Kink

by Nikki Sex

  When I get off of the phone, reception calls. “Oh, Mr. Jarman, it’s Pam here.”

  Pam, an ordinarily sensible woman, sounds breathless. Her usual competent, calm persona is clearly agitated.

  “What is it, Pam?”

  “I’ve just sent someone up to your office,” she says rapidly. “I know I don’t usually do that, but I really think it’s for the best. He can’t stay down here. I hope you don’t mind. Your visitor is on his way. He’ll be there any second, so you might want to be ready for him. Maybe you should,” she pauses and takes a big breath, “be ready for him. “

  “Okay, Pam,” I say calmly, and hang up.

  Women, I think and shake my head. She didn’t even tell me his name. It’s probably some uber good-looking sales rep or something. But Pam’s happily married with three kids. Why would this guy shake her?

  What the hell is going? Lily, my mom, and now Pam: that’s three emotional women in a row. Maybe it’s a full moon. Is Jupiter aligned with Mars or something? Maybe every woman’s period, throughout the entire world, suddenly fell into sync.

  I open my office door and there he is. My visitor. The man that destroyed Pam’s ordinarily rock-solid composure.

  My composure disintegrates, too.

  I’m slammed with stupefying, devastating, over-the-top, beyond belief shock, and astonishment. I react loudly. “Fuck!”

  I feel as if I’m looking in a mirror. The man standing in front of me smiles staring at me with my own face. His expression of disbelief and wonder reflects my own shock and surprise.

  “Hello, brother,” he says.

  Chapter 35.

  “I trusted him like a brother. Which is to say, not at all.”

  – Roger Zelazny

  ~~~

  We stand frozen in my office doorway. A number of minutes pass, while we both simply stare at each other.

  It’s unbelievable how similar we are. He has my same hazel eyes, same hair, same height and facial features. It’s surreal. What is this, the Twilight Zone? I feel like I’m dreaming.

  My look-alike is very well-dressed in a dark grey suit. A very expensive, tailored suit judging by the perfect fit and classy fabric. What is it? Cashmere? Shit. We are the exact same size. I could easily wear that suit.

  The quality of his clothes, his trim, perfectly styled haircut, and something about his manner gives him an educated, upper-class vibe.

  “Good Lord,” my half-brother says.

  “Wow,” I agree. His accent is hard to discern. Maybe Southern?

  He frowns at me. “So, I presume that’s a ‘no’ concerning the need for DNA testing. I can’t see the point, can you?”

  “I have a brother,” I say stupidly, and a sudden thought strikes me. “Is there anyone else in our family?”

  “No, not that I know of,” my mirror image says. “Not yet, anyway,” he adds with an ominous scowl.

  Emily comes out of her office and stops short as she sees us, joining our mind-blowing astonishment. “Oh my God!”

  “Let’s go into my office,” I say. “My name is Paul Jarman,” I tell him as we all come in and settle on the couches in the corner of my dad’s office.

  “Yes, I know your name,” he says coolly, crossing a leg, and laying an arm across the top of the couch. He’s taking up a large area, almost the entire couch. Assuming a dominant ‘in charge’ position. He’s a confident bastard. This irritates me, but I keep a lid on my temper. I’m an expert at that. I know what happens when I lose it.

  “This is Emily Malone, my fiancée,” I say. “And you are?”

  He leans back slightly in surprise. “You don’t know who I am?”

  “Should I?”

  “My name is Colton Child. Until two days ago, I believed that I was the sole offspring of Gordon Child. Approximately two weeks ago, my father’s – pardon me – our father’s physician, gave him three months to live. At that juncture, father was informed that he’d sired another son. It was in my interest to come and see for myself.”

  We stare each other down in silence. I could explain to him that my mother just called me ten minutes ago, and that was when I found out who my father was. But the guy’s being a total dick, so to hell with him.

  Colton shifts, and steeples his hands. “The timing was unusual, I thought,” he said softly.

  Em’s only just catching up. “Wait, your father’s Gordon Child? The lead singer of ‘Broken Arrow?’ Seriously?” I watch her as she puts it altogether. “Jesus. Wow. I love their music. I wonder why they broke up?”

  Her face brightens as she looks at me, and puts her hand on my arm. “Paul, you have a brother! Isn’t that fantastic? You’ve always wanted a brother. Or a sister. You just hated being an only child, didn’t you?”

  I check my watch, and stand up. Wednesdays are a slow day. “Emily, do you mind looking after things around here, while Colton and I find somewhere to talk? Dad’s coming in today, and I don’t think we should be here when he arrives.”

  “Oh,” she says. Her brow furrows. “I didn’t think of that.”

  I bend over and brush my lips against hers. My arms wraps around her in a brief hug. “I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.”

  Colton offers his hand, and she shakes it. “It’s been a real pleasure to meet you,” she says. “A freakishly bizarre pleasure, but still a pleasure. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Colton says with gracious charm. I, of course, hate him for it. Although, I’ve got to say, he wasn’t too high up on my list before that.

  When we walk through the supermarket, all of the staff stare, most with eyes and mouth gaping wide. Jennifer, in grocery, drops a metal sign. It makes a loud racket as it hits the floor. I can’t say I’m surprised.

  Irritated as I am with the jerk, I can see still appreciate the humor of our situation. It’s like some sort of ‘God humor.’ A quirky cosmic joke on both of us. Dear old dad, or the ‘sperm donor’ in my case, has some rather dominant genes.

  “Where’s your car?”

  He nods toward a sleek black BMW. “It’s a rental,” he informs me.

  “We’ll take mine,” I say, and open the door to my car.

  I’ve recently bought an ‘82 Buick Regal Grand National. It’s big and comfy. It has race car suspension, special transmission, and a fire breathing engine, making it as close as possible to a NASCAR racer while still street-legal.

  I fucking love this car. It’s a powerful, bad boy machine.

  It’s a ‘sleeper,’ a car that doesn't look fast unless you know what you're looking at. The only giveaways are the hood scoop, the fancy wheels, and a couple of tiny emblems. It also sits lower, due to special suspension. There’s a ‘spoiler’ below the grill (not obvious) and on the trunk lid (obvious).

  There isn't a car nut alive who wouldn't give a cherished body part for this car, because of its Darth-Vader-ish looks and stealthy speed.

  “Sweet baby, Jesus,” Colton says, low and slow under his breath. He whistles his approval. My half-brother, it seems, can appreciate a good car. Maybe he isn’t a complete jerk after all.

  We get in, and I take my baby for a spin, hitting the back roads and listening to her flawless engine growl and purr. Whatever barriers Colton and I had initially put up disappear with the natural male bonding that comes from driving around in a high-powered, classy vehicle such as this one.

  For once, I have a lot to say. It’s not often that I’m in the company of someone who fully grasps the beauty of my car. I tell him how I found it, and how much it cost. I explain some of the repairs and improvements I’ve made, to bring it back to cherry condition.

  My half-brother reciprocates. The man knows his cars. Colton’s father – our father – apparently likes cars too. Colton’s mother considers herself above such things, and actively discourages her son’s love of cars. He can own them, but he isn’t supposed to work on them.

  That was for ‘the help.’ The work
ers. The underlings.

  I drive home with Colton, park my car in the driveway and walk with him into our garage. There’s sunlight inside, due to the way the window faces. He looks around curiously, clearly not impressed. But when I pull the tarp off my motorcycle, his interest stirs.

  No, that’s an understatement. Colton’s eyes grow wide and flash with covetous green fire. He rocks back on his heels as his breath catches, then he inhales deeply, fortifying himself.

  “Save me, Jesus,” he says fervently.

  Yep, I think with satisfaction. My half-brother, Colton isn’t a total dick after all.

  Chapter 36.

  “You don’t need a therapist if you own a motorcycle, any kind of motorcycle.”

  – Dan Aykroyd

  ~~~

  “Is that a T5?” he asks, in wonder.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “It’s a Zero Engineering T5 Blackie. Did you know that it’s a remanufactured Harley-Davidson?”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” He runs his hand over the bodywork in an adoring caress. “Why has it been disassembled?”

  I grin. Definitely an upper-class accent and upper-class speech. Maybe from one of those expensive boarding schools? But his heart seems to be down here, with us regular guys. You got to respect that.

  I shrug. “I went away for a few years, so I’ve had it in storage. Want to help me put her back together? And take her out for a spin?”

  He smirks. “Surely, you jest. Yes, please.”

  I snicker and respond accordingly. “I’m not jesting. And don’t call me Shirley.”

  We both laugh, bonding over a motorcycle and trite humor in shared male camaraderie. We’re on the same playing field now, maybe even on the same team.

  “I put this beauty up on blocks to save her tires,” I say, getting out a tool box and setting it on the nearby workbench. “I also drained the gas and oil and took the battery out. It’ll take a little TLC to get her going again.”

  I find him some old clothes of mine, which not surprisingly, fit him perfectly. We both change into jeans and old T-shirts, and I get us out a couple of beers from the fridge.

  I take out my phone and decide to call my dad. I’m afraid the poor bastard’s going to take it hard. This will hurt his pride. He’s a cuckold, a man who unknowingly, at least for the first nine years of my life, invested his parental efforts in the offspring of another. If we aren’t careful, the whole town will find out.

  Not only that, but my sperm donor is rich and famous, as well as the lead singer in a band he loved. That’s got to mess with his head. I can’t help but worry about his fragile heart condition, too. After checking how he’s feeling and making sure that he’s physically up for it, I give him the news.

  I explain how Colton visited the store, the rather alarming circumstance of how alike we look and the staff’s reaction. Mom hadn’t told dad who my biological father was, so that unpleasant chore fell on my shoulders. It pissed me off on principle, but was probably better coming from me.

  There’s too much bad mojo between the two of them already.

  Wow. All those years together and she never told him or me. That must’ve been some serious guilt and shame on her part.

  I’m not excusing or justifying her actions. Not when her secret was so damaging. Nothing like infidelity, shame and secrecy to tear a family apart. Add sterility to threaten a man’s masculinity, and we have a nasty combination that fucks with everyone’s self-esteem.

  One drunken, drugged, one-night stand isn’t like a long-term affair with lies and ongoing deceit. I give my forehead a mental slap. Oh, wait a minute. That’s what mom and Emily’s dad did for years. How could I forget that?

  I tell dad that mom called me this morning. I explain about the ‘Broken Arrow’ concert, but not about the ménage. I basically tell dad everything that she told me, including how Gordon Child is terminally ill, how he just found out that I exist, and that he wants to meet me.

  Colton leans back on a doorjamb, crosses his arms and listens to my every word. I don’t see the point in hiding anything. If I put all of my cards on the table, he might, too.

  “Did anyone at the store say anything?” my father asks quietly.

  “Listen dad, anyone can see that Colton and I are related, okay? It’s obvious. But I doubt that your staff would ever imagine that you’re not my dad. I’m pretty sure that they’ll assume that my half-brother,” I smirk and look directly in my half-brother’s eyes, “is a bastard. Your bastard.”

  Colton, resting casually, stands up straight at that. There’s a look of surprise on his face.

  “Oh,” dad says.

  “And trust me,” I add. “Not one person is going to ask you about it anyway. So let them think what they want. But I’m telling you, that’s what they’re going to imagine is going on here.”

  When I end the call, Colton slides me a grin. “Nice. You’ve only just met me and already you’re calling me a bastard.” He picks up his own phone and hits speed dial. “Hello, dad? I’m here with my half-brother, Paul Jarman.”

  I can hear the loud reaction from his father, even though I’m a few feet away.

  “Well, mother pressured me to come, as you can well imagine. Oh? Of course.” Colton hands me his phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I take it. “Hello?”

  There’s a moment of silence. “I didn’t know that I had another son,” he says. His accent is definitely southern. His voice is beautiful; low and slow and mellow.

  “Yes, I know that,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ve had a good life.”

  “Did Colton tell you,” he pauses briefly and adds, “that I’ve been sick?”

  “My mother told me that you’re dying.” My blunt statement doesn’t seem to bother him.

  “Good,” he says. “I can’t travel, but I’d very much like for you to visit me. I understand that you’re engaged. I’d also love to meet your fiancée.”

  “Sure. I’d like that.”

  There’s not much more to say. After a few more comments, I hand the phone back to Colton, who chats for a bit and then hangs up. Colton and I grin. We lean in close to snap a picture of us with his phone.

  Seen together in the photo, we almost look like identical twins. He immediately sends the photo to his father.

  “Wait a sec,” I say. I take a picture of us with my phone, but ask him not to smile. I send this photo to dad, to lessen the shock.

  I send a text with the photo. ‘You’re my dad. You’ve always been my dad. I love you.’ This open display of affection will surprise him and hopefully make him feel better. When all’s said and done, he’s been a good father. I’ve been lucky to have him.

  My brother echoes my thoughts.

  “I love my dad,” Colton says, taking a long drink of beer. “He’s such a free spirit. I swear he only married my mom because she trapped him through pregnancy. At least your mother never attempted that.”

  I snort. “Yeah, probably because she was already married and was stuck hiding a big, uncomfortable secret.”

  He gives me a sheepish look. “Oh. That fact had slipped my mind. But why did she tell dad about you now?”

  “My dad just told me a few weeks ago that he wasn’t my biological father. I didn’t have a clue until then. It’s a long story, but I’ve been pressuring mom to confess. Understandably, I was curious. Unfortunately, my curiosity coincided with your father’s bad news.”

  We both pick up rags and start wiping down my bike.

  “What’s he dying from?” Since we share genes, I imagine that I should know.

  “Oh, dad’s been sick for years.” Colton offhandedly dismisses my question.

  That ends that subject.

  As we work, we talk. I give him the basics of my complex family dynamics touching on Emily’s family for obvious reasons. I also share some funny stories about my travels and some of the odd jobs I’ve had.

  Colton’s a lawyer. Although he doesn’t say it in so many words, I can tell tha
t he hates it. His parents divorced when he was young and he grew up in South Carolina with his mother. Our father lives in Tennessee.

  From what I can tell, Colton’s mom is a controlling hard-ass, who is never satisfied. In short, a real bitch.

  “Did you go to a private school?” I ask.

  “A private boarding school, from the age of six,” he says, dripping with resentment. “Only the best for me.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Oh, he was dead set against it. He would’ve kept me himself, but he’d become quite ill and my mother….” He trails off with a sigh. “Well, she was uncharitable.”

  Uncharitable? I try not to smirk. I love the words Colton uses and I love his accent. Now that I know him better I can hear his Southern twang much more clearly.

  Colton frowns. “My mother sent me here for your DNA to prove we’re not related. She’s a very precise and demanding woman. I find it easier to just do as she says. I suppose we should go through the motions. Do you mind?”

  “Nope.” I shrug, roll a tire over to the bike and put it in place. He hands me a wrench.

  “I fly out tomorrow morning. Would you believe that I have to go to work tomorrow afternoon?”

  I laugh and shake my head. Flying clear across the country twice in a twenty-four hour period, all to get a DNA specimen from me. I feel sorry for him, but I say, “I think you’re mama’s little bitch, aren’t you?”

  He takes this insult well. “If she was your mother, you’d understand. Quite frankly, I’ve never seen her so enraged, and that’s a statement. She signed a prenuptial agreement when she married dad and is still mad about being ‘tricked’ into it. The woman’s determined that her son – that I am the sole beneficiary of our father’s will.”

  “Really? Do you think I could contest it?” I say flippantly.

  He raises his eyebrows and doesn’t deign to answer that ridiculous question. I just laugh because you bet your sweet ass that I could.

  I look so much like Colton. It’s an embarrassing connection, impossible to deny. I’ll send the picture of us both to mom later. If I sent it now she would phone immediately.