Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance

by Nenia Campbell

  “What?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “No reason. I'm just glad you let me help you.”

  “Okay.” Jay dragged out the word as she glanced back at the shop windows. “Start helping me then. Where do we go?”

  Nick pointed at a store he knew a lot of the Hollybrook girls shopped at. Madonna's “Lucky Star” was drifting from its speakers. “In there.”

  “You don't have to come in with me, you know,” said Jay, when he followed her inside.

  “I don't trust you not to walk out of here with something stupid like gaucho pants.”

  Jay gave him the finger and began flipping through hangers while he leaned back and waited. There was a strange smell coming from the clothes, pungent and chemical. He watched her pick out four sundresses and a pretty black dress with a rhinestone clasp. She refused to let him help her pick out a swimsuit. “That's too weird, dude,” she muttered.

  “Nobody wears one pieces but kids and old ladies,” he called after her, when she grabbed a handful of plain solid colored ones that were clearly intended for athletes. They even had little racing stripes. “Come on, Jay. Just get a bikini. It's not like you can't pull it off.”

  “No,” she said staunchly, walking towards the dressing room.

  Beside him, a woman clad from head-to-toe in Lilly Pulitzer laughed. Nick glanced over at her. “What?”

  “I'm sorry,” she said, not sounding very sorry. “You two are so cute—and she's gorgeous. I wish my boyfriend had gone clothes shopping with me when I was a young girl.”

  Boyfriend? He let out his breath in a burst. Jay?

  He stared at the rack of clothes before him unseeingly until Jay found him again, now carrying several plastic bags. “I'm done. Are you okay? You have a weird expression on your face. Why are you just standing here?”

  “I'm fine.” He wouldn't look at her. “Let's go.”

  Jay glanced at the woman in Lilly Pulitzer. “Why is that woman waving at you? Do you know her?”

  “She probably wants to rape me,” Nick said. “Forget about her.”

  Jay fell into silence as they walked and he studied the ghostly outlines of their reflections in the glass. His was slim and scrawny, except for his shoulders. Jay, at his side, had a lithe build with soft, sloping curves and that mass of curly hair. Do we look like a couple?

  They were on their way to the car when Jay ran into some of the Lacoste Mafia, although now that they had graduated, her old friends had moved on from prep wear to things like Dolce & Gabbana and Gucci. Nick recognized the logos on their bags. The step-bitch liked to shop there, too.

  Jordan was instantly recognizable with that long mane of naturally blonde hair and Clary, who was mixed—Black, English, and Korean, Nick remembered someone telling him—was probably the third most gorgeous girl in school after Jay and Jordan.

  Unfortunately, fucking Michael was with them, along with some of his loser hang-ons. Nick recognized one of the guys from the hot tub at Dave Byron's house.

  Jay left him to go speak to the group of them, hugging herself in the way she did when she was nervous. Playing with her hair, wrapping the curls around her finger. “We just stopped by the mall for some frozen yogurt and some light shopping,” Jordan was saying, holding up a bag that looked anything but light. “Now we're on our way to the beach to have a good old-fashioned bonfire. You wanna come, Jay? We tried to call you but you, like, didn't answer your phone.”

  “It's dead,” said Jay. “Yeah, I'll come. I've been looking at course catalogs all day.”

  “You can't,” Nick reminded her. “You have to take me home.”

  “Right,” said Jay, glancing at her bags. “I need to drop these and my brother off first. I'll meet you there? Silver Scape, right?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Jordan and Clary waved and Michael hung back for a moment, saying something to Jay that Nick couldn't hear before turning and leaving with the others.

  Nick was not happy about being grouped with the bags. “Drop my brother off?” he repeated, once they were both buckled up in the car. “Seriously, Jay?”

  “Well, you are,” she said, puzzled.

  He sat in silence as they drove home, watching her slim hands on the wheel as she inched along the tortuous freeway. Your brother, he thought darkly. Well, maybe I don't want to be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  2004

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The resort was the same tacky, whitewashed Mission Revival style as their school, only with more glass. Nick supposed this was supposed to capitalize on the beachfront aesthetics that came from the ocean and the incredibly blue skies but because it was the obvious choice, it disappointed him.

  He liked their rooms better, which were icy and modern. Shag rugs in cool tones, modern furniture with chrome, white couches. Jay raced around, acting like a fucking child, exclaiming over everything, before flinging herself into her room and saying, “Oh my God, I have my own fridge?”

  Rolling his eyes to himself, Nick followed the sound of her voice to the cracked open doorway before pushing open her door the rest of the way. She was flopped on her bed like a starfish in her shorts and “Counting Crows” shirt, with a thin polka-dot scarf tying back her hair. “You are so fucking lame, blue jay,” he said. “Seriously.”

  Jay kicked a sandal at him. It hit him in the stomach before bouncing off. “Close the door. I'm going to change.”

  Nick arched an eyebrow. “Need some alone time with the fridge, Jay?”

  Her face flushed. “Don't be gross. I'm just going down to the beach.”

  “Wait for me,” he said. “I'll go with you.”

  She hesitated. “Okay.”

  Nick went to his own room, which was nearly identical to Jay's. He didn't think it was particularly noteworthy. Everything in the fridge was surprisingly cheap. Mid-tier alcohol in small bottles, the kinds of European cookies you could easily obtain at international grocery stores. The hotel had their own branded water instead of Fiji or Evian. He grabbed one and made a face. It tasted cheap, too, like it had been warmed in the bottle it came in.

  Setting the bottle aside, Nick changed into his swim trunks, throwing on an unbuttoned shirt so he could go walking around the boardwalk later if he felt like it. Puka shells and espadrilles, two things he normally wouldn't be caught dead in, completed the beachy look. He put on his mirrored sunglasses as he walked out, throwing the room into sepia tones.

  Jay was wearing one of her silly one-pieces with pink and white striped shorts and the sandals she'd kicked at him. Around her throat was a silver necklace with a diamond-studded bear and a little J. As they clomped out, he asked, “Where'd you get the necklace?”

  She peered at him from beneath her floppy hat. She smelled very strongly of sunscreen. That was another thing her stupid, leathery spray-tanned witch of a mother liked to chide her about, Nick thought. Getting too dark in the sun. “Your dad gave it to me just now,” she said, after a moment. “I guess it was because I got into Berkeley. He'd probably be mad if he knew I passed on Stanford,” she added quietly.

  Nick tried to remember the last time his father had given him a gift outside of a Christmas or a birthday. “Congrats,” he said emptily. “You excited?”

  “Yeah!” she said. “I've been talking to my future roommates, Cori and Jessi. They're both really nice.”

  “Oh, blue jay,” he said, with unexpected heat. “You think everyone is nice.”

  Jay blinked. “I think most people probably are.”

  “Only when they want something. That's why I'm not nice. I don't want shit from anyone.”

  “Well, that's jaded.” She gripped the pendant protectively. “To be honest, I don't even really like the necklace. It's too flashy—like something my mom would wear. But he was looking at me so I felt like I had to wear it at least once before throwing it in a drawer.”

  “If I don't like something, I don't wear it,” said Nick. “Sell it if you do
n't like it.”

  “Is that what you're planning on doing with your puka shells?” she asked snippily. “Because you sure wouldn't stop harping about how they weren't your style when I gave them to you.”

  “I'm wearing them, aren't I?” he asked, touching the necklace. It was warm from his skin.

  Jay looked at him for a moment. There was a strange expression on her face, as if she had the sun on her eyes. Maybe she did, because she slid her glasses back on. “I guess you are. I'm glad you like it.”

  I don't like it, he thought, willing her to understand. I like you, Jay.

  Nick sat on the sand, watching the waves cash over the shore. He loved swimming but didn't particularly relish the briny reek of the ocean or how the water teased his hair into stiff spikes.

  Jay, predictably, was already in the water. She'd lost her hat in the waves and it was bobbing away and some blonde surfer guy was helping her retrieve it. He handed it to her, arm around his board in a way Nick supposed was intended to show off how cut he was while Jay gripped her hat in front of her like it was a shield.

  Unwilling to watch anymore, Nick leaned back and crumbled a sand dollar he'd found, breaking the thin pieces of calcium carbonate apart into little sharp-edged pieces. Jay had told him in the car that they were related to sea urchins and the little floral patterns were called “food grooves.” And then her mother had cut her off and said, “Baby, that's enough. I have a headache. You're such a little chatterbox—give it a rest, won't you?”

  Jay, now sodden, trod back to him on bare, sandy feet, falling onto the sand next to him with a little oomph. “I almost lost my hat,” she said redundantly. “No more swimming in the ocean for me today, I guess. It's a sign.”

  “That was swimming?” Nick asked, without opening his eyes. “Looked more like spazzing.”

  “You totally belong on this beach,” she told him. “You're such a crab.”

  Nick flipped her off.

  “Nice,” she said. “Come on, Mr. Crabby Pants. Take a look. I found a purple dwarf olive on my back from the water. It's in perfect condition.”

  “A what?” She was holding out a dime-sized shell the color of an infected blood blister. “Oh.”

  “Quentin said if I found a good shell, he could bore a hole in it for me so I can thread it with cord,” she said happily. “I hope I can find a scallop or a California cone.”

  At the mention of Quentin, he glanced at her in annoyance, and then his eyes caught on the silvery rivulets of water gleaming on her breasts. The cold water had made her nipples hard. Something hot and icy flooded through him, making his ears ring. He pushed her hand away. “Stop waving that in my face,” he said. “It reeks.”

  “It does not. And anyway, I'm going to bleach it when we get home, so you won't have to worry about it.” Oblivious to his torture, Jay set the shell carefully on the corner of her towel, pulling the brim of her hat down over her face. “If you find another one, let me know. I'd love a sand dollar, too.”

  Remembering the sand dollar he'd crushed, Nick felt a brief flash of regret. It quickly faded as his eyes drifted back to her chest. The suit was cut deeper than she had probably realized, or she never would have bought it. With her shoulders pulled back, the material was almost sheer.

  Nick heard himself make a strange sound and she looked over at him. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes were the color of his father's scotch in the light: a clear, guileless hazel. Nick stared at his stepsister as his veins seemed to burn; it was like he had a whole colony of fire ants inside his body and they'd all decided to sting him at once. She's so fucking beautiful, he thought, nearly reeling from it. Fresh-faced and angelic and almost repulsively attractive.

  What if Jay did realize what she did to him—and to other men? How could she not know? How innocent could a stripper's daughter really be?

  It's your job to protect her.

  He looked at Jay and saw only concern and unease. Without realizing it, a fierce scowl had overtaken his features, masking them like a shadow. He tore off his shirt and kicked off his shoes with such violence that his stepsister leaned back, covering the shell protectively.

  “Hey, watch it! What are you doing?”

  “It's too fucking hot on this damn beach. I'm going for a swim.”

  The water was terrible: ice-cold and salty, stinging his eyes and sinuses and filling his trunks with drifting sand. But it soothed the burning and helped him think clearly.

  When Nick glanced back, a group of older guys were talking to Jay, which filled with him a draining anger. Guys were always talking to Jay. He dove to hear the muffled rush of the waves beneath the surface of the water and when he bobbed back up, the guys were gone and Jay was alone and wearing his shirt around her slender shoulders.

  She avoided his eyes as he approached, dripping wet and soaked to the bone. There were two spots of color high on her cheeks, like she'd been slapped.

  “I'm cold,” she said, in a subdued voice. “Can we go back now? I'm tired of the beach.”

  “Fine. I don't care.” He hadn't really wanted to go down to the boardwalk anyway.

  Jay slipped her sandals on, tucking the shell into the pocket of his shirt as she tied her towel around her hips like a sarong. She was 5'10” and he was 5'11” but he had much broader shoulders, so the sleeves of his shirt flapped down to her elbows. She had knotted the hem around her waist to keep it closed and it looked absolutely ridiculous with the towel.

  “What did those guys say to you?”

  “Nothing. They were just lost. I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Do they have anything to do with the reason you decided to steal my shirt?”

  “No. And I didn't steal it. I borrowed it because—like I told you—I was cold.”

  “Maybe I'm cold, too,” Nick said idly and Jay shot him an irritated look.

  “You're a boy.”

  “Boys don't get cold?” The color in her face intensified as her eyes abruptly dropped.

  “Just drop it,” said Jay. “I'll give it to you in the room.”

  God, I wish you would. “It's my shirt.” He tugged at it. “Give it to me now.”

  “Nick,” she snapped, sounding truly annoyed. “Stop it.”

  He knew he probably should stop but something inside him had frayed and broken. He reached for her again and she hit him—not hard, but it was definitely a hit and it made him grunt. They fell onto the grass with a shushing sound, Jay beneath him, all those soft curves cushioning the hard planes of his body. When she squirmed beneath him, he felt it in a thousand places.

  “You asshole.” She shoved at his chest, her hands cool against his bare skin. “God, I hate you.”

  “Do you really hate me, Jay?”

  He let himself fall forward onto his forearms and Jay went tense. His shirt had slipped open and he could feel her chest grazing his with each breath, their faces mere inches apart. “Nick?” Her eyes were wide. “What are you—”

  Kiss me, he thought dizzily. I want you to kiss me.

  “Oh.” It was a small 'oh,' like a squeak. Quick as a flash, she slipped out from his arm, brushing the grass from her clothes in a quick, agitated movement. Before he could reach for her or call her name, she was running, his untied shirt fluttering around her arms as she fled.

  She hadn't even realized that she'd forgotten her towel.

  Nick bent to retrieve it and felt his necklace give as the string, weakened by the salty water of the ocean, finally snapped. All of the tiny white beads rolled into the grass like hail, lost.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Do you really hate me, Jay?

  Jay sat in the cabana lounge, clutching her purse. She was wearing one of the sundresses that she'd bought with Nick, which she now regretted bringing. She didn't like any of the clothes she had taken with her—expensive, revealing, not her style at all. What she really wanted was jeans and a sweatshirt with a hood she could bury herself in.

  Beside her was a virgin d
aiquiri that was slowly melting into watermelon-colored slush. It was too sweet and had a strong chemical tang and she didn't like it.

  A few guys had come up to her while she had been sitting on her own, offering to buy her drinks. She'd scared most of them off by telling them that she was just seventeen and waiting for her mom but one guy had been creepily persistent, offering to sit there and wait with her, like he fucking knew, and Jay had immediately gotten up and went to the bar.

  Bless that female bartender. She had figured out what was going on and 86'd the creep, letting Jay sit there at the counter with her even though she was clearly under twenty-one. Jay plucked at the stupid teddy bear necklace, rubbing her fingers over the diamonds. She kept thinking of Nick's words to her on their way to the party, so eerily prescient—she's jealous of you.

  Since she was young her mother had been telling her that she was unattractive—not “ugly,” because that would have been too easy to deny. Harder to argue that her thighs weren't too thick, that her hair wasn't too curly, that she really wasn't too fucking tall. Pinching and prodding and picking apart everything from her hair to her eyes, telling her that she talked too much.

  Guys had always bothered her but guys bothered everyone. Jay had seen the way they shouted and hollered at the strip club. She just figured that all men in the world, with very few exceptions, were creeps. But what if that wasn't the case? What if the problem was actually her?

  How'd you like a pearl necklace, sugar tits?

  Jay had to blink back a sudden rush of tears.

  This whole year—it had just been one thing after another. Michael calling her the prettiest girl in town and then telling her he'd had a crush on her for a while, and then patting her condescendingly on the head when she asked him if it was because of the way she looked, asking her teasingly if it was because she wanted more compliments.

  Jordan had told her that she had been overreacting when she had gotten angry, that if she didn't get with Michael, Angela was just going to steal him away again and this time Michael might let her. Jay, still hurt for reasons she couldn't even begin to explain, thought to herself that right now, that didn't really sound like such a bad outcome.