The bitterness surprised him; he had never heard her complain about anyone in such stark terms. What surprised him even more was that, towards the end of the journal, a few months after her eighteenth birthday, she had written very shyly about touching herself, or wanting to.
“I'm not sure what to think about,” she had written. “So I just picture some faceless stranger kissing me in the dark.” In very small font after that, as if she were trying to hide the words from even herself, she had added, “I think I want him to be rough with me, but I'm also scared it will hurt.”
God, that was hot—especially for Jay, who seemed like the buttoned-up type who'd always insist on missionary. He wondered what “rough” meant to his prude of a stepsister.
“It feels really strange to think about,” she had concluded, frustratingly vague.
Tell me more, he had thought. Tell me exactly how it feels strange, Jay. That blend of innocence and longing had made him so achingly hard that he'd gotten himself off in her bathroom, to the sweet, lingering scents of her apple-freesia shampoo and vanilla bean candles. Afterwards, he'd read further, hoping for more. More illicit confessions. More about how she craved to be touched. But after her graduation, the pages had abruptly stopped.
Looking at her now, staring down at her book, he found himself wondering what thoughts were going on in her mind. He hadn't expected her to be quite so cynical or so passionate. The journal had provided some interesting insights but he wanted to know more about the girl who could sit looking so composed while secretly desiring to be ravished by a stranger.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason,” he said mildly. “Just trying to see what you're reading.”
She lifted the cover, giving him a glimpse of a blue-toned background that said Fire & Hemlock. “I really wish you wouldn't talk about other women the way you do.” She set the book back down, still open, on the counter, even though she hadn't turned a page since her mother left. “Your dad does it, so maybe you feel like you have to, too. But I hope it's not who you are.”
Nick pushed off from the fridge. “You've been gone for four years, blue jay. I don't think you know me well enough to discuss me or my moral upbringing.” He leaned over the counter, right next to her, propping his head up on one arm. “You really don't know what I'm like. But you know your mother. You can't sit there and tell me that you think she's a good person.”
“I think she's a flawed person.” She stared at the book. “Like you, or me, or anyone else.”
“Bullshit. I'm nothing like your mother—and neither are you.” He tapped the back of her wrist and saw her shoulders tense. “Don't let her drag you down with her because she will. How's the book?”
She folded her hands over the pages. “It's good. You wouldn't like it.”
“Why not?”
“I've seen what you read. Horror and chaos. Ayn Rand. This isn't that. It's fantasy.”
Oh Jay, he thought, darkly amused. If only you knew what I've really been reading. I could tell you a thing or two about fantasies. “Maybe I'll surprise you.”
Her eyes flicked towards him. “If you really want to read it, I'll lend it to you when I'm done.”
Nick shrugged his shoulders and padded towards the door. As he did, she slid off the stool, closing the book as she prepared to leave, as well. Still watching her, he nearly ran into his father, who seemed to be on his way out of his office. Jay, behind him, froze, eyes widening.
He noticed she edged slightly closer to him.
“Good morning,” said his father, glancing at them. “What are you two up to?”
Jay, with that wary, watchful expression still on her face, brushed against Nick's bare arm. That brief contact of skin on skin was electric. The book fell from her hand with a slap that made her jump. His father bent to pick it up and handed it to her, and he didn't miss how gingerly she accepted it from him or how much her hand was shaking. And neither, he knew, did his father.
“Thanks,” she said haltingly, hugging the book to her chest. “I was . . . just leaving.”
What was that? Nick watched her scurry to her room.
“She seems jumpy,” his father remarked.
“Yeah,” Nick said, glancing at him.
I wonder why.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
A few days later, his father rapped on his door. Nick was lying on his bed, listening to a mix of Nine Inch Nails and A Perfect Circle on his iPod. The music was loud and he hadn't heard the knock, but he had seen his father's shadow and tugged down the side of his headphones. “What?”
“I thought you and I might take a trip before you go off to college next month.”
Nick tugged down the other side of his headphones. “Like a family trip?”
“No. Father and son. I was thinking Las Vegas.”
“Fine,” said Nick. “When?”
“This weekend.”
Nick shrugged. He'd gone there with a couple friends before, although he'd been too young to gamble at the time, so all he'd really done was see the shows and eat out a lot. He was still too young to gamble at most places, but at least when you were eighteen, you could do something.
“Fine,” he said again, after a moment. “I'll get my shit together.”
Nick was somewhat surprised that his father had contracted with Vlad to drive them. “Hey, man,” he said, earning himself a perfunctory head tilt. The only person he'd ever seen the man smile at was Jay. “I feel like I have my own personal bodyguard,” she'd said to him. “Just like on the Princess Diaries.” And then Vlad had told Jay that he had studied krav maga and the two of them started talking like old buddies while he had huffed in the backseat.
Jay had texted him. Mom wants to know where you're going. Is it for orientation?
Shaking his head, Nick threw his suitcase in the trunk and climbed into the backseat with his father apparently opting to ride shotgun with Vlad. Nick didn't mind having the back to himself. His legs were so long, he liked the option of sitting sideways or he quickly got cramped.
We're going to Vegas. I'll get you a racy postcard.
Ugh. Please don't, she wrote. Mom's going to be really upset. She loves Vegas.
He wondered if that was why his father had organized this trip. To make his wife jealous and put her in her place. He had a vague recollection that they had gotten married in the city eight years ago. Proof that what happened in Vegas didn't always stay in Vegas.
It'll be fine. Dad will buy her off with something shiny and all will be forgiven.
There was a pause. Is that what you really think is going on?
Nick stared at his phone thoughtfully. Did she know about the cheating, too? Maybe she thought she and her mother were going to be kicked out. He could have told her not to fret about it. A high-profile divorce case would cause more problems than it would fix, and his father wouldn't want to reward a woman who strayed from him with half his estate.
Just enjoy your books, Brainiac. I'll think of you while I'm living la grande vie. After a moment of consideration, he added, Don't worry about your mother. Seriously.
She sent him an angry face. He sent her a heart and then she stopped responding at all.
“Who are you messaging?” his father asked from the front seat, glancing at him in the rear view mirror. “One of your friends?”
“A girl,” he said vaguely, shoving his phone into his pocket. Maybe I tipped my hand.
“I don't think I've ever seen you with a girlfriend.”
Nick glanced at Vlad, wishing they weren't having this conversation in front of him, even though he didn't seem to care and his father had probably slapped him with an NDA. He flicked his hair out of his eyes impatiently. “I'm not really interested in any of the girls around here.”
“You're not gay, are you?” his father demanded.
What? “No,” said Nick. “I'm not fucking gay. I just don't like vapid, female bullshit.”
“Perhaps that's wise,” his
father conceded. “Women tend to peak in college, although so do their expectations. In high school, you aren't expected to marry every girl you fuck.”
Nick glanced at his phone. “Didn't you marry Mom in college?”
“I was a bit dishonest with you,” his father said, leaning back in his seat. Ignoring the question, he couldn't help but noticing. “We aren't going to Vegas until Sunday, and only briefly on the way back. We're actually heading to Carson City.”
“But that's seven hours away,” said Nick. “Why are we going there?”
“You'll see,” his father said vaguely, tilting his head down as if preparing for sleep.
Nick put his headphones on, shuffling through his iPod until he landed on Puscifer. He liked a lot of the songs, but “Rev. 22:20” had always been his favorite. He'd thought he was too wired to sleep, but when he opened his eyes, it was because the car had stopped in a little dirt patch.
“Where are we?” he asked, sitting up in his seat. “Did we get lost?”
“We're not lost.”
His father had Vlad park in front of one of the unmarked buildings and swung out of his door like he knew where he was going. Nick got out more slowly, frowning as he tossed his iPod beneath the seat. There was a sign outside the sun-peeling, faded exterior, hand-lettered in tacky flamingo-pink script with a crude painting of a fruit tree with a knot in the trunk that looked undeniably sexual, with several big, overly shiny cartoon cherries that looked like butts.
The fuck. He stared at the sign, wondering if he should snap a picture of it to show his friends. Jake would like it. “The Cherry Orchard?” he said. “What is this place?”
Some weird fruit stand?
Ignoring him, his father walked up to the door and went inside. Nick took a picture of the sign before following his father. He quickly realized it wasn't a fruit stand. The interior was like a scummy reception in a low-budget hotel, but cleaner. Only the dust, yellowish-gray like the body of a silverfish, got in. A couple of other guys were inside already, but none would meet his eyes.
His father was talking to the older man at the reception desk, who looked over at him. He was given something that was glossy and bright, like a yearbook. The pages were sticky and a little ragged. “Pick one,” his father said.
Pick one? Nick flipped through the book. It was a bit like a model's portfolio, except with lots more girls. There were four to a page, all grainy photos of the girls wearing lingerie.
It clicked for him then. “Is this a brothel?”
“I'm not going to have you going away to college and embarrassing yourself,” his father said in response, which seemed to be a yes. He handed him two condoms. “In case the first one breaks.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Nick couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice but he kept flipping through the book. Jesus Christ, did his dad really think he was such a fucking lost cause that he had to buy the pussy now? There was no shortage of girls willing to blow him. He looked down at the pictures sulkily. There were a lot of blondes. He supposed blondes must be popular.
Then Nick straightened. “I'll do her.” He pointed at a girl with light brown skin and long curly hair who had a slightly sullen tilt to her full mouth. “She's the only one I want.”
His father glanced at the girl for a long moment, expressionless. “Ivy?”
“She's available,” the man at the desk said helpfully. “She's in room twelve at the end of the hall. I'll phone her and let her know you're coming.”
Coming being the operative word, Nick thought. Shooting a last look over his shoulder, he went down the hall. His footsteps echoed. They'd opted for tile halls like a hospital, probably because it was easy to clean. They were pungent with the chemical tang of artificial cirtrus, as if they had just been scrubbed. Beneath it, he could make out the faint funk of sweat and old come. He knocked on the door of room 12, wondering if he was being an idiot.
What kind of loser paid for sex?
“Come in,” said the voice inside, high and girlish, when he knocked.
No, he thought instinctively. It needs to be low.
“Ivy?” To his disappointment, she looked slightly older than her photo, which must have been taken a while ago. Closer to thirty than twenty. But her makeup was flawless and her pink bra and panty set was completely sheer. She only had a very thin strip of hair on her pussy. “I'm Nicholas.”
“What do you like to be called, Nicholas?”
For a moment, he almost said, Why do you care? And then it occurred to him why she would, and he nearly blushed, which annoyed him. “Anything,” he said. “I don't care.”
He stepped into the room, looking at the fluffy pillows that were probably covered in fluids. He could smell perfume—fake sugar. It made his chest feel tight. So did the way she was playing with her hair, twirling her finger in her curls, pulling the strands taut and then letting them bounce free. Jay does that, he thought, watching her.
“Don't use that voice with me,” he said suddenly. “The baby one. I don't like it.”
Ivy glanced at him. He couldn't tell if he'd offended her. “Okay,” she said. “Whatever you want.” She paused, looking him over, and something in her face softened. “Come here.”
Nick went to her. She hadn't moved from the bed this whole time and allowed him to push her flat on the mattress. Straddling her hips, Nick pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her as he reveled how all of her soft curves cushioned his much harder frame. He cupped her breast, squeezing gently, and felt her nipple harden against his palm. She ran her hands briefly under his shirt, making a faint murmur of appreciation as she worked his fly.
She took the condom from him and put it on, almost like she could tell. He watched her slim hands move expertly over his achingly hard cock with a deliberate gentleness that nearly undid him. When he slid inside her it felt—hot and tight, were his first thoughts, which shouldn't have been sexy, but it was. It felt incredibly fucking good and he had to fight against the urge to come.
His father's words rang in his mind—embarrass yourself. He'd heard girls laughing about the guys who blew their loads and finished early. Gritting his teeth, Nick imagined his cock stuck in a bucket of ice as he fucked into that warm, wet heat.
“Yeah,” she gasped. “I love the way you fuck me, Nick.”
“Call me Daddy,” he said impulsively, thrusting into her hard. I think I want him to be rough with me, but I'm scared it will hurt. “I'll be your big, strong Daddy, and you'll be my sweet little bird. That's what I want.”
Nick glanced at her, seeing what she thought of this, but her eyes were closed. “Okay, Daddy,” she said huskily. “Whatever you say.”
He did come, then, shuddering inside her with his hands clenching on either side of her face.
“Oh yeah,” she breathed, heaving beneath him. “That was nice, Daddy. You're so good.”
Nick gave her a look; he didn't appreciate being condescended to. He knew it was supposed to last longer than five minutes. “No, it wasn't,” he corrected her, breathing a little shallowly himself. “But that's all right. Show me how to make you come.”
Again, she leveled him with that slightly unreadable look. But she took his hand and spread her legs wider so he could see the firm little bud at the apex of her slit. She guided his fingers to it, at first directing his touch, but after a while, her hand fell away and he slid two of his fingers inside the still-slick passage as he traced tight, hard circles over her clit.
“How does that feel?” he asked.
“Harder,” she said, hips bucking. “Please, Daddy. Please.”
When he pushed down with his thumb, she cried out. This time, Nick was pretty sure it wasn't entirely fake. She was so wet—and with her eyes closed, leaning back into the pillow of her own dark, silky curls as she arched under his hand, she looked so much like—
Fuck. His cock swelled again and he leaned over, growling ferally, “Again.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
2008
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Jay met Quentin for drinks at Acciaccatura, a boutique-style brunch spot in the downtown area that locals simply shortened to Accia. Her mother liked going there for Sunday mimosa brunches and getting drunk with her girlfriends, and so did a lot of the other men and women in town. But it was still a pretty classy place. There were potted cypress trees outside, framing a sign on a folding chalkboard that advertised the daily specials. Today's was goat cheese arugula quiche and pomegranate mimosas.
Quentin stood up when she entered. On a Wednesday afternoon it really wasn't that crowded and she had no trouble picking him out in his bold-striped rugby shirt. He was also wearing acid-washed skinny jeans that gathered artfully at the tops of his Balenciaga sneakers.
“Jay.” He held out his arms and she stepped awkwardly into his embrace as he squeezed her gently. “It's been forever. I'm so glad to see you. Hollybrook has been so stupid since everyone left.”
She smiled and sat down. “You mean, none of them came back?”
“Why would they? There's literally nothing to do here in this overpriced bedroom community unless you want to shop, get drunk, or fuck.”
A coiffed woman at the next table looked over and shot Quentin a dirty look before turning back to her friends and saying something, shooting him a series of angry-looking glances.
Quentin slanted a sideways grin at her. “Oh, and you can only pick two. Guess what she chose?”
Jay had to cover her mouth with a hand to keep her laugh from escapaing. It did anyway, in a high-pitched, unattractive snort. She was relieved when the waitress came to take their orders. Jay ordered a lemon drop and a butternut squash soup and Quentin got bacon-wrapped dates and a dark 'n' stormy.
“Wow,” she said, after the waitress had taken their paper menus away, “that's kind of strong for brunch. Did you have a bad day or something?”
Quentin made a face. “Dad's having me help out with the hotel. Let me tell you, managing a bunch of high-maintenance white women who freak out every time their European hair dryer blows out an outlet isn't exactly a picnic.” He glanced at her. “No offense.”
Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance Page 29