Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (2 page)

I kick the bags under the desk and sit down on the luxurious office chair that’s the latest addition to my little property. I’m proud of it and enjoy the soft leather sinking under my weight with a gentle swish. If I can save enough to be able to afford such expensive objects every now and then, who says I can’t make it on my own?

My apartment is far less spectacular than the bookshop. I have to admit I pour all of my savings into my passion project and prefer to spend my time here, among the dark wood shelves stuffed with books, rather than roam about among the walls of that half-empty space, where my steps echo in the cold silence.

I push a button and the old desktop computer’s processor whirs to life. A computer is the next item on my to-buy list. I wait patiently through the start-up process and take out my planner, flipping it open to today’s page. While the other pages are mostly empty, with a dentist appointment circled in or cinema tickets clipped to the paper, today’s one is full of scribbles and phone numbers and bullet points. There is a large ‘Ashleigh’ doodled at the top of the page.

I take a few moments to get over my phone anxiety and finally take a deep breath and dial a number. I reluctantly cancel our reservation at the Japanese restaurant. The night of sexy origami, sushi, and penis-shaped napkins is now completely out of the question. The woman on the other end of the line is perfectly friendly and yet I feel like I’m somehow letting her down by canceling. I dial another number and wait. I’m only hoping the club won’t hang up on me and that there will be an extra table for us. I hate talking on the phone!

Okay, that’s done. I lucked out. Now, on to the more difficult part—figuring out what we’ll actually be doing tonight. Hoping that half a dozen nerdy girls will walk into a club and will automatically start having fun doesn’t seem too reliable of a plan.

So far—trashy outfits, check, club reservation, check, penis-shaped anything, crossed out.

In the meantime my computer screen has come alive. I open Pinterest, which I only use to pin cute pictures of reading girls in knit sweaters or cups of tea resting on piles of books. I type in ‘bachelorette party ideas’ and click enter.

Wow!

Sometimes you don’t even need to think. Other people have done it for you. I feel like even if I spend an entire day lying in bed and coming up with party ideas, I’d come up with less than a tiny fraction of what’s already here. Now I just need to comb through it.

Drink ideas? The pink panty dropper. Party favor ideas? Thank-you-for-cumming lollipops. Or perhaps the to-a-lifetime-of-getting-nailed nail polish? Fake tattoo ideas? I’m-with-Ashleigh’s-bachelorette-party-if-I’m-lost-buy-me-a-drink. And, of course, lots and lots of penis-shaped things, mostly edible things, glitter and crowns.

Okay, so at least I wasn’t that far off with my cupcakes. I keep scrolling through the pictures of laughing girls in sunglasses, dressed in mini skirts and waving martini glasses in the air. Group hugs, photo challenges, satin sashes and complex drinking games. I’m suddenly feeling overwhelmed. It’s been an hour and I have been opening link after link, not settling on anything. With so much to look at, I feel like resigning from my position as a maid of honor. Now I think that other people have gone so over the top with their parties that whatever I do will seem inadequate.

Pressure, pressure, pressure.

I don’t have time for this. All these paper bags in my feet are waiting for me. I need to go back home and start getting ready and right now I’m up to nowhere with the planning.

My eyes focus on a scavenger hunt idea. The Bad Girl Dare. That’s the name of it. Stupid name, I know, but I decide to give it a chance. I read the first two lines.
Buy bachelorette a drink. Copy a stranger’s dancing
. Okay, those seem doable. Well, the stranger’s dancing thing might need a drink or two beforehand, but overall, the game seems innocent enough and at the same time, will shake things up a bit. I hit the Print button.

While the paper is slowly emerging from the ancient printer under the desk, I jot down a few more ideas in my planner and gather the bags from the floor. If I hurry up, I might even have time to straighten my hair.

I yank the sheet out of the printer’s tray and fly out of the bookshop.

The apartment is dark and deadly quiet. I should seriously get a pet. It has started to get dark so early these days. It’s not even 6 pm yet. I need to hurry. We are meeting at Ashleigh’s place at 7:30. I flick the lights on one by one in all the rooms (which is not that many in a one-bedroom apartment) and head straight for the shower. I drop the shopping bags on the queen-sized bed in my modest bedroom and tiptoe over the cold tiles of the bathroom floor to turn on the hot water.

While I wait for the steam to fill the small space, I inspect myself in the closet’s full-length mirror. My hair, tied up in a messy knot, is darker than its usual bright ginger in this light. Sometimes it gets a vibrant coppery color in the shade, but out in the sun, it’s plain carrot. I’ve got more than a sprinkling of freckles across my button nose and my skin is so pale, I can never get away with blushing. My dark green eyes look even larger and rounder behind the thick lenses of my glasses. I think they are my best feature if it wasn’t for my funny red eyelashes that I need to religiously cover with mascara every day.

I take off my glasses and the image in front of me immediately blurs.

As I come out of the bathroom, water dripping down from my hair and seeping into the thick towel I’ve wrapped myself in, I hear a key turn into the lock of my front door. It’s so quiet that the sound almost makes me jump. Then I sigh, annoyed. There’s only one person who has a key to my apartment and she’s also the last person I feel like talking to tonight. My mother.

I don’t have time and I really don’t want her to see me slip into the mini denim dress that I bought earlier, but still I smile when she enters the room. She looks impeccable, as always. I don’t know how she has the patience to invest so much time in her appearance, not that she has much else to do during the day. She doesn’t work. She’s actually never had to. Her main specialty is getting married to the right guys and that’s lucrative enough for her to never need to lift a finger.

“Hi, honey,” she says in her low, seductive voice as if she is speaking to a lover. I tighten the towel and tuck its end between my breasts before I go to give her the customary kisses, one on each cheek.

“Mom, I wasn’t expecting you,” I say in a rush, “I really don’t have time to chat. I’m late as it is.”

“Oh, is it a special date?”

I roll my eyes. She’s been bugging me to get a boyfriend for ages. She says nothing would make her happier. I swear she is trying to pimp me out every chance she gets, only I doubt she realizes what she has to work with here. We can’t be more different. Well, apart from the hair color, but even that seems glamorous on her and mousy on me.

“No, mom, it’s Ashleigh’s party tonight,” I say while slathering cocoa butter on my freshly shaved legs, “I’ve told you a million times.”

“Sorry, honey. I’ve got too many things on my mind.”

“Do you need anything?” I try to cut her short. She tends to get dramatic and overly expressive sometimes. I think it’s a case of having no actual problems, so she makes a big deal out of the tiniest things. “I’m seriously in a hurry.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” she says and plops on my bed, kicking off her pumps, then adds with a sudden smile as if she’s come up with something genius, “I can give you a ride if you want. I’m with Sergio.”

Sergio is her driver. One of the many perks of her latest marriage. Husband number three is a better catch than the previous two combined. He is filthy rich and looks fantastic at sixty.

So, it seems settled. I’m not getting rid of her. I need to listen to her go on about a suspicious maid or a fundraiser that didn’t go as well as she’d expected or her hair stylist moving cross country. I try to keep myself as far as I can from her world and I still feel guilty for accepting the seed money for my bookshop from Joe, her husband, my new step-dad. I’m doing my best though and with the business plan I have in place, I know I’ll be able to give it all back in a few years.

I slip into the bathroom to pull on the bright turquoise satin panties, trimmed with black lace, which are the result of my underwear shopping today. They come with a matching bra and are just about the sexiest piece of underwear I’ve ever owned.

“What’s the matter, mom?” I call out from the bathroom as I switch on the hair-dryer, hoping it would muffle her monologue.

She’s suddenly perched right next to me, leaning on the door case. Though she doesn’t say a thing, I know that she is inspecting my hair-blowing routine and finding much to be improved about it. She must have a real problem if she’s stopping herself from picking on me.

“Um, not much,” she starts, “Well, actually, it’s bad. Andrew is coming back next week.”

“Andrew who?”

“Andrew your
brother
,” she says, outraged that I’m even asking.

“Right.” I don’t know why she’s so surprised. I’ve never even met the guy. It’s hard enough to keep up with the siblings I do know. “So, isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not really,” she says with a sigh, “Joe hasn’t seen him in years after they’d had
the
falling out. It’s putting a lot of pressure on your poor dad.”

My brother. My dad. I hate that she insists placing me within this fake family as if I belonged with them. It was okay when I was younger and still needed a family to help me know who I was, to feel like I belonged somewhere. I made an effort with the first two families she thrust me into, but now I just don’t see the point. I’m twenty-seven and self-sufficient. I have my friends. I have my mother, who is more than enough of a family. I don’t need any dads or brothers.

“I don’t see how that’s such a bad thing,” I say just to have something to reply to her, “Maybe he’s changed.”

“That’s the thing. Andrew claims he
is
changed, but Joe doesn’t feel like he can trust him and give him yet another chance. He still remembers what happened last time Andrew came back all changed.”

I have no idea what she is talking about, but I’m not going to ask now. I couldn’t care less about Joe’s family drama.

“Mom, I don’t see how I can help with all this,” I say and run the brush through my now sleek long hair. I step out of the bathroom before the steam has frizzed it again. “It’s up to Joe.”

“Oh, yes you can,” my mom says, following me to the bedroom and lying sideways on the bed, her head propped up on her hand. “You know Joe loves you, honey. You should be there. For support. It would really soften the blow, make things less awkward at dinner.”

“How is me meeting a brother I’ve never seen for the first time making things less awkward? If anything, it will make it worse. I doubt Andrew would be thrilled to see Joe has this new daughter he now treats better than his own son.”

“What are you wearing?” my mom says, her eyes growing larger at the sight of me pulling out my patterned pantyhose and the mini dress from the shopping bag.

It’s inevitable. I can’t wait for her to leave.

“Just… clothes,” I mumble. I wiggle my toes into the bunched up pantyhose and start pulling upwards, careful not to rip it. I think I even prefer to discuss Joe and his son than analyze my outfit.

“Oh my God, honey,” she says and I have the feeling she’s about to tear up, “I knew you had it in you! Why do you never let me shop with you? This is fantastic! I love,
love
the dress.”

“When is the dinner thing?” I ask, just to divert the conversation.

“Next Tuesday. At home. Just us,” she says and jumps to her feet to zip me up and straighted the dress around my waist and hips. She is looking at my reflection in the mirror with such loving eyes as if she’s just created a miracle and she can’t believe it yet. The stupid dress is so tight, I can barely move my legs and expand my ribcage. It makes me feel about as comfortable as if I were in a straight jacket.

“Mom, I can’t. I have a book club meeting then.”

“Now stop with that bullshit,” she snaps, “A book club! You are not seventy for God’s sake! If you hadn’t bought this dress, I’d be seriously mad right now. And about Tuesday, you are coming. That’s that. Joe would feel more comfortable having you around.”

“Joe or you?” I say with a smirk.

“This conversation is over. Now, what shoes are you wearing with this?”

CHAPTER THREE

I knock on Ashleigh’s door, dropping the duffel bag with party supplies in my feet. I doubt anyone’s heard me, so I start digging through my mini purse for my phone.
A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
is blasting from inside. Have all of my friends suddenly turned from cardigan-wearing bookworms into party divas? I’m not even that late. It’s 7:05. I’m a responsible maid of honor.

I’m just about to dial her number, when the door flies open and I almost collapse over Ashleigh. She catches my elbow and I regain balance, but what I see in front of me is shocking enough to want to collapse once more.

“Ash? What the hell is this?”

“Save your judgmental tone, lady,” she chirps as she ushers me in, “I’m b-a-a-a-d tonight.”