Baby for My Brother's Friend

by Nikki Chase

  I avert my eyes. I’m going to hell for this. It’s my best friend’s funeral, and here I am, ogling his hot sister.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She’s putting on that weird, fake smile again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some things to take care of at the clinic.”

  A security system is the last thing I need. But it seems like there’s nothing I can do to change her mind.

  “I’m sure you do,” I say, stepping aside to let her pull the car door shut.

  Sarah appears different. Yes, she’s a full-fledged adult now and not the eighteen-year-old who left Ashbourne five years ago. But it’s not that.

  She moves like water—not like these damn raindrops, but like a little, clear stream of water flowing serenely over mossy-green rocks, meandering gracefully around lush green fields. She has poise where there used to be self-doubt and awkwardness.

  After turning on the ignition, she twists in her seat to wave me goodbye. Her long hair tumbles over her shoulders and somehow rearranges itself into yet another visually pleasant form. She’s just so . . . put together.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised. She is a lot like her brother, but unlike him, she doesn’t appear to have given up on life.

  I give her a nod, and she smiles before she drives away. I could be wrong, but she doesn’t seem too happy to see me.

  I scratch my head.

  Ah, women. I don’t know what I did to get her mad, or if she was mad at all. Maybe she blames me for how Peter acted in his last days. Or maybe she just plain doesn’t like me.

  Sure, technically, I’m planning to commit a crime in her place of business (and home), but she doesn’t know that. As far as she knows, I’m just trying to look out for her.

  I close my eyes, look up at the sky, and let fat drops of water pelt my face.

  Don’t worry, Peter. I didn’t expect her to be an easy nut to crack. She’s your sister, after all. I’ll come up with something.

  By the time I get home, it's dark.

  My clothes no longer sweat rain when pressed, but everything’s damp. Almost automatically, I start toward the bathroom.

  But as I peer outside a window, I notice the skies have cleared. There's not even a drizzle, and the streets are quiet because everyone's huddling for warmth at home.

  A deep longing jumps to the forefront of my mind and refuses to let go. My feet itch, and my leg muscles recoil in preparation for exertion.

  Fuck it, I’m going running. I feel like shit, and that's the only thing that’ll help—if I rule out illegal substances, of course. It's been a while since I had some ecstasy. I’ll bet it wouldn't take much to make me feel like I’m on top of the world.

  It's a tempting thought. I know exactly where and how to get any drugs I want.

  But years ago, I decided to stop using drugs altogether. I don't even have weed in the house these days. And I limit my use of the three most beloved legal drugs in America: alcohol, nicotine, and caffeine.

  I peel my black pants off my legs. It feels good to step out of them, and not just because they’re heavy and sticky with water. They just remind me too much of death. I literally never wear those pants other than to funerals.

  Also, I’m usually more of a jeans-and-sweatpants guy. Luckily, I set my own dress code at my tattoo shop. I’d hate having to wear a business suit to work every day.

  I take off my button-down black shirt—which I also never wear, except to funerals—and put on a pair of dry sweatpants. As I slip my feet into a pair of running shoes, my brain comes up with a good excuse to fuel my addiction.

  The clinic’s a little out of the way, but that’s a good thing. On a shitty night like this, I need all the endorphins I can get. And the longer the distance I run, the more intense the natural high I get.

  Also, I can check on Sarah while I’m there.

  Two birds, meet my one stone.

  The moment I open the door, the crisp night air fills my lungs with anticipation. My whole body tingles. I feel like a glutton at an all-you-can-eat restaurant. There’s so much for me to consume it’s almost overwhelming.

  The clinic is three miles away. Six miles there and back. That’s going to take about half an hour at my usual speed. I expect runner’s high to hit toward the end of the run.

  My feet start to pound the pavement. Take it slow and don’t rush into it, I remind myself.

  There are only two things in life I get this obsessive about: my art, and my addiction.

  I used to weigh nugs precisely too, and I always, always brought my own syringe. I was a drug user, not an idiot. Some would insist a drug user is automatically an idiot, but I’d beg to differ.

  The thing is, most people are addicted to something. Sex. Porn. Movies. Video games. Books. Work. Religion. Fucking sugar. Salt. Oh, and here’s a good one: gadgets.

  Most people have ignored their families in favor of something else. Most people have an obsession or two.

  The trick is to direct the focus of that obsession on something that won’t fuck your whole life up. I check my speed on my smartwatch. The clinic’s signage should come into view in a few minutes.

  Peter made the mistake of using nicotine to replace the harder drugs he’d used to enjoy. In the end, it took more than a decade of smoking for the toxins to poison his body with cancer.

  If I were being optimistic, I’d say he could’ve died even younger if he’d stuck with the other kinds of drugs.

  Twenty-eight.

  Damn. Peter died young.

  Funny how when I was a little boy, twenty-eight seemed ancient. But now, at thirty-one, I look at any twenty-something and see someone who has a lot of life to live.

  My chest burns as I put one foot in front of the other. That’s it. Left. Right. Left.

  Life’s a lot like running. A personal apocalypse may have obliterated your world, but time doesn’t stand still. It never does. You still age the same, and to the rest of the world, nothing’s changed. All that’s left to do is keep going.

  As Ellis Animal Clinic comes into view, I stare at the front door, remembering the first day Peter and I talked.

  We were at my shop, and I was giving Peter his first tattoo. Sarah wasn’t too happy about it—but that was exactly the reaction Peter was hoping to get.

  I did feel weird talking to Peter after having just banged his sister on the same tattoo table he was sitting on. But I also thought he was pretty cool. And then he started showing me pictures of his artwork, and he became the coolest person in town.

  He may have worked as a veterinarian, but that man was an artist through and through. His confident strokes and bold colors were intriguing, even though I was just looking at tiny versions of them on his phone.

  I remember saying, “These must look amazing in person.”

  “Want to see them?” Peter asked right away. Later, I learned that he’d been trying to find someone who shared his interest in Ashbourne, to no avail.

  “Yes,” I said, as quickly as he’d made the offer. I didn’t realize Sarah was glaring at me until it was too late.

  Still, I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal because Sarah had made it clear she’d only wanted a one-time, no-strings-attached thing. It wasn’t like we were going to ever bang again.

  Besides, I was just going to see some art, right? Peter and I probably didn’t have much in common beyond that.

  There was very little chance I was going to keep either one of them in my life, or so I thought at the time.

  I chuckle as I slow my pace, my gaze fixed on Ellis Animal Clinic with its white, back-lit sign and a Peter Ellis original as the logo. It’s a clean, simple, black-and-white design, incorporating the silhouettes of a dog, a cat, and a horse.

  Sarah was telling me the truth about having to take care of some stuff at the clinic. The light upstairs is on, which means she’s home.

  It looks pretty safe here, of course. As usual.

  I wonder if she really bought the bald
-faced lie about my security concerns. The truth is, I’m probably the only person in town who’s trying to break into her clinic.

  Sarah

  I stare at the little black silhouette of a cat on my right wrist.

  I’ve gone through a whole slew of emotions related to this tiny tattoo, and it’s not even two inches across.

  When I first got it, I loved it. Even though the design was cutesy, I thought the inherent bad-ass quality of being tattooed would give me a little street cred before I went to college.

  It also reminded me of a particularly naughty night when I’d had my first one-night stand. With a tattoo artist, no less.

  Somehow, a little bit of ink made me feel powerful, like I was in control. It felt pretty bad-ass for a while.

  Until my brother, in his usual non-confrontative way, gave me a little lesson.

  “Peter, are you seriously doing this?” I asked incredulously. “This is so uncool.”

  “If you think being uncool is a deterrent for me . . . think again.” Peter chuckled like he was a villain in a superhero movie. He didn't even slow his pace as he headed straight for the tattoo parlor where I’d gotten inked the previous week.

  “You can't do this,” I protested as I scampered past the colorful display window of a toy shop to catch up to him.

  “I’m going to repeat to you what my very grown-up sister told me this morning: ‘I’m an adult, and you can't tell me what to do.’”

  Okay, maybe I’d been feeling smothered by Peter’s overprotective ways. He was doing a great job at being both my mom and my dad, but what can I say? I was technically an adult, but as an eighteen-year-old, I was still technically a teenager, too.

  I laughed nervously. “That seems like a rather . . . black-and-white way of looking at things, don't you think?” I asked in a desperate attempt to sway his mind, even though I knew I wasn't going to. “There's room for compromise between adults, isn't there?”

  “Nope,” Peter cackled. “You're new to this whole adulting thing so let me tell you something: everyone around you can do whatever they want, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

  “I agree completely,” I said quickly. “Lesson learned.” I put my hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Great parenting, Peter. Well done. Let's go home now.”

  Peter stopped in his tracks—had I touched a nerve?

  He stared at me quietly for a few anxious seconds before he burst into laughter.

  Yeah, probably not.

  “This is the single highest point of my experience raising you in the past five years,” Peter said. “This is happening.”

  When we entered the tattoo parlor, Luca raised a questioning eyebrow at me. To Peter, he asked, “She’s eighteen, right? I checked her ID.”

  As far as I knew, he’d never talked to my brother before. But Ashbourne was a small town, and everybody knew of everybody else’s existence.

  “Yeah, I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Peter said. “I just like your work, and I want the exact same tattoo you gave my sister, in the exact same spot.”

  Luca’s stare flicked between Peter and me until he finally chuckled. Shaking his head, he said, “Sure.”

  And so, for the next half hour, I had to sit there and watch as Luca inked Peter. There was only one tattoo table in the shop—the one Peter was sitting on was the same one I’d gotten fucked on.

  My brother had crazy ideas. But I’ll have to admit this particular one worked.

  Before he got a matching tattoo, I wanted to get a full sleeve or even a massive, yakuza-style piece on my entire back.

  After? Just hearing the whirr of a tattoo gun reminded me of his stunt and . . . I mean, I didn’t want him to also match my magnificent back piece and make me hate it.

  So yes, I swore off tattoos forever. I even swore off the sexy artist who’d inked me.

  Peter stole both from me, but it wasn’t like I was angry at him. I was glad he’d found a friend right before I had to leave for college, and I didn’t want to ruin it for him. Since Dad’s death, Peter had sacrificed so much for me already.

  Besides, it wasn’t like I was dying for another round with Luca. Yes, I liked him, but I was also leaving town for college soon. I’d told him it was just going to be a one-time thing.

  At that age, though, I could’ve been persuaded to do it again, especially by someone as hot as Luca.

  But now, I’m more careful. Methodical.

  I don’t ever sleep with a guy more than once, and I make sure he’s not related to anyone I know. Just finding a stranger in this town would be a challenge, but there are always drifters passing through, and I’m willing to travel for the right guy.

  I get up from the couch and straighten my legs. Walking across the living room, I draw the curtain aside and peer through the window.

  There’s a lone form right outside. My heart skips a beat—could that be one of the junkies Luca mentioned today?

  Peter never mentioned any trouble with drug users. But then again, he also insisted he was fine and told me not to come home because he was “just a little sick.”

  Liar.

  I lean forward until my forehead sticks against the glass, letting my shadow cover the faint reflection of my living room.

  It’s Luca.

  He still likes to run shirtless, I see.

  He has his back to me, which means I can gawk at him to my heart’s content.

  Luca treats his skin like a canvas, covering it with black, green, and red ink. He once told me every single piece was etched into his flesh either by a close friend, or by a famous tattoo artist at one of the conventions he frequented.

  His tattoos seem to dance under the yellow street lights now, rippling as his body strains to maintain his steady, controlled pace.

  I remember doing just this when I was a young, impressionable teenager. I’d run to the window at the sound of heavy sneakers pounding the pavement outside. On my luckier days, I’d see Luca outside, his upper body bared for me to see.

  Not for the first time, I praise the god who sculpted that body into life. I’m not religious, but damn . . . the strong lines of his body, the ropes of muscles underneath his skin, the curve of his ass . . . Luca could convert a girl into a believer.

  I lick my lips, wishing I could lick the salty sweat off his skin instead.

  I don’t need to see him from the front to know he still has those glorious six-pack abs on that lean body. And I know his sweatpants hang low enough to expose the V-shaped ridge stretching from his hips down to his bulge, which no doubt is also outlined by the soft fabric.

  I imagine myself on my knees, rubbing my face against his package, my cheek brushing over the soft cotton that covers the hot, hard man meat underneath. I’d worship that cock and let him toss me around, do whatever he wants to me, use whichever hole he wants.

  Except, Luca’s off-limits.

  Yes, my brother’s gone now, and there’s no friendship for me to potentially wreck. But, I don’t need any complications. And I don’t want him to feel like he has to step in and be Peter’s replacement, now that I’m on my own.

  If it’s a warm body I need, I can get it elsewhere. I’ve just been so busy making funeral arrangements I haven’t had a chance to try.

  I was planning to spend the night researching how security systems work and which companies to call in the morning, but the tingling between my legs demands my attention right now.

  The past few days—no, weeks—have been rough. And I need some release.

  I can’t get that from Luca. I have very . . . particular tastes now.

  No matter how hot it was when Luca screwed eighteen-year-old me, that wouldn’t be enough to scratch this itch.

  No, I need something darker. Something more dangerous. I need a bigger thrill to satisfy this craving.

  I watch Luca until he disappears into the darkness. I think he might’ve turned his head around to look at me at some point, but that’s probably just my imagination.

  Lett
ing the curtain close, I walk back to the couch and make myself comfortable, sprawling back and pulling my legs up onto the cushion.

  The browser on my phone displays the Google search results for “veterinary security.” That can wait.

  I open a new tab and start to type the URL. As soon as I enter the letter “k,” a bunch of drop-down options appear at the top of the screen. I tap on the top one, and a familiar page loads.

  As I write my post, dark desires fill my chest thickly, almost choking me with their intensity. It only makes me hope someone will choke me for real. Just thinking about it makes my core clench. I can feel wetness leaking out of me, pooling in my panties.

  I smirk as I click the “submit” button—normal verbiage for websites these days, but it takes on a new meaning here.

  A chill runs down my arms.

  It’s been so long since I indulged. I’ve actually been clean for a couple of years now, but I guess I don’t have what it takes to deal with my brother’s death and also keep my addiction under control.

  Based on past experience, it shouldn’t take long now until I get a response from someone.

  I’m not choosy. Anyone will do, as long as he’s willing to act out my fantasy.

  Luca

  Jesus.

  When I installed the monitoring equipment at the clinic, I didn’t expect to stumble upon something like this.

  This is a landmine I’m stepping on by accident. This is a nuclear bomb.

  It’s not clear yet if it’s going to blow me into pieces, though. I hope it won’t.

  But it’s not like I have a choice. There’s no time to think. I have to jump into action now.

  I lean forward, closer to my computer screen.

  There’s no mistaking it. That’s her. She has a quarter-sized birthmark at the top of her left thigh, and a dark spot at the very top of her lower lips, right on the hood of her clit.

  I remember because I must’ve had my face on that pussy for a solid half hour. She tasted so sweet. Also, with her spread on my table like that, I didn’t even have to strain my neck to eat her out.