Billionaire Stepbrother Enemy

Why do I have to have a stepbrother? I know I’m whining, it is what is it and all that. But being back home is making me feel like I’m sixteen again, reliving the horrible year when every minute I was in that house, my stepbrother was bugging me. He was like glued to me, and spewing a steady stream of sarcasm, barbed remarks, and just plain meanness in my direction.

When I first met him, I thought he was kinda sorta cute, in a puppy dog way. Turned out he is just mean as a snake. So mean that finally I got pushed too far and I left. Ran away. I was too young to be on my own and that first year was a bitch, but I made it. I’ve got my own place now in another city, and a good job. I don’t need any of these people. I only came back for this fucking funeral because my mother begged me, and I felt guilty for not seeing her for so long. It’s been over a year since I’ve been back.

That’s one thing Catholic school will do—it’s like I had a guilt implant or something, and my mother can activate it long-distance. And then once I got here, I realized that the grandmother, the funeral—that has nothing to do with anything. Mom just wanted me back thinking after all this time I would smooth over things with the Scott.

Which, really now, why would I want to do that? What could I possibly gain from making nice to that champion dirtbag? I want my mother to be happy, I really do. But there are limits. And any sane person will tell you, there should be limits.

I pee, run a brush through my hair, re-do my lipstick. Then I head out for more caviar, and what the hell, maybe I’ll have a glass of Cristal too. It may be the last taste of that I get in…forever.

I see my mother and stepfather deep in conversation over by the floor-to ceiling window, which is draped in thick chintz curtains. He looks angry, so what else is new. I go to the bar and get my glass of champagne, and try to figure out a place to hide, planning only to emerge on forays for more caviar.

“I want to talk to you,” says that deep voice again, and I jump, almost spilling my drink.

I sigh. I pull up my defensive shield, which is practically impenetrable, having been crafted during the year our families were first shoved together. “What in the world do you want to talk to me about?”

“The past,” Scott says. For once he’s not smirking. But I don’t trust him. His eyes are sparkling at me and it’s disconcerting, I’m remembering how they used to do that, during that horrible year. I’m remembering how confusing it was to be so attracted to the guy who was making me so miserable.

There, I said it. I was attracted to him.

Am attracted to him.

But let’s be perfectly clear: it doesn’t mean anything. Anybody alive would be attracted to him, male or female. Just speaking objectively, his physique is breathtaking, like cover of a men’s mag level of breathtaking. His features are chiseled, his eyes intelligent and lively. But I think his mouth might be cruel. And I don’t want cruel, I’ve had enough of cruel.

I’m fucking done with cruel.

I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, brother tycoon, I don’t see the point of raking up old shit from ages ago. It’s over, it’s done, move on.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says. “There are…there are things that I want to explain.”

“But that would require me to care about your explanations, dear brother. And…” I scooped a ridiculous amount of caviar onto another piece of toast—hey, nobody else was eating it and you don’t want this good shit wasted—“…and I do not care about your explanations. Actions are character, ever heard that one?”

“That’s from English class, not real life.”

“Well, watch me give exactly zero fucks about where it’s from.” I looked past him, trying to get out from under his gaze and those damn sparkly eyes. We were inside, after all, and there was no reason why his blue eyes should be like that, almost hypnotic in their intensity.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me along, and I don’t know, maybe I was drunk on fish eggs, but I let him pull me. Down a parquet hallway of the country club are smaller rooms, rooms for playing bridge or having a tea or something like that, and Scott keeps pulling until we get to an empty one, and then he takes me inside and closes the door. I’m feeling uncomfortable being alone with him. All those mixed-up feelings from that year—the hurt, frustration, and yes, excitement…it’s all tumbling right back, and it’s like my apartment and job, the whole life I’ve put together, belongs to someone else.

“What?” I say, and I find I’m looking at his mouth, trying to decide if it really is cruel, and my breath starts to get a little short.

“You always think you understand everything, but you don’t,” he says, and then someone is turning the knob on the door and he pushes me back behind it and puts a finger to his lips. We’re standing so close I can smell him, and it’s making me feel all wobbly inside. The person who opened the door walks in, calls out, “Mr. Caulter? You in here?” Probably his security detail.

My coat falls open and I see Scott look down. Then up, then down my body again. I’m almost panting. And then he brings his face right up close to mine, he looks with those damn sparkly eyes right into mine, and he kisses me. He crushes his lips on mine, and wraps his arms around me, pressing me into him.

I soften, I allow myself to melt against his taut body. I feel his hard-on pressing right against my mound and I—

“What the fuck,” I growl, pulling back and then stepping out from behind the door.

Whoever opened it has gone. Scott is standing behind the door shaking his head. “I didn’t mean…”

“Whatever,” I say, and walk fast down the hall, pulling my coat tight around me.

CHAPTER TWO

I end up sticking around for a few more days just to appease my mother. Next time I’m going to come home sooner so the guilt can’t build up so much. And also, I figured it’s been so many years since I stayed in this house—maybe it would put some of those nasty old demons to rest if I stopped avoiding it so hard. If I came back and spent a few nights, because I know nothing here can hurt me anymore.

But it doesn’t turn out to be that easy. Memories lurk everywhere and seem to pop up when I least expect them. I played lacrosse back when I was sixteen, the only scholarship girl on the team. I end up behind the house throwing a ball against the garage and catching it with my crosse, just like I did back then. It’s a total nostalgia thing but it calms me down just like it used to. It centers me, the whap-whap-whap of the ball against the garage, and the taunts of my stepbrother get quieter in my mind, until finally I can’t hear them anymore.

When I finish I turn to see Scott standing on the deck, a level up from where I am.

“Just like old times,” he calls down.

I shake my head. Best not to remind me of those, I think. But just that flash of him, two seconds at most, has my face flushed. I can feel heat going all over my body as I remember that kiss from yesterday. I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to be attracted to him. I mean, what does it mean to be attracted to someone who was horrible to me? Who spent years thinking up the most insane and hurtful ways to torment me? I think it makes me really screwed up, is what I think.

Okay, I see you’re skeptical. You’re thinking look, the guy is gorgeous, he’s dragging you into empty rooms to kiss you, and hey by the way he has so much money it’s not even funny—what’s your fucking problem? Get over yourself!

Okay, maybe it’s me thinking those things.

But let me explain. Let me tell you some of the shit he pulled, and you decide whether we’re talking about a person it makes any sense to hook up with.

Not that I’m thinking about hooking up with anyone at any time, ever.

Just so you know.

Okay, so one thing I remember, just as an example. That first Halloween. Our parents had gotten hitched that September, so I’d only been living in the mansion for about a month. I felt out of place and so awkward—Mom and I really had been eating beans out of cans, we dressed completely in Salvation Army, you get the picture—and suddenly I’m living in a mansion and there are servants and even though I’m trying to be grateful and I am grateful that the TV always works and we’ve got a real hot dinner on the table every night…it was a lot to process, you understand?

And I guess I thought at first that having a cute stepbrother my own age would make the whole thing actually fun. He was lanky at that age, all arms and legs, and like I’ve been saying, those sparkly blue eyes, full of mischief. But the mischief didn’t turn out to be him and me against the parents—it was just him against me, all the way, 100%.

He wanted me to run away, is how it was. And eventually, I did what he wanted. I packed up some of the new clothes my stepfather had paid for, I saved up babysitting money and my brand new allowance money, and I got the hell out of there. I took a bus and went south because the cold was something else I was sick of. And you know what? I managed. I had to live in shelters sometimes at first, and I slept outside some, but I made it. No drugs, no selling myself, just hard work and not giving up.