Burned: A Stepbrother Romance (11 page)

Inch by inch the iron rod of his cock fills my ass, the scorching press of my anal passage stretching and opening to accommodate him.

He yanks at my wrists and the pain flares again, that beautiful release that has turned my sex into a soaking mess below.

He fucks my ass slow at first and then builds, using my wrists to pull me back onto his cock, impaling himself deep inside me. I answer him as best I can, my hips tilting to take him.

I’ve never been interested in anal sex, never even considered it, but as he takes me it starts to feel amazing, the sensation so taboo, so different to anything I have felt before.

He leans down and whispers into my ear. He calls me dirty, filthy names, and with those words burning in my head I come, a climax of cataclysmic proportions flooding my entire body.

My ass begins to clamp and squeeze out his member. He lets it go, pulling out and releasing over my the pale globes of my ass.

I continue to be ravaged and racked by my orgasm. It seems endless as I slide off the hood into the mud, water gathering around my hips and armpits, trails of it falling through the column of white formed by the headlights of an approaching jumbo.

And there, in the mud, naked, his cum on my backside, I realize this is happening. Whether it’s right or wrong doesn’t matter. I know deep down this is meant to be. My stepbrother just fucked me in the ass, took my anal virginity… and I loved it.

I’m the good girl no longer.

He lies beside me in the muck and opens my legs, his mouth moving over my sopping pussy. My wrists strain in his belt. He draws away and massages my clit with the heel of one hand until, head back, I come again, letting forth an unholy shriek to the heavens as the chill works its way down into my very bones.

Back at home, sheets muddy and wet, we continue… onto the kitchen bench, the shower. We don’t stop until the sun rises.

*

When I wake, I can hear my cell going off through the wall.

I pull myself out of bed, half-stumbling over a guilty trail of clothes we left around last night.

I can hear the shower going, Brock absent from the bed.

It’s work. One of the tech guy’s is on the other end.

“Sorry to call you so early,” he begins, “but we lost the signal on the tracker.”

It’s too early for this. “The tracker? Oh, the tracker,” I remember—Brock’s car. “It’s off?”

“We’re not sure. Are you able to check it out?”

I poke my head around the side of the doorframe to Brock’s room, but it looks like he’s still in the shower. “I can check it right now if you’d like.”

“Perfect.”

“Call you back in five.”

I throw on some jeans and creep outside as quietly as I can, checking Brock again once more through the bathroom window before I come to the garage. I get low onto my back, the concrete cold, and slide under the car, reaching for the spot where I placed the tracker.

It’s gone.

I search again, but there’s no sign of it.
Maybe it came off, all that crazy driving?

“Looking for something?”

Brock’s standing above me, a towel around his waist, body wet. He tosses me something small. I catch it in both hands—the tracker.

Fuck.

“What the hell, Maddy?” He’s pissed, and I understand.

“Let me explain,” I start, already feeling like a cliché.

He’s up, pacing around the garage, hands gesticulating wildly. “Explain what? That the only reason you’ve taken an interest in me is because you’re on the job? What do you think I’m into, Maddy?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

I nod feeling like shamed schoolgirl.

“Holy fuck. How long?”

Honesty is the only way out of this. “Ever since you got back.”

He sits back down holding his head in his hands. “I’ve been duped before, you know, but never like this. I never expected it from… you.”

He looks me dead in the eye. “What is it? Tell me, right here, right now, what they think I’m doing.”

“Drugs, of course” I blurt. “They think you’re running drugs in the car, ice, and I know where your car has been, that warehouse near the bay. You can’t tell me it’s not suspicious.”

Brock seems surprised. “The warehouse? You want to see what’s in the warehouse?” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Come on then.”

*

The journey to the warehouse is ice cold, such a stark juxtaposition to last night. He doesn’t speak. He just rolls his hands over the leather of the steering wheel and goes faster, the car screeching around corners, running reds.

I shut up. This is
my
mess. I can’t think of anything that could repair this, any way to dig myself from his hole.

He slides to a stop in front of the warehouse. It’s late and the whole area is abandoned, only the odd vagrant or bum watching on from the dark. I’ve only seen it from above in the captain’s office. Here, in the flesh, it looks even more dilapidated.

Brock gets out and I follow. He takes a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, ushering me inside.

I move through a disused office, a hallway and out into the main warehouse.

The room is sectioned off, this frontal section lit with strong lighting, rows and rows of marijuana plants in place.
Well, they were kind of right.

Brock walks over to a plant and inspects it. “See the frost and orange hairs,” he says. “It’s close to harvest.”

“It’s true,” I mutter, more to myself, “maybe worse. You’re not running drugs, you’re growing the stuff.”

Brock turns and approaches me. “Yes, I am, but I won’t make a dime from any of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I grow this all for medicinal purposes.”

I actually laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s true. You remember Joe’s daughter?”

“The little girl with cancer.”

“Right. Joe’s the one who came to me first. He thought given my… previous work I could help, and here we are. Now I supply all kinds of people—kids, the elderly—and you know what, Maddy? It works. It takes away the pain, it helps, and it feels good to help. That’s why I give it all away.”

“Admirable,” I say, “but still illegal.”

“You’re right, but who knows for how long? They’re about to pass a bill making medicinal marijuana legal. I’ll be legit.”

“And until then? What if you get caught?”

“If I get caught, I’ll go away knowing I’ve helped a lot of people.”

“These people aren’t junkies and low-lives, Maddy. These are mom and pops, career dads and mothers. They don’t want to deal with some dodgy dealer down in the projects. I can supply them product I know is top shelf, product that will do its job and give them peace of mind if nothing else. Ask Joe. New York legalized it all last July. The same will happen here soon enough.”

“They smoke it?”

“No, nothing like that. I extract the oil, that’s all.”

“But how did you fund it all?”

“I’m not proud of my past, Maddy. I did terrible things. I was a terrible human. I made a lot of money and hurt a lot of people in the process, but now I’m making amends the only way I know how.”

The smell in here is pungent. It’s not helping with my train of thought. “They’ll track you through power usage.”

“I rerouted it equally through the entire block. The place itself is registered to a shell company.

“Clever.”

“I’m not fucking around, Maddy. Believe me.”

“I do.”

He hangs his head. “Sure doesn’t sound like it.”

He gestures to the door. “Go.”

Outside, he locks the warehouse, but I’m already at his car.

I tap the boot. “Open it up. Prove me wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me you don’t have a stash in here.”

“I don’t have a stash in there.”

I keep eyeing him. “So, prove it.”

“Fuck. Fine.” He unlocks the boot, the lid popping up. I reach down to the false floor and lift it away. I’m hoping it’s all gone, just a figment of my imagination, but the bricks are still there.

Brock looks in. “What the fuck. They are
not
mine.”

“It’s
your
car.”

He stands back from me like I’m a viper. “You did this. You’re what, framing me?”

“Get over yourself, Brock.”

He’s pacing back and forth. He steps down to his car, opening the door and swinging inside. “It’s all about trust, Maddy, and you can’t be trusted. Oh, and tell your boss your burned.”

He slams the door and hurtles off down the road.

It starts to rain, fat, smoggy droplets from the sky.
Fucking perfect.

*

The captain reclines so far back in his chair I can see his hair-infested belly button. “Jesus H Christ, Collins, what do you mean you’re burned?”

“I mean Brock knows I’ve been spying on him.”

“How the fuck did he figure that out?”

“He found the tracker.”

The captain brings his hand down flat on his desk. “Shit.”

“Shit.”
Thwack.

“Shit.”
Thwack.

“Shit.”
Thwack.

“It was supposed to be so easy. I mean, Christ, you live with the guy.”

“Sir?”

The captain snaps.  I see his entire face implode. He knows he’s let something slip.

“What do you mean I live with him? Did you know he was my stepbrother?”

“Of course we fucking well knew, Collins. Why do you think you were brought in?”

Any icy ball is forming in my stomach, that terrible knot of realization that I’ve been played. “But what about the others? Any one of them could have put their hand up for the operation in the meeting.”

“But they didn’t, did they?”

“Because you told them not to,” I finish.

The captain is watching me carefully. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all gone to hell and now I have to clean up this cursed mess.”

I can’t believe it was his plan all along, that I was so naïve to think in the first place somehow I’d be chosen for this job on merit alone. I’m, I try to pinpoint it, angry yes, but something else. I’m… disappointed. I tell this to the captain like a father scalding a child.

He doesn’t take it well. “
You
are disappointed? How do you think
I
feel? I thought you’d handle this like a professional, but instead you’re off fucking his brains out every chance you get, and he’s your stepbrother no less. I don’t even know what to make of that.”

I stand, chair falling backwards, my face red and hot. “That was private!”

“Nothing’s private around here, Collins. Now get out of my sight.”

I pull off my badge and take out my Glock, thrusting both down onto the captain’s desk. “Fuck you.”

And I leave. I just storm right out of there, past everyone else holding their coffees close and trying not to look obvious, like they haven’t all been pressing their ears up against the door. “Fuck you!” I scream, pointing to no one in particular. “Fuck you and fuck you and you and you and you.”

You’ve done it now, Maddy.

This is the sort of thing I need to talk about. I need someone nodding and saying, ‘Yes, Maddy, you did the right thing,’ but Alice left yesterday back to Rosie and her perfect country life.

Dad’s my closest option, but I’m not ready to have a heart-to-heart with him about my burgeoning sexual relationship with my stepbrother just yet.

I arrive home and find the driveway blocked by two white trucks. I honk once, Dad emerging from the main house with a very serious group of men, all bald, all in black. I know immediately who they are—repo guys.

I get out and immediately start on the attack. “What’s going on, Dad?”

I watch as another two men carry the TV out.

Dad pulls me to the side of the garden. “Calm down, Maddy. They’re just here to do a job, nothing more.”

I point to the house. “They’re taking your stuff.”

My
TV goes walking buy. I jump to block their path, but the repo men just walk around me. “That’s mine, Dad!”

He places his hands on my shoulders. “It will be fine, Maddy. Just let them take what they need to.”

“You can’t do this!” I scream at them, but they just continue on like black-shirted robots. I’m sure they’ve suffered through much worse.

“Are we going to lose the house, Dad?” I look him dead in the eye and know the answer.

“Fuck.” I never swear in front of my dad, but this calls for a special allowance.

“It will all work out,” Dad continues. “I know it.”

But sadly I do not live in the same optimistic lollypop land. The house goes, the granny flat goes and then what? I can probably find somewhere, scrounge together what little money I have and find a place in a dodgy suburb, but Michelle and Dad? Without Dad working? That’s going to be a problem. That’s going to be
my
problem.

With tears pricking my eyes, I can’t take it anymore.

I head down to the granny flat and watch my possessions being carried away, those deemed worthy of resale. My whole life reduced to what is sellable and what is not.

After the trucks have left and Dad has retreated back inside to a house far emptier than it was this morning, I am left drained.

I go inside and take out the five-thousand, stuffing it into an envelope and preparing to pass it onto Dad, but for some reason I can’t do it. It will help, but it’s not enough. It won’t stop the inevitable.

So, I sit on the doorstep of the granny flat and wait, wait for Brock. I wait until the sun falls from sight and the air grows tepid. I wait until my bladder is about to burst, but there’s no sign of him.

I look at my cell for the hundredth time. No calls. No messages.

Finally, I suck it up and send Brock a text.
Are you coming home? We really have to talk.

No reply.

I sit there and the tears come. They come in waves, streaming down my cheeks warm and turning the tops of my jeans damp. I sob, chest heaving. How did it all get so fucked up? Where did it go wrong?

I can’t even get into dinner. The food tastes bland. Everything is diminished.

I go to bed, sleep coming restlessly.

*

Lights—real strong.

They’re beaming towards me.

I put my hands out to try and stop them, but they just keep coming.

There’s the blast of a horn, tires screeching. The car comes to a stop right in front of me. Someone’s yelling behind the wheel. They back up and go around.

I run my hands down my arms. It’s real.

It’s raining. I’m wet, my pajama top soaked through and my shorts turned into tissue paper.

I’m just standing on the road above our place shaking on the spot.

I didn’t lock the flat up tonight. It slipped my mind. I’ve sleepwalked out here into the middle of the fucking road. I could have been killed.

More lights cut through the downpour. I command my legs to move and let them carry me back to safety. Inside, I pull my wet PJs off and towel myself down, still in the process when my cell begins to buzz its way off the breakfast table. I grab it just before it runs off the edge, wiping my eyes to make out the screen.

It’s ringing.

It’s him.

I answer. “Brock, where are you?”

“Brock’s not here.”

I go cold. “Who’s this?”

“Maddy, Maddy, you don’t remember me?”

“Who the
fuck
is this?”

“It’s Hernandez, baby.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Hernandez, where’s Brock?”

“Brock’s a little tied up right now. You see, he fucked up.”

The dread returns, an icy shard of it spearing right into my core. “What are you talking about?”

“Brock’s let the po-po in. That’s you, baby. We know who you are, why you’re really hanging around.”

Shit.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Your boy here came to me all flustered, throwing bricks of my stash in my face.”
So he didn’t know.
“He’s all crazy, asking me why I’m stashing my shit in his car, but you know what really got me, what really gets me mad?”

I don’t reply. I don’t even know if I can speak.

“He took it all,” Hernandez continues. “The little prick has taken crapbox Camaro of his and hidden it away. If I don’t find that car soon, there are going to be a lot of angry people around, and Brock… Brock might just have to pay the price.”

I piece it together fast. Brock didn’t know about the stash. When I showed him he must have hidden the car and then gone straight to Hernandez. Smart, but stupid.

I swallow, mouth Sahara dry, and speak. “What do I have to do with it?”

“You want your little lover boy back, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He told you where he stashed the car, didn’t he?”

I have to buy time, allow myself to think this through, so I lie. “Yes.”

“Good, real good. “Come downtown and we’ll have a little chat. I’ll text you the address. Oh, and Maddy? Don’t even think about bringing your bacon buddies in on this. If I get one whiff of cop, your boy’s gone.”

The line goes dead but still I continue to yell “Hernandez! Hernandez!” into it.

I look at the phone likes it’s a murder weapon, letting it fall from my hands, the screen fracturing on the concrete.

I know only two things with absolute certainty:

Hernandez has Brock.

He’s going to kill him.