Stepbrother Untouchable (6 page)

“Brynn? You home?” I hear my mom call from the foyer. I
freeze, holding the bra against my breasts. I glance up. Nate is gone.

“Yup, I'm home!” I yell back.

“I saw your shoes! I'm coming up—I want to hear all about
your first day.” I hear her footsteps on the staircase and hurriedly refasten
my bra. Nothing like your mom's voice to kill your libido.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next couple weeks of my new life seem to pass rather
quickly, mostly due to the fact that Nate is always out with his friends after
work, and our run-ins have been few and far between. I've settled into a
routine of sorts, even if I still don't feel like I'm at home here.

I’d gone to bed early last night, with the intention of
sleeping in this morning before visiting museums with Allison later in the day.
However a loud noise from downstairs awakens me—I stare bleary eyed at my alarm
clock, it’s only 6:15am. Who'd be awake this early on a Saturday morning?

I get out of bed and tiptoe to my door. I open it a little
and hear something shuffling around downstairs. I tiptoe out into the hallway
and see everyone’s bedroom doors are closed. I know there's an alarm system—I
had to memorize the passcode. Maybe an ungainly mouse is exploring? I creep
down the staircase and through the dining room. The noises sounded like they
were coming from the kitchen. The swinging door is open, and I peak my head
around it, my heartbeat blasting in my ears.

Suddenly, Nate steps out in front of me.

“Fuck!” he exclaims, and I jump back, startled.

“Oh, god, I thought you were a burglar.”

“Then you should have called 911,” he retorts brusquely,
turning his back to me and walking to the island.

“Well, you should be glad I didn't.” Sheesh, does he have to
find something wrong with everything I say? “What are you doing up so early
anyway?”

“I was just working out.”

“Wow. This early?” I ask, moving around him. He's fiddling
with something in front of him.

“Yeah, every morning. I need to stay in shape during the
off-season.”

“I'd be exhausted if—” I break off, as I see blood dripping
from his palms onto the granite countertop. “Oh my god, you're bleeding!” I
gasp.

“Yeah, I just can't get this fucking tape to…” he struggles
to wind a bandage around his palm.

“Let me,” I say, spying a first aid kit on the counter by
the window. From the blood smeared on it, I can see Nate's already gone through
it.

“You don't have to,” he protests.

“Come over here. The light's better,” I instruct him.

“Do you know what you're doing?” he asks, less than thrilled
to accept my help.

“More than you,” I reply with a smile, nodding at the mess
of tape around his palm. I wash my hands in the sink and then open up the kit.
I take a pair of surgical scissors and cut off the tape that he's already
applied. I glance up slightly, and for the first time it hits me that he's
shirtless, wearing only a pair of gym shorts and sneakers. He's covered in
sweat. “How'd this happen?”

“I over-trained a little. Got dizzy, tripped on a rock and
held out my hands to break my fall,” he replies, eyes downcast as he watches me
work.

“Over-training for what? Lacrosse or crew?” I ask as I pull
out a piece of gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“Both. Either,” he murmurs.

“This is going to sting,” I warn him, as I pat the gashes on
his hands with the soaked gauze. He hisses slightly as the liquid stings him,
but doesn't move. I slide my other hand under his, to stabilize it as I cleanse
the wound of dirt. I've never touched him this long before. “Other hand.” He
switches hands and I go to work cleaning the other one. “Maybe you should take
a little time off from training,” I suggest quietly.

“Or I could just work out my leg muscles,” he says, and I
look up to see a wry grin on his face.

“Mmm,” I murmur, smiling too. “You know,” I go on, a bit
more bravely, “I heard that only one varsity athlete got a Lawn Room, because
sports are such a time commitment, much less a two-sport athlete—”

“Don't do that,” he grunts. “I don't want your pity.”

“It's not pity, it's facts.”

“I was born with everything, I have no excuse for not
achieving my all of goals.”

“Where did you hear that? It sounds like—” I break off,
feeling him stiffen under my touch. I was going to say
his father
but I can
tell he doesn't want me to go there. “You're just really hard on yourself,
that's all,” I say instead. I gently dab some Neosporin onto the cuts.

“I know what everyone sees when they look at me,” he replies
quietly. “Entitled…born with a silver spoon in my mouth…I work as hard as I do
so that no one can say I succeed because of my family's wealth.”

I frown. That's half of the equation I think, but it seems
like he doesn't see how hard his father pushes him.

“I got a little bit of that at work the other day,” I say,
wondering if it's OK to broach the topic of the internship he wanted. I take a
dry piece of gauze and cover his palm with it before picking up the tape and
beginning to wrap it around his hand. “When they found out I was Pierce's
stepdaughter, I mean. Feels weird.”

“Your first experience of nepotism?”

“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Actually, my mom once got me a
part-time job as the receptionist at the salon where she used to work, so I
guess that's not true.”

“Where does your dad work?”

“No idea. Probably a repair shop somewhere. He's a mechanic,
or he was. Last time we heard from him was several years ago. He was in Florida
then, but he never stays in one place very long.”

“So you're the first in your family to go to college,” he
observes, as I finish taping one hand and move to the other.

“Yep.”

“Is that why you're so serious?”

“Am I?” I ask, my eyes moving up to his.

“Serious isn't the right word…distant, maybe.”

“Distant? That's worse,” I reply, feeling a little hurt.

“I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just trying to figure you
out. We were really in class together? Which one?”

“There were three. The first was this American History
survey class freshman year.”

“Professor Michaels?”

“Yeah. I always sat behind you, though. I'm not surprised
you didn't see me,” I say, pressing down slightly as I finish wrapping his
hands.

“I am,” he replies. I glance up sharply, but his eyes aren't
focused on my face. They're looking at my body, which I now realize is quite
exposed in my thin, white cotton nightie. I completely forgot I was wearing it.
There's a moment of silence, and I suddenly become very aware of every inch of
myself, and every inch of him. His smell of sweat, beads of it still dripping
forward down his chest, through a smattering of hair between his nipples.
Allison's face appears in my mind, and I'm reminded of what she said.

“I'm done.”

“What?” he says, his eyes pulling up to mine.

“With your hands. I'm done.”

“Right.”

I grab a glass from the cabinet and pour him some water from
the faucet. “Here, you felt dizzy because you’re dehydrated.”

“Thanks,” he says. He reaches for the glass with his left
hand, which is closer, and then pauses and takes it awkwardly with his right.

“What was that?” I ask, frowning.

“What?”

“Let me see your left arm,” I reply, reaching for him, but
he pulls back.

“No, no, it's nothing.”

“What is?”

“My shoulder. It's just a little tendonitis.”

“Oh really? Did a doctor tell you that?”

“Not exactly.”

“WebMD?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. He shrugs, then winces.
“You need to take better care of yourself. You can't keep pushing yourself so
hard.” He frowns, and doesn't respond. “Well, at least take some Tylenol for
the pain,” I add as I pour two pills into my hand and begin to repack the first
aid kit with the other.

“That's OK.”

I tilt my head at him. “Pain isn't going to make you heal
any faster,” I point out.

“Fine,” he says with a little smile. I blush as his
fingertips scrape my palm as he takes the pills.

“Well. I think I'm going back to bed. I'm supposed to check
out some of the Smithsonian museums later, so…” I trail off, feeling awkward
now.

“OK, see you later,” he says, turning toward the back door.
I pause for a moment, then head back toward the staircase. Just like that, the
one real conversation that my stepbrother and I have ever had is over. I could
practically feel him closing back up at the end there. I climb the steps and
shut my bedroom door behind me. I feel more confused now than ever about our
relationship. I didn't think it could get any weirder after that peep show I
gave him, but somehow this candid glimpse of him makes things even more
complicated.

I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep, but when my
alarm goes off at ten, I'm still wide awake.

CHAPTER NINE

The humidity is really starting to thicken by the middle of
June, and it’s a wonder that I haven’t taken advantage of our pool yet. The
only swimsuit I have is an old athletic one-piece, and I pull it on reluctantly
in my bedroom. My mom keeps asking me if I want to go shopping, but I haven't
taken her up on it yet. All her new clothes look wonderful but I think I'd feel
uncomfortable spending so much money on myself.

I head down the hallway and almost bump into Nate as he
leaves his bedroom. I reflexively cross my hands over my chest, even though I
know he's seen me in less.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he replies. It's the same conversation we've had ever
since I saw him in the kitchen that morning. We quickly slipped into polite,
but formal, interactions with each other afterward. If I had to choose between
this and the mind games we started out with, I might choose the mind games.

The doorbell rings and I start to move past him to answer
it.

“It's OK I’ll get it. It's my friend Jackson.” He walks down
the hallway toward the stairs.

I follow after him, and turn toward the backyard once we're
in the foyer. I hear his friend walk in just as I exit the French doors.
There's a chest set against the house with the outdoor towels in it, so I grab
one and set it on a chair.

The area around the pool it is paved with light stones
before it turns into grass, and lounge chairs and a table with an umbrella are
carefully set around it. I turn to the pool and step gingerly onto the first
step in the shallow end. It's nice—warm, but still refreshing in the hot summer
day. I step down the rest of the way until the water circles around my stomach,
and then dive forward. I swim to the other end, where the water gets darker and
deeper, then push off and glide onto my back. I open my eyes as I push the
water past me with my hands and look up toward the house rising against the sun
on my left.

A flash of movement in the second floor window grabs my
attention. There's a figure moving there, pulling a curtain aside. At first I
think it's Nate—it's his room, I think—but then I catch a glimpse of blonde
hair. Must be his friend Jackson. I turn onto my stomach and dive back under
the water. I want Nate to be the one watching me.

I was never much into sports, but I’ve always wondered if
I'd be any good at them. I push harder for the last couple laps and finally
pull my head up at the shallow end, gasping for breath. I take the steps back
out of the pool and walk around to my towel and dry off my hair, then drape it
onto the chair and lay down on it. I can feel the suit clinging to my torso,
and water sitting in my belly button. I hear the door to the house open behind
me and shield my eyes from the sun as I turn around to see who it is.

Jackson bounds out of the door, his face spread in a genial
grin. “Hey, you must be Brynn. I'm Jackson, one of Nate's oldest friends.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say as we shake hands. I notice Nate
lagging behind, standing just outside the door and looking reluctant to put
another foot toward the pool.

“Come on, man, let's get in. I've been dreaming about this
pool for days.”

“We shouldn’t bother her, she likes to be alone,” Nate says
reluctantly. Jackson pulls off his shirt, and I look down at my interlaced
fingers in my lap. He's got a great body. Maybe not as good as Nate's, but
whose is? Jackson kicks off his flip-flops and jumps in, his splash narrowly
missing me. Nate slowly walks toward the chair furthest from me, and takes off
his shirt. I watch his back muscles tense as he lifts it off his head.

“Nate and I grew up playing lacrosse together,” Jackson
says, swimming to the edge of the pool and leaning his elbows onto the deck in
front of me.

“Hm? Oh,” I reply, as Nate dives in the deep end.

“So you guys go to school together?”

“Yup. UVA—I mean, of course you knew that.”

“Which sorority are you in?” he asks, pushing his wet hair
out of his eyes.

“I'm not. It's expensive, and I'm already pretty busy with
work. Um, where do you go?”

Nate pops up next to Jackson. They make quite a pair, Nate
with his dark eyes and Jackson with his light blonde locks.

“You wanna get some food now?” Nate asks.

“Dude we just got here. Besides, you're not supposed to eat
for thirty minutes after you swim.”

“Before,” Nate and I both chime in. We glance at each other
as he continues. “You're not supposed to eat for thirty minutes
before.
Why wouldn't it be OK to eat after you swim?”

“I dunno,” Jackson replies, flashing me a blindingly white
smile. “Just thought that was the rule.” I find myself smiling back at him. He
has a boyish charm that's infectious.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a myth adults made up so they’d have
time to eat their own lunch without the kids swimming unsupervised.” I smile.

“Ah that makes more sense. You grow up around here?” he asks
me.

“Yeah, on the Eastern shore.”

“Oh, sweet. My family has a vacation house there. I love
going out there. Sailing in the bay and everything. You go sailing a lot?”

“Um, not really,” I reply. Nate kicks off the wall and
begins to swim back and forth behind Jackson. I guess he's decided not to take
it easy on his injured shoulder.

“We should go some time. Maybe not with him,” he replies,
nodding behind him. “Too competitive.”

“He is, isn't he?” It feels nice to be able to talk about
Nate with someone who knows him. And who will gossip. “Was he always like
that?”

“Oh man, always. We're like, ten years old, playing lacrosse
on our school team, and coach was constantly having to pull him back during
practice 'cause he was always going full out, full contact.”

He and I laugh together. I notice Nate pause in his stroke,
but I can't imagine he can hear us.

“Do you still play lacrosse?”

“Naw, I don't really have the discipline to keep up with it.
I was good in high school, but you have to be great to cut it in college. What
sport do you play?”

“Oh, none.”

“Really? You look like you're so in shape.”

“Oh, thanks,” I reply, managing to only blush a bit. From
anyone else it would have seemed like a ham-fisted compliment, but Jackson has
such a natural, easygoing way about him.

“You going to this party in Georgetown tonight?” he asks,
dunking his head briefly underneath the water, then shaking off his hair like a
dog.

“What party?”

“Oh, I figured Nate told you.”

“Told her what?” Nate asks, appearing next to him.

“'Bout Chris's party,” Jackson replies nonchalantly. Nate's
jaw muscles twitch.

“Hadn't mentioned it,” he replies shortly.

“Well, you should come,” Jackson says, turning back to me.

“She's not going to know anyone, and I think it's just gonna
be a small thing,” Nate says.

“Dude, Chris said to invite anyone. They've got the whole
townhouse. It's gonna be great.”

“I just—” Nate begins, as I bite my lip. Here I thought we
were maybe getting along better, despite the awkwardness, and now he's going
out of his way to exclude me.

“If you're worried about being a third wheel, just invite
Dana or someone,” Jackson says, though even when he's arguing, he doesn’t seem
to have a care in the world. “So, what do you think?” he asks me.

“Sounds great, actually,” I say, glancing at Nate, feeling a
bit gratified as he glares at me. It feels good to spite him a little, since he
so clearly doesn't want me to go.

“Awesome. Tonight then. We can go together—I'll pick you
guys up around ten,” Jackson says, before jumping on top of Nate and trying to
wrestle him under the water.

I close my eyes as they disappear. For the first time in a
while, I wish I had something cute to wear.