Step Brother: Off Limits Read online

  STEP BROTHER

  Off Limits

  by

  JAYNA KING

  Step Brother: Part 1

  Step Brother: Off Limits. 1st Edition

  Copyright © 2015 Jayna King

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously.

  All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Table of Contents

  1 -- Reed

  2 -- Tatum

  3 -- Reed

  4 -- Tatum

  5 -- Reed

  6 -- Tatum

  7 -- Reed

  8 -- Tatum

  9 -- Reed

  10 -- Tatum

  11 -- Reed

  12 -- Tatum

  13 -- Reed

  14 -- Tatum

  Coming April 2015...

  More

  1 -- Reed

  “And she was gone. She left the table, and by the time I managed to get away from the reporters, she’d taken a cab back to the house, grabbed her suitcase, and headed for the airport.” I took a drink of my Campari and soda. “I called, texted, even emailed her. She won’t talk to me.”

  My father adjusted his hat to keep the strong Mediterranean sun from his face. “Well, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be, Reed. You can’t let a piece of tail get ya all worked up. Sometimes relationships are best kept brief and hot.” He waved toward the broad expanse of beach beyond our terrace. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, my boy. Trust me, I would know.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Yeah, but you’re settled down now. You found the woman you want to be with, and I can’t help but think Tatum was the one for me.”

  “Reed, you’re young. You’re successful, and you’ve had your pick of some of the hottest fuckin’ women I’ve ever seen in the last month, but you’ve walked away from every one of them. You’ve gotta get back in the game, and you’ll forget that girl in no time, I promise you. You don’t wanna look back and regret having missed out on premium ass, man.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with him. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Stretching my arms overhead, I decided I’d been enough of a pussy. “Gordon, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Wondered when you’d get around to it.” Gordon Gentry was always cool.

  “So I get that you were married when you slept with Mom, and I get that you didn’t want to break your marriage up, especially since your wife was pregnant too.”

  My father’s gaze didn’t leave the beach. “That’s right.”

  I paused, not sure exactly how to ask the questions that had been plaguing me. I liked Gordon—genuinely liked him. In fact, everyone he met was pulled into orbit around the charismatic, charming man who was my father—the father I’d never known until recently.

  “Spit it out, Reed,” he said, turning to look at me. “You have something on your mind. Lay it on me.”

  “Did you never wonder about me? Think about your other son?”

  Gordon removed his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes as if he were tired. “Of course I did.”

  “Then why didn’t you ever try to contact me?”

  “Reed, I was a horrible person when I was younger. I was selfish, spoiled, and I used people up like they meant nothing to me. I was a terrible father, and I was a terrible husband. You have every right to resent me.”

  It was hard to stay angry at a man who was so clearly sorry for what he’d done. “I don’t resent you.”

  “I think you do a little, and that’s okay. You grew up struggling with a single mother and believing your father didn’t want anything to do with you. To be honest, in my lucid moments, I felt really guilty over not having been a part of your life.”

  “Well, then why didn’t you come find me?”

  “There’s a solution for guilt that’s much easier than facing the things you’ve fucked up. I used booze and drugs and fame to fill my days, to keep me from feeling like such a shit.”

  As much time as I’d spent with my father when I’d first gone to meet him in London, and even now—after having spent a month with him—we still hadn’t really talked much about the past.

  “I guess it sort of runs in the family,” I said, thinking about the ways in which I’d thrown away some of the years of my youth. “I spent a lot of time fueled by anger and alcohol, too. I haven’t always been the kind of man I’m proud of.”

  Gordon returned his gaze to the beach. “You seem pretty successful and healthy now.”

  “Only because I lied to myself. I tried to believe I didn’t care about the father who’d never bothered to even meet me—not even once.”

  He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “Reed, hurting you is my biggest regret in life, and believe me—I have many.”

  I squared my shoulders and sat up straighter. “I’m over it. I straightened my life out. I quit drinking too much, and I take much better care of myself.”

  Gordon’s voice was low, and I could barely hear him. “If you were over it, you wouldn’t have brought it up. I’m not a rocket scientist, but even I know that.”

  I stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace, unwilling to admit he was right. I’d spent so long being strong, being tough when my mother wasn’t capable of taking care of me and when I’d had to crawl out of the life of drugs, alcohol, and petty crime I’d dug myself into. I didn’t want to admit I hurt because my father hadn’t cared about me.

  “Reed, it’s okay to be angry at me. You deserved better. You deserved a father who would have been there for you—played catch with you, gone to your school concerts and supported you and shit.”

  I turned to look at him. “God, you have no idea, do you? I didn’t have school concerts, Gordon. I was lucky if I had lunch money most days. Do you realize there were mornings when I got on the bus before Mom had come home from partying the night before?”

  Gordon closed his eyes and looked pale. “I didn’t know it was that bad, Reed. I’m so sorry.”

  “You know, I thought it was cool when she let me and my friends drink beer in middle school. Now I realize what a completely shitty mother she was. She had no business taking care of a child. She couldn’t even take care of herself.” I could see a tear at the corner of Gordon’s eye. “You have no idea what it was like because you didn’t care enough to find out.”

  “You’re right. I was selfish, and you suffered for it.”

  I turned back to face the beach, and we let silence blanket the terrace, both of us mired in our own thoughts.

  Gordon finally spoke. “Why didn’t you say something about how you felt when we met in London?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was just overwhelmed by meeting you—the huge estate, the happy new family, the money, the fame. I wanted to know you, and I was afraid of what you’d say if I brought up the past. I guess I was being a pussy, not being honest with you about everything that bothered me.”

  Gordon stood up and crossed the terrace toward me. “Reed, I can’t take back my shitty behavior in the past. I hurt a lot of people, and hurting you the way I did is my biggest regret. I can’t change that, but I would like a chance to try to make it up to you. I wasn’t a father to you when I should have been, but I would like to be a friend to you now.”

  I looked him in the eye, and even though we were outside, I felt like I needed some space, some time to myself to sort my feelings out. “I’m going to the market. You need anything?”

  “I think Laura picked up everything we needed. I’m going to con
tinue to stare at these beautiful tits on display,” he said, resuming his seat and leaning back in his chair, letting his gaze wander across the beach. “I’ll be here for you when you get back, Reed. I meant what I said. I want to make up for the hurt you felt.”

  Shaking my head and not entirely sure what I felt, I headed inside to the cool, dark, stone-floored house Dad and his wife, Laura, had rented for the month. It was completely obvious that my dad adored his wife and my much younger brother, but I knew he’d spent years sleeping with the hordes of women who’d have sold their souls to bang a rich and famous rock star. Though he still enjoyed looking at women, it was obvious he’d learned a lot about staying married.

  I shrugged into a white linen shirt and ran my fingers through my dark hair, noting how long it had grown since I’d been in France with my dad, and I shoved a few euros into my pocket. I didn’t really need anything from the store, but I thought I might send Tatum a postcard from the little tobacco shop on the corner, and I wanted to pick up some more red wine. I knew I was drinking more than I should, but I couldn’t quite work up the energy to care. Mostly, I just needed some space.

  I missed Tatum, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I was tied up in knots about my father, and I didn’t know what to do about that either.

  I slid on my sunglasses as I headed back out into the bright sunshine, and headed down the narrow road that led to the two shops in the little seaside village we were visiting. Deciding not to overthink the decision, I picked up the first postcard I saw with a view of the coastline, borrowed a pen from the surly old woman behind the counter, and stared at the blank space.

  Wish you were here, I scrawled, handing enough coins to the woman to cover the card and the stamp. I dropped the postcard into the mail slot and decided I was thirsty. Again. I crossed the street to the little cafe, checked the time to make sure they hadn’t closed between lunch and dinner, and discovered I had roughly twenty minutes left to get a beer. I would never get used to the fact that it was absolutely, completely impossible to get a bite to eat in the afternoon since the village’s three restaurants all closed between meals. That simply didn’t happen in the US, especially not in Las Vegas.

  Taking a seat at the wrought iron chain at the corner of the cafe’s terrace, I used practically my entire French vocabulary to ask for a beer. A month in, and I could still only ask for a beer, red wine, and the bathroom—at least I had the essentials covered. I sipped the strong Belgian brew and thought about my predicament. I knew most guys would have sold their mothers to be where I was—staying rent free in a vacation home funded by my father, gorgeous—and sometimes topless—women everywhere I looked. I’d scheduled myself out of the tattoo studio, so I was free and clear for another month if I needed to be. I knew Marla could handle the shop, and I’d worked fourteen-hour days in the weeks before I left so I could take care of my regular customers.

  When I wasn’t thinking about my father, all I could think about was Tatum. I thought about her when I woke up, remembering the few perfect nights I’d spent with her—remembering the feel of her skin, thinking about how perfectly our bodies fit together. She was smart, successful, sexy … everything I’d ever wanted, and more than I probably deserved. She felt the same attraction I did, and I knew she wanted me as badly as I did her. The only trouble? She wouldn’t speak to me.

  And she had good reason.

  The waiter, Marc, slid into the seat across from me, exhaling one of the nasty French cigarettes he was seldom without. “So, my American friend, what can you possibly have to look so unhappy about? Is the sun not shining? Is the beer no good?”

  Marc fancied himself a philosopher, and I wasn’t really in the mood for his ramblings.

  “Girl trouble.”

  “Ah,” he replied with a knowing expression, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Did Marie finally catch you and break your heart? It is a rite of passage for all the men in the village.”

  I laughed. “No. It’s not Marie. It’s a girl back home.”

  “You never told me you had a girl back home. Why is she not with you, enjoying our picturesque little village?”

  I drained the beer glass. “That, my French friend, is a long story. The short answer is that she’s not speaking to me.”

  Marc laughed and crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I think I know the English word for this. You are fucked, Reed. That’s how you’d say it, right?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh with him, shaking my head. “That’s right. I’m fucked. Completely.”

  He stood up, collected my glass, and pushed his chair in beneath the table. “Closing time, my friend. But remember this—if she is truly yours, love will find a way. It always does.”

  I left the cafe, letting Marc straighten the terrace so he could go do whatever French people did when their businesses closed up mid-afternoon. So my father told me to move on, and Marc told me it would all work out. The truth was no one knew a goddamned thing about love, other than the fact that everyone wanted it, and no one knew how to make sense of it. Not particularly helpful.

  Walking into the little market, I picked up a basket, planning to get half a dozen bottles of wine—enough for a couple of days, at least. I stared at the selection—all inexpensive and all delicious, at least the ones I’d tried. I didn’t know a thing about wine, except for the fact that I liked what I was drinking in France more than anything I’d ever had at home. I studied the labels, even though I could only make out a word or two. Remembering that Laura liked white wine, I stacked a couple of bottles on top of the four I’d laid in the bottom of the basket.

  “Sauternes. My favorite dessert wine.”

  I knew the voice before I turned around. The French accent strong, the voice as sultry as the climate, I knew Marie was the source of the wine commentary. “Bonjour, Marie,” I said, using my extensive French vocabulary. I straightened, leaving the basket on the floor, one of the bottles of my recent selection still in hand. “This is sweet?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she purred. “Sauternes is sweet, rich, and a sensual delight, especially with some foie gras.”

  Marie was trouble with a capital T. She never seemed dressed up, but she was always perfectly put together, petite, elegant, and stylish, from the careless twist of her hair up in a messy knot, to the full skirt that didn’t quite conceal her knees. She was beautiful, and she knew it.

  “I was looking for a dry white. Guess I’ll put these back.”

  “Oh, if you’ve never had Sauternes, it’s an experience you should have … at least once in your life.”

  “I don’t really drink white wine,” I told her, picking up a paler colored white that I recognized as one Laura had enjoyed.

  “What a pity. I thought you might join me for a glass of wine this evening around six o’clock. We can watch the fishing boats return to the village, and you can tell me all about Las Vegas.”

  Her eyes sparkled with the prospect of hearing about Sin City, and her fresh-faced, tangible sensuality was just more than I could resist. I couldn’t wait for Tatum forever. At some point, I needed to move on.

  “You’re on. I’ll meet you for a glass of wine.”

  “If you like, we could even have dinner,” she said, not the least bit concerned about being too forward.

  I’d been so caught up in all the angst over Tatum, I realized the prospect of simply having dinner and conversation with a beautiful woman sounded like heaven. “Dinner sounds wonderful. I’ll see you at six.”

  Marie stood on her tiptoes and kissed both my cheeks. “Until then,” she said, spinning on her heel and treating me to a mesmerizing view of her swishing skirt as she left the store empty-handed. Beautiful, French, single, and interested. That was all I needed, at least for a few hours. I resolved to forget Tatum and enjoy the evening with Marie.

  As I walked back to the house, I wondered what Tatum was doing right that minute. I did the math on the time difference and figured she was either at the gym or perhaps getting re
ady for work. The thought of her sweaty and tired at the gym didn’t help me in my desire to forget about her for a little while. The thought of her in the shower didn’t help much either. I wondered how her new job was going—if she’d started dating someone from her work, if she was working on any interesting cases. I hoped the pictures of the two of us in the rental car in Tahoe hadn’t caused her any problems at work, and I wished I could have been there to help her manage the fallout and deal with the inevitable questions our parents would have asked her.

  I wanted to be there with her, but she wouldn’t let me. She’d completely shut me out, and I was tired of calling, only to get her voicemail. I’d tried. I really had. Short of physically following her around, there really wasn’t much more I could have done, and at some point, I was going to have to move on.

  That was going to happen tonight. I was moving on with Marie. I didn’t expect her to be the love of my life, but I knew I could have a good time with her. I was ready for a little fun.

  I begged off dinner with my dad, showered, drank a glass of wine, and headed down to the little cafe right on the beach. I’d thrown on broken-in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. Every time I went out, my tattoos got a lot of attention, and I figured I might as well capitalize on what made me different from all the other guys in the village. I’d picked up lot of color at the beach, and I knew I looked good. I suspected Marie would agree.

  She was waiting at the best table on the terrace, right at the corner, with a perfect view of the small fishing boats coming back to shore, fishermen folding nets and weighing their catches. I bent to kiss both her cheeks, and I could smell the slightest hint of musky perfume that made me wonder what she wore beneath the sheer white cotton dress. She smelled like sex, and she looked like perfection.