Pierce Her Stepbrother

by Saffron Daughter

  His eyes open wide, and he cocks his head to the side. “What wedding?”

  I groan, and bury my face in my hands. “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And who?”

  I shut my eyes and just shake my head.

  “No,” he says. “You’re not serious.”

  “I got an email from him this morning?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Penny.”

  “I’m not fucking with you, Pierce.”

  He starts to laugh. At first it’s a chuckle, but then he’s slapping his stomach and holding onto his chest, and tears are streaming from his eyes.

  “Oh, God, I’m cramping, I’m cramping,” he wails as he laughs.

  I am beside myself.

  “This is not funny, Pierce.”

  “It is! Oh, it fucking is. Don’t you see what that means?”

  “Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes, waiting from something crude to come out of his mouth.

  “It means you’re fucking your stepbrother!” He bursts out laughing again, and I really do roll my eyes.

  “You’re not my stepbrother yet, you idiot.” I fold my arms, and sit up in bed. “And we’re not fucking.”

  “Right,” he says, walking over to me. His erection is half-gone now, and he stands right next to my face.

  “Go away,” I say, making a face.

  He leans down, tilts my head up, and kisses me quickly.

  “Eugh!” I say, pushing him off me. I turn away from him and put a hand over my mouth. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

  “Oh, Pen,” he says. I notice his hard-on is back. “I really don’t care.”

  I get out of bed, rush past him into the bathroom, and slam the door shut.

  “Never again!” I shout through the wood. A moment later I add, “And you’re disgusting!”

  “We’ll see,” he says. “We’ll see.”

  *

  Penny is on my mind.

  Jason and his friend from England, Chance, stand opposite me. Chance idly flicks open and closed his zippo.

  We’re at a high-table, it’s barely noon, and I’m nursing my second pint. They walked by my local haunt, decided to pop in and say hello.

  “Man, it’s not even lunch time.”

  I flick my eyes to Jason. “I can buy you a beer if you’d like, you cheap prick.”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine with this.”

  “You got work today?”

  He laughs. “Yes, actually. I start my shift at three.”

  “What about you?” I say to Chance.

  “Nah, dude. Nothing planned.”

  “Not with your girlfriend?”

  “Cass? Nah, she’s chilling with his girlfriend today.”

  “Huh. Why’d you pick Australia? Why come here for holiday?”

  He shrugs. “Always wanted to see kangaroos.”

  “Fucking kangaroos, eh?” I say, grinning. “Pretty much the first thing I did when I came here.”

  “Picture that,” Jason says, and he sips from his iced tea. “Two fucking yanks come all the way around the world to see a bloody kangaroo.”

  I laugh. “Don’t forget koalas.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, nodding. “Another Australian gem.”

  “Don’t forget the bogans smashing back tinnies.”

  “Foreigners can never learn the lingo, mate.”

  “Nah,” I say, grinning. “Know where I heard that?”

  “No.”

  “It was my first Australia Day. I was at a bottleshop picking up a slab that was on a deal online, and the guy asked me what my plans were.”

  “And?”

  “I asked him what people around here normally do on Australia Day, and that’s what he said. Said bogans would smash back tinnies, and the rest of the people don’t really give a shit. I didn’t even know what a bogan was.”

  “What the fuck is a bogan?” Chance cuts in.

  “Like a hick. It’s an attitude thing. You’re living in England now, right? It’s like a chav, I think.”

  “I still don’t even know what a chav is,” he says. “Why can’t you Queen’s subjects just use proper English and speak fucking American?”

  “Piss of,” Jason says.

  Our banal chatter dies down.

  I’ve still got Penny on my mind.

  She left in the morning, straight after brushing her teeth and putting on her make up. She barely even spoke to me. I was cooking breakfast at the time, scrambled eggs, and watched as she strode quickly through the kitchen without meeting my eyes, and walked out through the door.

  At the time I shrugged. Usually it was me gone in the morning – or earlier – without a word or goodbye kiss. Sometimes, though, it was the girl who stormed out.

  Never, however, was I ever upset about it. Until now.

  “So what the fuck is eating you up, mate?”

  I look at Jason. “Nothing.”

  “Something happen last night?” His eyes widen as realization breaks across his face. “You went out with Penelope, didn’t you?”

  “She the tattoo chick?” Chance asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, eyeing him.

  “Well, did you fuck her?”

  I look at Jason, and my brows pinch together.

  “You did.”

  I shrug.

  “And it didn’t end well?”

  I shrug again.

  “She left, didn’t she? In a huff? What did you do, Pierce?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Chance frowns. “So what happened, then?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Oh for shit’s sake, how complicated can it be?” Jason pushes.

  “Our parents are dating, actually.” I smirk, watching their reactions. Jason just balks like he can’t believe it, but his friend Chance barely even reacts.

  “What do you think?” I ask him.

  He clinks open his zippo. “No big deal.”

  “It is to her.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  “What makes you think that?” I ask, and as I hear the words leave my lips, I think to myself: Fuck, I just gave myself away.

  “I just do,” he says.

  “You ready for the fight tomorrow?” Jason asks.

  Chance shakes his head. “I thought they were monthly.”

  “This is a new thing,” I say. “Set up independently of Jimmy.”

  “That’ll go down like a fart in church.”

  “Jimmy’s probably pissed, but fuck it, little competition is never a bad thing.”

  “American capitalism,” Jason remarks. “You think Jimmy’s gonna mind you fighting in a cage that doesn’t belong to him?”

  “Don’t give a shit what he thinks,” I say, downing the last of my beer. “He can come talk to me if he has a problem. I got money to make.”

  “He might send his boys.”

  “Fuck his boys.”

  “Penelope know you’re fighting tomorrow?”

  “Why would she?” I ask, staring hard at Jason. I watch as his expression changes, as he becomes awkward beneath my glare.

  Why should Penelope know? We just fucked. We just had a one-night stand. It’s not like she matters to me.

  I quash that little voice in my head that says, it’s not like I matter to her.

  No fucking time for self-pity.

  *

  chapter twelve

  He walks into the tattoo shop. It’s been one day since I found out our parents are getting married, and there’s no way I want to see him, and I already told him that.

  But, still, there he is, pissing me off.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  “About what?” I ask, pushing him into the back room so Tina won’t hear us. “You come here to gloat? To make fun of me? To make light of this whole situation?”

  “It is pretty funny,” he says, smirking.

  I notic
e that the veins on his arms are sticking out more, and that I can see muscle fibers under his skin.

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

  “No. I’m fighting tonight.”

  I blink. I feel this indignation that he hasn’t told me before now, and I don’t know why I feel it. I try not to show it, but I’m sure I sound irritated.

  “And? You look thinner today.”

  “It’s this new thing, more rules. They separate weight-classes.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Well, been drinking and partying pretty hard the last few nights. Lots of sugar and salt, lots of water retention.”

  It clicks. “You’re dehydrating yourself?”

  “Only for weigh-in. Once that’s done I’ll hit the electrolyte drinks hard.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “No, it’s normal,” he says, his voice turning icy. “I don’t cheat. It’s what fighters do.”

  I purse my lips. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Watch me fight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll get to see me in tiny shorts.”

  Despite myself, I laugh. “I’ve seen you naked.”

  “Hey, it’s me. You’ll take what you can get.”

  “No,” I say. The humor has faded. “No. We can’t do this.”

  “Yes we can.”

  “It’s too weird. It’s too awkward. We’ll be family soon.”

  “So? Cross that bridge when we get there.”

  “No,” I say firmly.

  He steps closer to me, takes my hand in his and pulls it up over my head. He begins to kiss the underside of my arm, moves to my neck. I don’t want to, but I turn my head to the side, let him kiss me, let him smell me.

  “Don’t tell me it wasn’t fucking unbelievable.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t still want it.”

  He presses my hand hard against the wall, pushes his body into mine. I can feel his hardness against my stomach.

  “Pierce—”

  “What good would it be for you to sacrifice something you want for the sake of your father?”

  “It’s not about that?”

  “Oh? Because I could swear you’ve got a guilt complex about it. About leaving him.”

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Isn’t that what you told me at dinner?”

  “Shut up, Pierce,” I say. I’m angry, but he’s too strong; I can’t pull my arm down, can’t get out from under him.

  He pushes his forehead against mine, stares into my eyes. I see his wolf eyes.

  “Why don’t you care?” I ask, but my breaths are ragged now. His hand is sliding down the front of my body, and when I feel his fingers touch the skin beneath the button of my jeans, I jolt.

  “Because I know what I want, and I take what I want. I want you.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  His finger, now beneath the elastic lip of my underwear, stops. He pulls back, like he’s confused, or like he’s contemplating something for the first time.

  I’m left standing against the wall, my arm still above my head, breathless, panting, and flushed.

  “Why?” I ask him again.

  His eyes meet mine, and this time there’s something else there. More than just base lust. More than just Pierce Fletcher getting his way.

  He turns around and leaves.

  “Why?” I shout at his back, as I hear the door’s bell ding as it closes behind him. “Coward!”

  I’m shaking with a heady mix of anger and disappointment.

  Why couldn’t he just tell me?

  *

  chapter thirteen

  “I want to know where the fight is. Get Jason to tell you.”

  I hear Rose sigh on the other end of the phone. I can just imagine the facial expression she’s making. She’s looking annoyed, impatient, rolling her eyes. Her mouth is held slightly open. I know that I’m annoying her by making her do this, but I want to know where it is.

  I don’t know if I’m going to go and watch, yet. But I want to know where it is.

  “Hold on,” she says. A minute passes and she’s back. “It’s in an old firehouse that is no longer used.”

  “Firehouse?”

  “Like, where firemen live, above a fire station.”

  “Oh. Can you give me the address?” I scribble it down onto my hand as she reads it out. “The number six tram goes there, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright.”

  “You going to go watch him fight?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to see him anymore.”

  I stay silent.

  “Girl, what’s going on? You need to talk to me.”

  “No I don’t,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound harsh. What I mean is I need to figure this out on my own.”

  “Whatever you say, babe.”

  “Alright. Gotta go, see you.”

  I hang up, and look at the time on my phone screen. I’m guessing the fight starts at seven, like last time.

  From behind me I hear footsteps, and turn around to see Tina standing in the back room. “Everything okay?”

  “I… I think I need to take the rest of the night off.”

  “That’s okay, there’s nobody booked tonight.” She smiles warmly at me.

  “Thanks.”

  “But you only get two days off a week. So you have to make this up.”

  “I will,” I say.

  “Fine. Go. Shoo!”

  I leave the tattoo shop, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do.

  *

  She’s not here!

  Third fight of the night, and I’m bleeding from a cut above my brow. There’s a doctor on site, and he dabs away at it.

  “I can see your bone,” he says. “You need stitches.”

  “Fine. No anesthesia,” I say. My voice is hoarse. I took an upper cut that missed my jaw, but got me in the throat. My vocal chords feel bruised.

  “You hung over, Pierce?”

  I stare at the doctor. “No.”

  “You sure? You coming down? You pop some pills last night?”

  “No. I don’t do fucking pills, doc.”

  “If you have, I’m going to have to disqualify you.”

  “Fuck no!” I bark, spittle spraying over his face. “I’m not high, I’m not coming down, I’m not nothing.”

  “Then why am I looking at a cut that will need six stitches, a great big shiner on your left cheek, and a busted lip?”

  “Just off my game.”

  “Off your game? I’ve watched you fight two dozen times, you know.”

  “Great,” I say. “A fan.”

  “Never seen you like this. Talk to me, son. What’s up?”

  I glare into the forty-something man’s eyes. “What are you?” I spit. “My fucking therapist?”

  “You’re getting your ass kicked out there, Pierce, and you don’t even realize it.”

  “I realize it.”

  “So if you don’t want to talk to me about it, then you better damn well sort it out. I was hired tonight not just to attend to injuries like yours, but to disqualify fighters I see as unfit. The organizer of this event doesn’t want anybody dropping dead in his cage tonight.”

  “Ah, so you’re just covering your own ass.”

  The man’s eyes narrow. “Damn straight I am, son.”

  “Stitch up the fucking cut.”

  He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture needle, and presses it against my skin. “This will hurt.”

  I grunt. He pushes it through, but I don’t wince. I feel the skin tighten, feel each prick, and adrenaline starts to course through my system. The pain elevates my heart rate, before my body’s own processes numb it, turn it from a sharp sting to a dull throb.

  “All done.”

  “Good,” I say, getting up off the stool. “Don’t call me �
��son’ anymore.”

  I step into the cage. The crowd grows tense, electric. They’re not used to seeing me struggle. They are not used to seeing blood on my face.

  But I made it through the last two rounds. Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick, but I was the one who walked out of the steel cage.

  My opponent enters, and he’s every bit as big as me. A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and then I’m dancing around him, bouncing forward and backward. I can see he puts too much weight on his left leg; so he’s a kicker.

  As I expect, the first kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I side-step out of its way. The crowd explodes. I grin at him, sucking on my mouth guard.

  “Come on,” I say, beckoning him with my fingers. “Use your bloody fists.”

  He doesn’t take the bait; but I don’t expect him to, either. I want him to think I’m a talker. I want him to hear me talk, look for me to get distracted, and make his move. Because I won’t be distracted.

  “Come on,” I say, spreading my arms, taunting him as he misses another kick. “You afraid to get a little closer?”

  He makes his move, a righty-feint followed by a left hook. I bend backward, but not quick enough. The hook grazes my chin, and it fucking hurts.

  Fuck. I really am slow tonight.

  My turn.

  I jab with my right; he dodges but I know he will. I lean forward, and he catches me off balance on one leg. He grabs my arm, pulls it into his, ready to lock me, but I spin at the last moment, pivot around so my back is to him, and land an elbow right between his second and third ribs.

  He lets go of me and backs up, wincing and winded, rubbing his side.

  I fake a kick, hop forward on my left leg, then kick him in the thigh. He clutches at it; his knee is wobbling. His hamstring must be numb. I can already see the dark bruise forming.

  My foot tingles with pain.

  Sweat pours from my body.

  The crowd chants my name.

  I take three quick hops toward him, spin around him like I’m holding a football. I expect him to turn and follow me, but he doesn’t. He turns the other way, and throws a kick right into my side. I don’t block it in time, and I fall backward, wheezing.

  I didn’t expect that. I climb to my feet, hand on my side, and grin at him. Then my eyes focus on something familiar, just above his right shoulder. It’s the face of a girl, and she looks pissed.