Pierce Her Stepbrother

by Saffron Daughter

  Pierce Her Stepbrother

  Her Stepbrother Fighter

  By

  Saffron Daughter

  * * *

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  * * *

  All characters depicted in this book are consenting adults. There are no relations depicted in this book between blood-relatives.

  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Chance Her Stepbrother

  License

  prologue

  I hate to be disturbed when I’m working. But, as usual, he doesn’t give a shit.

  What can I say? Most of the time, he pisses me off.

  “What is it?” I ask, tattoo machine in my hand. I’m inking a white rabbit onto the inside of a client’s arm. She designed it herself. It’s not a very good drawing, but it has meaning for her, and that’s cool. Most clients come in with a set idea, something sentimental. I can appreciate that.

  “I want a Prince Albert.”

  I lift the needle off her skin, but don’t bother looking up at him. He’s standing by the reclined chair my client is sat in, and I can see his legs. I know exactly what’s underneath his denim jeans. On his left knee he’s got a ram’s head with huge horns, and on his right he he’s got an owl with ram horns.

  Of course, I should know. I’m his new favorite tattoo artist.

  His words.

  “Sorry,” I mouth to the girl in the chair. She gives me a no problem expression. I’m not sure if she knows what a Prince Albert is.

  “Can you do it?” he asks me. I look up his body, and I can see right through his clothing. I filled in the jellyfish on his leg, redid the outline of the serpent on his stomach. I darkened some of the fading ink on white wolf he has on his right shoulder. I added a line to the tally he keeps on his wrist, and I did the fifth numeral on his fifth knuckle.

  “No,” I say, meeting his eyes. They are this shade of light grey that always surprises me. Looking into his eyes is like looking into a snow globe that’s been shaken up. Sometimes, his eyes remind me of a wolf’s in the night. “I can’t.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “I’m not trained.”

  “Then get training.”

  I look up at him, annoyed. “I don’t want to see your dick.”

  He smirks. I hate it when he smirks. His full, endlessly kissable lips set within a granite jaw pull to the side nastily, smugly. He’s so full of himself.

  “You know,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I may be wrong, but I think you’ve seen my dick before. In fact, I think you’ve done a little more than see it. As I recall, you rather enjoyed—”

  “Go find someone else, Pierce. We don’t do piercings here.”

  “I only trust you to do it,” he says. “Besides, you and I both know you wouldn’t mind getting your fingers wrapped ’round my junk again.”

  I groan and roll my eyes. Why does he insist on calling it his junk? It’s disgusting.

  “No, okay? I can send you to a guy I know who does it, though. He knows what he’s doing. Best in the city.”

  “I don’t want anybody else touching my cock, Penny.”

  The girl on the chair clears her throat. “Maybe I’d better go into the waiting room.”

  I nod at her. “Sorry, Maya. This will only take a minute.”

  “Take your time, honey,” she says, and she gets up. She looks Pierce up and down. He licks his lips and flashes his eyes at her, and I’m certain I see her knees wobble.

  I feel it in my chest: The white-hot burn of jealousy.

  Even worse? He sees it in my eyes.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Pen, she’s not my type. You are.”

  “Please go away.”

  “Come on, sis,” he whispers conspiratorially.

  “Don’t call me that. It’s Penny. And I’m not your sister.”

  “I read up about it on the internet. The cock piercing, I mean. They say there can be complications, but that it’s unlikely.”

  “There can,” I tell him, matter-of-factly. “But it’s unlikely as long as you take good care of it.”

  “What happens if I don’t?”

  “Infection is most likely, but a relatively low risk. Urine cleans the cut somewhat, actually, like salt water in the sea.”

  “How big is the risk?” he asks. His face grows serious.

  “What do you think, idiot? You’re sticking a ten-gauge metal ring through a membrane of skin on the base of your penis, and passing it into your urethra. It’s not exactly something the body is used to. There is a risk. It’s not big, but it’s there. Anyway, with as much as you like to talk about and use your prick, are you sure it’s one you’re willing to take?”

  “That’s why I want you to do it. I trust you. I know you and Tina run a clean shop.” He grins. “Also, you know how to handle my ju—”

  “This is Tina’s shop, not mine. And she doesn’t do piercings here.”

  “What’s the difference? Your shop, her shop… why not branch out? Attract a new clientele.”

  “Many people run a clean shop,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Who will do piercings. What is this really about, huh? Do you really want a Prince Albert, or are you just trying to find some new way to annoy me?”

  He laughs, and flops down into the chair. It creaks beneath his weight. He’s a heavy guy; all muscle, whipcord tight. I think he’s close to two-hundred pounds at six-two.

  “You left this morning without saying bye. That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

  “Keeping count, are you?” I ask, scowling at him.

  “For a girl as driven as you, you’re not very self-aware.”

  I throw the tattoo machine down onto a metal tray, and fold my arms across my chest. “You said you only wanted to talk last night.”

  “Seems you wanted to do more than just talk,” he says. His eyebrows raise, challenging me.

  I walk away from him, and lean against the counter on the other side of the cramped room. He’s got a lump on his head to go along with six stitches, and on his left cheek he’s got a red welt the size of a golf ball.

  “You did terribly in the fight last night.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You didn’t come.”

  “I was there.”

  “You were late.”

  “I don’t like seeing you fight. You know that. It’s dangerous. Look at you. You’re all fucked up.”

  Infuriatingly, he just shrugs. He’s silently saying whatever.

  I can’t help myself but to ask. “Do you enjoy pissing me off? Do you enjoy knowing that you’re losing me?”

  “You’re no good at feinting. I’m not losing you. You’re letting yourself lose me.”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I spit with venom, “You have this bad habit of trying to sound smarter than you are.”

  “And you have this bad habit of ignoring your own emotions, of pretending they’re what you want them to be, rather than what they really are.”

  I shrug. “I’m surprised you don’t have a quip to make about women.”

  “I don’t have a problem with women,” he says. “This isn’t about wom
en. This is about you. I got you figured out and you hate it.”

  “You don’t know a thing about me.”

  We fall into a stony silence, which he eventually breaks. “I like fighting.”

  I sigh, and press a finger against my throbbing temple. “I’ll never understand why you do it. I’ll also never understand why you think it’s only what you want that matters.”

  “It’s easy money. I like it, too, the competition.”

  “So why not try go pro?”

  He snorts. “Pro? Fuck off, Pen. Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you can get paid more?”

  “Nah. I like it in the underground. Fast, rough, less rules, quick fights. No scoring, no nothing. Cash on a win, no tax bullshit to deal with.”

  “I would hate to be your mother,” I say, shaking my head. “Can you get out of my shop now and stop bothering me?”

  “Will you do it?”

  I throw my hands up. “No, I won’t. I’m not going to put a ring in your cock!”

  “You afraid you might want to do more to it? Like last night?”

  “Cut it off, maybe.” I turn my index finger and middle finger into a pair of scissors.

  “Ouch,” he says, bunching up his face. “But no, that’s not it.”

  “I can’t believe we’re talking about your cock.”

  “We always talk about it.”

  “No, you do. Now go, I’ve got another client after this. Tina’s letting me do more work now. I can’t mess up, and you being here being annoying won’t make anything easier for me.”

  “We’re going to revisit this,” he says, getting up and pointing a lean arm and long finger at me. He leaves, winking at Maya, and she walks back into the room and I’m positive she’s still weak-kneed.

  God, it’s a struggle to control my own temper.

  She sits in the chair and holds her arm out. “What’s a Prince Albert?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Well, from what I gather, it’s a piercing on a, uh, man’s…?”

  “Yup. It’s a piercing on the underside of the penis, beneath the glans, and into the urethra. The ring is pushed through one of the thinnest membranes on a male’s body, into the urethral passage, and actually comes out of the urethra’s opening. It’s relatively simple as far as male genital piercings go, and is one of the most popular.”

  I recite it off the top of my head. Body art fascinates me, even if piercings aren’t what I’m drawn to.

  She scrunches up her face. “Oh my gosh, that’s disgusting! Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Typically people say it hurts more than an ear piercing and less than a nipple piercing,” I tell her. “Some guys say it doesn’t hurt at all but I don’t believe that. Four-to-six weeks healing time.”

  “Why do they do it?”

  I shrug. “It’s not like I have a penis. People report they have heightened sexual pleasure. Some say they like the sensation when they urinate. Some women say that, in certain positions, the ring can actually enhance sex for them.”

  “Really?” she asks. “Huh. I wonder what positions.”

  I roll my eyes. “Use your imagination.”

  “So, they, um, can’t do anything during that, uh, healing time?”

  “I assume you mean sex, and no. You risk complication. Better to do nothing at all. They can masturbate, but it’s not recommended.”

  She nods, but she looks a little pale and uncomfortable.

  “Sorry, Maya, was that too much information?”

  “No,” she chirps uneasily. “Why does that guy want one?”

  I laugh. “Oh God, to tell you the truth, I don’t know. I don’t think he even knows why he wants one, or if he truly does, or if he’s just winding me up.”

  “He’s hot, though.”

  I push my lips together and nod begrudgingly. “Yeah, he is.”

  “Great body.”

  “Yeah,” I say, pressing my finger and thumb onto my closed eyelids.

  “Who is he, anyway? Your ex or something?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “No, not my ex. He’s Pierce Fletcher.”

  “Pierce Fletcher,” she echoes. “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

  “He’s an underground cage fighter.”

  “Yeah, my brother talked about him. Something like one of the best ever.”

  “That’s what they say.” My tone lacks any semblance of enthusiasm. “He’s also about to become my stepbrother.”

  “Oh,” she says. I see it on her face. At first, there’s disappointment, and then confusion: Weren’t they just talking about his cock?

  “And,” I say, sighing, drawing out the word. “We’re fucking.”

  She covers her mouth.

  Silence swallows us.

  *

  chapter one

  One Month earlier…

  “Dad, I want to move to Melbourne.”

  He looks up from his paper, and his cornflake-filled spoon hovers in between the bowl and his mouth. His coffee-colored eyes narrow and his crow’s feet deepen.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yeah. You told me to think about it, and I thought about it. Rose lives out there and she’s got a spare room and says that I can move in with her. My favorite artist, Tina Azume, works there, and I know she’s solo, but she just recently put out an ad that she’s looking for an apprentice or assistant.”

  “You’re serious about becoming a tattooist?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for that hint of passive-aggressive judgment to rear its ugly head, but it doesn’t, so I nod at him.

  “Yeah, Dad. I really do. And actually, we prefer to be call artists.”

  “We?” he asks.

  “I’m going to become one, Dad, whether you like it or not. And I’m going to be good. You’ve seen how well I can draw. I’m going to be a world-famous artist, and there’s nothing you can do or say to stop me.”

  I’m breathing heavier now, and I cross my arms. He looks hurt.

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” I say. “But this is my dream. Body art is something so fascinating to me. People who have body art done are putting their personalities right there on the outside for everybody to see. It’s brave. It’d admirable. And body artists? Do you have any idea how hard it is to draw well on skin, as opposed to canvas or paper?”

  “I can’t say I do,” he admits.

  “It’s what I want, Dad. I’m going to chase this, and I’d really love your support on it.”

  He sighs. “You know, you get that manipulative streak from your mother.”

  “I’m not being manipulative, Dad. I’m just being honest.”

  “Your mother was appalled to find out you got another tattoo.” He gestures at my wrist. I have a silhouette of the Chicago city skyline there. I did it myself with my left hand. I am a little ambidextrous, and so I’ve been training it.

  “Well, frankly, I don’t really give a shit what Mom thinks,” I tell him.

  His face grows hard in an instant. “Penelope.”

  “What, Dad? Come on, we don’t get along. Heck, even you couldn’t bear to be with her.”

  “She’s still your mother.”

  “Yeah, well shouldn’t it say something that I stuck with you?”

  He can’t help but flash a quick smile.

  “You know, I always thought it was fathers and sons that had troubled relationships. Not mothers and daughters.”

  “Show’s how much you know.”

  “Evelyn and her daughter Margerie have a good relationship.”

  “Not everybody is the same, Dad. So, will you give me your blessing?”

  He sighs. “I guess it’s not like I can stop you, huh? You always did do your own thing.”

  “No, you can’t stop me. I’ve got the money grandpa left me, and I can afford to buy the ticket. I’ve already got my appointment to get my tattoo artist license, a meeting set up for my visa, and this is an opportunity I can’t say no to.”


  “Why don’t you try it out here first? In Chicago?”

  “Dad, it’s Tina Azume, and she’s looking for an apprentice!”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Only one of the most famous artists in the world, Dad! She’s got this amazing style. I’ve got posters of her work up in my room.”

  “Those? They just look like normal tattoos.”

  “And the Mona Lisa just looks like a normal woman with weird eyes.”

  He pushes up his lower lip with a finger. “Fair point. When did you become so fascinated with all of this, anyway?”

  “Dad,” I say. “I’ve kind of already made up my mind.”

  “You’re only eighteen.”

  “And that makes me an adult.”

  “I’d be an irresponsible father if I just let you waltz off for God knows how long.”

  “Would it be any different than if I was going to Australia for college?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “You’d be getting an education. There would be responsible adults around you. You would be in an academic community.”

  “I will still be getting an education,” I cry. “I’ll apprentice and learn more about body art. It’s what I want to do, Dad. And as for your slight on the community, tattoo artists are just as human as anybody else, and believe it or not, shock horror, can be responsible adults, too. Don’t go stereotyping them because of your own narrow-mindedness.”

  He frowns.

  “I’m not trying to insult you, Dad. I’m just asking you to be more open-minded. Anyway, this is my dream.”

  He finally puts the spoon in his mouth and slurps off the cereal. “When I was your age, I knew I wanted to be an architect.”

  “Was it your dream?”

  He continues without replying to my question. “Actually, it was before that. I started reading architecture books when I was fourteen, I think.”

  “So it was your dream?” I press.

  “Yeah,” he says. He blinks, rubs his eyes. “It was. I know where you’re coming from.”

  “You’re looking tired, Dad.”

  “Things have been crazy at work.”

  “But you see what I’m chasing, right? You chased it! I want to be like you. I want to get what I want in my career. I have to try, right? What if somebody told you that you couldn’t be an architect?”