Dirty Stepbrother

by Alycia Taylor

  She stopped what she was doing, “Do you need to get that?” she asked me.

  “No, ignore it, it’ll stop.” After about five rings, it went to voicemail. I had my hands underneath her shirt, on warm skin and she was just getting warmed back up. I was working on the latch for her bra when the phone started ringing again.

  “Shit!” I broke the kiss and took a hand out of her shirt and reached for it; it was Elly. “Fuck!”

  I pulled back away from Brooke and pushed the button for voicemail. I waited a few seconds and I heard Elly say, “Tristan, please do me this one favor: don’t make the mistake of sleeping with Brooke until we have a chance to talk. I really need to talk to you. Please don’t sleep with her.” I could hear a little catch in her voice. I don’t know if it was nerves or if she was sad.

  Suddenly my hard-on was gone and I had no desire to fuck Brooke any longer.

  I put down the phone and told Brooke, “I think you should go.”

  “What? Why? Is this about Elly? I really hope you’re not risking a million dollars and a record contract for her. I mean, she’d have to be like the world’s best piece of ass.”

  Close. “It’s none of your business, Brooke. I want you to go.”

  “Tristan…”

  “Go home, okay? Fuck!” She grabbed her purse and stormed out, pissed off. I didn’t give a shit. She’d get over it. At least she could feel better about the fact that she didn’t sleep with me before I kicked her out.

  I picked up the phone and looked at it again. I considered calling Elly just to see what the fuck was so important. I decided that I didn’t want to hear it. It was probably just babble about me being with Brooke. That was none of her fucking business. I failed to see why people had such a hard time minding their own shit and staying out of mine. Whatever the fuck she wanted to say, she should have said it the last week, after she finished getting me off.

  I got up and packed the pipe again and got a beer out of the fridge. I turned on some music and spent the rest of the evening getting high. Women were too much fucking trouble sometimes.

  Chapter Seven

  Elly

  Molly and I were working with the technical crew, getting things set up for round six, when I saw Tristan come in. I pretended like I was enthralled in what the technical director was saying and I didn’t see him. He acted like he didn’t see me either—maybe he really didn’t, I don’t know. He hadn’t called me back, and after the second call that night, I gave up. The last thing I wanted was to sound like a desperate female. I hadn’t given up on the idea of pitching rehab to him, but I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him when he was in such a pissy mood.

  Tristan went into the practice room where the band was. While I was working for the next couple of hours, I could hear him practicing. It sounded good. I didn’t doubt he’d nail it again. I worried about the drugs and that he’d win this competition and then just blow it all up in smoke. Or worse yet: kill himself. I had a pretty good idea that Tristan was too infatuated with himself to commit suicide, but my late boyfriend hadn’t killed himself on purpose.

  Since I got out of rehab, I tried to attend at least one meeting a week. I’ve heard of about five others in the past two years that had ended up the same way. It’s easy when you’re sober to wonder why the hell you’d entrust your very life to some scum of the earth drug dealer. No one knew what was in that shit, how powerful it was, or how their body would react to it. It was a gamble every time. When you stayed high most of the time, you didn’t care. All that mattered was getting through to the next high, no matter what you had to do to make that happen.

  I knew that I wasn’t going to be right with myself until I at least tried to talk to Tristan about it. If he decided to get clean, then great. If not, I had at least tried and if something bad happened, as bad as I would feel, at least I wouldn’t have the guilt of inaction eating away at me.

  When Tristan finally came out, I made a point of being near the door. He started to just brush past me and I said, “Tristan, wait, can we talk?” He kept walking, looking straight ahead like I wasn’t even there.

  Shit! I couldn’t very well yell out his name and attract the whole crew’s attention. I walked after him, briskly since he was taking big strides with his long legs. I was about two feet behind him when I whispered his name, loud enough for him to hear me, through clenched teeth since he was pissing me off. He finally turned around and I could see in his eyes how pissed off he was.

  “What?” he said, too loudly. “What the fuck is the emergency?”

  I took a chance that he would follow me and I stepped into the empty conference room next to us. He sighed loud enough to make sure that I could hear him. It was almost a growl. Then he stepped inside. I closed the door behind him and again he said, “What? Get over yourself Elly. Me fucking Brooke has nothing to do with you. You’re not my wife or mother, and you are certainly not my girlfriend.” I knew that he was right, I wasn’t his girlfriend. It still felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I was a fool to think that I’d been anything to him other than an easy piece of ass. I was beginning to wonder if anyone was anything more to him than that.

  “I don’t care about Brooke,” I lied. Just the thought of him fucking her made my stomach hurt. “I want to talk to you about the drugs, Tristan. I’m worried about you.”

  He laughed. I wasn’t surprised. I assumed that’s the way he would react.

  “Tristan listen to me, please. I’m not coming out of left field with this. I’ve had the same issues myself. I went to rehab…it was a great place. I’ve been clean for a couple of years now and I’m doing great. I feel so much better. I stopped by there and I got some paperwork for you….” I held it out towards him. He was looking at me as if I was crazy, but I didn’t have to guess what he was thinking, he told me.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? I barely know you. You were just a good fuck to me. All of a sudden you’re going and picking up rehab paperwork for me? Are you under some kind of delusion that we’re anything more than that?”

  “No,” I said, fighting the lump in my throat that was threatening to swell and turn into tears. “I don’t think we’re anything more than that, Tristan. But, as a human being, I think I’m still doing the right thing. If I stood by and didn’t even try and something happened to you…I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

  He laughed again and rubbing his hands across his face he said, “Shit! I thought you were calling me to hook up. This is crazy. I’ve been to rehab; it’s all a bunch of crap. I don’t have a problem. I party because I like to party. It’s fun. When I want to stop, if I want to stop, I will.”

  “That’s what all addicts say, Tristan.”

  He stepped towards me then and I was afraid for a second because the look in his eyes was pure fury. “Don’t ever fucking call me that. Addicts are trash; I know addicts. I’m not addicted to shit and you need to get your own life and stop worrying about mine.”

  “I wasn’t trying to put you down, Tristan, or put a label on you. I’m not worried about or interested in who you screw. I just care about what happens to you. Please take the papers and at least give it some thought. I’m worried about what’s going to happen when you win this thing and have a million dollars at your disposal. What happens when you have access to enough money for one big, never-ending party? Do you feel like you have the impulse control to handle that?”

  He was looking at me, but I had no idea if he was hearing me. I saw something change in his eyes and I was hoping that meant he was absorbing some of what I was saying. I was wrong though, he suddenly flashed me one of his biggest and brightest grins and said, “Why don’t we go back to my place and talk about it?”

  He really did think I was easy. I didn’t blame him; I’d already dropped my panties a few times. If he knew me though, he’d know that it wasn’t something I went around doing. It started out as infatuation with who he used to be, and me trying to forget the past. Now…it felt like more in my heart
, but I wasn’t’ kidding myself. I knew he didn’t feel it. I was a big girl; I could live with that. I couldn’t live with just walking away.

  “Listen, Tristan…I like you, a lot. But, nothing is happening between us again unless you’re ready to get some help. I also don’t do sex unless it’s exclusive. If you’re fucking other girls, I’m not fucking you.” I was hoping maybe if I spoke his language that it would make a difference. Sex he understood. He actually listened when the subject was on the table. It didn’t help though; all it did was piss him off again. He ripped the papers out of my hand and turned and stormed out of the room. I stepped out after him and, of course, Tony the AP was standing there in the hall, looking after him. I felt nauseated. This wasn’t good.

  “What was that about? Was he having another temper tantrum?” I was pretty sure if I said yes that Tony would want to know the details and my lie would have to get bigger and bigger. I hated lying. I really hated all of this. I went with the closest version of the truth that I could think of off the top of my head.

  “No, I mean not really. He’s mad, but at me. It was probably my fault this time,” I said. “I was just worried because I heard a rumor that he and another contestant are messing around. I know there’s no hard and fast rule against the contestants dating, but it seems to me like it would be awfully distracting to them both this late in the game. He said it was none of my business. I guess maybe he’s right. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead. I hoped he couldn’t see it.

  “I don’t think you overstepped here,” Tony said. “I appreciate that you’re concerned about the contestants, that’s actually a big part of your job. I think it’s great that you took that initiative. Thank you, Elly.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. He seemed to have so much faith in me, misplaced, obviously. I felt like a big, fat, lying jerk.

  Chapter Eight

  Tristan

  I took the fucking stupid paper out of Elly’s hand before I left. I have no idea why I took it; I was just pissed, and instead of putting my fist through the wall, I grabbed the papers. When I got out to the bike, I stuffed it in the saddlebag before taking off. I had no intentions of filling it out. I had no idea where she got her nerve. What made her think it was even close to being her place to pick up rehab papers for me? I’d met controlling women before, but this took the cake.

  I put my helmet on and drove out of the lot wondering what she was thinking. Did she think I was going to thank her? She saw some paraphernalia on the floor, but she never saw me use it; she never saw me use anything. For all she knew, the pipes could have belonged to someone else. Hell, they could have belonged to my parents—who, by the way, are addicts. Neither of them can function in society any longer. I may not give a shit about society, but I can function in it just fine. She could go fuck herself if she thought I was desperate enough for a piece of ass that I’d agree to that. It was just like a woman to try to manipulate with sex.

  I got on the on-ramp for the freeway and the words, “I care about what happens to you,” came back to me. I didn’t believe that. Why the fuck would she care about me? She didn’t even know me. We’d fucked a few times, but we’d never really talked about anything. There was so much about me that she didn’t know. I could have been an axe murderer for all she knew. She should have been more careful about who she attached herself to. I bypassed my exit and eventually veered off the junction for 605 towards Seal Beach. I didn’t have any destination in mind, I was just driving. I didn’t want to go back to my apartment. Brooke was supposed to be coming by; I didn’t want to deal with her.

  I drove down towards the beach and rode along the frontage road where I could see the water. I loved the ocean; something about it made me feel calm. If Elly knew me at all, she’d have known that was why I used the drugs….most of the time.

  Emotionally, I was jacked up, I admit that. I parked the bike and got off. It was cool out, but not cold. I don’t know if I’d have noticed the cold, anyways. Most of the time, I just felt numb….except when I was with Elly. Damn her!

  I took off my boots and walked out onto the sand. I thought about the old saying, ‘Life is a Beach’; what a bunch of bullshit that was. If life was a beach, then I was drifting somewhere out in the tide, washing up every so often, and then being pulled back out and under. I always felt like I was waiting for something. I had no fucking clue what it was. I doubted that rehab was the answer. I’d been down that road; I didn’t know what good it could possibly do to take that route again.

  I walked out to the edge of the ocean where the tide was just beginning to wash up. I stood there in the dark, watching the waves, and thought about how much like the ocean my life really was. Some days the tide eased in, slowly…like it was doing right then. It crept across the sand and up over my feet and around my ankles. Most days, that’s how I liked it. I didn’t want anyone to notice me, I just wanted to do what I wanted to do and have everyone around me leave me the fuck alone.

  Then there were the other days, the ones where I wanted to come crashing in like when the ocean crashed against the side of the pier or pounded the rocks. I wanted to be on stage—center stage—and I wanted the whole world to watch me. I wanted to be loud, make noise, and get noticed. Elly and other people who knew me might have thought that change from day to day had something to do with the drugs, but it didn’t. That shit was in my head and I used the drugs to try to tame it. It would have driven me crazy if I didn’t.

  There was one seagull picking at the shells and sea crap that had just washed up. While I walked along the beach I watched him fly in and out, searching for food…searching for something. I could feel his pain. I was always searching for something. He seemed to know what he was looking for and he would dive towards it. But every once in a while, he would get too close to the water and I would watch him struggle to keep from being sucked down. Every day felt like a struggle to me. The bird at least knew what he was struggling against and moving towards though. I had no fucking clue.

  Sometimes when I went there, I would get inspired and go home and write a hot, new song. Other times, I’d leave feeling more lost than I was when I got there, like a piece of me got left behind. All I ever really wanted was to feel at peace with myself and my life. Most days, I didn’t think that was ever going to happen. The weed helped; it draped a peaceful veil down across my brain for a while and I didn’t worry about stupid shit when I was high.

  Of course, I always over-did it. I’d smoke until I was nearly comatose. If I didn’t have a gig, I’d be just fine with that. I wouldn’t have minded sleeping through some of the shit. But days when I had to make a living, whether my heart was in it or not, those were the days when I’d put the powder up my nose or melt it into the pipe and bring myself back up. I knew that was drug abuse, I wasn’t stupid. But an addict? Did I have a problem? Could I stop if I wanted to?

  I watched the colors of the moon bouncing off the ocean and I wished that I could look at it like other people and see the beauty in it. I looked at it and I saw the moon, and I saw the ocean. I rarely saw beauty in anything. Even the girls I fucked. I would look at most of them afterwards and I’d feel sad. Not for them, but for me. For how low I’d sunk. Did that make me a narcissist? A sociopath? Again, no fucking clue.

  I did see the beauty in Elly when I looked at her. She was hot...but not the hottest girl I’d ever been with. Yet if any of the others had suggested to me that I went to rehab, I’d have walked away without even so much as a glance backwards—after I told her to mind her own fucking business, of course. With Elly, it was different. She’d opened my eyes back up to what it was like to feel good things. At first, it was awesome, but I realized in order to feel the good, you had to feel the bad. I didn’t want to feel that other shit. I wanted to stay high so that I didn’t have to. Did that make me an addict?

  Maybe I was slated to be an addict from the start. Seriously, considering how I was raised, how the hell was I supposed to t
urn out? When I first started performing, my parents were renting me out for parties, weddings, and shit. I’d have to stay up real late and then turn around and go to school the next day. When I complained about it, my mom would give me one of her ‘happy pills’ to get me through the day. After a while, I couldn’t sleep at night, so then she’d give me one of her ‘sleepy pills’. After a while, I discovered that I could buy even better stuff on my own. I left the shit laying around my room for a while; I know she saw it, but she didn’t say anything about it. When I finally started hiding it, it was just to keep her or the old man from stealing it.

  “Shit!” I yelled out to the dark sky. My words bounced off the ocean and back at me. Elly sticking her nose in my business made me have to think about all of this—and that pissed me off. I didn’t like thinking about it. I hated my fucking childhood, I hated my parents, and yes, I hated the way I was living my life. But who the hell was she to tell me what I should do? If I did go to rehab and get clean, was she going to stick around? In my experience, no one ever did. That’s why the only person I’ve ever depended on was myself. I’m the only one that knows what’s good for me. I don’t think that makes me a narcissist: I think it makes me a realist.

  I finally walked back up to where I’d left my bike. It took me twenty minutes to clean off my feet and put my socks and boots back on. The salty air had made me feel calmer; for some reason, it always did. I climbed back on the bike and headed towards the freeway. I planned to get high and go to bed. I wasn’t going to think about that shit anymore, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to check into some fucking rehab where they would try and force me to talk about it.