Wrong: A Stepbrother Romance

I had no other choice. Pulling it on, I tried not to let his scent intoxicate me but it must’ve because I let him take my hand to help me out of bed. On my feet, I looked down to see the shirt just covering my panties. “It’s not long enough to wear out,” I muttered, keeping my eyes off his body for fear that I’d never stop staring if I looked again.

“Fine.” There was a hint of mischief in Abram’s voice and I felt his eyes glued to me as I then heard it – the distinct jangling of a metal buckle.

What. Are you doing.

And just like that, I stared again, stunned as he undid his jeans – belt, button, then zipper before pushing the denim down his muscled legs. My mouth parted. I couldn’t break my gaze even when he caught it, flashing a smirk that I could actually see. It touched the right corner of his lips and stole my breath so easily I resented it.

“Here.” In boxer briefs, Abram tossed me his jeans. The world’s most devilish grin twisted his mouth as he watched me look. At everything. “Call it even,” he said with a laugh that set every inch of me on fire. “And get dressed. I’ll have my driver take you to work.”

chapter three

Something was off about table eight.

I tried not to think about it as I weaved through my section at Alma’s, the Upper East Side diner I’d been at since leaving my job at the elementary school. It was a mindless gig and busy enough to keep me distracted. All I really had to do was smile, refill coffee and listen to anecdotes about sassy grandkids. Our clientele was largely older and easy to get along with if you didn’t keep them hungry. Conversation often got repetitive but this week, I needed those stories I’d heard a thousand times about the post office or Emma’s tap recital. They were the best ways to remind myself that this – this was my world.

Not Abram. Not that breathtaking building he lived in.

All that needed to be quickly forgotten.

After leaving his penthouse three days ago, I’d still been reeling. I was still thinking about him. It was impossible not to. He’d given me the clothes off his muscled back and called for a black Range Rover to drive me to work. The handler who took me into the elevator gave me five hundred dollars to replace my dress. I’d then gone down fifty floors in dazed shock before even realizing where I was.

At the famed Monarch Hotel in Chelsea.

I knew of the place. Everyone did. It had been recently crowned the tallest hotel in all of Manhattan. Before going up, its blueprints had been profiled in magazines, the Times, the Daily News. I had coworkers who prayed about millionaire friends who could possibly get them into opening night. On the L, I watched beautiful girls change out of stilettos and gripe about being turned away from its doors. On the news, it was always a story in either business or entertainment. Barely two years old and the Monarch was already legendary – an unattainable fantasyland for only the wealthy and stunning elite.

And there I was on a random Sunday, leaving its penthouse floor.

In the days that followed, I banned myself from Google. I hadn’t had a single productive thought since leaving Abram’s place and all I’d done was look at him. Clearly, I didn’t need to read up on his personal life or career or whatever information the Internet had to offer. So I picked up extra shifts at Alma’s and to my relief, the back-to-back doubles had me quickly tired and distracted enough to think of non-Abram-related things.

Not that I could completely erase him. I had a feeling that no one ever laid eyes on him and then ever forgot. At random parts of the day, his torso flashed through my mind and I had to bite my lip and whisper “Jesus.” But that was inevitable and fine as long as I could still focus on my real world – which was my paint-chipped apartment and un-glamorous job at Alma’s, Manhattan’s favorite diner for geriatrics.

Though for once, a guest didn’t fit that description.

Table eight was one guy in his thirties with tattoos and a neck as thick as my thigh. He looked like a wrestler and barely spoke when I came around, but he did keep his dark eyes fixed on my every move through the dining room.

“He must have a thing against hot chicks,” Laurel decided after strutting past him for the fifth time without getting a look. “Or maybe I look like one of his exes,” she mused, tugging her uniform down to show more cleavage. Laurel was a former high school classmate whose mom had gone to Elle’s funeral. After hearing that I’d quit teaching, she referred me to Alma’s and for the first week, had been nothing but sweet. But then our GM, Reece, began flirting with me and cracking daily sex jokes. I laughed at none but Laurel dubbed me an “attention whore” and focused on making my life at work a thing of misery. If I weren’t so in need of cash, I’d have already quit.

“Or,” she touched a finger to her glossy lip. “He’s staring because it’s been ten minutes since you gave him coffee and still no cream or sugar. It’s not that hard, baby girl.”

Sure. I didn’t care to explain to Laurel that Tat Guy had asked for his coffee black. I remembered that because I was thankful I wouldn’t have to return to his table. The vibe I got from him was increasingly strange. And uncomfortable. He barely touched his coffee or burger and stared at me even while muttering on the phone. Maybe I’d seen too many movies but I couldn’t help getting nervous.

It felt as if he’d come here to watch me.

Flipping her hair, Laurel heaved a sigh. “Well, my section’s dead so I’m gonna bring Tattoo Babe some cream and make him fall in love with me,” she announced, waltzing off before I could say “he’s yours.” I’d never been so relieved to have Laurel steal one of my tables.

But two hours later, Tattoos was still there and he’d yet to stop watching me. Thankfully, Laurel was still trying to flirt with him by the time my shift ended, so without a word, I clocked out and left. Five minutes later, I was out the employee door, changed in record time and already pedaling my bike up First Avenue. In my rush, I’d left my helmet in my locker, but after four blocks of mental cursing I told myself it was a sign. I needed the peace of the breeze blowing through my hair. It felt nice and soothed my nerves, which was a feeling I needed these days.

But then I noticed the Yukon.

It was black with tinted windows. It had begun tailing me at Eighty-Ninth Street and when I made a sharp turn onto Ninety-First, it did the same. Not yet, I told myself not to panic. There was a chance I was just rattled from work and being paranoid. So I made another sharp turn.

He followed again.

Another turn. The same result.

My heart slammed. It was a sudden hammer pounding my ribs as I realized that this was real. I wasn’t paranoid. I was being followed and while I couldn’t see through the windshield, I was certain the man behind the wheel was my table eight. He hadn’t been watching me for no reason. Of course not. Why would I have thought it so easy? I had seen two men end the life of another – two men who were clearly rich and powerful, with everything to lose if I ever blabbed about what they’d done that night. Of course it wasn’t over.

Fuck. Blinking hard, I gasped for breath. I tried to stop it but that night came back in flashes before my eyes. Red blood. White skull. The scene from the alley was on loop in my head as I pedaled twice as fast as the cars around me, a blur of impossible speed as my hands sweated and my thighs burned. I was losing grip, scared out of my mind. Hair whipped in my face. The strands caught on my tongue.