by Amy Faye
"Fuck, you're tight." The words are strained with need and arousal when he says them. Jeff can already feel himself starting to move faster, starting to lose what little control he had left as she moves her hips to try to meet him.
"Oh Jesus don't stop."
"I'm going to cum," he gasps out, the feeling of orgasm approaching hard and fast.
"Not inside me," she says, even as her body begs him to cum inside her. Even as his body begs him to.
He pushes inside her again. Each thrust feels as if it should be the last, as if he's edging ever closer and closer to careening off a cliff that neither one of them can afford to go over, until—
He pulls himself free, his hand moving to finish himself in a few short strokes as he shoots himself across her taut belly. The orgasm that overtakes him is powerful, his eyes closing all on their own as the need and arousal threatens to overwhelm his every sense.
He moves over to lay down beside her, his energy spent and adrenaline no longer keeping him moving.
"Jesus, that was—"
"I know."
He doesn't realize his eyes are closing, that he's starting to slip into sleep, until his eyes open a few minutes later, to the sound of his phone ringing.
Cathy's in the other room, but she comes back in a moment later, still nude. He can feel a shock of arousal run through him for a moment before he gets himself back under control. He picks up the phone, as Cathy tells him she's going to need to go out for a bit.
It's a text message from Dad.
He says that he should come home, he's got something to discuss. Don't ask questions, they'll discuss the details when he gets there.
His stomach twists up. Okay, fine. Something to discuss. No problem. He'll have to make apologies to Cathy, but if it's that important, he'd better not make Dad wait.
And besides that, she's pulling her clothes back on like she's got somewhere to be. So it's not like she's going to be mad at him for something coming up anyways.
Chapter Eleven
What she hadn't realized when she sat back for a moment to watch Jeff dress—the last few moments before they're going to have to be separated for the evening, because generally if Mom was asking her to come out then there was something big up—was exactly where she was supposed to go.
Mom didn't even like her driving, hell. So it must have been something big, and that meant Jeff wasn't just going to stay at the house—almost sad. But at the same time, as natural as can be. She wasn't going to put it to him in any kind of mean way.
So when she pulled the door shut on the little, beat up Chevy that had been born the same year she had, punched the address into Google, and started moving, she went one way, and Jeff went the other.
Why couldn't Mom have given some kind of hint? That would no-doubt be too damn useful. No, why would she ever want to do something like that? It would be positively unthinkable. She'd actually have to, who knows, tell someone what she was thinking.
That would be too much for her to bear. She might just break down in tears if someone were to find out that she's got thoughts beyond 'that's nice, sweetie.'
Her hands are tight on the wheel. It's not that Cathy can't drive. She can. And she does, semi-regularly. It'd be a big deal if she couldn't. Detroit isn't one of those cities where everyone takes public transport.
Her one trip on the bus was enough to tell her that she didn't want to do it again if she didn't have to. A bus so crowded that everyone was standing packed in like sardines, and in addition the bus was forty minutes late. Both directions.
It was the same conclusion everyone came to—as soon as she could get a car, she wouldn't subject herself to it further.
But at the same time, she had so few places to go. Work was within walking distance. There was no reason to drive, not when it gave her a chance to stretch out her absolutely fried ligaments, give them a nice easy warm-up for the work day ahead of her.
And Katrina had no problem giving her rides to and from the studio. They were both there almost all the time. So it wasn't as if she had anywhere she needed to be driving.
Which is why the thousand-dollar Chevy, shoved way up in the driveway where it's not in anyone's way, suited her. It turned on when you asked it to, and the wheels turned when you pushed the gas pedal, but not much more than that.
But it also bred a discomfort that only amplified her concerns. The turn was up ahead. She eased the Chevy around. That squeaking was fine, right? Nothing to worry about. It's not going to fall apart. Right?
The phone beamed into her face from its little holder on the dash. Another turn coming up. Onto a side street. She tried to read the street lights in the failing light. Looking for the right one, the one that said 'Hamilton.'
But the light wasn't so good. She slotted in behind someone in a bright white sports car at a street that looked about right. Her heart jumped into her throat when she saw the truck drive up. It was a coincidence, right? Lots of people own black trucks.
She's just thinking that it's Jeff because she wants it to be. He's coming from the other direction, takes an easy right turn down the street. The white car takes the gap and follows behind, leaving Cathy to decide whether or not she's going to go as well.
The gap closes while she's waiting. Too small. She can't make that one, either. Finally a long enough gap opens, one that she's confident that she can make it through—one that's twice as large as she actually needed—and she drives on through.
A quarter-mile down the road, she eases the car into the spot in front of the house Mom said. She can't help noticing the truck that pulled up. The white sports car, at least, is nowhere to be seen.
It wasn't Jeff's truck. That would be dumb. He was somewhere else. He'd driven someplace completely different.
She was just imagining things. Trying to make the world more serendipitous than it really was.
The door to the house opens and closes again. A tall, thin fellow steps inside. He's got decent musculature, enough to do stuff like lifts without it affecting his flexibility too much.
Her stomach twists up. What on earth? She was still imagining it. She must have been. But her imagination was doing a number on her. This was going to be real embarrassing either way, so she'd better practice not saying anything about thinking that whoever had just gone into this house was the guy she'd just had sex with.
After a moment of silence, a moment of breathing, and a moment of openly freaking out, she gets out of the car. Whatever Mom has to say, she'll hear it once she gets inside. Not a moment sooner.
She eases herself out of the car. It makes the same unhappy noise it made when she got inside, a sound of springs that don't particularly care to be used any more, and then makes her way to the door.
She knocks, and a moment later a man she doesn't recognize answers the door. It's a relief, some evidence that she must have been wrong about Jeff being here. The man was her mother's age, after all.
Mid-to-late 40s, though he had a certain appeal to him. Strong, straight lines to his face gave him a look that wasn't movie-star good, but he could have competed with several of the guys in action movies from the 90s.
"Cathy, right? Come in."
She steps inside, looks around, and sees the exact look on her face that she knew she'd have on her own face staring back at her. Jeff's eyes are wide, one eyebrow cocked. Mom's sitting on a couch across from him, in a comfortably large living room.
No, not comfortably large. Exceptionally large. The furniture made it seem more controlled than it was, but they had plenty of foot room between the sofas and the coffee tables, and plenty of room behind the sofas to walk around the perimeter of the room.
"Take a seat, honey." Mom's voice is sweet and caring and doesn't seem to notice the look that shoots between Cathy and Jeff. Blissfully unaware. How typically Mom. Nothing's going on, and she's got nothing going on. Everyone's in their own tiny bubble.
"What's going on?" Her voice sounds uncertain. As uncertain as she feels, to
be sure.
"Sit down, and we'll tell you."
She takes the opposite side of the sofa from Jeff. She might have gone close to him, but at this point she was sufficiently weirded out that she didn't want to have anything to do with anyone, never mind a hot guy.
"Now what's going on?"
The guy, who Cathy identifies as Jeff's Dad, walks around the room a minute, and then settles into the sofa. He doesn't take the opposite side. He presses right up against Mom.
"We've got an announcement to make."
She swallows. It's not what she's thinking. It can't be, because that would be absolutely absurd. Completely insane. And, what's more, it would be the stupidest sheer coincidence on this planet of Earth.
"Okay," Jeff says. He sounds tired and irritated. "What is it?"
"Well, Cathy, your mother, and I, we're getting married."
She must have misheard them, because that would mean that while they were making these plans, she was—
Cathy slumped over in the couch and slipped to the floor, her eyes halfway-open but unseeing. And then, in the rush of people trying to make sure she's okay, the little subtlety of any relationship she might have had with Jeff Hess prior to that night went conveniently unmentioned.
Chapter Twelve
Clearly, they were supposed to be doing something else. They were supposed to have, he supposed, simply not noticed each other.
Then they were supposed to have realized with their… pheromones, he supposed, that they were going to be related at some point. Then they were supposed to know that they weren't going to be able to continue anything that they started, and anything that they had started would be awkward as hell. That was obvious, right?
Somehow he'd missed the signals. Evidently, so had she. Wasn't that lovely? Wasn't that just a peach and a half? Well, missed the signals or not, they were here now and they had to deal with what they had to deal with.
Which was that as soon as the light changed from red to green on the little debit card scanner, they had rented a truck and they were getting moving right away.
If it were someone else, anyone else, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't even have mattered if it were her three days ago.
But now that they'd met, now that they'd had a few good days, the thought of having a girl sleeping just next to him, not even down the hall a ways—right next to his room!
That was going to be a little God damned awkward. Cathy's house hadn't exactly been a god damn treat, sure. So it wasn't hard to figure out why they'd want to move in here. Of course, if he'd told himself that he'd be living with a girl who he'd had a wonderful night with, there wouldn't be any question that he'd want it.
So it wasn't hard to figure out.
But now he had to think about his future. Sitting at a desk surrounded by guys who made more in a year his future step-mom had made her entire career, wearing a suit that he hated wearing, was all the reminder that he needed.
The lawyer next to him glanced through the papers one-by-one before stacking them in front of Jeff. He didn't reach to sign them yet. He'd learned a long time ago that you don't do that kind of thing.
He would wait until Mr. Grayson told him what he was signing. That was why they paid the man, after all. He was old and thin, and you could see every little part of his skull through his skin.
He looked like a former boxer, which was somehow more appealing than the oil-slick guys that he'd dealt with up to that point. When it was clear that he'd have to get one for himself, when the scouts started calling hard and fast and making offers that all made his stomach flip, Dad had told him it was time to pick someone.
Grayson seemed like a straight shooter. He'd gotten his degree at forty, and he'd worked in contract law for thirty years after that. Not many people still working at that age. Even after all these years he had a certain stocky brawn to him. Whatever he'd been doing in his younger years, he must not have entirely stopped it.
He picked up the last paper and scanned through it and leaned in.
"This is all just standard stuff, Jeff. They explained it pretty well. You'll have a probationary period during spring training. Things go well, you'll have a place on the main team. You choke, and you go to triple-A.
"Either way, they pay you three million over the next four months, and a salary of five hundred thousand a year, through five years. You make the majors, it goes up to seven hundred thousand. Just like they said."
"So you think it's fine?"
"Sure. Go right ahead."
Jeff leaned forward and picked up the pen on the table. It looked fine and filled his hand, and yet it was barely any heavier than any other pen he'd used. Lighter than many. He put the pen to the paper and started signing.
Five years of his life was a long time, and it was just the beginning of a career that was likely to go on for a while longer, assuming he didn't hit on any bad injuries.
Of course, none of it meant a whole hell of a lot of anything for another month. Then pre-spring training would start. And then spring training.
Time to get used to the team, used to the coaching staff. Used to everything. Middle relief wasn't where he wanted to be, but you earn everything in this game. It would only be a matter of time until he had shown everyone that he was ready for the big leagues. Ready to run starts.
You earn everything in this game. You earn your wins, you earn your losses. You earn your successes and failures. And most of all, you earn every bit of reputation you can accumulate. In a few weeks, he'd be meeting the team, and he'd have a good opportunity to see what kind of people they were.
Detroit was a good club. An excellent team, a competitive team in spite of not having the purse that New York or Boston had. And their star pitcher had a well-known reputation for womanizing, too. Well-known and well-earned.
He didn't want a reputation like that. He'd worked hard to stay a professional his entire student life. As much as he didn't like it, he couldn't let a woman ruin his reputation.
He could imagine it right there on the headlines. A big picture of him, standing on a mound, leaning over, ready to pitch.
"New pitcher fucks sister," it would read.
Not likely. They'd pick something cuter. But it would all mean the same thing. "Sister Catches For Hot Prospect Pitcher" maybe.
He'd be the laughing-stock of the country. He'd be unhirable at any price. Never mind getting five million a year and no-trade protection. Never mind being able to settle down and get a good job after his shoulder blew out, commentating for T.V.
He could see her in his mind. Could see the way that she smiled. Could imagine the way that she felt when they were together. Could almost taste the salty sweetness of her skin.
He'd have to forget about all of that, and in a hurry. Because nothing was going to hurt him more than having to explain to some reporter during a press conference how they weren't really siblings, so it didn't really count, exactly.
They wouldn't exactly sympathize with that line of thought. Or maybe they would, exactly as long as it took to type up the story and have it sent to the presses.
Then they'd sympathize with him all the way to the bank, and he'd be out of a job.
So again, no matter how much he wanted to hold her, to sink his teeth into her soft flesh—no matter how much the smell of her perfume filled the bathroom now, and practically got him hard the instant he smelled it from the thought of the last time he'd smelled it—he was going to say goodbye.
The desires would go away eventually, and if they didn't then he'd pretend they had.
Chapter Thirteen
There's something distinctly wrong about not having to move everything herself. When they'd moved from the apartment into the new house—old house, now, though it was hard to think of it that way—they'd had to do it all themselves.
Two guys from Mom's work came by for a little while, but even then it was a lot of work. Everything needed carrying, and just because she was a girl and she had to make sure she didn't hurt
herself, that didn't mean that she was just allowed not to help out.
Now, watching a half-dozen big guys in pressed, dark-colored dress shirts that bulged around their girth—halfway muscle and halfway fat—carrying everything, sipping from a water bottle…
What was the point of all that work they'd done back in high school? They could have just paid some big guys to have it done in one trip. And they don't even have to lift a single finger.
Her shoulders slumped and she fit herself into the corner. It was a big house. Too big for two. Almost too big for four. She didn't need this much space, and what space she did need, she wanted to take up less.
There had been a time when she shared everything with her mother. Two days ago. When she'd been going out to get a few drinks, when Mom had been going out to meet the guy she'd been talking to online for months.
And then yesterday, she hadn't seen Mom. Busy schedules and everything. She'd been out for the evening by the time practice was over. No problem.
Well, that was never going to be the case again, whether she liked it or not. Because now, she was always going to have to keep one little secret.
The secret of that time she'd slept with her new step-brother. Well. Not her step-brother yet, anyways. But it was just a matter of time, and the closer that it came, the more that she risked by telling anyone about it.
More than that, though, if she told anyone before that, then she would risk something even worse than a little humiliation. What if Mom decided, as crazy as it would be, that she couldn't go forward with the wedding and getting what she wanted out of her own life, because of her and Jeff?
She couldn't do that to her mother. She couldn't dream of it. No way. So she'd keep it to herself, in spite of whatever her doubts might be. Because that was the right thing to do.
She took a breath curled herself deeper into the corner for a minute. Just another minute, before she could go fight the world. Before she had to accept once again that she was going to have to figure out a way to move forward in life without being able to lean on Mom to figure out the solution for her.