Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance

by Nenia Campbell

  There were plenty of girls who'd expressed an interest in him. He considered telling Jay that, but he knew she wouldn't care. Not for the reasons he wanted her to care. He had the feeling that if he did fuck around, she would just sit there silently and judge him, and that pissed him off because he cared a lot about who she fucked around with.

  The very idea of her being with someone else made him want to hurt someone, actually.

  Looking at her, wearing his shirt and his necklace, but very much not his herself, was gutting. So he looked away, scanning her belongings. Walking to her bookshelf, he let his eyes flick dismissively over the titles crammed in there, studying her rock collection.

  Almost immediately, he noticed something was missing. “Where's the gypsum rose I got you?” he demanded, folding his arms. “I don't see it.”

  “I had to sell it.” She sat on the edge of her bed, tugging his shirt over her lap. Her long hair swung forward as looked up. “I had to sell a lot of my things.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you why. Your dad won't give me any money. He rejects all my purchases.”

  “I would have sent you some if you'd asked. You have a fucking phone. You can text me. Anytime you want. You're not poor. You don't need to hock your shit like you're—”

  “What? One of the rabble? A poor relation?”

  “Don't you fucking start.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You have choices. You can come to me for help. You can come up to Palo Alto, or I'll send you money. Or you can sit there in your little silk princess sheets and whine. Just don't sell shit around here without asking.”

  “You're the one who told me I should sell things I didn't like.”

  Nick winced again, and felt another flood of anger that he was letting her get to him this way. That she could get to him this way. “I'd watch it, if I were you,” he told her, in a tight voice. “Your mom's this close to going down in flames and if you aren't careful, you're going to burn up right along with her. I'm all you have.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, paling. “What's going to happen to my mom?”

  “I mean, I'm pretty sure my dad knows what's been happening at the pool.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Like he knows about you and me?”

  “Not the same thing. You're mine and he isn't going to touch you.”

  “Why not? Because of this? Is this supposed to protect me from your dad? Are you marking your territory?” She clawed at the necklace. “My God, Nick. You really are daddy's little boy, aren't you?”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Jay?”

  “It means you're a bully,” she said fiercely. “Who doesn't care about anyone but himself. I've begged you to help me and you tell me you will, and then you sit back and refuse me. Don't pretend you care about me. We both know you only care about one thing.”

  Nick stared at her books. “If I didn't care about you, I'd tell everyone what you really are.”

  She stood up so fast that she startled the cat. “And what am I? A whore? Is that what you were going to say? Is that what I am to you? If I am, it's because you made me that, Nick.” She poked at his chest, hard, just above his sternum. “You forced me to bargain myself, piece by piece, and now I don't even feel like I'm myself anymore—and I hate you for that.”

  Nick looked down at her hand and she hastily yanked it away as he backhanded her rock collection, making her stumble back from him as a shower of semiprecious gems rained over the carpet in a rainbow of colors. “Hate me, then,” he breathed. “Break yourself into a thousand pieces and deny me each and every one of them. Because I am never letting you go.”

  Then he left, slamming her door shut behind him.

  For a moment, he leaned against it as his heart thumped wildly in his chest. The front door opened and his father walked in, wearing one of his suits, briefcase in hand.

  Oh great.

  “Nicholas,” he said, glancing up at him. “You were supposed to call me.”

  “Yeah.” Nick walked down the hall. “I know. I got distracted.”

  “I know your stepmother reminded you.”

  “I'm busy.”

  His father scoffed, glancing pointedly at Jay's closed door. “I can guess doing what.”

  Growing up, his father had seemed like a remote, powerful figure. Mythical and godlike, it was an image he had curated carefully but now it was starting to fray apart at the seams.

  Nick stopped about three feet away from his father, right under that Chihuly sculpture that had always reminded him of a twisted balloon animal wrenched from the deep. “I hear you like to watch now.” He tilted his head. “I like to watch, too.”

  “Nicholas,” his father said, in a reasonable tone, “you don't want to fuck with me.”

  Nicholas folded his arms over his bare chest. “If you mess around with Jay again, I will.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  2009

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Things changed after Thanksgiving, which was a disaster. Her mother babbled into the silence. Damon studied her the way one might study an exotically colored beetle, trying to decide whether it was a curiosity or a pest. And then there was Nick, who just looked furious at everyone. After his loss of control in her bedroom, she found herself feeling frightened of him.

  Break yourself into a thousand pieces and deny me each and every one of them.

  The sex had been rough and desperate; he'd forced her to be more vocal, which she hated. She let him do whatever he wanted and told herself she was glad when he left. But then he started texting her. Are you wearing your necklace? Send me a picture. They trickled in slowly at first and then more frequently—two or three times a week, often late at night.

  She didn't like that he was thinking of her late at night.

  Knowing he probably expected pictures with cleavage, she purposefully wore it with turtlenecks and drab sweaters. It might have been resting on a display case for all the pleasure he'd get out of it. He never responded to her photo texts, but after a few days she'd get a request for another one. A couple times, she'd get one asking, What are you doing?

  Sitting in this house because I can't go anywhere else. Jay sighed and wrote, Reading.

  Nick sent a photo of one of her favorite books. Look what I found at the campus bookstore.

  It was such a blatant attempt at manipulation that it made her angry. Wow, a book, she typed sarcastically. You're great at finding things. He wrote back but she plunked down her phone on the nightstand and stopped responding. That seemed to irritate him because he sent her a volley of text messages, followed by a phone call. When she scrolled through them the next day, she was unimpressed to see that the most recent one said, I'm coming home for Dad's party.

  That stupid party, thought Jay. Ever since Damon had announced the January holiday party for his company, Jay knew she was going to be forced to go. And she really didn't want to.

  Her mother took her out shopping for dresses and since Jay hadn't liked any of them, her mother and the sales assistant had wrangled her into a couture gown the color of rose gold, sewn all over with crystals. It made her feel like a glass of sparkling champagne and when she said as much, the sales assistant beamed as if she had said something clever and complimentary.

  Her mother, however, recognized her tone of voice and shot Jay a dagger-like look as she fingered the transparent cap sleeves. There were small pink pearls sewn over the shoulder, making it look as if the dress was held up by magic. Jay knew she wanted the dress for herself but there was no way it would fit. She towered over her petite mother and her figure was much fuller. They hadn't been able to wear the same size clothes since Jay was fifteen.

  “Mom,” Jay said, clutching the bodice. “I can't wear this. It shows everything.”

  “She's shy,” her mother said, rolling her eyes at the sales assistant, who nodded knowingly. “We'll take it.”

  “Mom,” Jay said again. “No.”

  “Justine.”


  The night of the party, Jay tried to plead sick, and her mother had yelled at her so colorfully and cuttingly that Damon hadn't needed to say a word.

  The three of them were already dressed. Her mother was wearing a silver, spangled gown cut to display as much of her cosmetically enhanced breasts as was tasteful for an office party. Damon and Nick were in formal suits—not rentals. Damon had some Italian brand Jay had never heard of brought down from the attic in a box, and Nick was wearing one he'd gotten himself.

  Having the three of them watch her trudge up the stairs like a child being sent to her room was—humiliating. There weren't many instances in her life that came close, except maybe for sitting topless in her stepbrother's lap while he came in his pants. That might be worse.

  Or her stepfather hitting on her in a bar after touching her thighs and breasts and telling her that her mother was little better than an expensive whore.

  Looking at her reflection in the mirror, tugging at the bodice that seemed to get more revealing with each adjustment, Jay found herself close to tears. It felt like her mother had forced her to get this dress precisely because she didn't like it—but what kind of mother would do that?

  In her clutch, her phone buzzed. Are you wearing your necklace?

  Jay started to type a furious reply and then deleted it.

  Seated next to him in the limo, she could feel the heat coming off his body. His jacket had been tailored to fit his broad shoulders and nip in at his slender waist, and the pants showed off the streamlined silhouette of his long legs. It was a three piece suit, like his father's, but the suit vest was a deep oxblood, and so were his tie and pocket square.

  Demon prince, she thought. Only, he looks the part, now.

  Nick didn't touch her but the look in his eyes as they raked over her made Jay feel as if she were being burned slowly alive, especially when they dropped to the silver necklace at her throat, and then lower, lingering on the beaded decolletage of her gown.

  It hurt to look at him then. It hurt to breathe.

  Nobody who saw him look at her like that could harbor any doubts about what was going on between them. Jay looked away from him. Her eyes bounced off her mother, who was sipping from a glass of champagne, and skittered away from Damon, who was watching them both with lewd amusement as he nursed his own glass of Cristal.

  “Where did you get that necklace, Justine?”

  Jay wished she could shrink into herself. He'd all but admitted to staring at her chest and there was a chill lurking in the spaces between his words, giving them the force of an arctic blast.

  “I gave it to her.” Nick crossed a leg over his knee in a gesture that put him a little closer to her. With his arm stretched along the back of her seat, only a few inches lay between them. He glanced at her, lips parting into a sardonic grimace. “A jay for a Jay.”

  “You have such a pretty name, Justine,” her mother said, looking away from the window. “I wish you would give up that childish nickname. Jay is a man's name. It doesn't suit you at all.”

  “I think it does,” said Jay. “I've never liked the name 'Justine.'”

  “Let's not fight about it now,” said her mother. “Not before the party. I'll get wrinkles.”

  Damon patted her mother's hand in a way that seemed condescending. “No. This is a night for celebrating financial and filial success—and our beautiful children, of course.”

  Filial success? Her eyes flicked to Nick, who looked grimly sardonic.

  “So much to celebrate.”

  What is going on?

  “Don't you agree, my dear?” Damon asked, and Jay's stomach flipped, but he was talking to her mother this time, giving her the smile of a very polite shark.

  Her mother was wearing new earrings—big crystals that made her look like a Vegas showgirl with deep cleavage. “Yes, of course, baby,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

  “You can't say it, can you?” Nick bent the arm sprawled along the back of the seat, using it to prop up his head on his fist. “You can't even tell your daughter she's beautiful.”

  “What?” her mother looked at him in irritation. “What are you talking about, Nicholas?”

  “Nothing,” he said, leaning back. “Absolutely nothing at all. You dumb fucking cunt.”

  Her mother's jaw dropped. “How dare you talk to me with such ugly words,” she hissed. “You oversized brat. Just where do you get off?”

  Nick started laughing. “You want to know . . . where I get off? Really?”

  “Nicholas,” said Damon. “This is unacceptable. You will apologize at once.”

  “No.” Still chuckling, he said, “No, I don't think I will. Is there any champagne left in this car? I feel like I could use a drink.”

  “You're nineteen.”

  “Right. I forgot. Jay, do you want a drink?”

  “No,” she said. “I can't.”

  This is a nightmare, thought Jay, as the car continued up the dark road. She wished Vlad would turn the car back around to the house. At least that was a familiar hell.

  The party was on the top floor and rooftop garden of a Los Angeles skyscraper. The garden was filled with topiaries and Jay thought it was a little ominous to see all those gigantic leafy animals all but floating against the deep navy sky like creatures in a Japanese monster movie.

  As soon as she and her family stepped off the elevators, the music hit Jay like a wall of sound. It was like slightly edgier mall music, so there was lots of Maroon 5, La Roux, and Katy Perry, with older artists that everyone liked thrown in so as to not upset the conservative older crowd. In the garden, it was quieter, with light 90s jazz emanating from hidden speakers as people escaped the dance floor and buffet area for a quiet, bracing drink.

  Jay might have enjoyed herself if she hadn't been with her family and if she hadn't been in this dress. The food was good—lots of canapes on clear plastic plates cut to look like crystal—but men kept asking her to dance, looking at her in a way that made her want to cry and be angry, all at the same time. A number of them were Damon's age. They probably worked with Damon.

  The fast-paced pop song ended, yielding to a slower jazz song. Nick crossed the room to her and palmed her waist, whirling her away from a skinny old man in his fifties who had slowly been working up the nerve to approach so that the two of them were face to face. The blue lights made his eyes look like ice. “Dance with me,” he said.

  Jay put her hands on his shoulders, giving the illusion of compliance while also allowing her to hold him at bay. But it wasn't far enough to be comfortable. His chest kept brushing hers and his fingers seemed to scorch her through the open back of her dress.

  “Dad went off somewhere,” Nick remarked, when he caught her scanning the dance floor. He took one of her hands off his shoulders, clasping it in his. “And your mom's upstairs taking advantage of the open bar. Flirting with one of the bartenders.”

  “I didn't know you could dance,” Jay said, trying not to think about his words or his hand.

  “I told you I had an etiquette tutor. Dance lessons were a part of that. My father didn't want me to embarrass him at parties if some girl asked me to dance.”

  Jay shifted her weight and his grip tightened minutely.

  “You're trying to lead.”

  “This is just how I was taught,” Jay said defensively. “There weren't that many guys in Dance, so they usually had me lead.” She tried to turn and he blocked her with a hip. “Stop that.”

  “I'm leading.” He hedged her forward with a series of quick steps. “Submit to me.”

  Jay tore her hand away from him to press against her bodice as he dipped her backwards, making her breasts shift in her gown. “Nick,” she said. “Stop.”

  “You can't even see anything beneath the beading.” Her jaw hardened as he peeled her wrist away and clasped her hand in his own, although he didn't dip her back again. “It suits you.”

  Jay said nothing else as he swept her around the floor. In the heels her mother
had helped her pick out for the dress, she was only three inches shorter than he was. Having his face hovering so near to hers made her nervous: this close, he missed nothing, and she was afraid he might kiss her. “What the hell was that in the car?”

  “I'm tired of bullshit. I don't want to deal with bullshit anymore, Jay.”

  He spun her around and she nervously glanced around. A few people were looking their way, including some of the men she'd turned down. “I still have to live with them.”

  “Not for long,” said Nick.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I told you about my photography hobby.” His fingers tightened over hers as if he thought she might try to pull away. “You asked me if I was blackmailing anyone else.”

  Her stomach plummeted. “I remember.”

  “That's changed. I told my father I plan to propose to you when I graduate.” Jay stumbled. He caught her, tugging her up until she stopped dragging her feet. Somehow, both of her arms had ended up around his neck and she was clinging to him like a mast on a sinking ship. His hands rested just over her backside. “He's always said that fucking a married woman is like eating the leftovers out of another man's fridge.”

  “That's disgusting.”

  “He didn't like that,” Nick said idly. “He's still hot for you. He called you and me a lot of names until I told him I'd punch him if he didn't stop. Then he threatened me, so I told him I had photos of him fucking his secretary inside our house . . . and out of it. I've never seen him go so pale.”

  “Nick,” Jay said faintly, “What the fuck?”

  Nick smiled. It was not a nice smile. “That's what he said, too. Word for word.”

  “You're blackmailing your father?”

  “He's furious,” Nick confided. “I'm pretty sure he was looking for the pictures in my room. It was all torn up—not that he'd find anything. I'm not an idiot. I left them back at Stanford.”

  “No wonder he was so mad in the car,” Jay whispered. “Oh God, Nick—why?”