by Claire Adams
“Nooo,” Chris says, far too loudly for the time of night. “I wanna stay up and hang out with my little bro—”
There’s no easy way to tell if he was going to say “brother” or leave it at “bro,” as Chris is now leaning over the side of his lawn chair, vomiting.
“That’s just spectacular,” I tell him. “Really, it’s great of you to drop in and make yourself at home.” I sigh. “How many times are we going to do this, huh?” I ask.
Chris looks up at me and opens his mouth, taking a quick breath in as if he’s about to say something, but quickly returns his head over the side of the lawn chair to make sure there isn’t anything left to throw up.
I make my way over to the faucet just outside the back door and I grab the end of the hose attached to it before turning the faucet on.
“You’re probably going to want to move if you don’t want to get soaked and have to sleep outside,” I tell him.
He doesn’t react at first, but after I give him a quick spray with the hose, he moves quickly enough, though he only makes it to the lawn chair I’ve just abandoned to clean up after him. If ever there was a clearer living metaphor for my relationship to my brother than this single moment, I’ve never seen it.
After I get the concrete cleaned, I set the hose back down and turn off the faucet.
“Feeling any better?” I ask him.
“I feeel great,” he tells me. “Hey bro?” he says.
“What?” I respond.
“Got anything to drink? I’m havvinng a rough night,” he says.
It’s a testament to my incredible self-control that I’ve never beaten the crap out of my brother.
* * *
Morning comes and I’m sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, just waiting to see which version of my brother greets me today.
I like to think Chris is a decent guy if you look past all the cons and swindles, the pyramid schemes and the fake lottery tickets. There’s also that fake ID scam he ran a few years back, but his computer guy had trouble with simple math and often ended up making people younger on their ID than they were in real life.
Under all that, I like to think his heart is in the right place. I like to think it, but that doesn’t mean I’m naïve enough to believe it.
“Hey bro,” Chris says, coming into the kitchen. “I think I remember throwing up on your back porch last night. Did I?”
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
I’m waiting for the sales pitch.
He’s taking his time, though, slowly walking past me toward the coffee maker. “Where do you keep your mugs?” he asks.
“Top cabinet to the left of the stove,” I tell him. “How long are you planning to stay here this time?”
“Straight to business, huh?” he says, reaching into the cupboard and pulling down a mug.
Chris is what I’d look like if I stopped going to the gym and started going to the bar, plus a few years. My shoulders are broader, and I’m a few inches taller at 5’9”, but we’ve both got the same dirty blond hair and the same perma-smirk on our mouths from years of listening to parents make promises we knew they’d never keep.
Every time he shows up, I keep telling myself that I’ve got to keep going along with it, that I should kick him out or call the cops or something. I can never bring myself to do it.
When we were younger, though, he really looked out for me.
Coming from the particularly dysfunctional background that I do, I was an easy target for some of the larger kids in class. For years, though, Chris always had my back. I still got the crap kicked out of me on a pretty regular basis, but Chris took a lot of punches so I wouldn’t have to.
After he dropped out and moved out, though, I had to learn how to take care of myself, hence…
“We can’t keep doing this,” I tell him. “You’re my brother, but I think I’ve been more than patient—”
“I know, I know,” he says, waving me off as he walks back over to the coffee maker and fills his mug. “We’ll talk. Just let me get some coffee in me, otherwise I can’t be held accountable for whatever unintelligible nonsense comes out of my mouth.”
He replaces the carafe on the hotplate and takes a big whiff of his coffee.
“All right,” he says before taking a sip, “let’s discuss the terms of my provisional residency.”
I have a feeling he’s going to be here for a while.
Chapter Six
Driving the Train
Ash
Mason’s been hiding something.
Ever since that night I called and he said his brother was passed out on his couch, Mason tenses up whenever I so much as bring up the notion of going over to his place. Maybe it’s something to do with his brother or maybe his brother’s not even there. Either way, he’s been going to increasing lengths to keep us from ending up there.
Present moment, Mason and I are taking what he pitched as “a long walk through the city.” It sounded great until we got out here and I remembered how old, ugly and run down so much of this town is.
“So,” I start when we reach a gap in the conversation, “tell me more about your family. How many siblings do you have?”
It’s best to be tactful in situations like this.
“Just Chris,” he says. “You?”
A car drives by, rattling loudly as the muffler dangles, barely held in place at the back.
“Why are you trying to keep me away from your house?” I blurt.
There goes the tactful approach.
“I told you,” he says. “My brother’s been staying there and things aren’t exactly stable with him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Chris is one of the more complicated parts of my life,” I tell her. “I’ve found it best to keep people away from him as much as possible. He has a way of separating the kindhearted from their money.”
It’s starting to look like Mason’s not as single as he’s making himself out to be.
“I don’t like being the jealous type,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the thought without flat out accusing him of something.
“You’re the only woman I’m interested in,” he says.
“But am I the only woman that you’re seeing?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says. “I’m really not the two-timing type.”
“I guess I’d just feel better if you weren’t so adamant about keeping me away from your home,” I tell him.
“Well,” he says, “if it’ll help, we can go there now.”
That was easier than I’d expected—maybe a little too easy.
“Why are you okay going there now when you weren’t before?” I ask.
“You know,” he says, “I’m really starting to get the feeling you don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that,” I tell him. “It’s just that I’m not sure I believe you.”
He laughs.
“All right,” he says. “I just want to warn you that Chris can be a little hard to deal with when he’s been drinking and he was working on a bottle when I left. Just remember that he’s my brother, okay?” he asks. “He’s not me.”
With that, we change directions and head for his place. We don’t talk much on the way. When we get to his house, though, I start to believe what he’s been telling me.
There’s a man sprawled over the porch swing in front of Mason’s house. The man’s wearing nothing but his boxers.
“Great,” Mason mutters. “Could you help me get him inside?”
“That’s him?” I ask, over the drunken man’s loud snoring.
“That’s Chris,” Mason says. He smacks Chris a few times moderately on the cheek, waking him, at least partially, from his slumber.
“Heey, buddy,” Chris mumbles. “I’m just catsching some winks. I’ll be outta your way in a minute.”
“Come on,” Mason says, grabbing one of his brothers arms and pulling the
latter upright. “Let’s get you inside before my neighbors start complaining.”
“I’m goood,” Chris says and tries to lie back down, but Mason’s still got his arm. Chris pivots, what appears to be unintentionally, out of the porch swing and Mason has to grab him so he doesn’t fall to the ground.
“Come on, Chris,” Mason grunts, trying to lift his brother to a standing position. “You’re kind of making me look bad.”
“Naw,” Chris says. His eyes open a little wider when he spots me standing there. “Well heyya there,” he slurs. “Can I buy you a drink, pretty lady?”
“Does he always drink like this?” I ask.
“He’s more of a binge-drinker,” Mason explains. “I think it’s a stress thing.”
Chris is now trying to stand up and straighten the tie that he’s not wearing, apparently in an attempt to look more presentable for my benefit. I walk over and grab Chris’s free arm, helping Mason get him into the unlocked house.
“You’ve got to stop doing this,” Mason says. “I’ve got neighbors, you know. Not only that, I’d like to be able to have people over without having to make excuses for you.”
Chris’s head tilts toward his Mason, and the former belches loudly in response to the scolding.
“We’ve also got to start getting you to brush your teeth after you’ve been drinking,” Mason says, crinkling his nose.
We get Chris to the couch and sit him down while Mason cleans empty potato chip bags and half-eaten candy bars out of the way. Finally, we get Chris lied down and covered with a blanket.
Mason motions for me to come with him.
I follow.
We get to a bedroom and Mason shows me inside, closing the door once we’re both inside.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not really what I wanted you to think of when you think of my place.”
“Yeah,” I answer, looking around the room. “I think I can appreciate that now. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
The room is modest, its only major furnishings being a queen-sized bed against one wall and an old, worn-down desk in the corner. It’s nothing elaborate, but at least it’s clean, comfortable.
“This is your room?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d give you the full tour, but I’d rather not disturb Chris. He has a tendency of waking up when you least want him to, and I’d rather we not have to deal with him right now.”
“Yeah,” I answer again, sitting on Mason’s bed.
Right now, I’m a mess of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, Mason has been telling the truth about his brother. On the other hand, this kind of dysfunction is almost always a sign there’s a lot more going on under the surface.
“So, the two of you went different directions, huh?” I ask. “Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” Mason answers. “I guess we just have different ways of processing things. Sometimes I wonder: if I didn’t take so much grief back in school, would I still be fighting or would I have ended up like… You know,” he says, “like Chris.”
“You don’t seem to like your brother very much,” I observe.
“I don’t,” Mason says. “He’s my brother, so I’m forced to love him, but no. I wouldn’t say I like him very much. Everything with him is about taking the easy way, but the easy way always ends up more complicated and sooner or later, it always blows up in his face. I just wish I knew how to get him to see what he’s doing to himself and to the people around him.”
“Yeah,” I say a third time since I’ve been in the room.
I just don’t know what to think. The more time I spend with Mason, the more I find that Jana was right about him; he is sweet, gentle.
At the same time, this is not an easy situation. Mason and I already had a bit of trouble getting off the ground and since Chris arrived, things have only gotten more difficult.
“Do you think we’re too—” I start, but I’m interrupted as Mason leans in and kisses me on the lips. It happens so fast, I’m not even sure that it really happened, except now Mason’s red in the face and turning away from me. “What was that for?” I ask.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while now,” he says. “I guess it just felt like the right moment.”
My heart is pounding so hard, I’m actually a little worried. That doesn’t stop me from kissing Mason back, though.
His lips are smooth, welcoming. When I pull away, Mason’s smiling. “What was that for?” he asks.
“The first one was so quick I barely even processed it,” I tell him. “I figured if you’re going to kiss me, we may as well let it last long enough to do something.”
There’s still that tension in my muscles, but the reasons it’s there have stopped coming to mind. It’s been so long and I’ve been so closed off I’d forgotten that relationships are about this kind of intimacy. The awkward first kiss, the eager follow-up, that moment where the only real decision is whether to stop or keep going.
I decide, at least for now, to keep going.
With the initial shock and timidity now a footnote, Mason and I just sink into each other. His arms around me, my arms around him—this isn’t what I was expecting, and I can hardly say I’m prepared for it even now. More than anything, though, I’m taken away, both in spirit and sensation, into a world I haven’t known for what feels like so long.
His hands come together at the small of my back and a couple of his fingers curl under the bottom of my shirt.
“Tell me if I’m moving too fast,” he whispers, his lips to my ear for a brief, goose-bump-inspiring moment and now he’s kissing my cheek, my mouth.
“Okay,” I answer back, too overcome with the rush of endorphins to remember why I was so nervous in the first place.
He starts lifting my shirt, and even though I’m expecting it, I still gasp a little at the actual feeling.
“You okay?” he asks calmly.
“Yeah,” I tell him, and I lift my arms, allowing him to pull my shirt the rest of the way off.
We’ve spent time with each other since I decided to give him a shot, but we’ve never been together like this. It’s always been flirting and subtle glances.
Now, as I pull Mason’s shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, I think it’s safe to say we’ve taken things to the next level.
At first, I’m not sure how far I’m willing to take this, but the more I feel his touch, the more I’m pulled in by the sensuality of the moment, the more I’m ready to go as far as he’ll take me.
This isn’t an intellectual process. Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see because I’m feeling what I’m feeling, but the longer we kiss and hold one another, the more this just feels right.
Mason hesitates, so I take over for a minute, reaching behind my back and unclasping my bra. I let it dangle from my shoulders, loose but still mostly in place as I wait for Mason’s reaction.
Before I know it, he’s on top of me, my bra is off and the heat of his mouth brings my skin to life as he slides his lips over my collar bone down to the space between my breasts.
“Mmm,” I hum, savoring the attention of his lips as his fingers close in over the fabric at the top of my pants.
Mason stops a moment and looks up at me, as if he’s waiting for permission.
My heart is in my throat, and I’m having a hard time swallowing it back down as the mixture of excitement and tenderness emanates from his eyes.
I nod and Mason unbuttons and unzips my pants. He pulls them down eagerly, slipping them all the way down and off my legs.
Mason takes this opportunity to kiss my knees, my thighs. Every patch of skin those lips greet seems almost to ignite in a new flood of pleasure.
He comes up to my red, cotton panties, and he teases my sensitive skin just outside where I’m covered. I’m arching my back, half of me hoping he takes his time while the other half just wants him to tear off my underwear and put himself inside, the back and f
orth only adding to my desire.
“You sure you don’t want to—” he starts, looking up at me again.
“We’ll figure it out later,” I tell him. “Just don’t stop what you’re doing.”
There’s no easy way to tell whether this feeling is so mesmerizing because it’s been a while for me or because he’s just that accomplished at foreplay, and right now, I’m all about finding out.
With the index finger of his right hand, he brushes the fabric a little to one side, exposing my meticulously-trimmed center. He doesn’t waste any time.
His tongue sends jolts of liquid electricity through every part of me, and I’m already trying to catch my breath.
This is all happening so fast.
I’m grabbing my breasts, rocking my hips. My body goes on its own, growing ever more receptive to Mason’s magnetic touch.
His mouth settles over my clit and he gently tongues, sucks and teases me while the world moves beneath me.
Mason’s lips brush over my lower lips, and he slides a finger inside before returning his mouth to my sensitive bud.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask through a thick wall of breath.
“Yeah,” he whispers and he gets up, walks over to his dresser and opens the top drawer.
Me, I’m just taking these next few moments to try and catch my breath.
My muscles are gelatin, and I feel like I’m slowly sinking through the bed toward the center of the Earth.
Mason produces a condom from within the dresser drawer and he walks back over to the side of the bed, removing every last bit of clothing in the process.
He’s rigid and throbbing in front of me, and I reach out, wrapping my fingers around him, feeling the warmth of his hardness which, soon enough, will be inside of me.
I glance up at Mason to gauge his reaction and his head is tilted back to where I can’t see his eyes. He’s breathing hard, his skin on fire.
I can’t remember ever feeling this eager, and I take his first few inches into my mouth, slowly working my tongue over the underside of his shaft.
My free hand finds its way between my legs, and I slip it under my panties to the hot wetness underneath.