"You act like your life is over," Mrs. Elkins says good-naturedly, her way of reminding me I'm turning a mouse into an elephant.
"I know," I say. She is right, I'm being dramatic. So what if mother decides to give marriage another shot? I'm twenty-two, and soon enough I'll be out of the house and out on my own. Far away from Ground Zero. "I guess there’s no use postponing the inevitable."
"There's the spirit," Mrs. Elkins says, and I don't have to look to know her eyes are bright and amused. I guess to her I'm as much a drama queen as Mother is to me.
The one good thing about a house like this is that you get your exercise in moving from one part of the place to another. I once counted the steps from the kitchen to my room: 208. On the way, I practice my pleasant face and the part I'm supposed to play. Basically, it comes down to,"So great to finally meet you, sir. I hear a lot of good things about you."
After some small talk, and within just a few minutes, I'll go, "Oops, look at the time! Gotta run! College!" I’ll stay long enough to crack out some pleasantries and receive a few in return, long enough not come across as rude.
Just when I turn the corner and step into the long hallway that leads to the wide open French doors that open up to the living room, I see him and stop dead in my tracks. All thought leaves me, leaving behind pure biology: heart pounding like crazy and every cell of my body on fire, body temperature going through the roof and limbs trembling. My hand moves up out of pure instinct as I crane my neck and run a trembling finger down it, my eyes glued to America's most eligible bachelor. Fuck, a little voice at the back of my head says.
Not interested in the finer details, and Mother having been too practical to drop the name of my future stepfather, I had no idea. Resuming my walk, I can't help but feel like a slob, in my worn jeans and every day sweater and sneakers. His famous crystal-blue eyes home in on me and that doesn't help as I struggle for a calm that stands in stark contrast to how I feel.
My whole being is screaming: I want! It serves as a reminder that for all our psychology and civilization, the body has a hard-wired will of its own, honed over millions of years of evolution that will not let itself be denied, regardless of the social conditioning you throw at it. Suck it up or be drowned in a flood of hormones, my body is tells me, the closer I get to him. Steve fucking MacCarty. Billionaire son and notorious ladies’ man. Top athlete, and, most of all, but I am reasonable enough to admit that's just a personal opinion, a total jerk.
God, tell me it isn't so, I think, as I break out into a sweat.
My previous stepbrother had been a spoiled brat with heavy eyelids, a pouch, and a total preoccupation with his iPhone; he was socially inept and no more interested in bonding than I was. That was more than enough for me to like him exactly the way he was.
The closer I get to Steve MacCarty, the more unsteady my feet become, and the hotter I become. When I enter the living room, I'm a complete mess—not the self-assured woman who would indulge Mother by offering pleasantries to a stranger. Enough of a mess to have forgotten about Mother and be taken by surprise when she breaks herself away from the stranger next to her on the couch, rushing over to welcome me the way she only does when she knows people she wants to impress are watching. And there are a lot of people watching. More than I'd bargained for, and all eyes are on me in my everyday clothes. Thanks for the heads up, Mother.
"Ooooh, sweetheart, there you are." Her voice was high-pitched and thick with too much enthusiasm to avoid being cringe-worthy, like she'd just discovered the British Crown jewels in her lap.
Smiling without thinking, I shake hands. First there is Senator MacCarty and next his son. Most people appear shorter and not as special when you meet them in person, but Steve MacCarty is the exception and I hate him for it. Taller and even better looking, I want to shrink away and hide in the shadows. My palms are sweaty and words don't get through to me. The musky smell of him does, though.They must think I'm on drugs. Realizing Mother is talking to me, I focus, unable to pull away from the blue eyes that never leave me.
"I'm certain you've heard of him, dear," mother says. "Isn't this great? Steve will be your stepbrother."
"You've got to be shitting me, Mother," I say without thinking and clasp my free hand over my mouth when I realize what I just said. The silence that follows is cut short by Steve's laughter, which is fast joined by others’. His is the only one that sounds real, though, real and strong. It feels like five gallons’ worth of blood is trying to squeeze into my neck and face.
Even his smile is perfect, I think, staring up at him and squirming in my panties as he says my name like there is a hidden meaning to it and he's set to unravel the mystery—or maybe that’s just what I want to hear. "Exactly my type," Steve MacCarty says shamelessly. He drops his gaze and I feel he is undressing me with his very eyes. To my horror, it only has my juices flowing that much harder.
Steve MacCarty, son of Senator MacCarty, now CEO of the family company after his father decided that politics just couldn't do without him—also a man with an exquisite taste in women. A man who is well aware of his value, and the fact that plenty of actresses and models are happy to get in line to be his for a few months—if that—before he moves on to his next belle du jour. The exact kind of guy I hate. The last guy I need in my life, and the last one I want to have the hots for. Shit.
Realizing that I'm still pumping his hand, I let go and pull my hand back as if burned. "Sorry."
"Don't worry, you're not the only one knocked off their feet," Steve says with a voice that rumbles like a river. With the mess that I am, I'm reading into his words and those brilliant eyes make me sigh in a way that sounds as lustful as I feel. Surely he isn't implying what I think he’s implying?
Before I can say anything, Mother opens her mouth, and for once I'm grateful for her ability to draw all eyes to her—all except the ones that I’d prefer to look elsewhere. Smiling an artificial smile, I move as far away from Steve MacCartyas I can, commanding myself to get my act together.
Sitting down on one of the couches, I look away to avoid the sight of him. Of course, since the universe is against me, he just has to park his ass in a chair across from me, his eyes on me. "You definitely look like you could use a drink," an Asian woman in a black suit that fits perfectly and good shoes, says. She looks vaguely familiar but I can't place her. Still, I'm grateful for the distraction. The drink, too.
Half-listening, my mind wanders off to a tabloid picture of my future stepbrother at the beach in shorts and a Stetson head, and a week's worth of stubble. Of course, he wasn't alone. A pretty girl, one of Hollywood’s new female stars wearing a tiny bikini that did little to hide her intimate parts, was there with him. At the time, lounging in my room with pretzels and Cathy next to me, it was easy to pity the girl who'd be dumped in no time. Of course, Cathy saw things differently.
"Sally, seriously? At least she’s getting the royalty treatment by a real man for a few months. When was the last time you saw a guy like that, eh? A real man."
I'd argued, of course; assuring myself that I was above the basic cravings that obviously clouded those women's thinking. Now I wish I'd just kept my mouth shut when I think how I'd described those women, aware that he could bag me in an instant if I let him.
My new friend asks me what I am studying, and I down my drink before answering, wishing Steve MacCarty would just look away. "How to make an idiot out of yourself," I say mindlessly. "Bio-engineering," I correct myself, wishing the tremble in my voice wasn't there. Wishing I could keep myself from thinking how it would feel to have him push me hard against the wall and take me. Hard muscle against my feminine flesh. That's what one of his exes told the tabloids, how he just loved to do it anywhere and everywhere. Glass empty, my new friend with no name asks me if I want a refill. Abso-fucking-lutely.
"Don't go anywhere," she says, already going.
"Make it a double," I shoot back, not quite believing I'm doing this. My usual self would frown on this kind of beh
avior, but I'm in limbo, and having him stare at me from across the room with feline eyes isn't helping me calm down. He looks to me like a big cat, dressed up to the nines in his suit and gold watch and leather shoes, but it can't negate the animalistic quality that hangs around him; primal and ruthless. I almost wish he'd just make a move so I could flip him my middle finger. Who is he to have this effect on me?
"Miss Trisky," someone says, and when I turn my head, disappointment hits when I see it is Senator MacCarty. Wasting no time, he leans over and whispers sharply in my ear. "You’d better stay away from him." He delivers the words like a man used to telling people what to do and used to being obeyed. The undercurrent of warning is audible and the intent clear as day.
Not giving him the time to straighten up, I hiss back with all the pent up frustration that I have in me, "And why the fuck would I care about what you want, you arrogant old fuck?"
For a moment I think he'll lose it, as I watch his face go from pale to a deep red, eyes flashing daggers. If he expects he can stare me down, he fast learns that's a no-go, and I don't hesitate to mouth shoot. I can tell every muscle of his body tenses, and I just know if it weren't for all these guests he'd probably smack me. Coward. Swallowing hard, the left corner of his thin lips twitches as he straightens himself up. He turns around sharply and makes off in Mother's direction, no doubt to have a word with her about her daughter's rude behavior. Mother will smooth him out, though; it’s what she’s good at.
Turning my head, I lock eyes with Steve MacCarty. He looks like he's seen something that’s taken him by surprise. Something he never expected. Well, fuck him too, if he thinks I'd be just another estrogen life form who he can just strip bare naked, push against the wall, and do with as he pleases. Because that is exactly the kind of woman he's made me into, and I hate it almost as much as the knowledge that he knows it too, so I flip him the finger as discreetly as my anger allows and mouth Fuck you, too! I almost curse out loud when he flashes his perfect smile at me in response, chest rising and eyes shining, heat exploding again in my belly as fantasies corrupt my anger.
"Looks like you'll be best friends," my new friend says, holding a fresh drink in each hand. Screw this. I'm out of here. Smiling, I take out my phone and mumble something about needing to take a call, not expecting or caring to be believed. My legs already moving of their own accord.
Without warning he throws me onto my back on the bed and an excited shriek penetrates the air. Looking up, I see my naked self in the mirror on the ceiling, legs spread wide. Red high heels are the only thing left of what I wore not much earlier. Biting my lower lip, trying not to think about what is happening, I watch him kneel between my legs.
"Urgh," I grunt the moment his lips kiss my throbbing clit; it is all I can do not to reach down and press him against my most intimate part. His tongue slithers over the folds of my private lips and my breathing grows deeper with each passing second. Squirming, tears spill over as his lips take my clit prisoner. Sucking me in deep, I close my eyes, pleasure building to insane levels.
Enjoying my slushie and the afternoon sun, I try to think about Mark. He’s a handsome guy, but not too handsome, like Steve MacCarty. That's his problem, I've concluded. There really is something that’s too perfect for a guy, and that is basic biology. How is a woman supposed to feel when she is with a man like him? Aman who makes any woman feel so ordinary?
"I bet they’re grateful the moment he dumps them," I say, eyes closed and interrupting Cathy. As usual, she is talking about my stepbrother to be, the one who I've been avoiding like the plague ever since that first disastrous meeting.
"Grateful for the divine moments of bliss they had in his presence, you mean?" Cathy says. The way she talks about him, we are dealing with a half-God here, not a mere mortal.
Grateful they don't have to compete with stares and lose, I think, but don't say. "Quite frankly, the man's a bore," I say with practiced nonchalance. "Probably gay, too." Cathy nearly chokes on her long drink. Slapping her on her back—there, there—as she coughs her lungs out, I wonder if it is her or me. Better yet, me or what seems like every other woman on the planet. They all adore the ground he walks on. Can I really be the only one who sees him for the arrogant fuck he really is?
"Best and worst joke ever," Cathy says. Taking a deep breath, she wipes the tears from her amber eyes, which seem liquid in the light of the sun that blazes over the high-rises like they are a mountain range. Finding her eyes, I ask her what makes her think I was joking. I’m dead serious. For a moment I can see her wonder if I'm crazy, or if maybe I'm in on some inside knowledge she isn't, before she decides I'm pulling her leg. We burst out laughing at the same time. It feels good.
Truth be told, I haven't forgotten about the effect he has on me, and I dread the upcoming wedding. That'll be torture. That is what made me think of Mark, not perfect like my stepbrother-to-be, but handsome in a non-threatening way. Best yet, there isn't a cell in my body that capsizes just at the sight of him. I could use a shield like that. Badly.
"Maybe I should test that rumor," Cathy says, stretching her hands high above her thick mess of curls. Breathing in deep, her breasts inflate and look like they are about to win the fight her pink tank top is battling, desperately trying to keep them contained.
"You're about to expose yourself," I say, looking away at the passers-by, from behind a pair of Ray Ban glasses, for a sign of the paparazzi. Being my mother's daughter, it is hard to avoid the limelight. Plenty of people have seen my face, but I've managed to keep a relatively low profile. And if your life is as boring as mine, even the paparazzi lose interest, although never entirely. I expect that will change right before and after the wedding.
I mean, for all the boredom I represent to those who thrive on sensation, I did inherit my mother's looks and it's a safe bet they'll speculate what might be happening between me and Steve MacCarty. Exactly what has been on my own mind ever since we first met.But only when I'm alone in bed and with a sense of security that comes with the dark. Still, even the darkness of night feels bright enough to fear the world might see what I'm thinking, and doing. Just harmless fun, I tell myself, but still I end up feeling guilty and weak and dirty.
"Wouldn't mind exposing myself to him," Cathy says, her voice hoarse. NeitherwouldI, the heat that controls my belly tells me. Leaning over, I look hard at a total stranger, only to distract Cathy.
"Is that…?" I say, willing my biology to cut the crap.
"Too proud to admit it, eh?" Cathy says, crossing her slender well-tanned legs, one Gucci shoe dangling from her foot as she casually swings it back and forth, too smart to fall for my tactics. Even as I snap my head to face her, I know that's a mistake. Play it cool. Pretend. No one must no. No one.
"What?" I choke and my heart sinks. I might as well fess up right now. Instead of it sounding like a challenge, I sound like a guilty person. Like a trafficker caught red handed and trying to bluff her way out of it. Cathy curls the corners of her lips to reveals her white teeth. Shit. My jaw drops when she asks me what my game plan is. "You are utterly shameless," is the best I can come up with, blushing a deep red.
Notice how I didn't say, "You are delusional," or simply gave her a look of startled surprise? I gave her deflection instead, so I don't have to face the pathetic truth that tells me I'm not the exception when it comes to my stepbrother to be. Oh no, I'm the damn rule, and I've confirmed it plenty of times late at night in my own bed with my favorite toy, thinking of him and trying to pretend that I wasn't. "Seriously, I have no idea what all those women see in him," I lie, more blood finding its way to my cheeks.
"Would you like something else to drink?" a slim waitress I didn’t notice approaching asks.
"We're good," I say, but Cathy is quick to correct me. Two of the same.
"I have to go soon," I protest, but the waitress has already decided she'll take the win and ignore me. Great.
"Club him over the head and drag him to your room?" Cathy asks, unperturbe
d. I wish, my body tells me. "Or some old-fashioned seduction? How about—"
"How about you keep your wet fantasies to yourself?" I say, sharper than intended, guilt hitting me in the chest. Why can't life be easy for once, like a mellow afternoon breeze on what was supposed to be a perfect day? "Sorry."
"Me too, girlfriend," Cathy says after studying me with narrowed eyes for what feels like forever. "Didn't know you had it this bad."
"Fine," I say exasperated, "he is not without charm."There. I said it. Are you happy now?" The couple at the table next to Cathy turn and look at the woman next to them, roaring with peals of laughter. "I don't see what is so funny about any of this," I say, all Grumpy Cat, arms folded across my chest.
"He is not without charm," Cathy mimics, with a funny face, in what I guess must be my voice, only it sounds like a line a woman would throw out to hide the truth—like I am. My epic eye-roll behind my shades totally passes Cathy by.
"You’re so funny, you should join the circus." That only has her laughing some more. "Glad I can be such a great source of amusement," I say sourly. Clearly the world is against me today.
"Hey, lighten up, will you?" Cathy says between laughter. "I don't understand what the big deal is here." I could point out that that besides the guy being an obvious total douche who uses women—uses what is between their legs, to be more exact—like disposable goods, and that he's going to be my stepbrother. I don't. Like a modern day sphinx, I stare straight ahead at strangers and traffic.
"Well, if you don't want him, I will."
"Good luck."
"With your help, of course."
"Naturally."
"You invite him over, but instead of you, I'll be waiting in your bed in my birthday suit," Cathy sighs, and it is all I can do not to sigh too at the thought of doing just that myself.
"Sure."
"You can join in, if you want?" Cathy grins, and I'm eye-rolling, amused despite my intent to stay loyal to my Grumpy Cat mode.
A Taboo Desire: What if the one you want is the one you should stay away from? Page 2