Burned: A Stepbrother Romance

by Kade, Teagan

  I don’t know where Brock’s car is. It was all a ruse, a lie. It could be anywhere.

  I see everything that could have been vanishing into nothing. Brock and I, my dad, even Jay’s little girl.

  I’m processing all this when I notice Brock’s hands frantically working behind his back. He’s got a piece of glass from the broken bottle in his fingers sawing at the rope. Blood oozes around the glass, but he’s almost there, almost through.

  I stall. “Why not just take a few bricks of that haul you showed me before?”

  The captain laughs. “You and I both know that would be mission impossible, Collins. Far easier to take directly from the baby, don’t you think?”

  Brock’s almost there, almost through. “We can cut a deal.”

  The captain grows impatient. “Enough with the fucking games. Where’s the car?”

  It’s done. The ropes fall away from Brock’s hands and he manages to swing himself around onto his stomach, legs still tied to the chair.

  The noise catches the captain’s attention. He looks down just as Brock slashes the shard of glass across the back of his Achilles.

  The captain grunts and goes down on one leg, but he’s not down completely. Face scrunched up in agony, he curses before re-aiming the gun at Brock

  But I’m faster.

  In these few seconds I’ve managed to roll to the closet goon, swipe his gun from the ground and fire. I barely even think about the action. It just happens—the roll, the squeeze, the kickback.

  The first bullet strikes the captain in the shoulder, but I send the next two right into the center of his chest. He goes jerking to the side, trying to lift once. I fire again and he goes down for good.

  Brock falls to the ground. I rush over with my weapon raised and kick the captain’s sidearm away, pulling off his rifle and casting it in the same direction. I kick the captain’s body, but it gives a listless roll far more in line with the dead than the living. The impact of what I’ve done hasn’t even hit me next. All I can think about is Brock.

  I get down on my knees beside him and undo his legs, helping him up and stripping away the bottom of my blouse to try and stop the bleeding from his head.

  I find Hernandez’s cell and call it in, struggling to get the words out and realizing as soon as I hang up that maybe I’ve acted too fast. A dead police captain, killed by me. What are they going to make of that? Of this whole situation? It doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all. It looks messy, and detectives don’t like messy.

  “Took your time,” croaks Brock, coughing.

  I punch him in the shoulder, more of an automatic response than anything, but when he grimaces in pain I instantly feel like an asshole myself. “Shit, sorry.”

  “Hey, you saved my ass. I owe you.”

  I place my hand against his cheek, pleased to find warm and alive. “You owe me big-time.”

  Soon the sounds of approaching sirens drown out that of our mouths pressing together and the urgent beating of my heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I sit opposite two detectives in Interrogation Room Two. “I’m usually on the other side of the table,” I tell them, smiling.

  Neither seems particularly interested in my attempt to break the ice. These are downtown boys, the real deal. They’ve seen it all, or maybe not.

  The one who introduced himself as Fletcher, a lanky middle-ager, taps the table once before speaking. “I have to say this is a first, Collins.”

  I could really go a glass of water. Hell, a nice bottle of vodka would be welcome. “A first?”

  “Dirty police captain, sniping those perps, shot by one of his own. A mess.”

  “It was self-defense,” I begin. “You have to-”

  The other one, a more rounded individual by the name of Corsen, interrupts me. “You can save it, Officer Collins. Your friend Hernandez there had the entire warehouse filled with cameras. Of course, the captain disarmed them when he entered the premises. Seems he still remembered some of his old army tricks. Thing is, he missed one. It was on another circuit, perched high and recording the whole bloody thing. I’ve seen it,” he points at Fletcher, “Fletch has seen it, and it paints a pretty precise picture if you know what we mean.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “It means for now, Collins, you’re off the hook, but there are going to be questions, a metric shitload of tribunals and hearings and political back-slapping, but you’ve got us, and we’ve got your back. The whole force has. You took down that dirty fucker in the best way possible. You should feel proud, if anything.”

  But I don’t. I feel empty, unable to stop my hands shaking thinking of the way the gun felt going off, the way the captain’s body flapped sideways caught by the bullets. “My stepbrother?”

  The two detectives exchange a look. “Clean, as far as we can ascertain, but he’ll have to hang around too.”

  They make no mention of the marijuana. Only the captain had the results from the tracker. I make a note to find them as soon as possible, get Jay or one of the others to clean the warehouse out.

  I smile. “Of course.”

  “You want to tell us anything else?”

  “I shake my head. I just want to go home.”

  Fletcher looks to Corsen. “What do you say? Think she’s had enough action for one night?”

  Corsen smiles, two of his teeth black, whether from old coffee or decay I really can’t tell. “Enough for a lifetime, I’d say.”

  *

  I wait around for Brock to get out. Medics saw to him at the station. The cut in his head has been stitched up, a graze on his cheek, but he’s surprisingly in good shape.

  He emerges from the doorway flanked by two more clone-like detectives. He’s smiling, pointing to his head. “Not so bad, huh?”

  “Head wounds always look worse than they are,” I reply, deadpan.

  “I’m sorry to say it’s not the first time someone’s broken a bottle over my head.”

  “Something about the company you keep.”

  A sadness draws his features down. I haven’t even considered what it must feel like to be betrayed by someone like Hernandez, someone you’ve spent so much time with, invested so much trust in.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  He nods. “People come, people go. Simple as that.”

  I press a hand to his chest. I don’t care who can see us, what they’re saying behind my back. I feel the comforting ba-bup, ba-bup of his heart and I feel at home. I feel this is where I belong. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He leans down and kisses me. Everything else blurs out around us, the world and all its worries stripped away and only us, together, finally, remaining.

  Fletcher herds us towards the doors. “Get a room, you two. I don’t want to have to arrest you for indecency now.”

  It’s almost 2am when we get out of there.

  We step out into a humid rain not unlike that night at the airport. My pussy twitches at the thought of it. I don’t know why, but I’m hot, frazzled. All I want are his hands on me, his cock in my cunt.

  Down the road there are a few lights on, a twenty-four-hour Chinese place I normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole but which right now is looking pretty good. A taxi blasts past.

  “Hungry?” says Brock.

  Instead, I grab him and pull him around to a small alleyway next to the precinct.

  He takes control, spins me, pressing me up against a leaky air-con unit. His hand is down the front of my pants in an instant, his fingers probing into the blood red, slobbery mouth of my hole.

  I bite down into his shoulder, rain falling between us, my hair soaked through. A wayward digit rounds out the crotch of my pants. He fingers my slit, pressing his bony middle finger inside until his second knuckle brushes the tight ring of my asshole. Above, our mouths cleave together in a heated mess.

  We fall to the ground and I straddle him, pants awkwardly strung between my knees as I reach between them and
guide him into place. He thrusts upward hard off the wet gravel, filling me full in one stroke.

  I place my hands down on his chest and ride him, lowering and lifting myself on his cock until an orgasm explodes through us simultaneously that jams our loins together.

  I’m still moaning, halfway to unconsciousness, as his thick cock gorges my cunt with cum.

  He pulls me up and we dance there in the rain as I struggle to pull my pants back up, a welcome warmth where his cock has just been.

  Chinese is forgotten. We feast on each other instead. The taxi driver doesn’t get in a single syllable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I wake up in a sudden panic, but when I roll over Brock is right there. He’s still wearing his jeans, an oily, machine smell permeating everything.

  I pull up close to his ear, press my bare breasts into his back until my nipples turn into stiff diamonds. “You’re filthy, you know.”

  “Speak for yourself,” comes the sleepy reply.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Working in the shed.”

  “I thought the police took the Camaro?”

  “They did.”

  I reach over his chest and slip my hand down the front of his jeans, pleased to find his cock hard and ready. I wrap my fingers around his shaft and pull lightly. “Good, because from now on the only time and money you’re going to be spending is on me. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, officer.”

  *

  I’m still buzzing from the orgasm as I step outside into a perfect summer’s day, the sky such a deep cerulean I expect to see ripples, not clouds, above.

  I find Dad outside sitting on the deck. Steam’s rising from a mug on the table—two mugs. He gestures to a chair. “Got time?”

  I smile back. “For you? Always.”

  “The repo guys rang,” he starts. “They’re dropping everything back this morning.”

  I place the mug down the table, the warmth still in my hands. “Why?”

  “Someone paid off the debt—all of it.”

  The five-thousand is still in my bedside drawer. “Who?”

  “Anonymous.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Was it you, hon?”

  I laugh. “Me? I work for the cops, not Warren Buffet.” I do have a sneaking suspicion who may be responsible, though.”

  “Well,” says Dad, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “whoever it was, the Lord himself for all I know, I, we, are thankful. Who would have thought?”

  “Seems like everything is working out,” and I think, for once, it is.

  He notices a scratch on the side of my face from when I rolled to pick up the gun. “What happened?”

  I haven’t even told him about last night, about any of the crazy shit that went down. “It’s a long story, work. I had to shoot someone.”

  Dad’s face hardens. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. You okay?”

  I nod. “I will be.”

  “And your stepbrother?”

  “What about him?”

  “He was involved, wasn’t he?”

  I nod again. “We were sort of mixed up in each other for a while there. Like I said, long story.”

  “You’re good for each other, you know. You always have been.”

  “We’re complete opposites,” I scoff.

  “Look at your stepmother and I. She hates jerky. I can’t live without it. She loves Jeopardy. I think it’s the worst show on TV.”

  “Clearly you’ve never seen The Bachelor.”

  A moment of silence passes, three heartbeats—da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.

  “So, you and Brock are seeing each other?”

  I choke on my coffee, forced to bring the mug back up to catch the spillage. I blush instantly, vine-ripened. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Oh yes. It is that obvious.”

  “Is it weird? I mean, is it wrong?”

  Dad shakes his head. “There’s no blood there. You’re family, yes, but your friends, and more than that. Why shouldn’t you be together?”

  I’ve been dreading this conversation, hoping to secretly elope one day with Brock and dance off into the wind. “What does Michelle think?”

  “She talks about you a lot, actually. She’s proud of you. I am proud of you. You two make a cute couple.”

  Gag. “God, stop it, Dad.”

  “Okay, okay, but we’re just letting you know you have our support.”

  “Thanks.”

  I down the last dregs and check my watch. I give Dad a hug, swiping a hidden stash of jerky from this back pocket. “Doctor’s orders, sorry.”

  “Maddy?” comes the plea, but I’m already strolling up the drive.

  My cell beeps. It’s a message from Jay: All clean.

  At least Brock’s little side project won’t be an issue any more.

  I know I’m about to walk into a shitstorm at work, but people can think whatever they like. What matters is that I have Brock. Everything’s out in the open. Dad’s got the house, his health. I feel whole. I feel alive.

  I find my beloved Hyundai Excel parked near the curb as always. I pat Champers once on the roof, telling him, “You’re no Camaro, my friend, but you never let me down.”

  I unlock the door and step in, turning over the ignition and pulling out onto the main road.

  The suddenly snap of acceleration that follows threatens to reef the wheel right from my hands. Smoke billows up in the rear-view, the car fish-tailing across both lanes and a loud whistling coming from under the hood.

  Screaming, confused, I go to press the brakes and instead step on the accelerator harder, a surge of torque forcing the car sling-shoting past a bemused guy in low-slung convertible.

  Finally, I pull the wheel under control and manage to get off the road, a fluttering sh-sh-sh-sh following.

  Brock.

  I speed-dial his number so fast my fingers blur.

  “Hey, baby,” he answers, voice thick and syrupy post-coitus. “Everything alright?”

  “What the hell did you do to poor Champers?”

  “Sorry, Champers needed some pop.”

  “Some pop? He was perfectly fine. What did you do?”

  “Just a little turbo kit, low boost. Just be careful of the torque-steer.”

  “The what?”

  He’s laughing now. “Doesn’t matter. Besides, I had to make up for sabotaging the poor thing a week ago.”

  “Sabotage?” I recall the morning I came out and Champers wouldn’t start.

  “Yeah, I popped a lead off the night before.”

  “Just so you could come and save me in the morning?”

  “Well, yeah. It worked, didn’t it?”

  “You fucker.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  The corners of my mouth lift with a wicked thought. “You did forget to install one thing in here, though.”

  “And what’s that?”

  I can barely contain myself. “A baby capsule.”

  He goes to speak and stutters. He can’t tell whether I’m serious or not, and I love that. I love everything about it.

  “I’m going now,” I tell him, smiling to myself but trying not to let any of this all-encompassing joy translate down the line. “You better be waiting when I get home, because I’m going to spank you so hard you’re not going to be able to sit down for weeks.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  I hang up sitting there quietly laughing. Maddison, what have you gotten yourself into?

  Do people really change? I can’t be sure, but one thing I do know as I gently ease back onto the road is that I’m ready for the ride.

  ###

  Signup to the newsletter for the latest news, freebies and date releases for new and exciting titles from Teagan Kade: http://eepurl.com/bg2MAn

  If you enjoyed this book, please leave a short review to help others. It only takes a moment and really means the world to me. Your opinion matters.

&nb
sp; Follow my Author Central page

  About Teagan Kade:

  Teagan Kade thinks talking about yourself in the third person is silly, just like her collection of snow globes and rare manga. When she’s not being silly, she’s hanging out with her own Brock and two children in the south of Australia, dreaming of new characters and torturous ways they can get themselves into trouble. Teagan loves hearing from her readers, all of whom are as dear to her heart as salted caramel cookies. Shoot her an email at: teagankadeauthor@gmail.com. She doesn’t bite.

  Also by Teagan Kade:

  Chasing Storm: A New Adult Romance

  I said I’d never be back, but here I am, heart on sleeve and destined for disaster.

  Every street reminds me of the way my first love was torn from my life, but the town’s moved on. There’s new development, a new sheriff, and there’s Storm, the antithesis of the pure, bring-home-to-your-parents boys I grew up with. He’s a danger to himself and others, completely reckless, so why can’t I stop myself falling into his arms… his bed?

  If I stay with him, I’m in danger of losing everything that’s important, the very moral compass that has served me so well. But his whispered words and hot caresses haunt me. I know it’s going to end in heartbreak. I just can’t get out of the way.

  Chapter One

  “Just the gas?”

  The guy behind the counter wears a shirt that says ‘big rig’ with an arrow pointing to his crotch. Given his gut, I can’t imagine he’s seen his dick in years. He eyes me lewdly, chewing jerky.

  “Yeah, thanks, Aaron.”

  This takes him by surprise. He looks to his shirt, looks to see if he has a nametag on. “How’d you know my name?”

  He squints, as if this will help further clarify the situation. “Hey, hey, I know you. You’re the what’s-her-name girl from school.” He looks to the heavens for divine inspiration. “Alice! Alice Everett, right?”

  I rummage through my purse for gas money. “Guilty as charged.”

  Aaron leans back. “Wow, what’s a swanky city girl like you doing back here in little ol’ Rosie?”

  It’s a good question. I don’t really know the answer myself.