Chapter One
Chelsea
"How's that brother of yours doing?” Mrs. Carmichael asks as she scans a case of beer. I don't usually buy beer by the case as she very well knows, having rung up my Saturday grocery order ever since I was fourteen. That's the problem with small towns. Everyone is into your shit—from the type of tampons you use to the number of bags of potato chips you eat in a week. And worse? They don’t have a problem with sharing their opinion. A couple of weeks ago, Mrs. Carmichael wondered if I was buying too many sugary things. When I’d grabbed a candy bar from the check-out aisle and told her to add that to the bill, she shut her mouth but still looked at me as if to say I should watch the size of my ass spread.
I like the size of my ass spread and my candy bars, thank you very much.
“Why don't you ask him yourself?” I say. Grant “Wrecker” Harrison ambles around the corner eating a candy bar he'd picked up in the junk food aisle. “And go ahead and put that on my bill.”
“You need the wrapper, Mrs. C.” He grins roguishly and I swear 65-year-old Betty Carmichael pinkens like a school girl. She certainly doesn’t mention anything about his ass spread being endangered by the candy bar. But that may be because Grant’s ass is finer—and firmer—than carved stone. Prison had turned rangy Grant into buff Grant, like what happened to Captain America after he got his shots. The other night when he’d turned his back to me and his shirt was off, I’d dropped my bottle of water on the floor. I hadn’t realized backs could be so damn sexy.
“If you don't mind, Wrecker.” She practically bats her eyelashes while he peels off the outer wrapper. He reaches over and swipes it across the scanner.
“Candy bars have gotten more expensive since I've been in prison,” he observes as Mrs. C calculates the total.
Mrs. C clicks her tongue in disgust. “Those State Police don’t know the first thing about what goes on down here. You should've never served a day.”
“You're a peach, Mrs. C.” He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. She’s turned the corner on pink and is squarely red on the Pantone chart.
Picking up the bags of groceries in one hand he swipes his debit card with the other.
“Hey, was I going to pay for that,” I protest.
“Don't worry, sis,” he says with exaggerated emphasis on sis, “it'll come out of the household account. Bye now, Mrs. C, you take care. Nice meeting you, Jon.” He nods at the bag boy who stares back at Grant slack-jawed. Jon's only eighteen. He probably only knows a little bit about the Death Lords MC and if he leaves, as many kids do, he'll go on in semi-blissful innocence.
“I can't believe Mrs. C calls you by your road name.” I hustle behind him. At six-one, Grant is eight inches taller than me and even when he walks slow, I’ve got to trot to keep up.
“Darling sister, you’re the only one who calls me ‘Grant.’ Even the guards at the penitentiary called me ‘Wrecker’ by the time I got out.”
“Because that's your name—and stop calling me ‘sister.’ It creeps me out.” Course the reason it creeps me out is because Wrecker is the starring attraction of all my dirty fantasies and has been since my mother married his father when I was fourteen and Wrecker was sixteen. He’d been my first everything. My first crush. My first fantasy. My first oh my god, you’re making me come. My first love.
But it’s all a secret.
Grant’s not too interested in secrets. He’d have been happy to come out to all and sundry and say he popped my cherry so that no one else could get into the territory he’d claimed as his own. But he’d promised me he would keep quiet. Granted, I’d had my mouth around his dick when he’d made the promise but he’d made it nonetheless.
It was the last sex-based promise I was ever able to extract from him. He was—and is—more experienced, more knowledgeable than me. When I complained about this to him, he’d always gotten an angry look on his face and told me to keep my legs closed whenever there was anyone else sniffing around. I belonged to him and no one else, he asserted. He’s been gone for a long time—over three years—and in the meantime, I’ve had a lot of doubts about the relationship we’d had pre-prison.
I could tell from the glint in his eye when Dad and I picked him up that he wanted to begin where we’d left off but part of that could be from the lack of any action while on the inside. Three years is a long time for any man to go without and for a highly tuned sexual machine like Grant who needed sex at least once, if not twice, a day, three years of enforced celibacy is likely hell.
I’d taken to changing my panties twice a day since we got news his parole had been granted and he was coming home. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d wait for me when I got home from school and how he’d take me almost as soon as I got in the door.
I dressed for him, too, in short bell-shaped skirts that could easily be pushed up. When I was seventeen he’d taken my virginity, saying he’d not wait another day before he was inside me. I’d wanted him before then but he kept pushing me away. Worse, he fucked other girls—some of them my classmates, others townies.
But once he’d had me, he stopped fucking around cold. Everyone around here thought he was doing someone in secret—a married lady or something. He was fucking someone in secret but it was me, his stepsister.
Was it wrong? God, I didn’t know anymore. I told myself we weren’t blood related but others would think differently. Judge, my stepdad, wouldn’t approve. And I craved his approval almost as much as I craved Grant’s cock in my pussy.
“What you thinking about, baby sis?” Grant would not stop calling me sister after I’d kicked him out of my bedroom last night.
He was so angry. He’d climbed off me and stood there, his dick red and huge, bobbing its head at me like the goddamned snake in the garden of Eden. Come here, Chels, and suck me, it said. Come here and place your aching pussy on me and I’ll make it all better.
Ugh. I’m going to have change my underwear again.
”This is wrong,” I told him. “You're my brother.”
”You didn’t think this was wrong three years ago before I went into the pen. I’ve fucked you for six months before I went in and now it’s wrong. Who’ve you been fucking while I was gone?” He hissed. He was really asking Which one of my brothers has been in your pussy?
I’d pressed my lips together to shut out my protests of denial. Grant had scowled at me, tucked that delicious meat of his away and stomped out.
This morning at breakfast, he’d asked our dad, Judge, who I was currently seeing.
“No one that I know of,” Judge replied. “You seeing someone behind my back, Chelsea girl?”
“No, Judge,” I replied because I can’t lie to Judge worth a darn.
Judge nodded. “She hasn’t been within five feet of a man since she came here. I think all the civilian boys are too afraid of us.” He laughed and then ruffled my head. “Good thing too, because Chelsea’s going to make a damn good old lady. We’re not wasting her on some pissant civilian.”
Grant’s
eyes narrowed. “Is that right, sis? You haven’t dated anyone ever?” He tone was light and mocking but there was a thread of serious intent behind those words. Maybe if Judge hadn’t been sitting right there looking at me expectantly I could have dredged up a lie.
All I could do was make a face and admit to what everyone probably knew. “Everyone thinks I’m Death Lords’ property.”
“Damn right,” Judge said. “I’m going to the shop.”
When Grant stood to join him, Judge pressed a hard hand on his shoulder. “Nope. You’re going to enjoy your freedom for a while. No shop for you for a week. Go for a ride on your bike. Help your sister out. Do shit for fun. You earned it.”
That’s how I got Grant following me around, making me wet, and calling me sister all day long.
I carry in the first bag of groceries while Grant muscles in the rest. He fills a glass of water for himself and watches me put away all the groceries. Judge’s house is a small one-story with three bedrooms, a living room/dining room and a kitchen. There’s a basement downstairs with three narrow windows set high on the wall. In high school, there’d been an unholy row between Grant and Judge when Grant wanted to sleep down in the basement and Judge wouldn’t let him because it was a fire hazard.
While Grant was gone, Judge dug out an egress and we turned half the space into a bedroom for Grant with an attached bathroom. He could get his own apartment eventually but Judge wanted Grant close to home at first. Just until the community got used to Grant being out of prison and moving about society.
I reach up to put the coffee away and Grant presses up behind me. The long thick outline of his cock presses into my ass. Three guesses what Grant’s been thinking about while I’ve put everything away. First two don’t count.
“I’m about done watching you bend and shake that ass in front of me,” he growls into my hair.
“You’re horny because you’ve been in prison for three years.”
“That’s right, sis, I am. And a good woman would’ve taken care of me last night instead of making me do with my own hand.” He lifts my hair and tongues the sensitive flesh behind my ear. I shiver like a newborn finding the cold for the first time.
“Who said—” I croak out the words. Clearing my throat, I try again, “Who said I was a good woman?”
“I did. You’re real good. Did you know when I was in the pen, my favorite fuck fantasy was the night I took your virginity. Do you remember that, Chels?”
My shivering is rapidly getting out of control. I lock my knees and pray for some restraint.
“I, ah, maybe.”
His left hand bunches up my hair and tugs my head back, exposing my throat to his wet mouth. “You been keeping that pussy safe and untouched for me?”
My only defense, the only possible thing that would make Grant walk away, is if he thinks I’ve been free with my favors while he’s gone so I keep my mouth closed. I can’t really lie to him but I can be silent.
He growls with frustration and tugs my hair even harder. The pain is so sweet, though. He’s touching me and it’s been a long three years for me too.
I went from having mind blowing, energetic sex at least two times, if not three, in a day for six months…to nothing. I didn’t even have a vibrator and with a phalanx of Death Lords watching me at all times, I couldn’t buy one either.
It’s been so long and I’m so tightly wound that I could come from Grant grinding his dick into my ass. Reason enough to keep my mouth shut.
“Let’s see how tight that pussy is,” he says. His free hand undoes the snap of my jeans and then delves through my soft hair and into my soaking wet panties. He chuckles, low and dirty, as he touches me. “You are soaked, baby sister. So soaked. And…” he pushes one of his long fingers inside me, “it’s fucking tight. Like the night I first fucked you.”
He pushes my head forward and in one swift motion jerks my jeans down to mid thigh. His right middle finger is still jammed up inside me and I want him to move so bad I’m squirming like a stupid little worm on a hook.
“Dammit, Grant.” I push up on my tiptoes. He doesn’t let me get any leverage though, merely follows me as I move up and down, not allowing me any friction.
“Nuh-uh, Chels. You don’t get what you want until I hear what I want. Now let’s try again.” His breath is on my butt as he crouches behind me. He’s so much bigger than me it makes it easy for him to place one hand against my back so that my ass is pushed out into the air. My lower lips are exposed to his gaze and his touch but he’s not doing a damn thing. I want to stomp my feet and demand that he start fucking me. “You had anyone since me?”
I press my legs together and start pulsing against his finger. Shit, I don’t need him to move. I can come like this.
“Oh no you don’t,” he says and rips my jeans down to my ankles. He shoves a shoulder between my legs. I’m in a precarious position. My ankles are hobbled by the jeans and I’m straddling his shoulder. My cunt has one of his fabulous fingers up it but I am desperate, goddamned desperate, for more.
“No,” I finally cry out. “I haven’t had anyone but you.”
“Why not?” he demands.
God he always wants fucking more from me. “Because you’re it for me,” I sob in frustration. “You’ve fucking always been it for me.”
He gives my ass a slap. “That’s my girl. I’ve got your reward right here.” He slams two more fingers into my tight channel and three years of agonizing want spills onto his hand. I grip the counter and my head falls back as I cry out in relief. He pumps into me hard and fast but it’s over too quickly and I am not remotely satisfied.
“Fuck me, you’ve got a juicy cunt. I can’t wait to be inside you.” He stands behind me and the sound of metal clinking against metal signals the unbuckling of his belt. I rise to my tiptoes in anticipation. I’m a basket case when it comes to Grant. I’ve wanted him always even though I know it’s wrong. I couldn’t even hold out twenty-four hours.
But before he can slam his thick cock inside me and take us both to heaven, the loud metal gears of the garage door are engaged.
“Goddamn shit on a stick,” Grant swears and pulls away.
I can’t stop a whimper from escaping when he pulls out of me. I fumble with my jeans and my stupid wet panties and start throwing a salad together. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grant sucking two of the fingers he had inside me. I start trembling again. Maybe I’ll just go without panties.
Judge tromps in and throws his keys on the counter. He pulls a beer out of the fridge, pops the tab and downs half of it before saying hello. He drops a kiss on my forehead and gives Grant a chin nod.
“What you gnawing on, boy?” he asks.
Grant pulls his fingers out of his mouth and moseys over to the sink where he proceeds to wash his hands. “Had a paper cut,” he drawls.
“On two fingers?” Judge asks suspiciously.
“How was your day, Judge?” I ask in order to forestall any more awkward questions.
“Good. Got an order in from some newly minted celebrity who thinks he knows how to ride a custom.” Judge owns and runs Wheels Up, a custom bike and muscle car shop. He specializes in the renovation of Corvettes, Shelbys, Mustangs—domestic hot rods only—as well as custom-made low riders. “What you making?”
“Salad and lasagna.” I’d put the noodle dish together before I went for groceries. It’s smelling up the kitchen nice.
“You’re a prize, Chels. Don’t know what I did before you came along. Come on, Wrecker, got some club business I want to chat with you about.”
Grant deliberately brushes by as he exits and all my nerve endings start tingling. Damn him.
After dinner, Grant and Judge take off for the club. I clean up and then decide to shower. I use my lemon-scented shampoo and then lather up with a peach body gel. I find myself shaving everything in the shower. My legs, my underarms, my goddamn cooch. Half way through shaving my pubes, I realize I’m primping for Grant and I throw down the ra
zor in disgust.
Turning the water off with a huff, I step out to dry myself and catch a glimpse of my lower half in the mirror. Half shaved, it looks like a lopsided mohawk. With a sigh, I climb back into the shower, turn on the water and lather up. It’s got to all come off.
By the time I’m completely denuded and lotioned up, it’s ten and I’m bored out of my mind. Nothing on cable is interesting me and my body is as wired as if I’d taken a hit of E.
I don’t want to want Grant, but I do. I want him so bad. I have to take the edge off.
Going through the house, I douse all the lights and climb into my bed. My sleep shirt is an old wife beater of Grant’s. I’ve slept in it ever since he went to prison. I’ve cried in it, masturbated in it, and dreamt in it which is the same as saying that Grant has never been far from my mind.
With my eyes shut tight, one hand between my legs and the other on my tits, I replay the night that Grant took my virginity because for me, much as it was for him, that night is one of the hottest I’ve ever had.
Four years ago
“She’s too young to be at this party,” Thomas Eddy snarls at Grant. Thomas is the high school football captain, a senior who’s going to Mankato State after the summer is over. It’s his party because it’s on his land but no one is telling Grant Harrison what to do, least of all this soft civilian.
“I’m watching over her, Civie, don’t you get your panties in a twist,” Grant replies coolly. At nineteen, he is effortlessly collected in all things. Maybe it’s because his dad is a power in this town or that he’s heir apparent to a club that dates back to the days of Vietnam—he’s third generation Death Lords and he walks as if the very ground submits to him.
He reeks of animal sexuality even at nineteen. Shit, even at thirteen, he was likely a terror making all the backseat warmers—girls who rode on the back of a bike—swoon. I didn’t know Grant at thirteen. My momma married Grant’s daddy when I was fourteen. Then she took off for parts unknown before my fifteenth birthday hit. Some say Judge took care of her. No one, least of all me, cared in the slightest. Why Judge married her, I don’t know other than he might’ve fallen for her beauty. But he always seemed too cagey for that. His attraction for my mother would always remain a mystery.