Stepbrother Inked

by Violet Blaze

  “My brother's dating a drag queen,” I blurted and then in a conspiratorial whisper, I leaned forward and whispered, “and he doesn't believe that makes him gay. He's a little homophobic unfortunately, afraid to admit his true feelings.” Flor gave me a look that could kill, his sharp green eyes stabbing me straight through my innocent, wide-eyed blue ones.

  The man behind the counter took it all in stride.

  “Righteous, man. To each his own, you know what I mean? Well, maybe some good food'll put you both in a better mood. Can I start you with some gyoza?”

  “Two orders,” Flor said as I resisted the urge to punch him in that muscular arm of his. “Two sodas, two bowls of the original shoyu ramen.” I almost hated him for knowing exactly what I wanted. Why did he have to do that? To remember my favorite dessert, how I liked my coffee, to give me a locket with a picture of us holding sparklers on the Fourth of July. Why, why, why?

  I moved away and let Flor pay, finding us an empty table outside. It'd be easier to talk if nobody was around to bother us, and I had a feeling we'd need the privacy.

  When he joined me, Flor said nothing about our bitchy exchange at the counter and sat across from me in one of the black metal chairs, leaning back and hooking his chin on his hand. He was looking right at me again, his pupils narrowing in the ray of sunshine that fell across his face, like a cat or something.

  I curled my fingers around the metal arms of my chair and squeezed.

  “I hate that we're sitting here like this,” he told me, staying in that same position, his muscles stiff and his expression unyielding. It was like sitting in a spotlight for me, like I could feel his gaze diving beneath my clothes, caressing my bare flesh, examining the erratic beat of my heart. Every nerve in me was raw, like my emotions had finally worn away some of that protective covering I'd so carefully placed around myself.

  “You mean fighting with each other?” I asked and forced a smile. I made my hands squeeze tighter in an effort to keep my expression stoic. “Isn't that what we've always done? Bicker? Exchange witty repartee?”

  “Things are different now,” Flor said, gritting his teeth. The muscles in his jaw tightened and finally, blissfully, he looked away from me. “Before, we always fought about nothing and this … ”

  “You sneaking into my room to read my diary wasn't nothing, Flor.” I tried to keep my tone light. It was like the sunshine around us demanded it. “Scaring away each and every guy I've ever had a crush on wasn't nothing. Dragging me out of that party when I was fifteen … That was something.”

  He kept his gaze averted long enough that I was starting to wonder whether he was actually listening or if he'd let his mind spin away into some alternate universe where he didn't have to deal with a taboo attraction to his stepsister, where he and Rhonda could get married at age twenty-one and have beautiful babies together.

  When he looked back at me, I could tell that wasn't true. Whatever was going through his mind right now wasn't about Rhonda – it was about me. I stared into his eyes, noting the rings of color in his irises, darker at the center and fanning out to a lighter shade on the edges. It wasn't normal to have eyes that beautiful, or for someone to notice them so much. In fact, when I thought about it, really thought about it, I realized I could scarcely remember the colors of my friends' eyes. It just wasn't something that stood out as much as you'd think.

  “Why bring me here?” I asked him, sagging back in my chair, my hands still keeping their death grip on the arms of the chair. “I feel like we've already said everything we need to say to each other. Where else is there to go from here?”

  “I can't see you like this, Abi,” he said, his voice taking on that husky tone that he seemed to reserve specially for me. “Dating Max even though he's a piece of shit, crying all night because of something I said, waiting and wishing and hoping.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “I already told you, Flor, that my life won't end because you turned me down.” I wanted to look away, but I knew I couldn't. If I did, I'd probably cry again and where would that get me? Pitied? I didn't want my stepbrother to pity me; I wanted him to love me. “I gave it my best, saw it through, and now here we are. I'm allowed time to grieve and frankly, it shouldn't be any of your business how I go about doing that.”

  “It's fucking about me,” Flor said, leaning forward. Underneath the table, I felt his foot bump mine and memories assaulted me, memories of sitting side by side at the dinner table passing notes. “I think that gives me a whole hell of a lot of rights.”

  I sighed. The same old stubborn, know-it-all jerk was sitting across me and still, my heart thumped painfully, the broken shattered pieces grating against one another as I looked back, willing this to be the end, knowing I'd promised myself that very same thing hundreds of times before. Why can't I get over you?

  “How did you think this would work anyway?” he asked me, his eyes taking in my disheveled appearance with a much more discerning eye than I'd like. Asshole. Even rumpled and wrinkled and broken in two, I still felt his gaze hot and scorching. It made me wish I had some style like Addi, something that I could hide behind and feel confident about. Instead, here I sat with a tattoo my brother had picked out for me, a nose ring I'd gotten because half the girls he'd gone out with in high school had had them, and a belly button ring so I could show him my stomach every time I changed out the jewelry, noticing even then that his eyes lingered. It was like I was made up of bits and pieces of Flor, and I hated that. “That we'd go on dates? That nobody would think anything when they saw us together?”

  I raised one eyebrow.

  “Flor, what do you think a date is? It's going out and doing something with someone because, at first, you're trying to get to know them and later, because you simply like being with them. We've been to the movies, to the park, we've been camping together, we go out to eat all the time … nothing would've changed between us.”

  “Not in public,” Flor said, leaning forward, the table suddenly shrinking in my view, disappearing and bringing us closer together as if by magic. I knew it was all an illusion, just my heated brain and my hormones and my emotions closing in on me. I resisted the urge to scoot back, but felt his hot breath on my cheek. “That's why I asked you before, do you know what you're saying? Things would get even weirder between us because, in the bedroom, you'd be mine.”

  I sucked in a deep breath, felt his lips feather across mine.

  “You'd be naked in front of me, beneath me. Us being together wouldn't just mean more walks in the park and restaurant nights on weekends, but it would mean my lips on yours, my body inside yours, my hands on your skin.”

  I jerked back then, suddenly, like he'd burned me. The same way he'd done all those years ago when he'd backed away from our first kiss like I was on fire, like I was dangerous.

  Being with Flor would mean him holding me, would mean watching A Christmas Story with him enough times that I'd have all the words memorized, would mean him loving me fully and completely and without restraint. Why didn't he understand me? It wasn't just about sex, but I wasn't scared of that either. The first sexual feelings I'd ever had, that had confused me and made me feel strange inside, those had been for him. When I was with Max, the only man I'd ever had sex with, I imagined Flor.

  “What if I gave you a chance to see what you were really asking?” he said, maintaining his position leaning over the tabletop. I let my eyes linger on his lip rings, on the scar that graced his chin, on the smoothness of his jaw. “What if we spent one night together? Just one?”

  My heart thrummed in my chest like it was an instrument, like it was my cello, clutched close to me and singing out its notes for only me to hear.

  “What about Rhonda?” I asked, thinking of the girl he was dating, that he'd brought home for dinner, that I hadn't taken seriously but should've.

  “She doesn't have to know.”

  And there it was. My frustration, my anger, my rage, all boiling over and spilling into my lap.


  I stood up just as one of the waiters approached with our order.

  I backed up a step as he set it down on the table and disappeared into the restaurant like we were a blaze he'd rather not get burned by. I knew my eyes sparked with rage and my hands trembled, knew Flor could see my expression flickering across my features as he rose from his chair and glared straight back at me. From an early age I'd known he used sex to get over other feelings, to numb pain. He used girls and he tossed them aside because why? Because of me? I wasn't going to let him do it again. I pictured Rhonda sitting in his studio, winking at me, telling me there was nothing wrong with nice guys, smiling at me as I came out of his house in a teary rage.

  No.

  If he wanted Rhonda, he was going to have to earn her.

  “I hate you sometimes,” I told him, and I hoped he could feel the truth in my words.

  I turned on my heel and walked away.

  Flor let me go without a word.

  I hated him for that, too.

  I spent the following day being dragged around town by Addi and Theo, and the week after that doing anything and everything but thinking about Florian. I made up with Max after cornering him and questioning him about the girl at the concert. He'd stuttered and flushed, scratching at the back of his head and putting on that nice guy grin that could fool anyone, even me sometimes. He told me that, yeah, he was a little too flirty sometimes, but he'd sworn up and down that he hadn't had sex with another girl since we'd gotten back together. I didn't even bother to ask about before, when we'd first started dating. Truth be told, I didn't want to know.

  I destroyed my homework with religious fervor, went out to lunch with my dad and promised I'd watch the house that following weekend, even managed to get in an inordinate amount of practice on my cello. I cleaned my room and didn't think of Flor, had a girls' night in with Addi and didn't think about Flor, and made an admittedly delicious chicken pot pie (with homemade crust), all without thinking about Flor.

  But at night? That was a different story. My heart contracted painfully as I lay in the dark and closed my eyes, praying that I wouldn't dream of him again. It kept happening until the point where I actually asked Addi for some of her sleeping pills. He didn't try to call me, didn't try to come over, and when I went to lunch with my dad, he said nothing about him.

  I tried to imagine that this was like detox, that Flor was the drug I'd always jokingly referred to him as. I wanted that damn drug out of my system.

  When the weekend finally rolled around again and I knew I'd have more free time on my hands, I dedicated it to watching my parents' house with a vengeance. I watered all of River's stupid, delicate exotic plants and brushed their cat out, trimming a few small mats from its long, luxurious orange fur. I mowed the backyard and spent several hours in my old room, sorting through things that I'd left behind. On Sunday, I'd finally run out of things to do and settled on the couch to watch a horror movie, a pint of low fat ice cream tucked in beside me. I'd been making an effort to exercise, too, to shed some of the 'baby fat' that I'd been carrying around for far too long. And the thing is, this time, it wasn't for Flor's benefit. I just wanted to be trim and fit, not skinny. If I felt healthy and looked healthy, then I couldn't really ask for anything more, now could I?

  I spooned some Cherry Garcia goodness into my mouth, dragging the creamy cold pink across my tongue. Addi and I were texting back and forth. She'd been planning to come over and hang out, but Patrick had flown in unexpectedly and they'd gotten lost in each other. I understood and I told her to enjoy the evening while simultaneously writing to Max to see what he was up to. He told me he had a client, but that he'd try to stop by later.

  Halfway into my carton and about twenty minutes into the movie, I saw headlights sweep across the curtains as a car pulled into the driveway. A few minutes later keys sounded in the door as I finished another bite of my much needed treat.

  “Dad?” I called, waiting as I listened to footsteps sound across the wood floor. Only, as soon as I heard them, I knew that wasn't my dad. My dad did not wear boots – only Flor did. He paused in the doorway to the living room and our eyes met, my body instantly crying out for him, undoing all of the careful work I'd taken on this week in an effort to extricate him from my life.

  Shit.

  “What are you doing here?” I snapped, a lot meaner than I'd intended. Showing him how much I still really cared was not going to get him off my back. Indifference would've been much preferred. He ignored me for a moment, his gaze traveling from the ice cream to the blanket on my shoulders to the television screen and then back to my face. I watched from the corner of my eye as he tucked his hands back in his pockets, keys jangling as he wrangled them into the tight denim.

  “Mom and Dad,” he said, using those hated words of mine, “said we needed to watch the house while they were gone. I came to feed the cat and water the plants.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “It's a little late, don't you think? The cat would be dead right now if he'd had to wait for you.” I continued on with my ice cream and cringed inwardly when Flor moved over to the cushions and sat down beside me. I didn't bother looking at him, hoping he'd leave sooner rather than later, when he started kicking off his boots, stealing a corner of my blanket and taking refuge on the opposite side of the couch.

  I glared at him and he met my gaze with a bored stare. It did nothing to diminish the beautiful green of his eyes and I found my breath catching in my throat. Damn it. I felt like an alcoholic taking a swig from a bottle of vodka after a week sober. It shouldn't feel so good, but it did, burning on its way down and taking over me.

  “How are the kittens?” I asked instead, hoping to keep the words between us tame. As soon as the movie was over I'd leave and it wouldn't have to look like I was running away.

  “Good,” he said noncommittally, stretching both arms above his head. His shirt lifted just enough for me to see his abs, the tightness of his muscles beckoning to me in a way that just wasn't right. Last night, Max and I had … we'd managed to find time to spend the night together, rolling around in my old bed in a way that my father never would've approved of. So it wasn't like I was desperate for sex. I'd just had some and here I was, pining over fucking Florian again. “Getting bigger by the day. You still want one, right?”

  “I never said I wanted one,” I told him, spooning more ice cream into my mouth. “You told your mom that in an effort to get me out of the house. I can't take on a cat right now. I have a lot on my plate.”

  Flor grunted, but I could tell he wasn't happy about it.

  “What about Rhonda? Why not give one or two to her? Then can you can keep the others.” Flor said nothing, yet again, leaving me fuming and frustrated on my end of the couch. When he adjusted himself, lifting his legs up onto the cushions, our feet bumped together and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stay calm. Even the simplest touch from him undid me. I wondered if he felt the same? That thought brought Flor's words back to my mind unbidden.

  The smell of your skin, your hair, your breath … it undoes me.

  Provided he'd been telling the truth then, I had my answer, didn't I? The answer was yes, yes it did.

  “What did you mean?” I started to ask as he turned his head slowly to look at me. His fingers came out and snatched my ice cream carton away. “Hey!” I struggled after it, ending up more on top of him than I really wanted to be. “I worked my ass off this week for that.”

  “Low fat?” he said with a wrinkle of his nose. “Why the hell would you want to eat that?”

  I frowned at him, forgetting for a brief moment all of the crap that was happening between us.

  “I'm working out, trying to lose some weight.” I pinched the skin of my hip. “I'm not succumbing to the freshman fifteen. I refuse. I'm finally going to shed some of this baby fat.”

  “Baby fat?” Flor raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Nee-chan, that's not baby fat.” He leaned forward and swept an arm around my waist, sim
ultaneously lifting my shirt up and grazing his fingers against my skin. “This is … fuck. This is all about being a woman. You're supposed to be soft.” I slapped his hand away and stumbled back, my cheeks flushing, my heart stuttering.

  No. No. I wouldn't do this again. Not again. Not for the hundredth plus freaking time.

  “Flor, stop,” I said, but he'd already retreated, putting his legs back on the floor and spooning out the last bites of ice cream for himself.

  “I'm going to go make some popcorn,” he told me and then stood up. I breathed a sigh of relief the second he left the room and turned back to the TV. I didn't even care what was happening in the movie anymore. It just didn't seem relevant. Who the hell cared what choices a movie heroine made when I couldn't even dictate my own life?

  I listened to the distant sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, wondering if Flor was looking for the fridge the same way I always did when I came over here. What was so wrong with having a fridge you could see anyway? I liked our old kitchen better, the one with the worn countertops and the cabinets that didn't quite close all the way. It felt homey, real. The more I thought about it, the more realized I actually hated the new remodel.

  “This kitchen fucking sucks,” Flor said, coming back in the living room and leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. I tried not to notice how the black cotton fabric of his T-shirt stretched across his muscles, how his jeans hugged his legs and slung low across his hips. Even though he'd essentially been wearing different versions of the same outfit for years, I couldn't stop appreciating it – or the body underneath.

  I just stared at him, tucking myself back under the blanket. I listened to the whirring noise of the popcorn maker and tried not to let myself get too comfortable. It felt too … right when we were together like this, too much like old times. And then, of course, Flor had to go and agree with me on every little thing all the time. Why? Why couldn't we be like the stepsiblings I saw on TV that fought all the time? And our parents just had to be this fairytale couple, didn't they?