Stepbrother Soldier: A Forbidden Military Romance Novel (18 page)

My hands clutched at the covers, toes curling, eyes closed as my body
threated to fall into a million pieces from the sheer ecstasy. Finally, I felt
his grip on my waist increasing, his thrusts speeding up, now jabbing into my
pussy at lightning speed, so quickly it almost felt like he was never pulling
out at all.

“Come in, me, Ashton,” I moaned, “I want your hot
cum in my pussy, please.”

I shuddered, straining desperately against the tide of pleasure that
threatened to rush my body, but I wanted to wait, wanted to wait for us to come
together. Ashton let out a loud, long groan and slammed my body against his,
holding his cock in me as he shuddered and unleashed a burst of warm, gooey cum
inside my pussy.

My fingers released the covers, my legs nearly crumpled beneath me,
and my nerves exploded in pleasure as my pussy milked the cum from my
stepbrother’s cock, each spurt massaging my climax, driving me further and
further into a milky void of pleasure that seemed infinite. He unloaded what
felt like an ocean of cum into my womb, his body shuddering as he held me
against him, my hips bucking and pussy clenching around his cock as it filled
me.

Finally, I spun dizzily down from the heights of my climax, breathless
and spent. Ashton slipped from me with a wet plop, his hands coming to a rest
on my lower back. I heard his breath, heavy, as he stared down at me, probably
watching his cum drip from his stepsister’s pussy. I rolled over onto my back,
one hand on my chest, eyes still closed as a sleepy, satisfied joy filled me.

But we didn’t have time to bask. A short, distinct series of buzzes
were emanating from my tossed-away sweatshirt; anyone with a cell phone knows
the sound I’m talking about. With a groan, I lifted myself up just as Ashton
collapsed on his stomach next to me. His arm shot out as I tried to walk
towards my phone, pulling me back. I giggled and swatted at him playfully.

“Where do you think you’re going, little missy?”
he growled into the covers, holding me closer.

“C’mon, my phone is blowing up,” I said,
struggling and laughing.

“Let it blow up. Who needs it? Fuck ‘em, it’s probably just more
bullshit. You’re staying right here,” he said, suddenly wrapping both arms
around me and rolling over so that we were both on our backs, me lying on top
of his chest and flailing my limbs childishly.

“Ashton! Come on!” I squealed, struggling
playfully against his much-stronger body.

“We’ve got a squirmer here! You’re too feisty! I can’t hold on
anymore!” Ashton said, feigning exhaustion as he let me go. He lifted his head
and smiled up at me while I rolled onto my feet in front of him, turning to
face him with my hands on my hips.

“I outta kick you off my tour bus for that kinda behavior,” I said;
we’d had an ongoing joke that the media blitz that was taking us cross-country
was actually a whirlwind music tour, that I was a mega pop star and he was my
right-hand-man.

I kicked gently at his shin, which lay over the side of the bed, and
he cried out in exaggerated pain, hugging his leg to his chest and rolling back
and forth on the bed.

“Ow! I’ve been hit! It’s a critical wound! I need stitches, a splint,
antibiotics! Get me some alcohol, stat!” He suddenly dropped the act, leaning
up on his elbows. “Actually, a drink sounds pretty nice. Is there any vodka in
the mini-bar?”

My phone was still buzzing – which was weird, and made me realize that
whoever was calling or texting really, really, REALLY wanted to get in touch with
me. I shrugged at Ashton’s question and finally made it to my sweatshirt,
pulling the phone from the pocket. Behind me, Ashton had gotten up and was
rummaging through the mini-fridge, presumably looking for the alcohol.

Someone
was
calling me, but
I also had a ton of missed texts and calls. And when I say a ton, I mean a TON.
Veronica, the journalist who’d broke my story, was the person currently
calling, and I realized my hand was shaking slightly as I accepted the call.
Something was up. All the playfulness and joy that had filled me a few moments
before vanished as my mind came up with hundreds of possible explanations for
why my phone had become a non-stop vibrator.

“Hello? Veronica, is something up?”

“
You’re
god damn right something’s up! I’ve been
trying to get in touch with you forever! Turn on the TV, right now. Any
channel, it doesn’t matter, just turn it on.”

My heart beat doubled as I looked around my shoulder at Ashton, who’d
found what he was looking for in the mini-bar and was mixing us two drinks. He
turned, as though he could feel my gaze on him.

“What’s up?” he said, his tone now turning
serious as well.

“Veronica says to turn on the TV,” I said, holding the phone away from
my face. The remote was on the desk where Ashton was pouring our drinks, and he
picked it up and threw it at me. I sat on the edge of the bed, still naked, and
turned it on.

I dropped the phone. Ashton spilled the drinks. My back seemed to
collapse in on itself as all the air left my body and I slouched over, mouth
agape. Ashton crossed the room and sat next to me, heavily, his weight making
the springs creak.

“Breaking news as Admiral Joe Walsh is taken into custody for the
attempted rape of Christy Starling and two other unnamed women, as well as for
the rape and assault of three other anonymous women. We’re live at the scene…”

There was my house. Our house. My mother’s house. The weathered, wood
siding. The fields, now covered in a layer of snow, no sunflowers in sight.
From the angle of the camera, you could just barely make out the wooded area in
the distance where Ashton had first taken my virginity.

“
….Admiral
Walsh, who had previously been
staying at a hotel in Tuscaloosa, was confirmed to have returned to his primary
residence last night and….”

The scene cut and jumped, and I saw him. For the first time since that
night, except for pictures, I saw him. He held his hands before his face. They
were cuffed. He was being escorted from the back of the house to the front,
policemen standing between him and the camera, trying to force whoever was
filming back further.

“This clip, taken three hours ago, by a bystander, shows the Admiral
being escorted from his residence…”

The narration faded in and out as I watched them play the clip over
and over again. I was looking for his eyes. I wanted to see what was happening
in those damned eyes. But he had his face covered. I wanted, burned, needed, to
see shame in those eyes. Shame and guilt.

“We go now to field reporter Jamie Bryson. Jamie, what can you tell us
about what’s happened today?”

“Well, we’re far out of town here, Margaret, but a crowd has gathered
to see exactly where Admiral Walsh was apprehended on claims of rape, attempted
rape, and assault. And this house is where Christy Starling alleges the Admiral
attempted to rape her…”

The camera panned to show the house, as well as the small crowd that
had gathered. I squinted, trying to see if I could identify anyone. I both
could and couldn’t; there was no individual person that stood out, but they all
looked vaguely familiar. I had to assume they were all folks from town; no one
else could have gotten out to our farmhouse so quickly. My farmhouse. Her
farmhouse. My mother’s farmhouse. My mother’s fields. My mother’s husband. My
mother…my mother…

“…taken to holding in Semolina’s county jailhouse until arrangements
can be made to transport him to Washington D.C…”

“…unsure as to whether he will be tried in civilian or military
court…”

“…special FBI order to investigate the Admiral’s background while a
commanding officer in the Navy during the years…”

“…brought to justice…cleared of guilt…”

“…trial.”

The newscaster’s speech seemed to come in and out of focus as I stared
at the screen, snippets of what she was saying floating through my mind in
between flashes of memory inspired by seeing my home for the first time in what
felt like forever.

The Admiral’s dirty whiskey breath in my mouth. Ashton in the kitchen.
My mother hanging sheets on the laundry line. The Admiral laughing after
playing a practical joke on me in the living room. Ashton chasing me out the
back door with a squirt gun. My mother letting me lick the spoon after making
pancakes.

Looking out my bedroom window, fields of yellow, like a sea. The feel
of tires over the rough road into town, the farmhouse growing smaller and
smaller in the rearview. The way the bathroom door squealed on its hinges, the
squeak in the third step from the top, the broken tile above the sink. None of
it mine anymore, all of it mine forever. When could I go back? When could I go
home?

As I watched them re-play the footage of the Admiral being led away,
my mind raised up one righteous, victorious thought:
soon.

It might be over.

Soon.

Ashton’s arm encircled my still-nude waist, and he pulled me into him,
my head leaning against his shoulder. He kissed my forehead, burying his nose
in my hair.

Soon.

21

The thing about the American justice system is: it’s slow.

Damn slow.

Even with the whole country watching, demanding justice on one side or
another, or at least an answer, the Admiral’s trial was delayed and delayed and
rescheduled and delayed.

Meanwhile, he made bail.

There was not, apparently, sufficient evidence to imply that the
general public was in danger with him roaming the streets.

What sort of evidence was there?

We didn’t know. And we wouldn’t know, for a long time. Enough for the
arrest, enough for the trial, but just how much? And what sort?

I learned, from my own lawyers, that had I gone to the police with my
story, there was a good chance I would have ended up in military court, even
though I was a civilian and the Admiral was no longer active duty.

Just goes to show you how far down those roots go, what great efforts
are made on the part of the military to cover their own asses, and how much we,
as a nation,
let
it happen.

As it happened, the media firestorm and amount of public investment in
the case more or less forced the government to take the case straight to the
U.S. Federal District courts, specifically the United States Court of Federal
Claims. Depending on what happened there, it could go to the U.S. Court of
Appeals. And, further, depending on what happened
there,
it could go to the Supreme Court.

I prayed it wouldn’t get that far. That would take years to settle. I
didn’t want to wait years to move on, to get myself in a position of freedom.

You might be getting the impression, probably rightfully so, that I
hate the military, hate the troops, all that.

That’s a very narrow way to look at it. I didn’t – and still don’t –
have anything but the upmost respect for our troops. After all, I loved Ashton
beyond all reason, and my stepbrother was no less than amazing to me for what
he did for his country, for my country. I feel that way about every man and
woman who puts their lives on the line.

And I don’t hate the military – I hated what the
military let happen.

I wanted to change it. Make it better.

But that didn’t stop me from being labelled anti-military,
anti-troops. My lawyers encouraged me to emphasize my support of the troops in
the lead-up to the trial, encouraged Ashton to make more public appearances at
my side. I did my best, as did he, even though he was no longer, technically, a
part of the military.

As the trial date stretched further and further into the future, my anxiety
grew and grew. I was having trouble sleeping, experiencing horrific flashbacks
in my dreams and imagining terrible scenarios, fixating on everything that
could go wrong, everything that could be asked of me when I took the stand.

And, for once, Ashton wasn’t helping.

He was part of the problem.

I developed an intense fear of him touching me in public at all,
utterly paranoid that any slight contact between us could be construed for what
it really was: a touch between lovers, not siblings.

I stopped letting him sneak down the hallway to my hotel room. I
stopped sneaking down the hallway to his. I would lay in bed, watching
headlights move across the ceiling, heart pounding as I struggled through an
anxiety attack or yearned for Ashton’s touch. My body still responded violently
to thoughts of him, no matter how my mind tried to calm it. It was worse than
ever, now that I was keeping him at arm’s length at all times.

It was so bad, for me, that I was getting physically ill. I’d wake up
nauseaus, throwing up, and feel sick the whole day. Headaches came and went,
but every morning I was jolted awake with the same sick feeling in my stomach,
and it wouldn’t go away until I’d emptied my stomach into the toilet, if it
even disappeared then.

And it wasn’t easy on him, either.

Finally, we got a date set. The jury had been selected, and the
defense had run out of excuses to prolong the trial. Somehow, this didn’t help
to alleviate my worsening anxiety issues. In fact, I was spiraling faster and
harder than ever before.

And Ashton was right there with me. I could see it in the bags under
his eyes, the hollowed-out look that he would sometimes have at breakfast,
where we sat across from each other without touching or even, sometimes,
talking. No playing footsie under the table. No stroking the back of the
other’s hand. No feeding each other bites of waffles. Just downcast eyes,
unspoken desires, hearts that beat just a little too fast for two stepsiblings
sharing a continental breakfast at a Best Western.

When I could eat, anyway, which was less and less
often.

Everyone else noticed, too. People actually began talking about it on
the news, in magazines. Those who were on my side pointed to my growing
haggardness and exhaustion as evidence of the way rape victims were treated as
criminals, how after my ordeal I was being further beaten down by a “rape
culture”. Those who were against me said it was because my lie was getting to
me, destroying me from the inside out, slowly but surely eating away at my soul
until I was nothing but a hollow shell.

I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t hear anything anyone said. I didn’t
check my Twitter. I didn’t read the paper. When I wasn’t acting my way through
an interview or rally, robotically, I was sitting in my hotel room, staring at
the wall or out the window, trying not to think of anything, trying not to be
swallowed up by one of my increasingly frequent panic attacks.

What are they going to ask me? What if they don’t
find him guilty? What if they find out about Ashton and I? What if, what if,
what if…

My lawyers coached me on what I could expect to hear from the defense
at the trial. How they’d drag me through the mud, try to find anything at all
that could stick to me. They’d talk about the “plagiarism”. They’d ask about my
mother, about how we could have lived with the Admiral all that time and not
known anything or even had suspicions.

They’d try to make it seem like I’d initiated
what happened with him.

There were many reasons I was happy Ashton had been my first, but the
most blaringly obvious reason at that point is that they had nothing on me as
far as my sexual history. I knew that it was not uncommon for a defense team to
bring up a rape accuser’s past sexual history, even calling their partners to
the stand, in an attempt to paint the accuser as “slutty”, as someone who
wouldn’t say no to a good fuck, who may even initiate the sexual encounter that
they were claiming was rape.

But they could dig until their knuckles bled and their nails snapped
off in the dirt; they weren’t going to find evidence of
me
slutting it up on campus.

Unless someone
lies.

Unless they
pay someone to lie.

Unless they
find a whole fraternity to lie.

I was in pretty good shape, though. I’d told my story so many times,
to so many people on both sides of the issue, that there wasn’t much chance the
defense could come up with a curveball that hadn’t already been tossed my way
once before. And, even though my lawyers never straight out said it to me, I
had the truth on my side. I wasn’t lying, and I wasn’t going to lie on the
stand.

I could only hope that took me far enough.

As far as I or anyone on my legal team knew, the trial was going to be
a case of my word versus his – the other girls may have physical evidence, but
it was going to be a character trial for me.

And the Admiral had friends in high places.

I, alas, did not.

I had friends – plenty of friends, and peers, and professors – who
were eager and willing to go to bat for me. But the Admiral had high-ranking
military officials, men in uniform with badges, medals, and stripes covering
every inch of fabric, men who’d served in one, two, even three wars.

It was going to be one hell of a trial.

My ace in the hole? Ashton and Jane, two people who knew the Admiral
better than anyone on earth by virtue of being his flesh and blood.

And they, thank God, were on my side.

It was two days before the trial was set to begin. I was sitting in my
room, my mind tossing back and forth from worrying about being behind the
witness stand and wishing I could be holding Ashton. Through the fog of my
muddled thoughts, I heard a knock on the door.

I didn’t want to answer it. I sat there, for a long moment, eyes
closed, willing whoever was on the other side to go away and leave me alone.
The knocking repeated itself.
Maybe it’s
Ashton,
I thought, a glimmer of hope slowly fading away as I remembered our
new rules, that even if it
was
Ashton,
I still wouldn’t let him into the room.

I stood up and walked, stilted, to the door, standing on my tiptoes to
look through the peephole. When I saw who it was, everything that had been
plaguing me seemed to take flight, leaving me in a moment of sublime relief.

It was Jane.

I threw the door open with a happy squeal. She looked as severe and
strong as ever, but with that same motherly comfort, that sense that she would
fight to the death for you. And, true to form, she didn’t mince words.

“You look like shit,” she said, eying me up and
down. “The hell is wrong with you?”

It didn’t take the smile from my face. In fact, it only made me smile
more. I needed her then more than anyone else in the world. Tears pricked the
backs of my eyes.

“Come in,” I said, throwing the door open wide as she pushed past me.
“I’m…I’m so happy to see you.”

“You don’t look very happy, ‘cept for that smile,” Jane said, looking
around the room. I realized how dark it was; turning on lights had become such
an afterthought for me, since it didn’t make a difference in my mood whether it
was dark as the grave or bright as a sunny day on the Alps.

I flipped the switches and flooded the room with light. With Jane
there and the lights on, I felt the slightest shift in me, as though my old
self had just woken up and was still rubbing her sleep-bleary eyes, yawning,
getting ready to stretch and face the day.

“Alright, alright, stop with the waterworks,” she said, plopping down
on the bed and patting the spot next to her. I sat down beside her sideways,
facing her strong, fiery profile. “Tell me what I need to know.”

And so I did. I told her about the pressure of the public eye, the way
every day felt like I was being beaten down a little more, the fear inside me
that we would lose the trial. She was especially interested in the physical
toll it was taking on me, the constant nausea and exhaustion. I even told her
about the struggle of staying away from Ashton.

“I know – you probably don’t want to hear about that – I mean, he’s
your nephew and all…” I said, blushing, aware that this was not the sort of
conversation you could ever really expect to have with your step-niece, but
Jane held up a hand, halting my apology.

“I was young once,” she said, “and as far as I’m concerned, you’re no
more family than I am an astronaut. But you’re doing things all the wrong way.
You’re
actin’ like the game’s lost, when it ain’t even half
over.

What happened, you started believin’ what everyone says about you? I
see what people say, they’re cruel, I know it, but so what? They’re cruel
‘cause they’re stupid. If you let ‘em get into your head, well, that’s like
being Goliath and lettin’ David take you down with a measly rock.

Don’t you think you scare ‘em? You’re a kid, a little girl, but you’re
out there, tellin’ the world what is, and you’ll just be comin’ into your prime
by the time they’re laid low in their graves. That’s what they’re afraid of.
They’re gonna leave this world and it ain’t gonna look nothin’ like it did when
they came into it, and that scares the everlovin’ shit out of them. You got
that power. You strike fear in their hearts. Ain’t that some shit?”

“But it’s not just about the newscasters and editorials…I mean, what
if we lose the trial? What’s going to happen to me? If they’re like this now,
how are they going to be if I lose? I won’t be able to go anywhere, do
anything…”