Burned: A Stepbrother Romance (9 page)

The sun has set by the time I come into the parking lot. Everyone’s gathered around their cars.

I make my entrance, Champers wheezing. Bemused looks follow, none more so than my brother. He comes up to the car and taps on the window. I wind it down. “Yes, officer.”

“What are you doing here, Maddy?”

He seems kind of put off by my presence. “Thought I’d say hi, check up on you.”

“Check up on me? Seriously?”

I wink. “Maybe something else?”

“It’s not a good time.”

Hernandez appears behind Brock’s back, a hand on his shoulder.  He looks down at me. “Brock, you didn’t tell us you were bringing the bacon.”

“Funny,” I retort.

Hernandez smirks. “Any friend of Brock’s is a friend of mine, especially a friend like you.” He’s looking at my tits again, the creep.

Hernandez smiles, but it’s more of a leer, a mouth full of gold. “Come on. Join us. We’re just about to head out.”

Brock shakes his head as Hernandez walks away. He opens my door and offers me his hand. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Fuck you,
I want to tell him,
I can do what I want,
but something’s not right here. I know it.

Brock directs me to Birdie’s car, a neon-pink hatch with a graphic of a Navaho princess down the side. Underneath the car glows like a halo. Inside it’s all velour trim, fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view.

“I’ll drive,” says Brock, looking quite silly surrounded by pink velour in the driver’s seat. Birdie offers me the front seat and squeezes into the back.

“You didn’t bring the Camaro tonight?” I question.

“No,” comes the stern reply.

What have I done?
I wonder. He’s cold tonight, freakin’ Princess Elsa cold.

We sit towards the back of the procession, the engine whining like a sewing machine under the hood and, I note, with quite a different tone to Brock’s car.

Brock himself remains silent, but Birdie tries her best to engage me in conversation, the scent of grape Hubba Bubba floating past my nose.

“What’s that one?” she says, pointing to a big blue sedan.

This is not a game I’m going to be good at, which is pretty funny considering one of the main things a decent cop has to know is how to identify make and model. It’s something female officers really don’t take into account when they start general duties. God knows how I’ve managed to get by.

“A Toyota?” I offer.

Birdie lets off a high-pitch buzzing sound. “Wrong answer. Oh, that one?”

I watch a sleek sports car go by with the windows down and subwoofers causing my seat to shake. “Nissan?”

Birdie laughs. “Oh man, don’t ever tell a Honda owner he’s driving a Nissan.”

“How did you get into cars anyhow?”

She shrugs behind me. “I like the smell of petrol.”

“Really?”

“Sure. If they bottled that shit I’d wear it day and night.”

“Sounds kind of disgusting.”

“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to get a little dirty to get clean, know what I’m saying?” Her lips are barely more than an inch from my ear.

I pull my head in a bit. “Not really.”

I notice Brock’s focusing hard on the side mirror. “What is it?”

“Company.”

I look through the back window and see a column of bikes trailing us, a sea of leather, chrome and black. “Bikers?”

Brock’s fingers press together on the wheel. “Tighten your belts.”

“Why?” I ask, right as Brock turns hard to the left and down a side street.

My face is still against the window as he shifts down, the revs hitting the limiter and the car jerking back into position picking up speed fast. We come flying out onto another road just missing a lamppost, tires screeching for grip and the engine refusing to come down from the stratosphere. Brock keeps pushing it, keeps on the gas while watching the mirrors.

“Brock!” I stammer. “What the fuck?”

Two bikes, Harley Davidsons, that much I know, cut us off at the intersection, forcing Brock to pull the handbrake. We go swinging around in a one-eighty. I reach up to grip the handle near the window, my body pulled in new and strange ways by the force.

Brock punches the gearstick again and the engine screams, propelling us like lightning towards the end of the street.

We’re almost there, almost back into the flow of traffic, when another group of bikes pulls up to a halt right in front of us.

Brock leans over the wheel, the car continuing to pick up speed and Birdie quiet in the back. I watch the distance closing, the bikers refusing to move, more gaining on us from behind.

“They’re not going to move, Brock,” I tell him, stating the obvious.

“I know,” comes the hard reply.

“This is not the time to play chicken.”

“You want to get out of this?” he snaps. “Let me deal with it.”

He’s not backing down. We’re going to hit them, there’s no other way, but two of the bikers get off their bikes, lifting something with their hands. Even from this distance I can see they’re carrying shotguns.

Brock sees it too just in time. He slams on the brakes and the car comes skidding to a halt in a cloud of smoke. Brock shoves the car into reverse, but we’re closed in from every side, the telltale chug-a-chug of Harleys filling the air.

There’s a tap against Brock’s windows with the tip of a shotgun, a scar-marked face looking in. “Get the fuck out,” it says.

Brock looks to me and for the first time I see something I’ve never seen in him before—fear. “Follow my lead,” he says. “Keep calm.”

Brock opens the door and is reefed out.

My door opens, another guy with a shotgun pulling me up and out by the arm.

“The pink-haired bitch too,” says Scarface, all three of us forced to stand in a line in front of the car.

I see a taxi pull into the street at the far end. Upon seeing the scene, however, it reverses right back out. It wants no part of whatever is about to go down.

High on my ribs is my weapon holstered tight under my jacket. I look around, calculate, but there are too many to take on at once. As long as we’re not searched, I’ll be fine.

The guy with the fucked face places the shotgun over his shoulder and shakes his head at Brock standing before us. “Nice ride. Always had you pegged for a pink kind of guy.”

Brock just stares at him. It’s not looking good.

“I’m a busy guy, Brock, so let’s make this simple.”
He knows Brock?
“You tell me what Hernandez did with our stuff, and I’ll let you all go, no harm, no foul. You can drive your hairdresser car away in one piece.”

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

Even I know that’s the wrong answer to give in a situation like this.

“Who’s this?” says Scarface, looking me up and down.

“A friend,” Brock replies, standing in front of me.

Scarface laughs. “Protective of the pussy, huh? That’s cute.” He jams the shotgun right into Brock’s gut. “Now tell me where the fuck my ice is!”

“I told you. I don’t-”

He draws the gun back and drives it hard into Brock’s side. Brock collapses onto his knees before standing, teeth gritted together.

Scarface pulls me aside and places the the point of the barrel against my chest. “I’ve already killed someone tonight. I don’t want it to become a habit.”

“Look,” says Brock, out of breath but sounding sincere, “if Hernandez is running again, I don’t know about it. I swear to god.”

Scarface directs his attention back to Brock. “I believe you, but you better find out, and fast.”

Scarface points the gun at Birdie, low, and fires. The sudden violence, the crack of the shot, causes me to jump.

Birdie goes down screaming, holding her leg. Brock immediately bends to help her, but he’s knocked back.

“Let that be a fucking warning,” says Scarface, barrel smoking and Birdie wailing on the ground, the metallic linger of hot blood in the air. “I don’t fucking care if it’s you or Hernandez, but somebody is going to bring me back my stuff tomorrow or there’s going to be a lot more hurt.” He turns and gestures to his goons with a twist of the neck. “You know where to find us.”

As soon as the bikers have left, I get down and pull off my jacket, tying it high on Birdie’s thigh to stop the bleeding. It’s a real mess. I take out my cell and dial in, fingers shaking, Brock with his head in his hands beside me.

He hits the ground with his fist. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

My hand’s trembling, blood flowing warm around it. I stroke Birdie’s hair back, her pained cries turning into a soft whimper. “Stay with me, Birdie,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay,” but even I know that’s about as far from the truth as you can get.

*

I’m screaming at Brock on the way home. “I thought you said you’ve changed, that you were out of this shit?”

His shirt is still covered in blood. The car reeks of it. It’s sticky on the steering wheel under my fingers. Birdie was stable when we left the hospital, but they might not be able to save the leg.

Brock’s silent. I can’t fucking stand it. “Say something!”

He turns. “What do you want me to say, Maddy? I don’t know anything about this.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“I want you to trust me when I tell you I have no fucking idea what those guys were talking about.”

“Hernandez is fucking you and you don’t even know it.”

He doesn’t have anything to say about this. He hasn’t even tried to call any of the others, made any attempt to contact them.

“Well,” I keep on, “what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll talk to Hernandez. I’ll sort it out.”

“You better,” I warn, “because at the moment I don’t feel safe being with you. I don’t think I ever have.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

We’re getting illogical, the argument becoming heated and interior of the car feeling more and more cramped with every mile.

“You know damn well,” I spit at him. “After that night…”

“
That
night. And what do you remember about
that
night, Maddy?”

“That I woke up my panties around my knees and you standing over me.”

“You think I raped you? Tried to have my way with you?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Well, let me set the record straight. You came in from prom that night. You were wasted, trashed. I heard you guys come in, heard you from my room next door.”

“And you thought you’d just come in, take advantage of me?”

“Your date was the one taking advantage of you.”

“My date?” I snort. “Tim? What are you talking about?”

“I heard you saying ‘no’ over and over. I knew something wasn’t right, so I came in and there he was, hand between your legs.”

I point my finger. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“You’ve probably tried to wipe it out of your head, or maybe you were too damn drunk, but if I hadn’t of come in he would have gone further and then bragged to all his buddies about it the next day.”

“You are lying. Shut up. Shut up.”

“I shoved him out the way.” He points to his forehead. “He got a good swing in, punched me right here. Eventually he left, hitting out at me, telling me to keep my mouth shut. I was trying to pull a blanket over you when you came to. It was just bad timing. I told your dad the next day. He went over to that boy’s house and that was it. They pulled him out of school.”

“That’s quite a story.”

He stands up and moves to the door. “It’s the truth, Maddy. Take it or leave it. I’m done trying to prove myself to you.”

I haven’t even pulled into the drive when he’s out the car, storming down to the garage. He hops into the Camaro. It doesn’t start at first, finally kicking into life. He reverses around me, the car taking off down the road.

I’m so mad it takes me five minutes to get the key in the front door.

“You’re up early, petal?”

Dad’s clueless as per usual sitting there with his morning paper, eggs, bacon and, ding ding, jerky. I can’t understand why he likes the stuff. It’s like chewing leather.

“You alright?”

“Fine, Dad. It’s just work.”

“Work, or Brock?”

I try to take a bite of toast, but I can’t seem to swallow. I barely slept. “You got me.”

“What’s he done now?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“But he’s made you angry, hasn’t he? I can see it.”

I brush a coppery tendril from my face, try to stuff more toast inside my mouth but give up. “Maybe. Maybe I’m angry with myself for thinking he’s changed.”

“You don’t think he has?”

This has to come to an end. “Is it true, Dad?”

Dad folds his paper and places it beside him, one hand on the print, the other on his knee. He knows precisely what I’m talking about. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, hunny. Those kinds of things are hard for a father, and I wasn’t the biggest fan of your stepbrother in those days. It was better for him to take the fall.”

“And Tim, my prom date?”

“After the tongue-thrashing I gave that family it’s no wonder they packed up and moved on. I told them if they didn’t pull him out of school the next day I’d go to the police.”

I’ve always known Dad as the gentle mediator, never one to get angry or resort to violence, but he must have been
pissed.

“I’ve apologized to Brock,” he continues. “I’ve been trying to make it up to him ever since, you know. If he hadn’t of stopped that boy…”

“But why did you leave it so long to tell me?”

“I knew one day you’d find out, he’d tell you… whatever the case may be. You’re all that matters, Maddy, but now you’re big. You’re all grown up. You’re a cop. You can handle yourself and there’s nowhere inside your world for your pathetic old dad.”

“Oh Dad.”

“I’m sorry, Maddy,” he says, breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

All these years,
I think.

*

The captain is still behind his desk, pensive. It’s making me uneasy.

“I heard about last night.”

“It was a real mess.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Birdie? She’s fine. She
will
be fine. They saved the leg after all. Don’t know how given how shredded up it was.”

The captain nods in sympathy. “I can understand if you want to get out of this. We can get somebody else on, call it in. Your decision.”

“I can handle it.”

“And Brock? How did he seem after it all went down.”

I didn’t put everything into the report. “He was on edge, said he didn’t know anything about the drugs.”

“You believe him?”

“Yes.”

“Why? We’ve had this little discussion about gut feeling before. You sure you’re up to this?”

“Yes, captain.”

The captain picks up a folder. “Logs from the tracker. Seems your boy keeps finding his way to the same place.” He hands over a sheet of paper, a map marked with the Camaro’s route, lines centered on a spot down by the bay. I’ve never been there before. It looks like another warehouse from the photos.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“Warehouse registered to a shell company. Could be anything.”

“You want me to keep an eye on it?”

“I do. Report directly to me.”

“Understood.”

“You got your piece?”

“Yes.”

“It’s loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Given the speed at which you’ve descending right into the stinking sewer of this situation, you might need it sooner than later.”

*

The Spears lookalike calls me into the audio lab. She closes the door like she’s about to tell me who her big crush is. “I think you should hear this.”

I take the headphones off her hands and place them on, the cushions too big for my elfin ears. “What is it?”

“Call your brother made last night.”

“To who?”

“A one Hernandez Javier.”

I lick my lips, everything suddenly dry.

Hernandez answers with a “where the fuck have you been? We’ve got trouble.”

My heart sinks. Brock
is
involved.

“If you’re running again,” Brock replies, “I don’t want any part of it. Birdie is in hospital, man. Half her fucking leg was shot up and you’re just kicking back with a couple of Coronas. Fuck you.”

Maybe not.
I’m surprised by how strong he’s come on the attack. I expect Hernandez to reply with equal vigor, but the line grows quiet with static before Hernandez speaks again. “Look, brother. I didn’t want to get back into the game, but I need the money, bad. I’m in a real situation.”

“With who?”

“The cartel.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s sorted, brother. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? You’re stealing from the bikers to make up your debts with the cartel? Surely you know what a stupid fucking idea that is.”

“I know, I know. It’s all fucked up, but I’ve got the stuff. I just need to get it out of the city.”

“Like I said, I want no part of it.”

“Who do you think these guys are going to come after when I don’t show today?”

The line’s quiet, but I know Brock’s thinking it over.

“That’s right,” continues Hernandez. “You used to run the show. In their eyes you’re still the go-to. We’re in this together, just like inside.”

“This is nothing like that.”

“You think just because there are no bars it’s so different out here? It’s all the same. We’re all masters to someone.”

“Not me.”

“You more than anyone. For you it’s family, that bacon-ass stepsister of yours. If we don’t sort this soon, if they find out who she is, then she’s in real trouble.”

There’s a loud sound in the background. “I’ve got to go,” and with that Brock hangs up leaving me shell-shocked, wondering what the hell he meant by all that but now more certain than ever he’s not behind this. No, it’s all Hernandez, that slimy fuck. I have a need to go down there and shove my Glock right up his ass for even starting this shit in the first place.

I go to take off the headphones, but Barbie-Brittany motions for me to keep them on, loading up another track. “Hernandez,” she says, “five minutes later.”

“It’s done,” says Hernandez.

“Who’s he talking to?” I whisper.

Brittany shakes her head. “We don’t know.”

“Where is it?” comes a stranger’s voice.

“In the trunk of his car, under the spare, loaded it in himself.”

“And the delivery?” comes the mystery voice dull and cold.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t keep us waiting too long, Hernandez.”

Line dead.

My reservations return. I can’t figure out what the hell’s going on. There’s only one way to be sure.

*

Dad’s out to it in the main house, Brock likewise sprawled on his bed, cell in his hand. Sprawled on his bed like that he almost looks peaceful, free of worry. I want more than anything to lie down next to him, press my lips against the side of his neck, take in his scent.

I carefully walk up beside the bed and take his keys in my hand, hooking them up with one finger.

He gives a murmur and flips over, jeans tented out in erection. I wonder if he’s thinking about me.

The keys burn in my hand hot from having sat around in the sun for so long.

I make my way out to the garage and use the keys to pop the boot of the Camaro. There’s a gym bag in one corner. Hernandez said the stash was under the spare wheel, but I can’t resist. I pull the zip on the gym bag and reach in.

I pull out a small stack of photos, the colors faded and the corners frayed. I’m looking at a picture of myself when I was sixteen, tequila bottle in hand and Brock next to me with a goofy drunk-as-a-skunk smile on his face. We look happy, like
really
happy.

I remember that night, the big D&M. Amongst the liquor we’d found Dad’s old Polaroid camera, snapped off a few frames. I flick through the rest, the film glossy. I actually stand there getting nostalgic, but why would he have these? Why would he hang onto them?

I look through the rest of the bag, but there’s not much to see. There’s an old NASCAR race guide, a picture of Brock’s dad on the podium. The resemblance is striking.

There’s a birth certificate in there, an old Transformer, just sentimental junk. My fingers close around a CD. I pull it out.

It’s a mix I made for Brock when I must have been fourteen or fifteen, when he first lived with us. I was big into Green Day back then, Feeder, the Foo Fighters… ‘For the Brockstar’ I’d written on the front of the CD in fancy cursive. Was it so obvious I was crushing on him even back then? Did he even care?

Looking at his prized objects, it looks like he did. It looks like I was at the forefront of his thoughts this entire time.

I pick out a final slip of paper. It’s the discharge form from prison. It dawns on me that’s what all this stuff is, everything he had with him in prison. I think of my picture on his wall, the countless hours he must have spent lying there thinking about me.

I put everything back in and zip the bag back up, pushing it to the side and lifting the floor of the boot away to reveal the spare. For a minute I’m relieved when I don’t see anything… and then I see the corner of something. I lift the wheel and there, just like Hernandez said, is the stash, five or six bricks of ice. There’s no doubting it. This isn’t sugar. These boys aren’t out to bake a cake.

It’s Brock car,
I tell myself.
Of course he knows it’s here.
Hernandez says Brock loaded it himself.
He lied. He’s probably onto you, trying to put you off with the call.

I close the boot and look down into a distorted version of myself in the black gloss of the paintwork.
Brock, what’s going on?

“Need some help?”

I spin around, heart pumping.

It’s Hernandez.