaky laugh. I reach around and slap him playfully, on the ass.

  “Hey, I'm about to be a busy college girl. I don't need to spend my days sitting around, coming up with ways to impress drummers –”

  “You say that with such scorn, when you're a musician, too.”

  My cheeks grow hot. Is it weird that I don't think I've ever referred to myself as a 'musician' before? Or been referred to as a musician, by anyone else? I like it.

  Trace knocks his hips against mine again, and I feel him again. Round and long and thick like my wrist. He raises an eyebrow. Pulls my face in towards his again.

  “I'm sorry about Eric. I got those flowers, and I thought—well, you texted Claudia, and I thought –”

  But in lieu of words, he closes his eyes. He shakes his head. He retains some of that electric smile, his lips curling at the edges, but I can sense the mood shifting in the room. We want more from one another than apologies. We're done with words, and I am so, so ready to stop asking questions.

  He kisses me again, manipulating his hands all around my face, positioning me just so. I press myself flush against him—so my breasts are mashing into his torso, and the curve of my stomach is flat against his. He breathes out, I breathe in. I'm aware of his muscles—ropy and thick. I'm aware of his arms, as they come to encircle me again. I drift my own fingers over his biceps, enjoying the feel of him flexing below my touch.

  Trace makes the first animal noise, when I begin to grind against his pelvis. His raging erection starts to poke at the small space between my thighs. I lose my footing on the carpet, and for a second, my balance—but just before I hit the ground, he's got me by the wrists. Outside this room, someone yells to someone else for an extended period of time, but I hear no words. Nothing but the beat of my own heart in my ears, the rasp of his breath.

  There's nothing handy to sit on in the basement (nothing that looks comfortable, anyways) so we guide ourselves down to kneeling. He's kissing me harder now, his hands are moving quickly. I let myself go limp in his embrace. I let him move my body as he likes to, resolving to trust. When his mouth travels from my fastly-chafing lips down to my exposed neck, when he begins to suck on me like Dracula, it's then that I make a sound. The groan comes from somewhere deep and unbidden; it's nothing like the affected, porn-y coos I'll sometimes make for Eric. I feel Trace's teeth pushing against my flesh, I feel his lips firm around my neck, and nearly go slack. He brings a supporting hand up to my torso, and yanks aside the vague fabric of my sheet and the bra beneath it in one fluid, furious gesture. My nipple, stiffening at the sudden cold, finds its way between his thumb and forefinger. He pinches and pulls on my tit—lightly at first—while still sucking harder, and harder still on my neck.

  His other hand finds my ass. He's aggressive with this, too. He squeezes my flesh so hard that my spine straightens slightly, and I find my exposed breast curving further into his touch. Sensing this, his mouth abandons my neck (where he's left a bouquet of raw, red hickies) and latches onto my nipple. He sucks me hard there, and I draw a hand up to press him further into my chest; his stubble scratches me again. He gropes my ass harder in response; I feel his teeth on me again... we are both electric with need.

  I'm the one who brings us to a supine position on the floor—and though some former me might have worried about the untold bugs and horrors in this gross mangy carpet, the current me couldn't care less. As we descend, I feel his cock again. I moan, again. Trace's hands—frantic and jittery as they are without a task—find the bottom of my sheet and begin to yank at the fabric. I ease him along, pulling the remainder of my costume over my head. We both move so fast that we fumble. Once my garment is cast aside, he turns his vivid green eyes to my bra. Reaching his arms around me, he flicks it open in one neat gesture, and I am bare before him.

  Then, Trace massages my breasts, his mouth seeking out the skin along the other side of my neck. He rolls my erect nipples between his fingers, gentler now—and I feel the rigid drummer's calluses on his hands against my own soft skin. I press my head back into the ground, I raise myself up to him—but I want more, already. Reaching down between our legs to grasp his erection, I know that he does, too.

  It's the first time we speak: “Are you sure?” he murmurs, nibbling my earlobe. “Because once this starts, you should know: I'm gonna fuck you until you come.”

  “I don't think it'll take long,” I gasp, fumbling with the buttons at his middle. My fingers are sweaty, though.

  “It'll take however long I want it to take,” Trace grunts, as he slides one hand down me, from my clavicle to the trail of invisible fuzz below my belly button. But instead of stopping where my leggings begin, he pushes his hand farther still, down past the tops of my panties, my pubis—until he finds my clit. With one deft finger, he presses up against my g-spot, drawing a small circle around my rising mound. I feel my inner self moisten, just as my throat seems to dry.

  “Yes,” I say. Because it's all I can muster.

  He pulls himself away from me for a moment, and surveys my body, here on the carpet. I don't flinch from his gaze this time; instead, I stare back levelly. I stare into his green eyes as he runs rough hands across my smooth skin, like he's sculpting me from sand. He traces the scoops of my shoulders, the small pillows of my breasts, the swells of my hips. He resumes ferocity only once he turns his attention to my lower body. It's almost savage, the way his eyes change—the way he brings his fingers to the flesh of my thighs like he's a starving man being given food. He's so intent on my body that I can't even find a moment to feel the requisite flicker of shame at finding my nether regions exposed. He makes me feel this beautiful, this safe.

  Trace repositions so his curls hang over my belly. He runs a hand along one of my legs, from one knobby ankle to the fleshy side of my ass. He brings his other hand gently back to my slit, where he presses a finger up, and gently inside me. He lowers his mouth. His breath is hot, and his tongue lands on my clit just as his finger finds a pleasure zone inside me; I buck my hips towards him, and I cry out.

  He flicks his tongue back and forth, securing my thrashing with one firm hand on my thigh. He's patient and thorough and loving with his movements, but now, I know better. After a few beats of sweet lapping, Trace widens his mouth. He begins to suck harder on my clit, just as he presents another finger at my entrance. I draw my legs farther apart, so he can slide inside with ease. He raises his mouth—barely, just barely—and his eyes meet mine.

  “You're so fucking wet,” he says. My eyes roll back into my head. I find myself drifting off to some other place, someplace far beyond this basement. Trace, meanwhile, is pushing his fingers in and out of me faster and faster, while his mouth tugs harder and harder on my swollen mound. I bring a hand up from the carpet, where I discover I've been digging my nails into it, and place my palm against the moist thatch of his neck. I apply the slightest amount of pleasure, and in response, he laps at me harder still.

  I feel my legs tensing up, in a way they never have before. For a second, I'm scared. I'm aware of this growing need for release, but unsure of what will happen when I really give in. It's never felt this good before. There has to be some kind of pleasure ceiling.

  “Oh, fuck, Trace,” I hear myself murmur aloud, in a voice I don't fully recognize. I'm pressing his face into my pussy now; my ears are ringing. “I'm gonna come.”

 
; “Wait,” he murmurs. He reaches a hand up my body, and grabs hold of one quivering breast. I dig my shoulder blades further into the carpet, so I can rise to meet his touch.

  “I can't wait!” I cry. Louder than I mean to, but who cares at this point? My vision blurs again, but this time it's not from tears. I'm on the edge. I'm—

  But just then, Trace pulls away, grinning. The shift (,) I sense from his fingers abandoning my body almost does the trick, but not quite. I immediately know a new want—a hunger for satisfaction. I grip his slippery wrist, in an attempt to guide his fingers back toward me. But Trace is strong. He refuses.

  “I said wait,” he repeats. I thrust up and down against the air while he lowers first his suspenders, then the tops of his tuxedo pants His fingers fix around the bow-tie, yanking this away—and then they proceed down the mother-of-pearl clasps of his shirt which he casts aside. I'm floored by the view: his tan pecs are raised, entirely symmetrical...the caverns and crevices his six-pack makes (it) look like they were designed to be always slick with oil and sweat. He is just so fucking strong and manly-looking. His chest is a barrel. In awe, I sweep my hands down his body. I linger along the hard curves his muscles make.

  Trace's attention is fixed on his pants, and what's inside of them. Rising slightly to pull his pants and boxers down, at last he unfurls the thickest cock I've ever seen. Free from fabric, his member thrusts up and flops against his belly. Framed by tight coils and a smooth, pert sac, his manhood lives up to the name. Reaching forward, I put my fingers on this new part of him. I make a fist and move it up and down, slowly, though my thumb and forefinger just barely close around him. Emboldened by his nod and smile, I bring another hand down to my gasping entrance, and press lightly on my clit. He grows as I do.

  “Lean back,” he says to me. I do as he commands, but keep one hand on myself.

  “I'm on the pill,” I say, which feels dorky, but necessary. Because I definitely want him to come inside me, naked. I want to feel every inch.