Burned A Bad Boy Romance - Teagan Kade

Burned: A Stepbrother Romance

Teagan Kade

*****

Published by Teagan Kade Copyright © 2015 by Teagan Kade

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in t his work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Contents CHAPTER ONE .............................................................................................................................. 4 CHAPTER TWO ............................................................................................................................. 9 CHAPTER THREE ......................................................................................................................... 14 CHAPTER FOUR .......................................................................................................................... 24 CHAPTER FIVE ............................................................................................................................ 28 CHAPTER SIX .............................................................................................................................. 36 CHAPTER SEVEN ......................................................................................................................... 43 CHAPTER EIGHT ......................................................................................................................... 47 CHAPTER NINE ........................................................................................................................... 58 CHAPTER TEN ............................................................................................................................. 62 CHAPTER ELEVEN ....................................................................................................................... 67 CHAPTER TWELVE ...................................................................................................................... 79 CHAPTER THIRTEEN .................................................................................................................... 84 CHAPTER FOURTEEN .................................................................................................................. 90 CHAPTER FIFTEEN ...................................................................................................................... 96 CHAPTER SIXTEEN .................................................................................................................... 100 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ............................................................................................................... 109 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ................................................................................................................. 114 CHAPTER NINETEEN ................................................................................................................. 118 CHAPTER TWENTY .................................................................................................................... 126 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ............................................................................................................ 129

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CHAPTER ONE I slam my hand down on the bonnet of the car. “What the fuck, pal?!” It’s dark and the car is barely more than a silhouette, but I’m already getting the sinking feeling I’ve seen it before. I squint my eyes (the precise opposite of what you should do if you want to see better in the dark), and yep, it’s him alright—my prick of a stepbrother, the one and only Brock. The asshole actually has the nerve to give me a little wave before continuing to drive on, forcing me out of the way. I’m left standing in the middle of the road with my nerves on end and the handle of the grocery bag biting into my fingers. Fucker. I walk around the corner to home. His car’s parked there in the driveway. Great. It’s been what? Two, three years since he was around? It’s been a peaceful two or three years. Guess he’s not dead after all. I come crashing into the living room of the main house and sling the groceries onto the bench. Brock’s on the other side with beer in hand. “Hey, Maddy. Long time no see. You look good.” I roll my eyes. “You almost ran me over with that piece of shit, you know.” “It’s a 1969 Camaro, a classic,” my dad corrects, my stepmother knitting idly beside him on the couch. She obviously doesn’t seem too excited by the whole return-of-the-prodigalson thing. Even I was starting to think he might show up in a body bag rather than that cursed black beast of his. “Mom didn’t tell you I was coming home?” He’s smiling at me, that leery, cockeyed grin of his all the girls in high school used to go loopy over. No, she did not, not that my stepmother often clues me in on family going-ons. We’ve always had a nice, respectful relationship like that. No need or no fuss fo r anything else. No need for information. I cross my arms in front of myself. “Why are you even here?” He throws his hands up. “Whoa, hostile much? Nice to see you too, you know.”

My stepmother, Michelle, speaks up with the obvious. “Brock’s back in the neighborhood for a little while.” It’s now I realize they’ve spoken very recently, come to some sort of arrangement I am clearly no part of. Brock’s short on money, lost his place… whatever the excuse is. And here he is looking for a handout so he can blow it on cars and girls and whatever vice is in at the moment. I sigh. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.” I start to make my way to the back door and the granny flat down back I call home when there’s a rapid-fire “Maddy” from my father. I spin around and can read him like a book. It’s the face of ‘Hate to tell you this, but…’ He sighs before speaking knowing this isn’t going to go down well. “You’re going to have to clear that second room out down there, hon.” “Why?” It hits me like a blunt hammer to the head. I look to Brock and he just grins on back. “Oh hell no.” * I’m still seething my Dad and Michelle have concocted this rescue scheme for my wayward stepbrother behind my back. We’re both twenty-one. Why should I be forced to suffer because he can’t get his shit together? The flat is my place, my sanctuary. I don’t want him greasing it up with all his car parts and stripper friends. I’m thinking so hard on a way to get him out my head hurts. I shouldn’t even be living at home any more. I should have an apartment of my own, a trendy girlfriend to share gossip with, but the academy wasn’t cheap. Nothing in this country seems to be these days. “Collins, you with us?” I stand up a little straighter, uniform starchy. “Sorry, sir.” The captain continues on, surveying the other officers. “You’ve been called here because you’re some of the brightest officers in the force. You can think outside the box, and that’s just what we need for this special case. “Case, sir?” queries Lewis, a hard-boiled forty-something with hair the color of a copper bell. Poor guy.

The captain nods. I can smell his coffee breath from here. “Nothing about this is to leave the room. Am I understood?” We all nod, the excitement growing this might be a way out of general duties, from having to herd drunken idiots downtown. The captain picks up a remote, the screen on the wall coming to life. It shows the latest haul from the DEA, bricks and bricks of the stuff. Lego ice, AKA methamphetamine. The captain points his finger at the screen. “Street value of forty-million Yankee dollars and right on our doorstep. This is just the tip of the iceberg, pardon the pun. This shit was going to fuck up a lot of lives and it’s got to stop. But you want to know what the clincher is, the real head-fuck?” I’m almost about to reply when I realize it’s a rhetorical question. “This shit being brought in isn’t being distributed by the cartels or the MC boys. No, this is all street racers, my friends. Welcome to the fast and the fucked.” The girl next to me cracks up. “Like the movies?” The captain approaches her, laughing quietly to himself. “This is nothing like the movies, Turner. Vin Diesel isn’t going to show up and save the day. He’s not going to go down on you. You’re not going to blow Paul Walker, but I do need someone to go undercover.” He paces back to the screen. “Don’t be fooled either. It might seem like all these guys care about is cars and looking pretty in them, but they’re deep, deep into the dark scum of this city. They’re shit-peddlers like everyone else and getting real good at it. If we don’t stop them now we’re lining ourselves up for an ass-fucking of Jurassic proportions. Forget lube. Forget foreplay. We are fucked. So, who’s in?” I’ve been waiting for this moment, this opportunity for months. I desperately want to make my mark, to show I’ve got what it takes to make it in the cops and finally prove my folks wrong. The competitive streak comes out in me straight away, my hand shooting to the roof so fast my arm almost pops free. “I’ll do it, sir.” “Collins? A little keen, aren’t we?” “I can do it, sir, I promise. I won’t let you down.” “You don’t even know what is that needs doing yet.” “Doesn’t matter.”

The captain rolls his eyes and pans around the room. “There’s only one spot here, folks. Anyone else?” I’m surprised no one else is leaping at this chance, but they’ve all got their heads down or eyes focused on a growing bubble inside the water cooler. “Sold,” says the captain. “Collins, hang here. The rest of you are dismissed, and if I find a single word about this op leaked you can all consider yourselves on litter duty for the next six months. When the room’s cleared, the captain approaches me, the insta-coffee leaking from his pores. He hands over a folder. I flip it open and stop dead. My jaw drops—literally. “What is it, Collins?” I’m looking at Brock, at a glossy black-and-white of his high cheekbones and pantydropper features, hair swept back in a perfect wave. “It’s, uh-” I stumble. The captain jams his finger into the photo. “This prick. He’s your in. Find an angle, gain his trust and gather intel. I’ll be running point on this one personally, fat wallet, whatever you need.” How can they not know we’re related, or do they? Brock has always kept my stepmother’s name, hasn’t even been around for years. Since that night I’ve tried my best to forget him, done everything in my power to disconnect us, but here he is infiltrating every area of my life again. I’m about to claw my way out of this, confess we’re family, when the captain dips his head and looks up into my face. “I want someone who’s on their game, Collins, not a fucking mute. Can you handle this?” And it’s now I know I cannot let the captain down. This could make my career, my future, and it would save a lot of lives. If Brock really is involved in all this, and it’s very likely, am I not in the best possible position to keep an eye on him? But if he’s done, he’ll go away for a long time. Good, I muse. Surely they know we have a connection, but then again I remind myself this is the police, the kind of institution where one hand’s not always communicating with the other. It could have slipped by, easy as that.

My spine stiffens and I raise my head. I snap the folder closed. “I’m in, captain. I’m your man.” The captain looks down to my cleavage. “Hardly, but put those puppies to use and you might just get somewhere.” He starts to walk to the door, continuing to speak. “Full briefing in an hour.” Just before he reaches the door, he spins around. “Oh, and Collins?” A push a kind of semi-smile onto my face. “Yes, sir.” “Just one more thing.”

CHAPTER TWO It’s almost dark when I get back home, the clouds smoky cigars above. I’m still thinking over the captain’s final words. I should have confessed right then and there, saved myself the future drama. I’m walking down to the granny flat when a girl in short short-shorts passes me, shirt tied under her tits like a Dixie Chick reject. She gives me a little wave. “Hi.” Brock, you fucker. I storm in to find him, shirt off, sitting on my couch with my bowl and my spoon and my Cheerios all over the bench. He looks like he’s sixteen. I can probably expect to find a semen-stained tube sock under his pillow. Dixie Chick probably saw to that end of things already. ‘Ew,’ my internal Disgust replies. I throw my bag down and he finally looks up as if everything is well in the world. I kick his feet off the coffee table. “What the hell are you doing?” “Relaxing. What does it look like?” “It looks like you’re eating my Cheerios and kicking back after running through ol’ Duke Of Hazzard I passed on the driveway.” He waves his hand in the air like he’s trying to clear a smell. “Linda? She’s just a friend.” “Well, you’re not allowed any,” I put my fingers up in inverted commas, “‘friends’ here, okay?” “Says who?” I give him ‘the look.’ “Fine, fine,” he mutters, but my temperature continues to rise. “If you’re going to stay down here, there are going to be rules.” He laughs, like I am the ridiculous one. “Rules? What is this? Junior High?” “You’re a child, so it makes perfect sense.” “I am no such thing. I am an educated man of the world.” I almost step out of my skin in shock. “Educated?! Man of the world? Give me a fucking break.”

I can’t help but notice through the red mist of my anger he’s actually looking pretty good, tessellated abs, bulging biceps. Had plenty of time for it in prison or wherever the fuck he was probably. I tick my fingers off. “One, no visitors.” “Understood.” “Two, you want to eat something, you buy it yourself.” He nods. “I can live with that.” “This isn’t a negotiation, Brock.” He puts his hands up. “Continue.” “Three,” I huff, “under no circumstances are you to enter my room or the bathroom when I am inside.” “There’s only one bathroom in the flat.” “I know. If I’m in there, you can wait.” His eyes grow a little more defined, the quiet growing between us and something cooling. It’s a touchy subject, that of personal space between us, and he knows it. He puts his hand on his heart in a gesture that’s actually quite sincere. “You have my word, Maddy.” He stands, his jeans loose and a trail of hair running into the dark domain below. For a millisecond I think of what he’s hiding in there, actually picture his dick, and then I’m back. “Now, I have work to do.” I stomp my foot once, turn and march away. There’s a resigned flutter of syllables from my errant stepbrother, but I’m not in the mood to listen. I’ve already closed the door to my room and pressed myself against the back of it, a hot and certainly unwelcome tingle spreading from a tender spot between my legs that hasn’t seen life since Attila The Hun roamed the earth. I start an internal dialogue. Did you just stomp your foot, Maddy? So? That’s very childish.

Shut up, Inner Voice. Shouldn’t you be cleaning up my memories or something? They sure as fuck could do with a good scrub-down. * Brock’s nowhere to be seen when I get up for work the next morning. I come into the living room and kitchen, unlock the doors as always. See, I have a bad habit of sleep-walking. I’m talking zombie-grade bullshit. If I don’t keep these doors locked I could happily walk my way to Chicago. I brew a coffee of nuclear proportions. I’m officially on the job now. He is my job, to be precise, but I’ve still got to go into the office and make appearances at least during the day when all these street racer teeny-bopper boys are sleeping or jerking off over their precious cars. It’s a glaringly bright day outside, the kind that turns the sky to glass. I make my way up past the main house to my weapon of choice parked against the curb—Champers, my 1995 champagne-colored Hyundai Excel with about as much muscle as a lawnmower. But Champers has served me well. He doesn’t get clingy. He doesn’t whine and leave his clothes around… just a bit of oil every now and then. He’s dependable, or at least he was. Champers decides today of all days is the day to pack it in. I turn the key over and over expecting by some voodoo magic Champers will kick into life, but nothing. Fuck. Fuckedy fuck fuck. I rush to the main house, hand raised to knock on the door when I remem ber no-one’s home. Dad and Michelle are staying in the city for their wedding anniversary. I look at my watch, Mickey Mouse’s spindly arms telling me I’m very fucking late. There’s only one thing to do. I look up to the heavens, asking, “Why?” I knock twice on the door to Brock’s room, but there’s no response. “I’m coming in,” I announce, and open the door. It’s quite amazing how in just one day Brock has managed to turn the room completely upside down with refuse and clothes and all kinds of icky boy things. He really is a teenager. Worse, he’s sleeping commando, lying stomach down and the sheets only

halfway up his white whale of an ass. It’s actually kind of adorable. There’s a large tat across his back I’ve never seen before. It reads ‘Midnight.’ I clear my voice. “Brock?” When that has no effect, I kick the bed. He rolls over, the sheets sliding away and yep, everything on show. I look away, staring as hard as I can at a poster of a kitten in a pot I’ve had since I was six. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” comes his husky voice. “My car won’t start.” “I see.” The prick’s really going to make me beg for it. “I thought maybe you could take a look at it.” “What was it you called me last night? A child? I don’t think a child would have the necessary mental capacity to fix a car.” “Cut the bullshit. Can you help or not?” I can hear him lifting himself out of bed, a belt jangling around. “Fine, fine.” He brushes past me on his way out, still with no shirt. Maybe he doesn’t own any. “Enjoy the show?” he smirks, cupping his package. “Crayons aren’t really my style.” “I’ve forgotten how funny you are.” What’s under the bonnet of a car is a complete mystery to me. He tries, but Dad’s no better. But Brock’s dad? A different story. He used to be a NASCAR driver back in the day, a successful one too, but the fame did him in. Before long he was hooked on heroin. He cut his wrists having written just one letter on a Post-It. It was a ‘B.’ Naturally, Brock’s never been big on talking about his father. It’s a touchy subject, but one night he opened up to me over a bottle of dirty tequila (never again). We took turns taking shots, each time delving deeper and deeper into each other’s past, our crushes, our fears. For a couple of teenagers it was some serious D&M action. That was the start of the connection, a connection that has long since been lost. Brock slams the hood back down. “Try it now.” I swing into the driver’s seat and whaddyaknow, success. “Thanks.”

He wipes his hands on his jeans. “No problem, but I’m afraid this means you owe me.” “Owe you?” “Sure.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just strolls away. My cell goes off. I pick it up thinking it’s the captain wondering where the hell I am. It’s Michelle. She sounds off. “Everything okay?” I query. “It’s your dad, Maddy.”

CHAPTER THREE “Peter Collins?” I throw at a nurse. “Room 202.” I swing into the room with Brock in tow. I expect to find Dad hooked up to machines, hoses, but he’s sitting there doing a crossword as if nothing’s happened at all. Only his gown and the patches attached to his chest suggest he’s just had a heart attack. “Oh, hey, petal,” he says calmly. Michelle’s sitting by his side. Her eyes look a little wider than usual. I come to the side of the bed and take Dad’s hand, Brock standing by the door. “Jesus, Dad, you gave me a real fright.” “You? I’m the one in hospital.” “Is it stress?” “I don’t know, hon. You know doctors, all mysterious.” “Maybe it’s time to cut back on the jerky.” He laughs. “Never.” It suddenly dawns on me what it would be like to lose my father, my only blood relative left alive. A tear rolls in a hot line down my cheek, falling from my face to the linoleum floor. He holds my face. “Maddy, there, there. Come on. I’m fine.” “I know,” I sniff. “I just can’t lose you.” Dad looks to Michelle and Brock. “Can you give us a moment?” The two of them leave and I’m alone with dad. “Maddy,” he starts, taking my hand, “I’m okay, really, but things are… difficult at the moment.” “What do you mean? Is it Brock?” Dad shakes his head. “Your stepmother’s taken the brunt of that stress, but I’m afraid our financial situation isn’t fantastic.” “I thought you’d just been promoted?” He looks away, fiddling with a line running across the mattress. “I lied, hon. I was fired, two weeks ago.” “Fired?” I can’t quite believe it. Dad’s been working for the same concrete company for ten years. Nothing’s been so stable.

“And you’re behind, the mortgage?” “A few months.” “Months?” “I owe the taxman, too. You know me, Maddy. I’m no good with this financial stuff, neither’s Michelle. Your mother was always…” he trails off. “Did you get a payout?” He shakes his head. “They’re saying I was incompetent.” The hairs bristle on the back of my neck. I’m raging hard, ready to storm down there in my uniform and set things straight. Dad senses it, squeezing my hand harder. “There’s nothing you can do, Maddy. Let us sort it out.” “You can’t just let them do that, Dad. You’re entitled.” “I know, and I’m going to fight them.” I want to press for more details, but then again I don’t want another heart attack on my hands either. “Just rest, okay, Dad. We’ll both take a look at it when you get home. For now, concentrate on getting better.” My phone buzzes again. It’s the captain. I haven’t even called in yet. I’m suddenly caught in a hard place, the pull to stay with Dad strong but the need to make him proud even stronger. He does look normal. “I’ve got to go, Dad. You sure you’re okay?” “Fine.” I go to leave, but he’s still holding my hand. “And Maddy, go eas y on your stepbrother, hey?” I’ve never quite understood why Dad’s always been so lax on Brock. Maybe he’s the son he always wished he had. Some son. “I’ll try.” Like hell. I pass Brock on the way back down the hall. Michelle’s MIA. For once Brock looks generally concerned, a cup of coffee in his hand I imagine tastes like an ashtray. “Peter okay?” “He will be.” “You going back to work?” I notice I’m shaking a little. Brock sees my hand twitching, the keys rattling. “Why don’t you let me drive?”

I don’t really know why, but I pass the keys over. “Why not?” The ride to work is quiet. I’ve got a headache now the truth is out, now the transferal of stress is complete. I had a feeling something was wrong. In a way I’m glad it’s just money, that Michelle and Dad are okay, but in another way it’s just as bad. If they lose the house, I lose the flat. We all lose. I can’t think about it anymore. I try to pull my concentration back to work, to the op. I turn to Brock. “Take me out tonight.” “What?” comes the startled reply. “With your car buddies. I want to see what it is you get up to. You said I owe you, so there you go. It can be my penance.” He looks perplexed. “Why?” I’ve got to be careful here. “Call it curiosity, call it I just need a break, a change of scenery.” He laughs. “I don’t think you can handle it.” “A couple of boys and their toys? Try me.” “Your funeral,” Brock snaps back, the air suddenly icy again at the word. * Work is an endless string of briefings. I get a wire, a rundown on who’s who i n the club, but it’s sketchy at best. Even the police don’t have a lot to go on at this stage. Dad’s not home yet when I get back. They’re keeping him in for observation. It’s quiet without the lights on in the main house, without the sound of Jeopardy streaming out of the windows, a salty TV dinner spinning in the microwave. But the lights are on in the garage next to the granny flat. Brock’s wedged under the hood of his car, spannering on something, overalls caked in grease. He looks like he just stumbled out of Deliverance. I don’t even bother trying to say hi. I’m too exhausted. I make my way inside and blast last night’s pasta. I write Brock a note telling him to lock the doors, sorry that I can’t come out, and collapse under the covers wondering how the hell everything has managed to change so fast and become so damn complex. I don’t do complex. I like things simple and straightforward, organized. I’m not Brock. I cannot live in a world of chaos. Oddly, I’m still thinking about him as I fall asleep.

* I wake sharply. I roll over in bed, a single limp hand searching for the clock. My eyes bug open. Two AM? Brock’s got music blaring from the room next door. It’s like I’ve suddenly been teleported back to 2010. Back then I didn’t mind, but now I just want to sleep. I tap the wall. No answer. “Knock it off. Now!” I add. My door suddenly kicks open and I scream, pulling the blankets tight to myself. Brock looks on fully dressed from the doorway. He’s wearing the same leather jacket he’s had all these years. I remember when he first bought it, before distressing was the cool thing. Now it’s looking suitably weathered. Oh what stories it could tell. I’m really having a hard time closing my mouth. I thought I’d covered myself, but it seems not. “Purple,” says Brock, noting the color of my bra. “Nice, but I had you pegged as a crimson kind of girl.” “What the fuck do you want, Brock?” He picks up a discarded pile of clothes in the corner and tosses them towards me. “Yo u want to go out? You want to see what I get up to? Let’s go.” * I start to get a little alarmed when we begin to head out deeper and deeper into the satellite suburbs that ring the city center. This is where crime happens. This is real poverty. It’s Cops re-runs for days out here, 24/7, and we’re headed right into the thick of it. Brock pulls off the main road and heads around behind a large factory, pulling up into a parking lot filled with a group of maybe ten cars that look like they were pulled straig ht off a toy shelf. I’m terrible with car models, but I know there’s a mix of vintages here—sleek Japanese imports and American musclers like Brock’s Camaro. Brock pulls up beside what I’m thinking is a candy red Corvette, a stick figure of a girl approaching from the other side of the parking lot and waving through the windows. She spots me and waves in the exact same manner. Weird.

Brock gets out of the car and she jumps onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her head into his shoulder. Under the sodium lights I now see her hair is bright pink. There’s a weird sensation that scurries across my skin. I try to pinpoint it, prodding until I come up with the answer—I’m jealous. I actually step back, a little frightened at myself by this realization. Stick Figure hops down and Brock leads her by the hand before me. “Maddy, meet Birdie.” She takes my hand, but only the tips of my fingers, shaking them like you would a tissue. “I’ve heard so much about you, Maddy. It’s so nice to finally put a f ace to the name.” I look to Brock. “Cool.” Did you just say ‘cool’? This isn’t The Breakfast Club, Maddy. Even Brock raises his eyebrows. Two more guys walk over. They seem like average Joes that stumbled into a sports store super sale. They introduce themselves as Jay and Axel, seem innocuous enough. More guys follow, more hands shaken, eyes connecting—rarely with my own. So this is Brock’s clique. There’s a food truck selling sloppy burritos in the corner of the carpark. From time to time a car swings in and people get out, hanging around, grabbing their food and disappearing on their way. The smell of sweaty meat is heavy in the air. “So, Maddy,” starts Jay, all of us gathered between the cars, my bum warm from sitting up against the Camaro’s grille, “what do you do for a crust?” This is going to go down well. “I’m a cop.” Axel actually leaps off the bonnet of his car, slapping the ground in a weird, ‘say what?’-cum-krunk move. I laugh. “Is it that bad?” “Man, if I knew you were bringing the po-po around I would have prepared some mud,” Jay fires at Brock. I give Jay the bird. “Very funny.”

“You in a special squad or something?” asks Birdie, fingernails scratching peeling duco off her equally pink Asian hatch. “No, just general duties, I’m afraid. I’ve only been on the force a year or so.” Brock’s watching me closely. I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face. He’s been acting weird, quiet. I don’t get it, but maybe it’s got to do with the scam they’re running. Maybe he’s thinking about business. Jay points to Brock. “Your brother here’s had a few run-ins with the po-lice. Did you know that?” I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him in a while, sorry.” I’m hoping these guys can shed some light on Brock’s whereabouts. Jay looks to Brock, something I can’t quite grasp moving between them unspoken. “Got me out of a few tight calls, he has. I owe him.” “I hope it was nothing illegal.” “No, maam. We’re just a car club. Nothing more.” “Sorry, what is it you guys call yourself?” I am genuinely curious. “The Midnight Club,” says a shadowy figure walking up to the group. “The what?” “The Midnight Club. From Main to Second Bridge in twelve seconds. That’s the only way in. “Second Bridge to Main in twelve seconds?” I stammer. “That’s impossible.” The mystery man winks. “Not if you’re going quick enough.” He moves into the light, whispering something to Brock and then vanishing back behind the cars. I have t o find out who he is. The boys drift off to the food truck. I pass on a burrito, keen to go without food poisoning at this hour. Birdie comes up right against me, bumping her skeletal hip against my own. Apart from Birdie’s flamingo hair, she appears otherwise entirely normal. “So, you’re Brock’s sister, right?” “Stepsister,” I correct. People always seem to make that mistake. It’s not like we look anything alike. “Oh.”

“Does he talk about me?” “All the time. If I didn’t know better I’d say he’s got a thing for you.” Curiosity piqued. “Really?” “For sure.” She doesn’t elaborate further and I don’t want to push. “You been with the crew long?” “Couple of years.” “Any of the guys take your fancy? Brock, perhaps?” She laughs hysterically, forced to bend over. “Oh man, Brock? No way. Besides, I much prefer,” she puts her fingers up in a vee and places her pierced tongue between them, “you know…” “Ohhhh,” I stumble. “Why are you really here anyhow, and don’t tell me it’s about the cars. I know all about that POS Hyundai you get around in.” Seems Brock’s been most forthcoming with information about me, but he doesn’t know everything. “Actually, I just wanted to see what he gets up to.” “Racing, beer, talking shop… It’s a real cycle.” “You don’t seem so interested.” She turns to me, her eyes lit with a sudden intensity. “Don’t let their boy-wonder exteriors fool you. They’re good guys… mostly.” I lick my lips, probing. “They’re not into running or anything?” “Drugs?” She just blurts it right out so loud I notice two of the guys look over. I try to wave it off. “You know, whatever.” “You’d have to talk to Hernandez about that.” She points to the mystery man that approached the group earlier, moving her hand to a silver coupe. “That’s his ride. Nissan R34 GT-R—just like the movies.” “He’s the ringleader of the club?” She nods, lips pressed together like a fish. “I don’t know if that’s the right word for it, but yeah, I guess you could say he’s in charge. Do you know much about cars?” “Not really. They stop. They go. That’s all I care about.” “Well, Hernandez got that car for slips just like the movies. Really traded up big on that one. The bikers haven’t been too happy about it since.”

“What are bikers doing involved in street racing?” Birdie scuffs her Converse All Stars on the gravel. “Same shit, less wheels. I don’t really know much about it all. Hernandez runs all the club’s extra-curricular activities.” “My stepbrother isn’t involved, is he?” She shakes her head, picks at a bobby pin. “Not any more. He gave it all up, but once you’re a Midnighter, there’s no going back, you know. It’s for life.” It’s all starting to sound ridiculous. I can’t actually believe this is real life, that people would care about this kind of crap. “Why do you hang around?” I ask. She looks me right in the eye. “If it’s one thing these guys are good at, it’s attracting pussy, and I love pussy.” I decide to change the subject, pointing to this Hernandez character. “He started the club?” Birdie’s eyes narrow. “Well, Brock started the club years ago. First it was all about the cars, you know, but he expanded.” “Expanded?” “Parts, the odd couriering. You know, simple stuff to make some quick cash.” Quick cash is never legal cash. I was hoping there might be a shard of hope to cling onto that this was all a clean operation, guys and their cars and big dicks, but clearly more’s happening here than anyone wants to let on. I’m going to get to the bottom of it whatever it takes, even if I have to bring down my own stepbrother. “What’s Hernandez like?” “He’s,” Birdie thinks on it, “moody.” “Moody?” “He has his days. If you don’t get on the wrong side of him he’s a teddy bear, but if you do,” she presses a finger gun against her head and pulls the trigger. “Right,” I nod. “Is there a bathroom around here?” She points to the World’s Darkest Corner. “Right back there. Just don’t touch anything.” I shuffle away to the corner and a grimy-looking toilet block. It reeks of piss inside, but I find a small piece of unblemished mirror and undo my blouse, adjusting the wire underneath my bra. I’m sweating like a god-damned Amazonian, completely out of my

depth here. If these guys discover I’m here to investigate them, that I’m recording everything, I’m fucked. They seem harmless for the most part, but not all of them. I’ve read the reports. This Hernandez, though? He’s new. There was nothing on him. I do my blouse up and step back outside. I come out of the toilets and straight into Hernandez. It’s like he’s just had a cologne bath. “Little sis! I never thought I would have the pleasure.” He eyes my body, my tits, makes no attempt to try and disguise it. He rubs his hands together, gold chains gleaming from the heavy lights behind us. The path is closed in. I can’t get past him. “Hernandez, right?” “The one and only. You know, Brock talks a lot about you, but he never told me what a hottie you are.” I smile. “Thanks.” Scumbag. This guy clearly thinks he’s a gangster, a too-tanned fresh-from-Juarez homeboy. “Say, how ’bout you and I go for a drive, chill for a bit.” The last place I’d be wanting to ‘chill’ is with this guy. He comes closer and his hands come out. If he touches me I’m going to have to put him down. Brock jumps down from nowhere between us. “Hernandez, you fuck. You hitting on my sister already?” Hernandez puts his hands up. “Guilty as charged, your honor.” Brock gives Hernandez a play punch in the gut. “What did I say, huh? Be nice. She’s practically all the family I have.” “What about your mama? She felt real nice when I was tapping her last night.” “Oh, it’s on!” and both boys go racing off laughing, trying to tag each other. Still, I get a funny feeling about Hernandez. He doesn’t look like he graduated grade school, but I’ve known many crims short in the brain department. He wouldn’t be the first criminal mastermind too dumb to notice and too stupid to care. If he is running for the cartels, the bikers, whoever, you can bet he’s not fucking around. “Come on, Maddy!” calls Brock in the distance. He has Hernandez in a headlock. I start walking back to the group wondering precisely when Vin Diesel’s going to show up. Maybe he can give Hernandez a good thumping.

CHAPTER FOUR On the way home, Brock’s still quiet, engine thrumming away, revs high even for this stretch of highway. He doesn’t seem to mind he’s single-handedly guzzling the world’s supply of gas in this thing. I rub my hand over the dash. Feels funny. “Nice bunch of people.” He turns to me. “You think?” “They seem genuine enough.” “They are, most of them.” That’s the second time someone’s said that tonight. I’m trying to read between the lines, to make sense of who’s who when Brock says, completely out of nowhere, “Do you think people can change, Maddy?” Maybe it’s the magical burrito he’s just ingested, but this Brock is one I am not familiar with. A Brock with actual feelings and introspection—wonders will never cease. “Sure,” I throw out. “I’ve changed, Maddy. I want you to know that.” Where is this coming from? “You’re not about to cry on me, are you?” “Only if you dent my bonnet.” I ignore the humor. “What do you mean? I don’t get it.” “I mean the guy you knew me as, that reckless kid who only cared about himself, he’s gone and he’s not coming back.” “I don’t think it’s that easy. Do you know what you put your poor mom through, and my dad? Lord knows why, but I think he actually cares about you, you know. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t do anything—not a postcard or a call or message in a bottle to tells them where you were. They thought you were dead.” “And you? What did you think?” “I thought you were in prison.” A dark look comes over his face. “We really going to get into this now?” “Were you?” “For a while.” “I knew it.”

“Hate to disappoint, but like I said, that’s the past. Once we got out of there we both set ourselves on the straight and narrow.” “What do you mean by ‘we’?” “Hernandez and I.” It’s starting to come together. I shift against the leather, the wire red hot on my skin sucking in every syllable. “You were in prison together for dealing?” “Distribution.” “You were bum chums? Don’t tell me you’ve gone that way.” Brock laughs, the kind of laugh I remember from when we were younger and things seemed so much more clear cut, when our biggest worry was where to scrounge up fifteen bucks so we could hit the movies. “I’m definitely still a fan of the female body, Mads. Make no mistake about that, dear sister, but what Hernandez and I have is different. There was a point inside where I was in deep trouble, flapping my gums, pissing off the wrong people. He pulled some favors, got me a break.” “So you owe him?” “I guess you could say that.” “He seems kind of dangerous. You sure he’s as straight and narrow as you’re making out?” “More or less.” “Pfft, more or less? What does that even mean?” “It means that if he is still involved in something, I don’t want to know about it. Ignorance is bliss and all that.” “That ignorance could bring you down again.” He takes his eyes off the road and glues them to me. They glow cerulean even in the darkness of the cabin. “I’m not going back to prison.” And that’s the last word on it. We arrive home and go our separate ways. I take off the wire and carefully stash it under the bed. It seems ludicrous I’m living with the very guy this investigation is centered on, that I’m betraying him right under his nose.

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn. I try to get to the bottom of what this is all about, the one thing that is irking me, and then it hits. I know I’m betraying my stepbrother. I know it’s wrong. But worst of all? I’m enjoying it. * My alarm goes and it’s like I’ve barely slept. What time did we even get home? Four? Five? If that’s how Brock lives every night it’s no wonder he sleeps away the day like a vampire. I head to the bathroom and turn the shower on full. I like it hot. I like it so hot I can practically feel the skin blistering on my back. I strip and stand under the water, let it turn my hair heavy and wet. Even in this small space I can still smell him, the denim, the leather, the scent of speed and machines and everything overtly masculine. Eyes closed, I almost fall asleep, turning off the water and jumping out into a room full of steam. I wipe the mirror clean and see a sleep-starved twenty-something staring back—a cop, a daughter… a liar. I pick up a towel, wrapping it around myself as I turn the doorknob and exit. I crash into something with the solidity of a concrete wall, “Fuck!” followed by an even louder “FUCK!” when the force of the collision knocks my hand away from the top of the towel, the whole thing falling to the floor. And there I am, naked as a newborn, skin red and raw and completely exposed in front of my stepbrother. A horrible moment of shock passes between us. I don’t know why, but Brock’s eyes just drop, drop like fucking stones all the way down my body. I’m so stunned I can’t even make my arms move away from my sides. It’s like I’ve been shocked into some kind of statue. “Ah…” That’s all Brock’s got. Bing! My senses return, one arm slapping over my breasts and the other reaching down to the floor to pick up the towel and drape it in front of myself. “Don’t just stand there!” I scream. “Move!”

And he does, laughing, mumbling something I can’t quite pick up as he heads into the fog of the bathroom. The door closes and the strangest feeling comes over me. Simultaneously I want to bash his mouth in and kiss it at the same time.

CHAPTER FIVE It’s been good having Dad back home. As promised, I sat down and went through their finances, but the problem’s bigger than I imagined—five figures big. I’m sitting next to Brock on the granny flat sofa playing a video game about witches and dragons. Dragons that are witches? Witch-dragons? I really don’t know. Even when we were kids I was never good at this stuff. “You still suck,” he suggests, loping my head off with a battleaxe. “I don’t have time to sit around playing this crap.” “Could have fooled me.” I punch the buttons until my character’s holding the closest thing I can find to a knife. I use it to stab Brock’s repeatedly in the head, not that it seems to do the faintest amount of damage. Yeah, try that in real life. “When’s the club getting together again?” “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoyed our little cruise the other night.” “Well, I was expecting actual racing. That is what street racers do, isn’t it?” “Ah, you want the real fast and furious, right? Danger to manifold and all that? Nos on tap 24/7? It doesn’t exist.” “No?” “Well…” “Show me.” “Give me one good reason.” “Hey, after that little peepshow this morning, I think you owe me.” He moves his legs together on the couch. “That was quite a spectacle, I must say.” “You didn’t enjoy it even in the slightest?” “Oh, I enjoyed it just fine.” “Then pay for it and show me the real deal. No more deserted carparks and dodgy kebabs.” “Alright. We leave at midnight.” “What a shocker.” * “Maddy.”

I open my eyes and search through the darkness. It’s Brock, a firm hand on my shoulder trying to wake me up. I sit up, still on the couch and still in my uniform. I must have fallen asleep. “You coming?” he says. I rub the sleep from my eyes, yawning so wide I’m sure he can see what I had for breakfast. “Uh, yeah, sure.” “Might I suggest not wearing your police uniform to an illegal drag-racing meet?” I nod, groggy. “Good thinking.” I’m surprised to find a different car parked on the driveway outside. “What’s this?” “Nissan Skyline R34 GT-R V-Spec II.” “No, I mean where’s your Camaro?” “The boys are doing some work on it. Hernandez let me borrow his puppy tonight. Besides, these Japanese imports tend to blend in better where we’re going. Not enough low-down torque for my liking, mind you.” I walk around to the driver’s side trying to lay the cool on real thick. “I’ll give you talk.” The door swings up like a scissor with a psht of air. “You sure your name’s not Paul Walker?” I tease. Brock smiles, that wide, all-open grin I’ve been thinking about more and more over the last few days. “Just get in and shut up.” “I bet that’s what you tell all the girls.” I’m surprised at the speed by which Hernandez’s car takes off. Something whistles away under the hood and then releases a sort of cough. “Is everything alright with this car? Sounds unhealthy.” Brock shifts back a gear, the revs jumping and the whistling growing so loud someone could be boiling a kettle under there for all I know. “The engine’s turbocharged,” he tells me. “The whistling sound is the turbocharger spooling up and coming onto boost.” “And the cough-fart thing?” “The blow-off valve.” I crack up. “You serious? Don’t tell me that’s a real part.” He looks almost offended. “Of course.”

“For letting off steam?” “Excess pressure,” he corrects. “It’s not ‘steam.’ This isn’t a locomotive we’re taking across the Wild West.” “Right, right.” I’m killing myself inside knowing this is getting to him. “What’s the appeal? Aren’t all cars the same?” A classic troll, but it has to be done. His head slams forward and his forehead hits the horn, a sharp beep! following. “Oh, you better be trolling me. Otherwise I’m just going to leave you here in Stabville to find your own way around.” “Don’t be such an ass. I’m just saying, cars are a waste of money.” “And diamond rings are not?” “It’s not the same.” “They’re both about commitment. I know that much.” I wave it off. “You don’t commit to a car.” “No, you commit to the build, to the process. It’s not about the end result. It’s about the journey.” “You sound like Tony-bloody-Robbins.” “And you sound like you’re out of your depth. We’re here.” We pull into a dark industrial park. There is not a single soul around, just a couple of strays with opalescent eyes picking through the trash. We pull down between two buildings and emerge out into the next street lined with cars and people. There are no girls skanking around in thongs, no subwoofers booming, but this is a race meet alright. We pull to the side, Brock reversing into place next to a group of bikers. Before long a crowd has started to gather around the car. Brock gets out and pops the hood, moving to the passenger side and offering me his hand. “Come on. They’re not going to bite.” Reluctantly, I step out realizing I’m not wearing my wire tonight. This is the perfect place to pick up intel and I’ve let it slip away. I flinch as two cars go shrieking down the road in the thick billow of smoke. The acrid scent of burning rubber fills my nostrils, olfactory overload.

I stay close to Brock, watching. “What are they racing for?” “Money mostly.” “They don’t race for slips here.” Good one, Maddy. “Why, you want to offer up Champers?” “Ha-de-ha-ha.” Two more cars pull up to an impromptu start line that looks like it’s been marked with chalk. A tall guy holds his hands up, signaling them to stop. I take in the cars. The one on the right looks similar to the car we’re driving tonight. With its giant spoiler it looks fast standing still. The car next it to it is a hatchback of some sort with mismatched wheels and half the paint flaking off. It doesn’t look like it could outrun a tractor. I point to the start line. “Bit of an unfair match-up, isn’t it?” “Wait and see.” The guy’s hands go down and the two cars take off, the hatch hooking up immediately, the car with the big spoiler lagging behind smoking the tires and fish -tailing down the road. To my amazement, the hatch wins comfortably. “See,” says Brock, “you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and that goes double for cars. It’s all about power-to-weight.” “Huh?” “The hatch doesn’t have as much power as the car it went up against, but it’s been stripped out, lightened. It weighs nothing and thus doesn’t need as much power to get down to the finish line. You can have a car with all the engine in the world, but if it ’s a heavy whale you’re never going to win a race.” “I see, and your car? What’s its power-to-weight like?” I’m surprised at the flirty way this comes out, the way my fingers hold the corners of Brock’s leather jacket, our faces close. “My car?” I trace a finger up his zip. “Yeah.” “She’s an American classic, the girl next door.” “Like me?” “Can you run a ten-second quarter?”

“If I had decent runners.” Brock shakes his head. “You are one of a kind, Maddy Collins.” “Don’t you forget it.” We watch a few runs and decide to move on. No waves of patrol cars come to break things up. There are no wild chases or macho shows of bravado. It almost seems civilized. We pull out of the industrial area and go east. Brock takes a detour off the highway heading into the hills. “Where are we going?” “Sometimes you just drive, see where the road takes you.” “Sounds like a line from a movie.” “My life is a movie.” “A comedy, sure.” He gives me that look. “It’s time for a driving lesson.” “Driving lesson?” “Yeah, everyone has to experience being behind the wheel of a Skyline once in their lives.” “I am not getting behind the wheel of this thing.” He pulls up onto the side of the road, clouds of dust running past the windows. “I do actually need my spine, you know,” I object. He laughs, opening the door and stepping out. He comes around and opens mine. I cross my arms over myself and pout like a toddler. He reaches down and unclips my belt. “If you don’t drive, we’re going to have to walk home.” I look up at him, at his perfect fucking face. “You’re not going to let this go until I do, are you?” “Hey, I can be stubborn too sometimes.” “Ha-de-ha-ha,” I repeat. I give a grunt and untangle myself from the harness, pushing Brock aside as I make my way to the driver’s side.

I slip into the bucket seat and pull the harness on, Brock helping and not very subtly brushing past my breasts in the process. “You just wanted to feel me up, didn’t you?” He shrugs. “Perhaps. Now, clutch in, turn the ignition.” I press the clutch down. It feels like I’m trying to move a mountain. “It’s a performance clutch,” says Brock, “heavy-duty, twin-plate. It’s got a real quick take-up, so once you feel the tipping point you’re really going to have to get on the gas, got it?” I nod. It’s been years since I’ve driven a manual. “How much power did you say this car has?” “About a thousand horse.” “And Champers?” “About ten.” I roll my eyes. “Grreeeeaaaaaat.” I sit there feeling really, really weird, like I’m strapped to a Stinger missile just dying to blow us both to hell. I take a breath and turn the key, finding first and doing my best to take off. The car stalls dramatically after we bunny-hop half a mile down the road. Brock is killing himself with laughter. I slap him on the shoulder. “It’s not funny!” He calms himself, placing his hand, hot, over my own on the gearknob. “I’ll talk you through it.” He moves his hand, fingers easing over mine. “Clutch in. Good.” “First.” “That’s right.” “Pull up gently.” “That’s it.” “Now punch it!” He shocks me into action. The foot on the clutch comes away and I stomp down on the accelerator. The tires give a momentary cry of pain before the car launches down the road

like a rocket, my back pressed so hard into the seat I think I’m going to leave a permanent indent. “Second!” I shift back into second and the car barely notices, the whistling rising from under the hood and the world blurring by the windows. “Third!” Third and this thing just won’t stop picking up speed. I go to ease off the accelerato r, but he squeezes my hand. “Keep your foot down.” I look at the speedo. “We’re doing 90mph… 100… 120…” “There’s no one around. We’re fine.” There is no stopping this thing. I try to follow the centerline, the engine humming, air sucked in and expelled out the back. I’m tingling all over, and now I get it, the appeal, pushing closer and closer to that point of oblivion, of all release. Suddenly there’s the sound of a siren, blue and red lights filling up the rear -view. Shit. I ease off the gas instantly, but we’re still doing 110. We’re fucked. I’m fucked. I pull over, the patrol car swinging in behind us, lights blaring. I can’t breathe, my nerves shot and my hand twitching on the wheel. “Just relax,” says Brock, a picture of tranquility. He reaches over and undoes the top two buttons on my blouse right down to the bridge of my bra. My cleavage is so obvious you could spot it from the moon. Now I’m extra glad I’m not wearing that wire. I jump when there’s a tap against the glass, my nervousness increased when I can’t find the button for the electric windows. I finally sus it, the cop looking in. It must be close to midnight and he’s still wearing Aviators like some kind of T-1000 cliché. “Yes, officer?” I squeak. “Do you know how fast you were going back there, maam?” “Uh, no officer. I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the car.” The officer stands back inspecting my ride. “She’s a nice one alright. Your boy’s?” What, a girl like me can’t have a car like this? I nod. “Yes, sir.” He leans against the window, lighting up Brock with his torch, one hand on his weapon. Don’t ask for my license. Don’t ask for my license.

He hoicks something up, spitting next to the tire. “Tell you what. You’re a pretty girl, seem like the sensible type. How about I let you off this one time, but if I see you around here again you’re really going to owe me, got it?” I nod. “Yes, officer.” He tips his hat. “Now you two have a good evening.” He walks away and I absolutely cannot believe my luck. Well, I can. You see, Officer Mendez and I were in the same class at the academy. I don’t think I’ll ever forget him or his, ah, appendage. Brock looks amazed. “What kind of mystical flying fuckery did you use to pull that off?” I give a little shrug. “Guess it’s just my killer looks.” “Like hell.” “You’re not saying I’m attractive?” Got ’im. His eyes drop to my chest, correcting themselves and swiftly moving back up. “I never said that. You’re…” I cup my ear. “I’m what?” “Beautiful. Okay, there. You’re god-damned the most beautiful girl I know.” The warm and fuzzies are getting it on with the pins and needles still squirming away in my belly, my entire body a chemical lollapalooza. I pretend like these words are commonplace, that they’re not lighting up the hot space between my legs. “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself. Now, I think I’ve had enough driving for one night.” I let Brock take the wheel and take us home, everything far more precarious than when we left.

CHAPTER SIX My eyes open. The ceiling of my room looks the same, but different. I turn sideways, the sheets coiling around my torso and stare at the kitten poster on the wall. Still so damn cute. That’s when I notice something pressed against my back. Wait… This isn’t my room at all. As carefully as I can, I turn over, and there he is. I stop breathing, I remain still and I compel my brain to work as quick as it possibly can to fill in the blanks. I run through last night. We came home, said goodnight, I locked up , and went to bed. But you didn’t lock your bedroom door, did you? You never do. That’s right. You’ve sleepwalked your way right into your stepbrother’s bed. Yeeeeeep. What to do. What to do. What to do. Brock’s lips are just parted, skin bare. His foot is wedged between my legs. I can’t understand how anyone can look so peaceful. I ease the sheets off myself and roll off the bed, scissoring my legs open and sliding his foot away. I manage to get one foot onto the carpet and sort of pirouette off, not allowing the mattress to sag. Finally, I can stand on two feet looking down at Brock… again. Is it really so impossible to conceive? The two of us together? I’m almost convinced I could go there. When we were younger, when we were both horny teenagers we’d talk about sex and who we’d get it on with at school. We’d take stupid internet quizzes and stay up late watching horror movies on cable. Our parents never seem concerned that we might try and get together, and neither did we.

He must have thought about it many times, just like me, but we nev er made a move. We never took that next step. Sometimes I would lie in bed with my ear cupped to the wall and listen for him, sure I could hear him jerking off. I’d close my eyes and picture him, quietly sliding a hand into my panties and running a finger into my slit. I’d come with my face buried in my pillow and my hand sticky, cheeks hot with the knowledge he was probably doing the same, that all that separated us was this one thin wall. So I watch him now and it all comes flooding back—the good times. There were a lot of good times now I think about it, but then came that night, the following disappearances, the new friends. We spent less and less time together until one day he was just gone, no word, no nothing. I look around the room once more. It used to be mine. He’s sleeping in the very bed I used to. His room was always bigger, the one I coveted more. He was gone less than a week before I moved in. I stand at the door and watch him lying there. I watch him and wonder where it all went so wrong. * The captain’s nodding. “You’re saying this Hernandez character is the one we should be looking into?” “Definitely.” I really can’t stand the captain’s office. The ashtray is always full, the coffee always foul, and the entire place jammed with military memorabilia from his time as an army sniper. He’s particularly proud of this. Give him five seconds and he’ll start hitting you with his infinite war stories. He leans back and looks over my report. “You filed your recordings with Audio?” “Headed right there.” “Keep at it. I want more. I want to know what these guys are having for breakfast, who they’re fucking… everything.” “Yes, sir.” * Tonight I didn’t even have to ask. Brock simply threw me my jacket on the way out.

“Your car’s back,” I note, stepping out into the cold with him. “Yeah,” he replies, “she’s good to go again.” “Your car’s a girl?” “You’d prefer I was riding a guy?” “Sorry, the Brokeback thing really isn’t my style.” He winks. “Good to know. Can’t say the idea of two ballsacks rubbing together is of high appeal to me either.” We get in, the perforated leather of the passenger seat now comfortable and familiar, the smell of the old leather thick. “You never dropped the soap in prison? Just for curiosity?” I query, trolling again. “No,” comes the emphatic, monosyllabic reply. I curl one finger into a circle and work another in and out of it. “You and Hernandez never…?” Maybe it’s taking it too far, but Brock’s always had a thick skin. “No, Mads.” He holds up his hand. “Good ol’ Ms Palmer saw to that end of things.” “Ew.” “Inside, you take what you can get.” He turns the key, the Chevy rumbling into life with a lopey idle. “You do what you have to. That’s the only way to get by.” Something about these last words makes me uneasy as we pull out and head off. What did Brock have to do in prison? Kill someone? Smuggle something in? I checked his file. He got done for low-level distribution, six months, but he only spent three inside. There were no reports of any trouble, any incidents. There was a riot just before he left, but the chaos was so widespread nothing concrete was added to the report. I even had the tech guys pull the footage, but it’s just a blur of bodies. I couldn’t even pick him out. I’m pretty familiar with the bay area, but the club has found a spot overlooking the entire expanse I never even knew existed. The cars are lined up at the water’s edge, the sky a sharp magenta. I recognize most of the vehicles now, can put them to faces, but I do note Hernandez is notably absent. I find Birdie hanging her feet over the water stuffing a hotdog into her mouth. So far all I’ve seen these guys eat is fast food with more grease than a Puerto Rican gang bang, but

Birdie has somehow retained a perfect figure. I haven’t seen Brock working out once, but he too is looking far too good considering his diet of soda and processed meat. I sit beside Birdie and take in the water. It’s really peaceful out here. “Hey.” “Hey.” I kick out my chin towards the hot dog. “Good?” “Terrible. Ass on a bun.” “Sounds… delicious.” She hands over the half-eaten monstrosity. “Want some?” “No, thanks. Say, does Brock ever work out?” Birdie looks confused. “Like, the gym, you mean?” “Yeah.” “Hernandez has a warehouse on the other side of the bay. I think they ha ng out there a fair bit. There are some weights down the back, a stack of pornos. Nothing that takes my fancy, of course. Pornstars with their big, plastic tits. Not my thing.” She turns her attention to my breasts. “But those? I could work with those. You sure you don’t want to swing a little, check out the other side?” “I think I’m right.” She returns to her hotdog. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Then again, if I was a fan of the cock I could see why you’d be interested in Brock.” I can imagine the audio guy’s face lighting up when he plays this back tomorrow. “What do you mean?” Birdie holds the hot dog sideways and adds another couple of inches. “Oh.” “Yeah, he’s packing a real deli down there.” I have to ask. “How do you know?” “Back in the day your stepbrother was pretty loose. He had no problems pulling that thing out.” “I bet.” I try to cast my mind back a few years ago. There were a lot of girls. They never lasted long, and he never brought them home. Once he got a car, that was it. We barely saw each

other. Sometimes I could smell them on him, that flirty vanilla body-spray scent teenage girls seem to love slathering themselves in. “Shit.” A line of sauce has squirted down Birdie’s top. She stands up and drifts off. I’m about to get up myself when Jay takes her place, seating himself beside me and smiling. “How’s it going?” he says. “Ready to run Main to Second yet, become one of us?” “I doubt Champers would even make it from Main to Second let alone in twelve seconds.” “You should try it in Brock’s car.” “Is it really that special?” “Very. He’s done all the work himself, you know. Doesn’t trust anyone with it.” “What about Hernandez?” “Not even Hernandez.” “I thought they were only just fixing it for him the other day.” Jay shakes his head. “Not that I know about it. Wherever the Camaro is, Brock is. It’s as simple as that.” I decide to flesh this out a bit more. “Where’s Hernandez tonight?” Jay throws his hands up. He’s European, his words clipped with an accent I can’t place. He dresses like he’s eighteen, but he looks older. There are lines on his face. “Who knows? Business probably.” “Business?” “I’m not really involved, sorry. Got too much on my own plate.” He pulls out his wallet and opens it to reveal a beaming little girl with pink -studded braces and porcelain hair. “My baby. Love her to bits, you know.” “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?” “Amelie.” I’m not ready for what comes next. “She’s got the big C, cancer,” Jay continues. “Shit, I’m sorry. Is she okay?” Jay just holds wallet open staring at her. She will be, and she’s been better lately thanks to a new treatment. Your brother had a lot to do with it.” “Brock?”

“Yeah.” Clearly, Jay doesn’t want to elaborate, and I don’t want to pry, but this is intriguing. It just doesn’t seem like Brock at all. Maybe he has changed. There’s a whistle from behind us, the others signaling they’re leaving. “What is it?” Brock asks as I open the Camaro door. Even after all this time we can still read each other so well. He knows something’s going on. Inside, I spill. “Jay told me you’ve been helping with his daughter.” Brock starts the car and nods. “True.” “Well…?” “Well, what?” “Why?” Brock turns to me, those eyes growing deeper and deeper every time I see them. You could lose yourself in them, Maddy. Be careful. He polishes the gearknob with the palm of his hand. “I’m just helping a friend. Tell me, Officer Collins, is that a crime?” “Depends.” “On?” “What you’re doing?” “Enough,” and with that Brock reverses out, waving to the others as we take the highway. “We’re not going to cruise with them tonight?” “Not tonight. Tell me, why are you really here, Maddy? And don’t tell me it’s to spend time with your beloved stepbrother.” Shit. “So what if it is?” “None of this interests you. I know that. You know that, so let’s cut the bullshit.” “Okay.” “Okay.” Nothing more is said, the highway markers whipping by the only sound. “Are you spying on me, for our folks?” I laugh. “That’s a good one,” but far too close to the truth. “Then what?”

“I like it, okay?” “Like what?” “Spending time with you.” “Why, in god’s name?” He just won’t let it go, a pit bull with a bone. “You’re,” I search rapidly for the right word, “exciting.” He turns to me perplexed. “Exciting?” “Yeah, you’ve always had an edge. You were always cool. I was just the studious good girl. I never had time for fun.” “And now you do?” “I guess so.” He thinks on this, leather jacket shifting against his seat, eyes focused on the road and the Camaro purring. “So, what do you like to do for fun?” “Me?” “Yes, you.” “I don’t know. I like eating out.” “Okay, where?” “Nowhere you’d know.” “Try me.” “Well, there’s a new place down past Spinnaker I want to try out, kind of retro. The Glass House, I think it’s called.” Brock turns to me and I know he has an idea. “Tomorrow then. We go there tomorrow night just you and I.” “It’s not cheap.” Brock smiles. “Nor am I.”

CHAPTER SEVEN I book the restaurant the next morning and spend the next eight hours fiddling with my thumbs at HQ nervous and also slightly skeptical at what’s to follow. Brock seemed like he wanted to prove something, show me another side of himself, but maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I want that dirty bad boy I remember so vividly, or so I think. Can I even trust myself with these memories? Who is to say I haven’t added hyperbole where necessary, filled in details that didn’t exist in the first place? I had a real good imagination growing up, always the one surrounded by dolls, all of whom had a name and occupation. I was that kid. I arrive home, bypass the main house and get straight into Operation Dinner Date. Date? Yeah, that does sound kind of weird, doesn’t it? What do I even say if someone asks if we’re together? ‘No, sir, we’re just stepbrother and stepsister out on a romanti c dinner date. Nothing to be concerned about. Nothing to see here.’ I put my hair up, put it down. I try on a dress. I take off a dress. I pace around my room. I can’t remember the last time I put in this effort for a dinner, and why? It’s not like he’s going to care. I could dress in a burlap bag and he probably wouldn’t know the difference. As the hour approaches, and Brock’s still nowhere to be seen, I grow increasingly anxious. I finally settle on a tight black mini-dress—simple, understated. I add blue heels for a bit of pop (and much-needed height), little diamond-studded earrings I haven’t worn since prom. I curl my hair loosely and leave it at that. I add a squirt of Chanel No.5 I got for a Xmas present two years ago, bottle still unopened. I towel off the heavy make-up and go light, still quite bemused at why all this is suddenly so precious to me. I’m not a Kardashian. I don’t care what people think about me. But I do care what he thinks. Why I do not know. I hear the Camaro prowling down the driveway five minutes before we’re supposed to leave. He doesn’t rush. He strolls in and stops dead when he sees me, whistling. “Wow, you look… stunning.” He scents the air. “Number Five. Classy.” He strolls on past me to his bedroom. “We’re late,” I snap at him. “We have to go.”

He saunters back a minute later a changed man. I actually have to blink twice to make sure my eyes can be believed. All he’s done is lose the leather jacket and replace it with a navy blazer, pointy leather shoes instead of sneakers, and I’ll be damned but those two things completely change his look. He’s gone from Rebel Without A Cause to Bond in five seconds flat. Oh, you’re good. “What?” he says, trying to gauge my expression. “It’s just… where did you even get a blazer?” “I told you. I’m an educated man of the world.” He places his hand into the exposed pocket of skin at the base of my back and gently herds me towards the door, his own natural scent intoxicating. * I wasn’t lying. I do like eating out, but as we pull up to The Glass House I’m starting to think even this place might be out of my league in terms of overall cool. The entire restaurant sits on a hill overlooking the water like a see -through box, cold and warm light blending together inside. Brock reluctantly hands over his keys to the valet, a pimple-pocked teenager who looks like he’s just won the lottery. Brock tenses up as he watches his beloved disappear around the corner. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was cheating on you,” I tease, taking his arm. “Don’t tell me you have a name for your car.” “Like Champers?” “Hey, don’t knock Champers, okay?” A pleasant, perfectly presented man greets us past the doors. He looks at us both briefly, Brock passing the test with flying colors. “Reservation for Collins,” I announce. “This way.” As we’re guided through the restaurant, the man turns. “Special occasion tonight?” The man goes to pull out my chair, but Brock is already there, subtlety pushing him aside and taking over. “A reunion of sorts,” replies Brock. “Splendid,” says the man, disappearing.

Brock takes his seat, his look so at ease here among the young crowd. I was actually surprised we got a booking at all. Two menus arrive. I glance at mine briefly, most of the ingredients lost on me, but, it seems, not Brock. He leans back, observing the menu. “What do you think, Maddison? I’m thinking the robata grilled raw beef with the shitake mushrooms and endive.” He just dribbles it all out perfectly. “I don’t even know what an endive is,” I admit. Brock just shakes his head. “You can learn a lot in prison, you know, about all kinds of things. I read a lot. Learnt to cook, too.” “You were only in there three months,” realizing my mistake as soon as the words are out. Opps. Before he has a chance, to reply, I add, “I looked at your file.” “It’s only fair. Anything interesting?” “No, it was very clean actually.” “What were you expecting? Shankings and brawls?” At ‘shankings’ the couple at the table next to us bristle up. I clear my throat, taking a sip of (no doubt hideously overpriced) Voss water. “You yourself said you got into some trouble.” “That was all behind the scenes. Nothing you need to worry about.” “Should I worry about you? Because I do.” “Are you saying you care for me?” I have to think about this. “Yes, I guess I do.” We look at each other. I mean, we look at each other. Something passes between us that is more. I press my legs together tighter under the table. I’m hot, flushed. Something is happening and it has nothing to do with the ambience. The dinner passes on pleasantly. Brock wasn’t kidding. He helps me order, talks me through the dishes from the foraged mushrooms down to the miso dressing. It’s so at odds with the Brock I know I constantly have to look sideways to watch us in the window. We do look like a couple. We look like we could be together. We look happy.

The serving sizes are deceptively small, but I’m still stuffed after desert. The wine too, again Brock’s selection, has left me light-headed and open. I talk freely, letting everything just sort of ramble out, including the financial trouble Dad and Michelle are in. “How bad is it?” asks Brock. I hold up five fingers. He looks slightly stunned. “I see.” “I’ll deal with it,” I tell him, Maddy the fixer-of-all. “You can’t repair everything, you know. Sometimes people have to figure it out themselves, no matter how hard it may be initially.” I get the impression he’s talking about himself. “And me? Do I need fixing?” “No,” he replies quick as can be, “in my eyes, you’re perfect.”

CHAPTER EIGHT When the bill arrives, I almost drop dead at the figure, but Brock takes care of it, just lays down a wad of bills from nowhere. Alarm bells ring, but the wine dulls everything, makes it light and fluffy. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro, Brock driving, and for the first time I realize I’m horny, like really horny. I’m not seeing the Brock of old sitting in the driver’s seat. I’m seeing Brock 2.0, new and improved, cultured and caring and with a real big cock—if the rumors are to be believed. I didn’t get a good look the other morning. Maddy, how crass you have become. I squirm and twist in the seat, eyelids fluttering and boozy brain in overload how to get this party started. On the way back through town we pass by the Emporium, an old 1950s movie theatre screening classics. I remember coming here with Mom. In fact, the three of us came here right before she left. Brock points at the board. “Hey, Vanishing Point is on.” “What?” “Classic 1970s road movie, Barry Newman?” “Sorry. If it doesn’t have someone by the name of Gosling or McConaughey in it, I don’t want to know about it. Hell, it’s Tuesday. I’ll take Owen Wilson if needs be.” “With his fucked-up nose?” I run my finger over Brock’s, broken countless times, not quite straight but still perfect in its imperfection. “Says you.” He parks on the side of the road and gets out, coming around to open my door. “We’re doing this.” Yes, we are. He tugs my arm toward the ticket box. “Come on. My treat.” I’m tired, I’m horny. I just want to get back home to bed, to getting that leather jacket off and find out if my stepbrother still works out as much as he used to. We purchase our tickets from a teenage girl who has all the personality of a potato crisp packet and proceed into the lobby, a crazy cross-hash of cultures, kids and adults prepping

pre-movie, stocking their arms with popcorn, candy and soda. The ADA would have a heartache just looking at it. “Arrrrrgggggghhhhhhh,” some kid goes screaming past me into the semi -darkness of the cinema. “Someone’s excited,” Brock says, his hand tight in mine, a weighty anchor. I hadn’t even noticed him take it. The cinema’s large, a sort of art deco vibe about the place. We stand in the middle sweeping the seats for somewhere quiet where we’re unlikely to get some idiot kid spilling drink on us or crawling down the aisles. We head for the back row. A group of hipsters swings past us throwing popcorn at each other. This whole area has come in for a quasi-urban revitalization of late. Only the hippest of the hip need tread these streets now, and hip I am not. Mercifully, the back row remains empty, the theatre half-full, a giddy excitement continuing on through the ads. Brock places his hand on my leg, the exposed flesh there, covering the goose bumps that have risen in that chill all cinemas seem to exude. It’s a bold move. The movie starts off with a delivery driver in a black car. He’s at a biker bar, wants pills. He’s a bit like Brock in many ways. Of course, I’m concentrating more on the feel of Brock’s touch, and for the first time in a long time I feel safe. I feel at home. I wriggle in my seat, lift my feet from the floor. It’s sticky, with what I really don’t want to know. I look to Brock, but he’s right into the movie, probably seen it a hundred times already. He always loved this kind of stuff even as a gangly teenager, all cars and guns and black and white morality. A flicker goes through my head, an idea. I dismiss it at first, as always, mitigating risk, but it refuses to go. It lingers there, a heat. What’s the worst that could happen? You get kicked out. Whoopee doo. No one here knows you. They’re complete strangers. I reach down to the hem of my dress. Color strobes across the material from the screen, my flesh green, red, white. I lift my bum ever so slightly off the seat, feel material and float there in the no man’s zone.

I take my hem in my fingers and drag it back slowly, the edge of the dress riding up over my thighs. Brock looks down to me, a quizzical look. I have his attention. His hand hasn’t moved on my thigh. I spread my legs wider, feel the cool air sweep between them, goose bumps now rising on the soft skin of my inner thighs. Only a sliver of dress and shadow keeps my panties hidden. Brock’s eyes look on hungrily. I see his pants start to tent. I spread my legs until my knees hit the arm rests and push out with my pelvis. My skirt rides up onto my hips showing my bare legs and, between them, the cobalt silk of my panties, a flat, thin strip of fabric. I take the hand on my leg, his hand. Wow, you’re really doing it, huh? I move it up, over my leg, feel his finger pads glide over them until they’re so close to the silk border, refugees at its edge. I lift his hand entirely from my skin. I cup his fingers. I press them into my groin. Tension leaves his body. He falls into his seat and exhales. His fingers press against me and already I feel the cleft of my panties getting wet. He slides his index finger over the silk, pressing down on my slit. I arch my back and push my pelvis forward to meet it. Every time his finger brushes my clit, trapping the silk between his fingers and the delicate mound, my lips part ever so slightly and I look at him wide-eyed and wild. The cinema laughs, not at the movie but some idiot who’s fallen over in the aisle, a few late-comers chuckling post-joke and Brock’s fingers continuing to move with confidence, cupping and pressing, pulling at the material, desperate to please me. I’m breathing hard, hot. He brings three fingers together and adds pressure to my clit, moving them in a circular motion. Blood rushes to meet them and my entire lower half feels flush.

He presses them down and I moan, loud enough that an old biddy two rows fo rward looks back, yet even though my body burns below I retain total calm in my expression, eyeing him back. My panties dampen where the two cheeks of my ass meet the seat, trapping the moisture in the wedge there, sliding away in a thin rivulet from my heated core. I watch the images of cars racing together underwater, a lusty, thick fog enveloping my senses. I flick my eyes sideways, see the pointed bulge in Brock’s pants, obscene in this environment, and wonder if there are cameras around. Some kid in th e projection room probably has his cock out already, stroking it back and forth, watching us. Brock’s left hand moves over the front of his pants, wrapping itself around his member. He just holds it there, not willing to take it further. His full concentration is on me and this thought makes me so horny, so hot for him that I lean over, trapping his hand between my thighs. I cup a hand to his ear and move my lips until they touch his earlobe. I pau se. I breathe. I whisper, “I want your finger inside me.” I move my head away but do not break eye contact. I see in his eyes, illuminated by the screen, that fire, that youthful burn between us. It’s back. I spread my legs again. The muscles around my pubic bone strain. I can smell my heat and my opening as it widens to meet him, waiting. He takes his time. At first his hand stays there, applying light pressure to my pubis, pressing down on the area above my clit, lit green and gold now. Dark blue. Ivy. Red. Slowly, so slowly, I feel a finger slide down the silk, dropping to the bottom, catching one corner of the damp cloth and drawing it back, exposing me to the world. He’s delicate, folding the fabric over my labia, leaving my slit exposed, open now an inch, widening to a wet canyon. I press it forward to meet his finger, but he moves the finger away, savoring it. My hands clench at the armrests, my fingers tight. Laughter again. A finger dips forward and downwards, pausing at the ring of my muscle, the very entrance to my body. Moisture gathers around it. It slides in effortlessly, up to the knuckle and I feel it run over the corrugated roof of my cunt, the bumpy indentations there soaked.

In and out he moves it, attempting to press deeper each time, exploring me. When he does the solid underside of his palm presses down against my clit and I grind forward to meet it, careful to restrict my movements. His face remains steady. His eyes face the movie. He draws his finger out slowly and I can feel how wet it is. I want to grab his wrist to force it back inside, but I hold firm. He cups his chin with his hand, two fingers pointed up to his nostrils like a gun. He rests his elbow on the armrest, and to anyone else it would look like a gaze of contemplation, The Thinker in any other circumstance. Yet I know my juices coat the finger that rests under his nose. He inhales my scent with each labored breath. His eyes close. He can’t get enough. It’s happening. It’s finally happening. It is some time before they open and glance my way. A smile falls onto his lips. I smile back, enflamed, my legs spread and my pussy still exposed. I picture one of the ushers coming up the aisle with a torch, catching us in the act, taking in my bare vagina, the lips plump and moist, that fissure of a mouth hungry between them. He’d think of how he could feed it, his cock growing stiff in his pants. Brock leans over to me. I feel his stubble on my cheek. He’s careful not to make too much sound or exaggerate the movement. He waits until a moment of action on screen, the crowd to cry out or gasp before he whispers, “Take them off.” Questions roll into my head, hesitation, but I force it all out. I keep my eyes locked on his. I raise my bum up, pressing up on my heels until I’m no longer in contact with the seat. His tongue rolls over his bottom lip as he watches, staring into the dark void between my legs. A kid screams at some cheap popcorn thrill. I find the back of my panties with my hands, one each side of my hips, and slowly push them forward over my legs. There’s a blinding white on screen and it lights up the top of my pussy, the dark t riangle there that dives down into my bare lips, now spread and glistening in the light.

When my panties are halfway down my legs, I place my bum back down on the seat, feeling wetness between my ass cheeks, on my anus, staining the seat with it. It’s slick up the side of my inner thighs, my juices everywhere. Ass on the seat, I lift my feet up, pull my legs together and attempt to pull the panties free over my knees, but as they stretch over my kneecaps they stick to my cleft, stretching thin, the stickiness keeping them attached, a sexual glue. I pull and they spring free, a stained patch clear in the deep recess of the D shape they create swinging between my legs. I let them fall over my legs until they dangle around my ankles. I loop one out from my heel so that they hang from my left foot. I reach around and sling them off. Scrunched up in my hand, I place them in the space between our seats. I’m completely naked around the waist, my bare ass on the chair, my pussy completely uncovered, my dress pooled around my hips. I spread my legs again, eyes still locked on Brock’s face, his hand moving over his groin. He’s focused on the ball of panties. I know he wants to snatch them up, to breathe me in, cover his face in my wetness, but he restrains himself. His eyes flicker up into mine. I stare into their azure abyss, the screen a tiny square in his pupils, fragmented into two. “Make me cum,” I whisper, as I spread my legs wide, my pussy opening. I can feel the moist cinema air deep in my hole, cooling the fire there such is the level of my excitement. My heart races. I see Brock’s thudding underneath his blazer. Duh-dum. Duh-dum. Duh-dum comes the music. Both cars on screen are hurtling towards a one-way bridge, one of them shooting off into the river. He moves himself over as far as he can go in his chair, picking his moment. A desert road looms on screen, a vanishing point little more than a pinprick in the center. All thought is sexual. Fingers. Pussy. Cum. Brock’s right hand moves to my genitals again. He cups his hand slightly and reaches under my bum, fingers spread evenly over each cheek. His middle finger presses between

them, feeling the resistance and then, thanks to my arousal, slipping between them to rest its length along the rosebud of my anus, clenched tight in anticipation, My mouth falls open as he adds pressure onto the muscle there, almost pushing beyond its barrier, but not quite. I feel the underside of his finger and then the top as it dips just below the muscle, the long phallic length of his longest finger running up into my perineum, that short length of softness separating my anus and vagina, running over its solid surface before plunging deep within me, his knuckle grazing the slack bottom lip of my cunt. My mouth falls open. I’m drooling. I rest my head against the back of the chair lest it fall forward. I press my tongue to the top of my mouth to prevent myself crying out at the stars and colors that collide inside my eyelids. His finger comes out and there’s a terrible emptiness there. Then I feel three fingers widening me, cupping in and out, shoveling their way into the deepest confines of my cunt and opening up new sensations, finding long-forgotten areas of erogeny. My head explodes a-new, my body washed with chemicals and strange reactions. An urge to release, to let go and come rises, but I force it down. I squeeze my buttocks down on the harsh fabric below, forcing my chest out. My nipples bite into my bra, longing to be freed. His fingers probe deep into my pussy, hooking up into the fleshy ceiling, grinding against the hard acorn of nerve endings there and sending a new wave of sensation fresh through me. He’s breathing hard, trying to muffle the sound. I can’t close my mouth as his palm rubs back and forth over my clit, now rising to attention. I turn my head sideways and bite into the back of the chair to stifle my moans. I can hear his fingers below, the squelch of fluids as they move in and out, picking up pace. I feel my outer labia flex in and out with the effort, his three fingers filling me, and I picture them as his cock, smooth inside me, stroking out wet up to his balls. The sound of his fingers pushing through my cum is loud, but the soundtrack rises in intensity and washes it out. I’ve never been more thankful for a chase scene in my entire life. Lights flicker on and off. Speakers boom. Noise and sounds and colors and feelings

bounce around in my head, a never-ending tempest of sensation while his fingers plunge into me again and again. The urge to let go is knocking. I need to take the edge off. I need a distraction before I come, writhing against his hand. Clenching the armrest tight with my right hand, I keep my left low, moving it to the front of his pants, walking my fingers up to his belt. I work at the buckle, feeling his heartbeat reverberate through the metal, the constricted head of his cock desperately pressed against denim. The buckle loosens with an audible click and I’m pushing it away, twixing his top button in one hand, bending my elbow to run my hand through his pubic hair. It goes underneath the waist band of his jocks and grabs the bulbous head of his dick, already wet with pre cum in anticipation. I wrap my fingers around this warm organ, lift it upwards and into the air so that we’re both exposed. He desperately tries to maintain composure. His free fingers brush my own, my hand already slipping down his shaft from the wetness that’s gathered at the top. I roll my fingers over the head and it’s as if he’s been stabbed such is the look on his face. Momentarily, his fingers stop moving inside me, but I press forward with my pelv is and they resume their motion, quickly bringing me back to the peak. The soundtrack is building in strength, moving to a crescendo. There’s an orchestra hit, and another, as a car swings in and out of focus in my periphery. I’m jerking Brock off with my left hand, running it up and down his cock. Each downstroke pushes his jocks around the base of his length, spreading his jeans open like a paperback. Pre-cum dribbles over my fingers and I relish it, that I can make him , my very own stepbrother, this hot so fast. His head is back. His fingers rush in and out of m e faster than ever before, a sloppy smacking sound as they slap against the bone and the puffy swelling of my labial lips. I push my stomach out, my breasts pressing painfully against the front of the dress. I reach up to hold one in with my right hand, knocking old popcorn aside that was resting on the armrest there. It spills out between my legs. I smell the salt, the flavoring, all of it mixing with the sweetly scent of sex.

A piece falls between his legs and my thigh, rolling until it’s trapped by my ass cheeks, tucked up against the puckered opening of my anus. My hand is slick as it runs up and down Brock’s dick, making a wet flapping sound only we can hear. I temper it back, concentrating on squeezing his glans before I roll back over his head, twisting my wrist and making him spasm in delight. I press my stomach forward again and sit into his hand, pushing it deeper and further than ever, his fingers as far as they can go. As they work me, riding no deeper, it becomes too much. The music builds to a climax and so do I. Brock bucks his hips to meet my thrust. I have his cock in one hand. The other is over my dress, my breast. Half his hand is buried in my cunt. This equation, this mental addition in my head, is the final straw. I’m about to come when I feel his breath on the side of my face. “I’m going to come,” he announces in a rushed whisper. I realize he can’t just come here, all over his pants. The walk of shame would be too much. Between deep breaths, biting my lip to keep the orgasm at bay, I scan the head of the cinema’s occupants in front of me, but they are too engrossed in the movie to watch us making out like teenagers in the back. The projection beam burns overhead. I take my hand off Brock’s cock, already starting to contract, to reach between us and take my panties, still wet. I bunch them in my hand and place the crotch over the head of his cock, wrapping the rest of the silk around the thick length of his pole. I move it, using the silk and my wetness to masturbate him. I barely recognize this sudden seductress I have become. Officer Collins has left the building. He adds a fourth finger to my pussy, stretching it to its limits. The extra feeling of fulfilment brings on an orgasm so hard and strong I’m unable to stifle myself. I moan with a deep, guttural vocal heaving, pushing deep into the seat as waves and waves of bliss wash over me, exploding out from within. I’m numbly aware of his hand over my mouth, pressing me hard against the back of the seat, the flicker of light and my hips bouncing up and off the seat as contractions pulse through me.

My hand is pumping his cock all the while. His body stiffens and he grunts, his hips thrusting forward, his cum filling my panties. I hold them tight around the base, feeling the warmth flood through them, a darker patch ballooning at the top. The movie continues on in Technicolor. Finally, we sit there silent with the immensity of our actions finally weighing in. Brock wipes his cock, quietly zipping back up his pants. We watch the rest of the movie in a sort of post-sex haze, the smell of cum heavy and heady in the air around us. The hero, anti-hero rather, of the movie crashes into two bulldozers, a fiery explosion following. The lights come on I see my pussy lips raw and red. I quickly scan around, I stand, and in that brief second my cunt is exposed for all to see as my dress falls back into place. I’m flushed, my hair is disheveled, and I have drool on my face, but in the dim semi-light of the cinema I take Brock’s hand, slippery with our act, and we exit the cinema, smiling at each other as we step out to the car, our secret tryst complete. Brock holds my hand, fingers dry with my juices. Outside it’s still warm. “So, what did you think of the movie?” “I think that was a fucked-up ending.” Brock laughs. “I like to think of it as existentialist.” I actually stop and turn to him. “What did you say?” “What? I can’t have an opinion, a brain? Clearly, Kowalski drives simply to drive. There’s no purpose. It’s about freedom, over your actions, over everything.” “Wow, and I thought you dropped out of school.” “I did.” He kisses me then, the street lamp watching over us, burning into my eyes, as I take his tongue deep into my mouth. We break apart breathless. “Well, call me surprised,” I stammer. “What are you going to do next? Tell me you just got a job at NASA?” He smiles, squeezing my hand. “Why would a need a job like that? You just took me to the moon.”

I slap his shoulder. “You’re giving Cheetos a run for money in the cheesiness stakes there. What did you do with my panties?” A breeze runs under my dress. “Shit, my panties.” Brock just smiles. “You won’t be needing them.” * I wake up looking at that damn kitten poster again. I snap to another level of attention, conscious of the thick arm wrapped around me. You’re naked. Yes, it would appear so. Not again. “Brock?” I whisper. He presses his erection into my back. “Why hello.” “Was I sleepwalking again?” “I don’t think it matters. You’re right where you belong.” I go to move. Here in his actual bed, my old bed, it all seems too real. “I should-” He holds me tighter. “No,” he says firmly, a hand curling and cupping the hot mound between my legs. “Stay.” So I do. Afterwards, both of us sweat-soaked and the heavy scent of sex rising around us, I have never felt so content. I smile at the roof, at the single bulb blinking back in the moonlight. Brock’s cell buzzes in his pocket. “Who is it?” I query. “Hernandez. He needs to see me. It’s urgent.”

CHAPTER NINE There’s a dull ache between my legs when I arrive at HQ the next morning. Even Lucie on the front desk notices something’s different, the extra spring in my step. “Someone’s in a good mood,” she announces. I hold up my coffee—extra shot of vanilla. She shakes her head. “If that’s the coffee, baby, I need one. Stat.” I drop off the new recordings from my wire at the audio lab. The last guy I dealt with is gone. Now a young woman with frizzy hair puts everything in order. For some reason she won’t stop smiling. “Everything okay?” I question. She winks. “Have fun last night?” Fun? I wasn’t wearing a wire. How could she… “They’ve got you monitoring my phone as well, probably hear every damn thing through the mic, right?” “All day, all night,” she says, emphasizing the latter. “Fucking captain.” “Oh, come on,” she says, patting the chair beside her. “I don’t blame you. He’s seriously hot.” I act dumb. “Who?” “Brock, silly. Your stepbrother?” I look around in sudden alarm and close the door, face suddenly super-serious. “How did you know that?” She gestures to the computer in front of her, a series of audio files on screen. “It wasn’t hard to piece together.” “Are you going to tell them?” She rolls her eyes. “Of course not, but they’re going to find out. I’m just a lowly bottom dweller here in my acoustically perfect cave. I don’t get in on the real op work. ” “Please, what’s your name?” “Brittany.” Spears? She certainly looks like she just stumbled out of a trailer park. “Brittany, I really need to keep this a secret for now, for my cover, okay? I’ll tell them when the time’s right.”

She salutes me. “You’ve got it,” adding another wink. “Just make sure you keep your phone on. That shit was better than Fifty Shades.” * “Collins! How goes it?” The captain’s in a particularly good mood today. I was going to bring up the phone spying thing, but a happy captain is a rare phenomenon not to be fucked with. “Another bust?” I offer. “You bet your heiny. Raided a group of bikers and came away with so much ice you could start a ski resort.” “Bikers?” “We think they’re the ones bringing the shit in.” “And the street racers distribute it to the dealers, move it around?” “Precisely.” He looks hopeful. “Do you have something new to back that up, Collins?” “Nothing concrete, sir.” “But you’re getting close to him, right?” If only you knew. “Yes, sir.” “Good.” He opens his drawer and tosses a flat, puck-like disc across a coffee-ringed desktop. I pick it up, surprised at how heavy it is. “What’s this?” “A tracker. You’re going to attach it to his car.” “I’m not James Bond.” “The tech guys will fill you in. It’s all very easy, and this way we can get a better idea of what our boy is up to.” I take a deep breath. “Like I said, I’m not sure Brock is masterminding it.” “What makes you say that?” I practically slept with him and now I’m compromised. “I just have a feeling.” “I have a feeling I need to piss, but that means shit, doesn’t it, Collins? What we need is something a bit more concrete, yeah? You gave the recordings in?” “I did. They’re just preparing them now.” “No nasty surprises?”

“No, sir.” I’m just crossing fingers that Brittany, my new BFF, holds up her end of the bargain. “It’s a lot to handle, Collins. I know that, and you’re young, but you can handle this.” “Yes, cap.” “Good, now fuck off. I’ve got work to do.” * The captain’s words are still echoing in my ears as I hit the crash mat—hard. “Collins!” shouts the PE instructor. “This isn’t Miss World. Get the fuck in there and take him out!” ‘Him’ is Officer Lewiston, a human Hulk. I’m all for gender equality, but this is ridiculous. Only in Idaho do they breed them like this. Lewiston knows he could crush me with a swipe of his arm, so he sort of plays around and opens up his stance, inviting me in. I make my move and grab a leg, pulling, trying to twist him down to the mat. He sort of half falls and goes down, no thanks to me. The PE instructor has bought it. He claps. “That’s what I’m talking about. Everyone else take notice. It ain’t going to be fair on the streets either. No matter the size of the perp, you strike hard and fast. Now, rolls.” I shake Lewiston’s hand, whispering “thanks.” He winks. “You owe me.” Seems like I’m starting to owe a lot of people these days. I don’t even know why we have to go through this whole physical education thing every week. Didn’t we do enough of it at the damn academy? But no, no, no. New commissioner, new overhaul to get the force looking nice and shipshape. So, we practice rolling. Front rolls, back rolls, side rolls, the plastic gun in my hands feeling about as real as a banana. These skills might come in handy for the next set of Mission Impossible, but I can’t ever see when I’m going to have to get all Van Damme like this out and about. Look out! Police coming through! Side roll, high kick. What a joke. The PE guy’s really into it, though he could probably spend a bit more time making sure he packed his scrotum into his shorts next time. *

Exhausted from the session, I swing by the house, Dad set up in a Snuggie on the couch looking suspiciously like a giant, cuddly tomato. “How’s he doing?” I ask Michelle, knowing that I’ll get much more of an honest answer from her than I ever will my father. “He’s being stubborn. Still jamming away the jerky like it’s going out of fashion.” “I like my jerky!” Dad cries. “Jesus, is it such a crime?” “Why don’t you tell yourself that when you’re trying to call up from the fires of hell?” says Michelle. “You think I’m going to hell?” “In a handbasket.” She shoves a juiced mix of what looks like grass and egg in his face. “Now, drink this. It’s good for you.” I take a seat next to Dad. “How’s work, kiddo?” “Busy.” “I bet. They got you working late?” “You could say that.” “Well, if anyone can handle it, it’s you, my darling. Say, a girl came around to see you before.” “A girl?” “Said she knew you from back home.” “From Rosie?” “Yeah. Everett—I remembered the name but couldn’t place the face.” Rosie—The small town I grew up in straight out of a Stephen King novel. It must be almost twelve, maybe fifteen years since I was back. “What did you say her first name was?” “Alice,” Michelle interjects, a droopy look on her face as she takes a still three-quarters full glass from my father’s hands. “She left her number on the table there.” Alice Everett. I’ll be damned.

CHAPTER TEN Brock wasn’t kidding. He can cook. I sit in front of perfectly cooked short ribs he probably spent the whole afternoon slaving over. They melt in my mouth. I dab at the corner of my lips. “Not bad.” “Told you I could cook.” “The last thing I remember you cooking was a Frankenstein pizza made out of monthold cheese and stale bread.” “I was young. Desperate times, desperate measures.” “We weren’t that bad off back then, were we?” Brock smiles. “I remember two things about my adolescence: being really horny and really hungry, all the time.” “And now you’re just horny all the time?” “I am when you’re around. What can I say?” “I don’t blame you. I’d fuck myself.” “Sounds like some Inception shit.” “The whole sleepwalking thing certainly feels like it.” Brock places his fork and knife down, plate clean. If he does the dishes I just might suck his dick. “I can’t believe you’re still sleepwalking after all these years.” “Believe it.” “Isn’t it something you grow out of?” “You mean like wasting money on cars?” “Wasting? Who said anything about wasting? That’s an investment out there, as much of an investment as bricks and mortar.” “I beg to differ.” “Besides, what house do you know that will run Second Bridge to Main in twelve seconds?” I roll my eyes again. “Not this again. It can’t be done. You’re all in it together, a big pact.” “What would be the point of that?” I throw my hands up. “I don’t know. Fuck with Maddy day?” “It can be done. Let me show you.”

“And break every road rule there is?” “For twelve seconds. Come on, let’s make it a bet.” “A bet? Hmm,” I purr, “interesting. What are the stakes?” Brock thinks on it, his glacial eyes watching me closely, foot weaving between my legs and pressing against the crotch of my panties. “I come in over twelve seco nds and I’m yours. You can do with me whatever you like, but if I win…” “Yes.” “You race the Camaro.” “Why would you want me to do that?” He shrugs. “Don’t know. I just find the idea of my two favorite girls getting it on kind of hot.” “Fine.” We shake on it. “When do you want this to go down?” I question. Brock grins. “There’s no better time than the present.” Great. * Second Bridge is a street, not a bridge at all, running perpendicular to Main for a good quarter mile. Running behind the major thoroughfare, it’s quiet for the most part, and flat, which I guess is the appeal for these guys. It’s like the council purposely built it like a dragstrip. Making it from the start and hitting Main at the top doesn’t seem implausible in twelve seconds until you realize it passes through two intersections. We arrive at the bottom of Second Bridge around nine PM. As suspected, Second Bridge itself is absent of traffic, but I can see cars moving through the intersections ahead. I’ve been down this run countless times before. I know there is no way you’ll get both intersections green. No car is fast enough for that. Brock sits on the side of the street observing. He doesn’t look nervous at all. “You ready?” I hold my cell phone set to stopwatch. The screen reads 0:00. My finger hovers over the ‘start’ button. “Last chance to pull out,” I warn.

Brock turns to me. “I never pull out.” One foot on the brake, he brings the revs up sharply, the engine struggling to be let free. I look at the tachometer, RPMs reading threethousand. I think that’s quite high in the scheme of things considering we’re standing still. Brock has to shout above the noise of the engine. “And… go!” I hit ‘start’ and he lets his foot off the brake, no sign of wheelspin at all, the rear tires hunkering down hard into the blackstuff and the front of the car lifting as we fire forward. “Heeeeeeelp!” I mutter, pushing back against the mighty torque of the motor. There’s a clunk as Brock shifts a gear, the car falling forward and picking up speed so quickly I’m scared my spine’s about to wind up in my mouth. I’m wedged hard into the seat, wired. I glance down at the screen and see it only reads five seconds. The lights go green as we approach the intersection just in time, the Camaro blitzing through and still gaining speed. Brock’s face is a mask of concentration, one hand on the steering wheel, the other firmly fixed to the shifter, absolutely no relent on the accelerator. We’re coming up fast to the next intersection—too fast. The lights are still red. “Brock,” I warn. He doesn’t pay any attention. “Brock!” I scream, harder, the intersection approaching too quickly, the time growing too short. “Trust me,” he says. Cars are blurring through the intersection going the other way. We are not going to ma ke it. Still, I resist the urge to protest and grab onto the top of the door, holding myself tight for impact and praying Brock has a plan. Three. Two. One. The lights are still red. Brock shifts a gear, the engine soaring in aural agony, the back of the car swinging left and then right just enough to squeeze through the smallest of gaps between two lanes of

cars coming in the opposite direction. We come so close to one I can see the s hock register on the driver’s face, that look of ‘what the hell was that?’ The car corrects and we power on, the revs growing slower now but still climbing and the end of Second Bridge approaching at lightning speed. We come onto Main and I hit ‘stop,’ Brock swinging the car in a wide drift until we’re back into the flow of traffic. I’m actually sitting off my seat, my feet planted onto the floor and my heart a wild horse set free. I look at the screen of my cell: 11:89. “Fuck.” Brock’s smiling like a goofy idiot. “Told you it could be done.” “You almost got us killed.” “I knew precisely what I was doing.” “There’s no way you could have equated for that gap.” The engine has simmered down ahead of us, the heat washing through the cabin, swimming around my ankles. Brock slowly nods his head. “It’s a gamble, yes, but that’s the rush. It’s just like life. You can’t always prepare yourself for what’s coming. The best you can be is ready.” “My, my, aren’t we full of wisdom today?” “Didn’t you even feel the slightest hint of excitement?” “I think I might have to wash out my pants when I get home is what I think.” Truthfully, I’m still buzzing. There was something there, the danger, the thrill. I can understand it. The rush isn’t there if the threat isn’t real. There has to be a clear and present danger. That’s what gets them off. “You ready to race?” I lower my head and lift my eyes. “You were kidding, right?” “No, maam.” “Don’t call me maam.” “No, officer. You’re racing whether you like it or not. But first, you’re going to need someone to race against.” “Let me guess, you have someone in mind.” “I do.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN We make our way to the outskirts of town and pull up in front of an all-night donut shop. The shop itself doesn’t look like it’s seen a lick of paint in twenty years, but one thing stands out—the Lamborghini in front of it. Brock raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t know anything about cars?” “I’m not an idiot. I know a Lamborghini when I see one.” “A 2012 Murcielago to be precise, over 600 horse.” I take in the car in all its Batmobile swoopiness. Black, of course. There’s a major greaseball sitting on the hood, legs squatted out given how low the car is. He looks a bit like Hernandez from a distance. Brock parks the car. “Wait here.” I grab his arm. “What are you going to do?” “Lay down terms.” He closes the door and walks over to the Lambo, the owner recognizing him instantly and the two of them talking. I can see the owner wave his hand in a ‘no, no, no’ gesture, before Brock turns his back to me. When I see them again the owner of the Lambo looks much happier. He’s pointing at the Camaro (or me?). He’s laughing. Brock shrugs his shoulders and heads back over. “No good?” I ask when he gets back in. Please, please. For a beautiful few seconds I think I’ve escaped, but no. “It’s on,” Brock beams. “Great,” I sigh sarcastically. The Lambo follows us as we head down the highway and turn off down a non -descript side street. Just like Second Bridge, it’s long and flat like a dragstrip, but this time there are no intersections, no other cars. Buildings shield us from the highway. Brock comes to a stop in the middle of the road, the Lambo coming up beside us. It’s so low I can’t even see it out the window. I lean over Brock and look down. It seems Lambo guy’s not alone. There’s a big-boobed Barbie doll type in the passenger seat. Brock takes off his harness. “Time to swap.”

“You’re not serious, Brock. Come on. I can’t drive this car.” “You can and you will. That was the deal.” I’m still complaining as we swap seats. I pull the harness into place and grab the steering wheel. Brock checks his watch. I look sideways at the Lambo, the driver smiling back with teeth that are far too white for this time of night. He blows me a kiss. “Who is that guy?” “A real asshole. That’s all you need to know.” “Right.” Brock points through the windscreen at a light in the distance. “See that?” “Yeah.” “That’s the railway crossing. A train will be through in two minutes. The lights will go red. When they go green, we race. First to cross the tracks wins.” “Wins what?” “Don’t worry about that. Focus on the race.” I don’t think I’ve seen Brock this serious in forever. “What do I do?” “This is an auto. It’s easy. Let the car do the work. I’ll guide you through it.” “You’re going to have to be more specific.” He reaches into the footwell and moves my legs. “One foot on the accelerator, the other hard on the brake pedal. Foot on the brake, you’re going to bring the revs up with the accelerator to 3500rpm. Got it? “Got it.” “You’re going to hold it there. Once the lights go green you’re going to lift your foot off the brake and press the accelerator all the way down. Whatever you do, don’t lift off. Keep that foot down.” “Yes, boss.” “I’m not joking around, Maddy.” “Okay, okay.” He moves one of my hands from the steering wheel to the shifter. “Three shifts. I’ll help you, shifting every time that little light in the middle of the dash there lights up. Now tell me what you’re doing.”

“Foot on the brake, revs up to five-thousand.” “Three-thousand-five-hundred! Jesus.” “Three-thousand-five-hundred, lift off brake and accelerator flat.” “Yes.” Brock checks his watch again, twitchy beside me. “Ready?” I grip the wheel tighter. “Whatever you do, don’t lift off the gas. If the car goes sideways, the answer is more speed, more gas.” “Got it.” “Ten seconds out.” The lights change and I can hear bells clanging in the distance. The Lambo revs beside us. I don’t want to look at it. I focus on the lights in the distance. The train starts to rush past ahead. I press my foot hard into the brake and begin to press the accelerator down. The revs move to 900rpm. “More,” says Brock. I push down a little more and they hit 1500rpm, the car beginning to lurch. It wants to be set free. The train’s almost through, the Lambo revving away wildly beside us. I bring it up to two-thousand-five-hundred, the engine really straining at the leash now, all that power under my fingertips. “More!” cries Brock and in fright I push down on the gas harder, the revs suddenly spiking to four-thousand and the car almost getting away. At the same time the lights go green ahead. “Now!” I lift off the brake and slam my foot down into the accelerator. The front of the Camaro lifts again and I’m pinned into my seat, forced to pull on the steering wheel hard as the entire thing begins to skew sideways. “Hold it!” cries Brock beside me, and I manage to bring the car back into line. The Lambo is already ahead, its slit-like taillights moving away. “Harder!”

I mash my foot all the way to the floor and the Camaro picks up, slowly gaining on the Lambo. I’m blinded by a bright yellow light from the dash. “Shift!” Brock moves my hand on the shifter into the next gear. The distance between the Lambo narrows until we’re almost side by side. The crossing comes into clearer focus, the engine screaming with everything it’s got. I’m blinded again. “Shift!” Next gear and we’re pulling in front of the Lambo. The crossing’s coming up fast, Brock’s hand moving again and my foot pinned to the floor so hard my thigh burns. We come flying over the crossing airborne, the car crashing back down and Brock squeezing my thigh telling me to back off. I let my foot off the accelerator. We’ve done it—just. “Brake, brake.” I prod the brakes, the feeling like two bricks being mashed together coming shuddering from the back before the car finally comes to a halt. The Camaro ticks as we sit there. The Lambo pulls up on the passenger side. Brock exchanges words with the owner, but over the sound of the cars I can’t hear what’s going on. Greaseball throws something through the window. The plastic bag falls onto Brock’s lap, the Lambo doing a donut around us and whipping back down to the highway in a swirl of dust through the headlights. Brock opens the bag and tosses a wad of notes into my lap. I pick it up. “Holy fuck. How much is this?” “Five large.” “Five-thousand dollars?” “You earned it.” I thumb through the bills, more money than I’ve seen in my life. “Are you kidding me?”

Brock’s hand wedges itself between my legs. “Now tell me you aren’t just the littlest bit excited?” I have to admit I am. It’s like my blood’s been replaced with soda pop. “Okay, fine. That was kind of exciting. I can’t say the money’s bad either. Maybe I could t ake this up full time.” Brock shakes his head. “Not a good idea. Take it from me personally.” I’m buzzed. I don’t want this night to end. “Where to now?” “Well, aren’t we the eager beaver?” “Maybe I’m changing.” “The others are go-karting. What do you say?” I put on my best Tom Cruise face. “I feel the need, the need for speed.” Brock rolls his eyes. “Jesus.” * We’ve got the whole go-kart place to ourselves. It’s set over two floors in a giant warehouse in yet another grimy anomaly of the city. It’s just the Midnight Club members here, everyone seemingly enjoying themselves and kicking back. Drinking and driving is clearly allowed—nay, encouraged—here. Brock passes me a cold Corona and points to two karts sitting side by side. “Take you on?” I’ve driven go-karts before. Something about being that close to the ground is unnerving. “I’m not much good.” “Doesn’t matter. This is just for fun, right?” “Nothing with you is ‘just for fun.’” He looks around before working a hand between my legs and groping the crotch of my jeans. I wonder if he knows how wet I am down there, how urgent I am for a finger, more… Thank god no one has noticed. “I don’t know about that,” he continues. “I do a lot for fun.” I give in. “Okay, a quick race.” Someone hands me a helmet. I slip it on and maneuver myself into the tight bucket seat. If it’s one thing I work out instantly, it’s that these go-karts are much more powerful than the fairground ones I remember from when I was ten.

This thing blasts away, so much so I almost go smashing through the first wall. I remember how responsive the steering is and try to follow the back of Brock’s cart, sticking as close as I can while the motor buzzsaws away behind my back. Even with the helmet on I can smell petrol and grease, the tar of the track warmed up by the slick tires. Oh, what the hell. I push harder and come into the next corner, surprised by the way I slide out but still manage to avoid the wall. Jay is clapping from the side as I come past. “Not bad!” he shouts. I’m actually not that far off Brock. He’s good, but I find if I can follow his line I can stick to him pretty well. I start to get used to the sensation, the directness of the steering. Champers doesn’t have power steering, so in a way this feels much closer to driving my own car—just on an infinitely smaller scale. Coming down the back straight I actually manage to clip Brock’s back bumper. He snaps around with a ‘what the fuck?’ expression in his eyes. I’m laughing, cracking up inside as he winds down, pulling into the pits. I take off my helmet, hair damp and turned into spiralized tendrils. “Hot,” says Brock, “but I don’t know how you caught me.” Jay comes over with his hand raised. “Perhaps I might of put the limiter on your cart, friend.” “You fucker…” and Brock pulls Jay into a headlock, both of them wrestling across the track. I laugh. I thought it was a little too good to be true. I see Hernandez on the other side of the track. He looks serious. I’ve seen that look before, but there’s something else going on. He’s looking at me with suspicion. I smile and focus back on the boys, both of them flat on their backs and Brock trying to pull Jay’s hoodie over his head while the others laugh behind me. When they’re done fucking each other we all sit at a table and sink back beers, Jay and Brock now on opposite sides of the table. “I can’t believe you did that, bro.”

Jay shrugs. “Got to keep things fair.” “Fair? Like those twin bottles of gas in your Corvette are fair?” “It’s perfectly legal. Ask any boy racer.” Brock takes a glug. “Yeah, ‘boy’ sums it up really well.” Jay turns his attention to me. “Heard you took down Marcus and his Lambo. That is impressive.” I look to Brock. “I had help.” “What are you going to do with the money?” continues Jay. “No idea. Pedicure, maybe?” “That would be some pedicure,” Brock interjects. “You’ve got a better idea?” I throw at him. “Matter of fact…” “I don’t want to hear it. The money’s going to our folks. They need it.” “Oh?” says Jay. “Everything okay.” “It will be,” and for the first time I believe it. Five-thousand is a long way off what Dad and Michelle owe the bank, but it’s a pretty good start that should keep the wolves off their backs for now. “Back in the day,” says Jay, “Brock would have kept it all for himself. He’s changed, he has.” I run my finger around the rim of the beer bottle. “Not that much.” My bladder’s about to pop. “Bathrooms?” Jay points to the far wall. “Just past the vending machine.” I excuse myself and head off to the toilets. Hernandez watches me as I pass. I’m sure he’s following my ass. Let him. I finish up, just about to head back out to join the others when I hear voices coming from the men’s next door. I place my ear closer to the wall. One of the voices is Brock, but I can’t make out the other. They’re both trying to keep the volume down. I close the toilet lid quietly and stand up on it to get closer to where the sound’s coming from. I find the vent and press my ear against it, wiping away a cobweb in the process. It’s Brock and Hernandez. I can just make out what they’re saying.

Hernandez is speaking fast. “She’s a fucking cop, brother. We can’t have her kind hanging around, not when we’re trying to talk business.” “Business?” Brock snaps. “Are you for real?” “I’m always real. You’re the one who’s trippin’.” “She’s fine,” Brock continues. “I vouch for her personally.” I feel a streak of happiness at the way Brock’s standing up for me. “That may be so,” says Hernandez, his voice dipping lower, “but I don’t want her getting too deep.” Too late for that. “What do you think she’s going to do? Call SWAT down here to take us away for a couple of mechanical defects?” Silence from Hernandez. Brock sounds annoyed. “I mean, we’ve got nothing to be worried about, do we?” “Brother, brother,” comes a reassuring Hernandez, “it’s fine. The less you know, the better.” “I want to know nothing is going on here that’s going to get us all fucked again.” “You have my word.” And that’s the end of it. The door swings open and I jump down from the toilet, moving to the washbasin to clean up. “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t know you were in here. There’s no water next door.” I turn and flick water from my hands in Brock’s face. “Why you disgusting…” He comes forward and grabs me around the waist, pressing me up against the mirror. I look into his eyes, the fluoros creating razor-sharp catchlights across the middle of his pupils, those endless pools of indigo. “I heard you and Hernandez talking,” I confess. “Oh that.” “You were sticking up for me.” “Shouldn’t I? I’m your stepbrother, after all.”

Saying it out loud makes it real. I don’t want it to be. I want us to be more than stepbrother and stepsister. I know he does too. I reach down and begin to undo his belt. With Birdie away tonight, I’m the only girl here. I can’t imagine anyone is going to stumble in on us. Brock looks at me curiously. He doesn’t try to stop me, though. “What are you doing?” I bite my lower lip, flick my eyes up to him in my best come-on expression. “I want you to be more than my stepbrother.” I pull the belt free and start undoing buttons, my hand fishing inside his jocks. His cock grows hard in my hand as I stroke it up and down. He presses his lips against my ear. “If that’s really what you want.” “It is,” I moan. “You don’t think it’s wrong?” I roll my fingers around the head of his cock, massaging the pearly pre -cum leaking from his slit into his glans and taking in the musky scent of his sex. “Is it wrong? I don’t think so.” “You’re not thinking straight.” I reach down deep into his pants with my other hand and cup his balls, rolling them between my fingers. “And you are?” “Not anymore.” “Let me show you,” I plead. “How?” comes his voice, hot against my ear. His cock is an iron bar in my hand. I let go of him and push him away, kneeling on the cold tiles and taking hold of the top of his jeans. I pull them roughly down to his knees, his cock bobbing out red and angry. I take hold of it again, pleased to be the one in control. In fact, more and mor e I’m finding that’s precisely where I want to be. He runs a hand over my forehead, brushes away the hair there as I guide him towards my mouth. I make sure I don’t break eye contact. I want him to look down into my hazel eyes and know how much I’m enjoying this, the taste of him in my mouth.

I part my lips just enough for the head of his member to slide inside. I let it sit there, pressing at its tip with my tongue and then whisking it around his glans until he’s bucking against me. “Fuck, Maddy.” I pull away and continue to jerk him off with my hand. “What? You think I’m such a good girl? You’re wrong.” I open up my jaw and lower my head over him, taking him as deep as I can go. The action is met with a low moan that reverberates through his abdomen. His fingers claw into my scalp and he tilts his hips trying to go deeper, spellbound by the sensation of my lips around his cock. I’m wet below, panties saturated and a need building in my core that’s so strong I’m actually starting to think I might come without even taking off my pants. Holding him by the root, fingers ringed around his shaft, I concentrate and take him all the way into the back of my throat, struggling with the length and coughing a little as I let him free, spittle joined from my lips to the side of his dick. He looks down. “That is the god-damn hottest thing I have ever seen.” I wink. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” I let saliva build in my mouth and take him back inside with more urgency, really sucking and slurping away at his pole, covering every inch with my tongue, milking him with my mouth until he’s shaking and bucking and quietly repeating my name over and over. I have him just where I want him. “Mads, I can’t hold on.” I pay no attention. I just keep sucking, my hand falling from his shaft to his balls. I squeeze them gently, feel the cum building hot and ready. He holds my head, tries to push me away, but I hold firm. I keep the rhythm going. “I’m serious, Mads,” he warns. Seconds later his balls lift in my hand. His entire body stiffens. His mouth locks open and a breathy gasp escapes from it. I suck and suck and suck, waiting. He gives another gasp, cock twitching in my mouth and then releasing.

I glue my lips around it, let the salty hit of his load impact against the back of my throat. I swallow it down, frantically trying to keep up but finally forced to let him out, the final ribbons shooting out over the floor between us. Brock looks down at me with his cheeks rosy and a look of such distance in his eyes you’d think I’d just put a needle in his arm. He smiles, cock continuing to jerk and spasm before me. “That was fucking amazing.” He reaches down and lifts me up, pulling my jeans and panties down together, the crotch sticking and then pulling away from my tender pussy. The suddenness takes me by surprise, but Brock wastes no time. He takes me under the thighs and lifts me up, thrusting me against the mirror, my pants bundled up between us, the top of my legs against my breasts and my sex open and needy before him cooling in the air. He presses his mouth hard against my own. He doesn’t care about tasting himself. His tongue probes rough and deep, taking me without mercy. I hook my arms around his neck and return, both of us heaving and hot together, my back against the glass. When he enters me, when his still-hard cock fills my body, I bite into his shoulder to stifle the intense euphoria that has just swept through my entire being. He begins to thrust, hammering up into me, filling me full with powerful strokes, the mirror bending and distorting at my back and my chin bouncing on the butt of his shoulder as he fucks me brutally. I let him. I let myself be taken. It doesn’t matter where we are. We are together. That is all that matters. We are one. Years and years of sexual tension are finally being released, released in such a powerful way I know immediately there is no other gu y I could possibly be with. Brock is the one. “Maddy,” he whispers into my ear, the wet slapping of our bodies coming together echoing off the walls, the water dripping from the faucet beside us and the earthy smell of our union filling my nostrils. I shake and quiver, nipples diamond hard against my knees. My feet flap in the air, my body caught between Brock and the mirror, his cock relentless in its need to bring me to completion.

It builds and grows deep inside me, fanning out and the flames rising until I’m all heat, all fire. I can’t hold out any longer. “I’m going to… ahhhhh.” The release is so profound and so powerful I blank out momentarily, lost to the void, as my cunt begins to clench and release. There’s a pained cry in my ear, Brock stiffening and releasing again deep inside me. I feel the heat build there, take comfort in it. I don’t know how long I’m lost, how long I hang there buffeted by the waves of ecstasy that seem almost an endless ocean. It’s infinite. I don’t want it to stop. I just want it to be us, but as I open my eyes I see movement at the door to the bathrooms. I see gold and I know someone’s been watching us. Hernandez.

CHAPTER TWELVE We clean ourselves up as quickly as possible, but I’m conscious of the way a cloud of sex seems to follow us when we step back outside into the warehouse. It probably would have been wise to come out together, but I think everyone knows what’s really going on here. They’re not blind, especially Jay. He’s got a smile so wide on his face there’s no doubting he knows. He smiles at Brock. “Took your time.” “Is that a crime?” We exchange a guilty look. Brock glances to the other side of the track. “Where’d Hernandez go?” Jay shrugs. “Just took off. Hell if I know, moody fucker.” Moody. That’s one way to put it. “I’ll be back,” says Brock, that seriousness returning. He vanishes out the side door and leaves me with the boys. I cross my legs, my sex still tender and damp. “So,” I begin, “who’s up for a race?” * Brock was quiet on the way home. I made conversation, but it seemed like a one -way street. Didn’t stop us dirtying up the sheets back home, mind you. I roll over in the morning to an empty bed, rising instead and working my way up to the main house. Dad’s still asleep, lazy fuck, but Michelle’s up. Her coffee is marginally better than Dad’s. Usually we just sit here watchi ng whatever morning show is boring the nation today, but today she wants to chat. Weird. “How’s everything going, Maddy?” I’m taken a little by surprise, but pull my wits together enough to reply “fine” instead of ‘I’m sleeping with your son and running an undercover operation on him at the same time.’ “How’s Brock?” I always thought Michelle could have shown a little more interest in her son. She seemed content just to let him be and blame any issues on his late father. My dad was the one who was trying to guide him into some kind of stability, but Dad never had the car link. He was a poor substitute, a regular working-class kind of guy who knows nothing about the streets or the way the world really works.

I answer as deftly as I can. “He’s good. He’s great, actually.” “You two were always very close,” Michelle muses, taking a sip, steam clouding her hairline. Does she know? “I think he’s changed.” “What makes you say that?” I don’t want to have to explain myself, but I feel compelled to defend him. “He’s… stable.” She laughs. “Stable? Not my Brock. Give him another month and he’ll disappear again.” “I think it’s different this time. I think he wants to settle down.” “With one of those car bimbos?” I picture myself as a ‘car bimbo,’ slathered over my ride in a tight bikini. “Someone… serious, you know? A real girl.” You’re calling yourself a ‘real girl,’ Maddy? Michelle takes it in. “I see.” “Why don’t you talk to him yourself?” I suggest, but it comes across cruel. Michelle points a finger at herself. “Me? I’m the last person he wants to talk to. He still blames me for his father’s death, you know, even after all these years. And yes, maybe there’s some truth in it. I was unfaithful. I started the ball rolling, but I do not think it’s fair what he’s put me through. A mother deserves to know whether her own child is dead or alive, don’t you think?” I bite my tongue, nod. My cell goes off in my pocket. I pull it out, not recognizing the number at first and then working out it’s my old friend Alice from Rosie. She’s free. “I’ve got to go,” I tell Michelle, downing the coffee, burning the roof of my mouth, but pleased to be out of this eternally awkward conversation. If you really want to find out what’s going on with him, I think, talk to him yourself. * I arrange to meet Alice at a little café called the Pin & Whisk off Main, the kind of in haunt kept bustling by pram moms and sporty types, neither of which I can claim to be.

The bell on the door chimes and I recognize her immediately. It’s funny like that. We got up to some real mischief back in the day. It’s eons ago now, but I’m pleased to see she’s looking well. I shake my head. “Alice Everett. I’ll be damned.” She takes a seat, smiling. She looks good. “The one and only.” “What brings you back to the city?” “I’m catching up with a friend, Dan Winters, transferred here from New York a week or so ago, a big promotion. He’s a cop too. You remember him?” Rosie seems like a lifetime ago. My parents pulled us out of there when the mill went down nearby. I’d only just started junior high. “I’m a little fuzzy on who’s who from those days.” “Well, it doesn’t matter.” There’s something else. I know. It’s the detective in me coming out. Alice breaks, a giant smile pulling across her face. She holds her hand up, a gleaming platinum wedding ring in place. “I might be doing a little dress shopping, too.” “Wow, Alice! Congratulations. Who is he? A city guy?” She laughs. “No, definitely not a city boy. He’s from back home.” “Back home. Listen to you. You even sound country.” “Well, I’m happy, you know. Things are going right for once, not that it’s been an easy road. Let’s just say my partner was something of a bad boy to begin with, a guy I really had the wrong impression about.” I think of Brock, hands on my hips, the mirror pressing against my back. “I know what you mean.” “And what about you? Any goss?” “Well, I guess you could say I’m seeing someone.” Who I’m totally going to send to jail. “He’s a bit of a bad apple, too, but I think I can put him on the right path.” To a life behind bars. “I just want to take it slow.” Make sure I gather enough evidence. Alice nods. “Sounds intriguing. Does he work with you?” No, he lives with me. “In a way.” “Hmm, aren’t you the mysterious one, but first, cronuts.” *

I’m still buzzed from my encounter with Alice, with the past, as I head home, Champers purring away surprisingly well. Maybe Brock did something to him. He normally splutters away and carries on, whining when I have to drag him up to eighty-five. Dad and Michelle are out, Brock too. Both the house and flat are empty. I notice Brock’s car still parked in the garage, hood open. Now’s your chance. I find the tracker inside the flat and stand in front of the Camaro, its giant, black, hulking form. It couldn’t be more macho if you smothered it in Tabasco. It’s hot, the tracker sweaty in my hand. I try to recall what the tech guy said — magnetized, underneath, rail-something. It sounded simple at the time, but the guy had a giant zit right under his nose that was about to erupt like Vesuvius. I couldn’t really concentrate on anything else. I get down on the concrete and slide under the car as much as I can. It’s even hotter under here. I wonder how any person in a sane frame of mind could possibly enjoy working on cars. I look for the rail, a good spot to place the tracker. There’s just so much god -darned stuff under here. I place the tracker up, but it doesn’t stick. Shit. I move it like you would a planchette on a Ouija board, shifting it around until finally it snaps away from my hand hard up against the chassis. I check to make sure there are no moving parts around it, but it blends in well. I activate it from the side, a tiny LED telling me it’s good to go. Wherever this car heads to now, the cops are going to know about it. “Maddy?” I sit up so fast I smack my head hard into the underside of the car. There’s a hollow ringing that follows not unlike getting socked with a baseball bat. I slide out, fingers dabbing at a welt already forming right in the center of my head. I squint against the light. “Dad? I thought you were out?” “Just tidying up the basement. What you doing under there?” “I, uh, lost something, rolled down the drive.” “Need a hand?” I stand, brushing myself off, head ringing. “No, no. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I can’t be caged up in there all day. Besides, I have to walk twenty minutes a day, doctor’s orders.” I point to the two strips of jerky poking out of his trouser pocket. “A nd what about those? Doctor’s orders too, huh?” He slips them a little deeper inside. “Now, baby, that’s my medicine. No need to inform Michelle.” I tap the side of my nose. “Our little secret. You see Brock?” “Yeah, he left with some girl.” I stiffen. “A girl?” “Hair like a flamingo.” “Birdie?” “Yeah, something like that.” “Did he say where they were going?” “Something about kebabs, unless that’s a kind of euphemism you kids have these days. I’m really not up to date on all this sexting and kicking and whatever it is you do on those phones.” “Just as well. I’ll see you later.” I jump back into Champers and head to the meeting spot. Time to get my jump on.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The sun has set by the time I come into the parking lot. Everyone’s gathered around their cars. I make my entrance, Champers wheezing. Bemused looks follow, none more so than my brother. He comes up to the car and taps on the window. I wind it down. “Yes, officer.” “What are you doing here, Maddy?” He seems kind of put off by my presence. “Thought I’d say hi, check up on you.” “Check up on me? Seriously?” I wink. “Maybe something else?” “It’s not a good time.” Hernandez appears behind Brock’s back, a hand on his shoulder. He looks down at me. “Brock, you didn’t tell us you were bringing the bacon.” “Funny,” I retort. Hernandez smirks. “Any friend of Brock’s is a friend of mine, especially a friend like you.” He’s looking at my tits again, the creep. Hernandez smiles, but it’s more of a leer, a mouth full of gold. “Come on. Join us. We’re just about to head out.” Brock shakes his head as Hernandez walks away. He opens my door and offers me his hand. “You shouldn’t have come.” Fuck you, I want to tell him, I can do what I want, but something’s not right here. I know it. Brock directs me to Birdie’s car, a neon-pink hatch with a graphic of a Navaho princess down the side. Underneath the car glows like a halo. Inside it’s all velour trim, fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view. “I’ll drive,” says Brock, looking quite silly surrounded by pink velour in the driver’s seat. Birdie offers me the front seat and squeezes into the back. “You didn’t bring the Camaro tonight?” I question. “No,” comes the stern reply. What have I done? I wonder. He’s cold tonight, freakin’ Princess Elsa cold. We sit towards the back of the procession, the engine whining like a sewing machine under the hood and, I note, with quite a different tone to Brock’s car.

Brock himself remains silent, but Birdie tries her best to engage me in conversation, the scent of grape Hubba Bubba floating past my nose. “What’s that one?” she says, pointing to a big blue sedan. This is not a game I’m going to be good at, which is pretty funny considering one of the main things a decent cop has to know is how to identify make and model. It’s something female officers really don’t take into account when they start general duties. God knows how I’ve managed to get by. “A Toyota?” I offer. Birdie lets off a high-pitch buzzing sound. “Wrong answer. Oh, that one?” I watch a sleek sports car go by with the windows down and subwoofers causing my seat to shake. “Nissan?” Birdie laughs. “Oh man, don’t ever tell a Honda owner he’s driving a Nissan.” “How did you get into cars anyhow?” She shrugs behind me. “I like the smell of petrol.” “Really?” “Sure. If they bottled that shit I’d wear it day and night.” “Sounds kind of disgusting.” “Hey, sometimes you’ve got to get a little dirty to get clean, know what I’m saying?” Her lips are barely more than an inch from my ear. I pull my head in a bit. “Not really.” I notice Brock’s focusing hard on the side mirror. “What is it?” “Company.” I look through the back window and see a column of bikes trailing us, a sea of leather, chrome and black. “Bikers?” Brock’s fingers press together on the wheel. “Tighten your belts.” “Why?” I ask, right as Brock turns hard to the left and down a side street. My face is still against the window as he shifts down, the revs hitting the limiter and the car jerking back into position picking up speed fast. We come flying out onto another road just missing a lamppost, tires screeching for grip and the engine refusing to come down from the stratosphere. Brock keeps pushing it, keeps on the gas while watching the mirrors. “Brock!” I stammer. “What the fuck?”

Two bikes, Harley Davidsons, that much I know, cut us off at the intersection, forcing Brock to pull the handbrake. We go swinging around in a one-eighty. I reach up to grip the handle near the window, my body pulled in new and strange ways by the force. Brock punches the gearstick again and the engine screams, propelling us like lightning towards the end of the street. We’re almost there, almost back into the flow of traffic, when another group of bikes pulls up to a halt right in front of us. Brock leans over the wheel, the car continuing to pick up speed and Birdie quiet in the back. I watch the distance closing, the bikers refusing to move, more gaining on us from behind. “They’re not going to move, Brock,” I tell him, stating the obvious. “I know,” comes the hard reply. “This is not the time to play chicken.” “You want to get out of this?” he snaps. “Let me deal with it.” He’s not backing down. We’re going to hit them, there’s no other way, but two of the bikers get off their bikes, lifting something with their hands. Even from this distance I can see they’re carrying shotguns. Brock sees it too just in time. He slams on the brakes and the car comes skidding to a halt in a cloud of smoke. Brock shoves the car into reverse, but we’re closed in from every side, the telltale chug-a-chug of Harleys filling the air. There’s a tap against Brock’s windows with the tip of a shotgun, a scar-marked face looking in. “Get the fuck out,” it says. Brock looks to me and for the first time I see something I’ve never seen in him b efore— fear. “Follow my lead,” he says. “Keep calm.” Brock opens the door and is reefed out. My door opens, another guy with a shotgun pulling me up and out by the arm. “The pink-haired bitch too,” says Scarface, all three of us forced to stand in a line in front of the car. I see a taxi pull into the street at the far end. Upon seeing the scene, however, it reverses right back out. It wants no part of whatever is about to go down.

High on my ribs is my weapon holstered tight under my jacket. I look around, calculate, but there are too many to take on at once. As long as we’re not searched, I’ll be fine. The guy with the fucked face places the shotgun over his shoulder and shakes his head at Brock standing before us. “Nice ride. Always had you pegged for a pi nk kind of guy.” Brock just stares at him. It’s not looking good. “I’m a busy guy, Brock, so let’s make this simple.” He knows Brock? “You tell me what Hernandez did with our stuff, and I’ll let you all go, no harm, no foul. You can drive your hairdresser car away in one piece.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even I know that’s the wrong answer to give in a situation like this. “Who’s this?” says Scarface, looking me up and down. “A friend,” Brock replies, standing in front of me. Scarface laughs. “Protective of the pussy, huh? That’s cute.” He jams the shotgun right into Brock’s gut. “Now tell me where the fuck my ice is!” “I told you. I don’t-” He draws the gun back and drives it hard into Brock’s side. Brock collapses onto his knees before standing, teeth gritted together. Scarface pulls me aside and places the the point of the barrel against my chest. “I’ve already killed someone tonight. I don’t want it to become a habit.” “Look,” says Brock, out of breath but sounding sincere, “if Hernand ez is running again, I don’t know about it. I swear to god.” Scarface directs his attention back to Brock. “I believe you, but you better find out, and fast.” Scarface points the gun at Birdie, low, and fires. The sudden violence, the crack of the shot, causes me to jump. Birdie goes down screaming, holding her leg. Brock immediately bends to help her, but he’s knocked back. “Let that be a fucking warning,” says Scarface, barrel smoking and Birdie wailing on the ground, the metallic linger of hot blood in the air. “I don’t fucking care if it’s you or Hernandez, but somebody is going to bring me back my stuff tomorrow or there’s going to

be a lot more hurt.” He turns and gestures to his goons with a twist of the neck. “You know where to find us.” As soon as the bikers have left, I get down and pull off my jacket, tying it high on Birdie’s thigh to stop the bleeding. It’s a real mess. I take out my cell and dial in, fingers shaking, Brock with his head in his hands beside me. He hits the ground with his fist. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” My hand’s trembling, blood flowing warm around it. I stroke Birdie’s hair back, her pained cries turning into a soft whimper. “Stay with me, Birdie,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay,” but even I know that’s about as far from the truth as you can get. * I’m screaming at Brock on the way home. “I thought you said you’ve changed, that you were out of this shit?” His shirt is still covered in blood. The car reeks of it. It’s sticky on the steering wheel under my fingers. Birdie was stable when we left the hospital, but they might not be able to save the leg. Brock’s silent. I can’t fucking stand it. “Say something!” He turns. “What do you want me to say, Maddy? I don’t know anything about this.” “You can’t expect me to believe that.” “I want you to trust me when I tell you I have no fucking idea what those guys were talking about.” “Hernandez is fucking you and you don’t even know it.” He doesn’t have anything to say about this. He hasn’t even tried to call any of the other s, made any attempt to contact them. “Well,” I keep on, “what are you going to do about it?” “I’ll talk to Hernandez. I’ll sort it out.” “You better,” I warn, “because at the moment I don’t feel safe being with you. I don’t think I ever have.” “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” We’re getting illogical, the argument becoming heated and interior of the car feeling more and more cramped with every mile. “You know damn well,” I spit at him. “After that night…”

“That night. And what do you remember about that night, Maddy?” “That I woke up my panties around my knees and you standing over me.” “You think I raped you? Tried to have my way with you?” “I don’t know what to think.” “Well, let me set the record straight. You came in from prom that night. You were wasted, trashed. I heard you guys come in, heard you from my room next door.” “And you thought you’d just come in, take advantage of me?” “Your date was the one taking advantage of you.” “My date?” I snort. “Tim? What are you talking about?” “I heard you saying ‘no’ over and over. I knew something wasn’t right, so I came in and there he was, hand between your legs.” I point my finger. “You’re a fucking liar.” “You’ve probably tried to wipe it out of your head, or maybe you were too damn drunk, but if I hadn’t of come in he would have gone further and then bragged to all his buddies about it the next day.” “You are lying. Shut up. Shut up.” “I shoved him out the way.” He points to his forehead. “He got a good swing in, punched me right here. Eventually he left, hitting out at me, telling me to keep my mouth shut. I was trying to pull a blanket over you when you came to. It was just bad timing. I told your dad the next day. He went over to that boy’s house and that was it. They pulled him out of school.” “That’s quite a story.” He stands up and moves to the door. “It’s the truth, Maddy. Take it or leave it. I’m done trying to prove myself to you.” I haven’t even pulled into the drive when he’s out the car, storming down to the garage. He hops into the Camaro. It doesn’t start at first, finally kicking into life. He reverses around me, the car taking off down the road. I’m so mad it takes me five minutes to get the key in the front door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN “You’re up early, petal?” Dad’s clueless as per usual sitting there with his morning paper, eggs, bacon and, ding ding, jerky. I can’t understand why he likes the stuff. It’s like chewing leather. “You alright?” “Fine, Dad. It’s just work.” “Work, or Brock?” I try to take a bite of toast, but I can’t seem to swallow. I barely slept. “You got me.” “What’s he done now?” “Honestly, I don’t know.” “But he’s made you angry, hasn’t he? I can see it.” I brush a coppery tendril from my face, try to stuff more toast inside my mouth but give up. “Maybe. Maybe I’m angry with myself for thinking he’s changed.” “You don’t think he has?” This has to come to an end. “Is it true, Dad?” Dad folds his paper and places it beside him, one hand on the print, the other on his knee. He knows precisely what I’m talking about. “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, hunny. Those kinds of things are hard for a father, and I wasn’t the biggest fan of your stepbrother in those days. It was better for him to take the fall.” “And Tim, my prom date?” “After the tongue-thrashing I gave that family it’s no wonder they packed up and moved on. I told them if they didn’t pull him out of school the next day I’d go to the police. ” I’ve always known Dad as the gentle mediator, never one to get angr y or resort to violence, but he must have been pissed. “I’ve apologized to Brock,” he continues. “I’ve been trying to make it up to him ever since, you know. If he hadn’t of stopped that boy…” “But why did you leave it so long to tell me?”

“I knew one day you’d find out, he’d tell you… whatever the case may be. You’re all that matters, Maddy, but now you’re big. You’re all grown up. You’re a cop. You can handle yourself and there’s nowhere inside your world for your pathetic old dad.” “Oh Dad.” “I’m sorry, Maddy,” he says, breaking down. “I’m sorry.” All these years, I think. * The captain is still behind his desk, pensive. It’s making me uneasy. “I heard about last night.” “It was a real mess.” “How’s she doing?” “Birdie? She’s fine. She will be fine. They saved the leg after all. Don’t know how given how shredded up it was.” The captain nods in sympathy. “I can understand if you want to get out of this. We can get somebody else on, call it in. Your decision.” “I can handle it.” “And Brock? How did he seem after it all went down.” I didn’t put everything into the report. “He was on edge, said he didn’t know anything about the drugs.” “You believe him?” “Yes.” “Why? We’ve had this little discussion about gut feeling before. You sure you’re up to this?” “Yes, captain.” The captain picks up a folder. “Logs from the tracker. Seems your boy keeps finding his way to the same place.” He hands over a sheet of paper, a map marked with the Camaro’s route, lines centered on a spot down by the bay. I’ve never been there before. It looks like another warehouse from the photos.” “Any idea what it is?” “Warehouse registered to a shell company. Could be anything.” “You want me to keep an eye on it?”

“I do. Report directly to me.” “Understood.” “You got your piece?” “Yes.” “It’s loaded?” “Yes.” “Good. Given the speed at which you’ve descending right into the stinking sewer of this situation, you might need it sooner than later.” * The Spears lookalike calls me into the audio lab. She closes the door like she’s about to tell me who her big crush is. “I think you should hear this.” I take the headphones off her hands and place them on, the cushions too big for my elfin ears. “What is it?” “Call your brother made last night.” “To who?” “A one Hernandez Javier.” I lick my lips, everything suddenly dry. Hernandez answers with a “where the fuck have you been? We’ve got trouble.” My heart sinks. Brock is involved. “If you’re running again,” Brock replies, “I don’t want any part of it. Birdie is in hospital, man. Half her fucking leg was shot up and you’re just kicking back with a couple of Coronas. Fuck you.” Maybe not. I’m surprised by how strong he’s come on the attack. I expect Hernandez to reply with equal vigor, but the line grows quiet with static before Hernandez speaks again. “Look, brother. I didn’t want to get back into the game, but I need the money, bad. I’m i n a real situation.” “With who?” “The cartel.” “Jesus.” “It’s sorted, brother. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? You’re stealing from the bikers to make up your debts with the cartel? Surely you know what a stupid fucking idea that is.” “I know, I know. It’s all fucked up, but I’ve got the stuff. I just need to get it out of the city.” “Like I said, I want no part of it.” “Who do you think these guys are going to come after when I don’t show today?” The line’s quiet, but I know Brock’s thinking it over. “That’s right,” continues Hernandez. “You used to run the show. In their eyes you’re still the go-to. We’re in this together, just like inside.” “This is nothing like that.” “You think just because there are no bars it’s so different out here? It’s all the same. We’re all masters to someone.” “Not me.” “You more than anyone. For you it’s family, that bacon-ass stepsister of yours. If we don’t sort this soon, if they find out who she is, then she’s in real trouble.” There’s a loud sound in the background. “I’ve got to go,” and with that Brock hangs up leaving me shell-shocked, wondering what the hell he meant by all that but now more certain than ever he’s not behind this. No, it’s all Hernandez, that slimy fuck. I have a need to go down there and shove my Glock right up his ass for even starting this shit in the first place. I go to take off the headphones, but Barbie-Brittany motions for me to keep them on, loading up another track. “Hernandez,” she says, “five minutes later.” “It’s done,” says Hernandez. “Who’s he talking to?” I whisper. Brittany shakes her head. “We don’t know.” “Where is it?” comes a stranger’s voice. “In the trunk of his car, under the spare, loaded it in himself.” “And the delivery?” comes the mystery voice dull and cold. “I’ll let you know.” “Don’t keep us waiting too long, Hernandez.” Line dead.

My reservations return. I can’t figure out what the hell’s going on. There’s only one way to be sure. * Dad’s out to it in the main house, Brock likewise sprawled on his bed, cell in his hand. Sprawled on his bed like that he almost looks peaceful, free of worry. I want more than anything to lie down next to him, press my lips against the side of his neck, take in his scent. I carefully walk up beside the bed and take his keys in my hand, hooking them up with one finger. He gives a murmur and flips over, jeans tented out in erection. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. The keys burn in my hand hot from having sat around in the sun for so long. I make my way out to the garage and use the keys to pop the boot of the Camaro. There’s a gym bag in one corner. Hernandez said the stash was under the spare wheel, but I can’t resist. I pull the zip on the gym bag and reach in. I pull out a small stack of photos, the colors faded and the corners frayed. I’m looking at a picture of myself when I was sixteen, tequila bottle in hand and Brock next to me with a goofy drunk-as-a-skunk smile on his face. We look happy, like really happy. I remember that night, the big D&M. Amongst the liquor we’d found Dad’s old Polaroid camera, snapped off a few frames. I flick through the rest, the film glossy. I actually stand there getting nostalgic, but why would he have these? Why would he hang onto them? I look through the rest of the bag, but there’s not much to see. There’s an old NASCAR race guide, a picture of Brock’s dad on the podium. The resemblance is striking. There’s a birth certificate in there, an old Transformer, just sentimental junk. My fin gers close around a CD. I pull it out. It’s a mix I made for Brock when I must have been fourteen or fifteen, when he first lived with us. I was big into Green Day back then, Feeder, the Foo Fighters… ‘For the Brockstar’ I’d written on the front of the CD in fancy cursive. Was it so obvious I was crushing on him even back then? Did he even care? Looking at his prized objects, it looks like he did. It looks like I was at the forefront of his thoughts this entire time.

I pick out a final slip of paper. It’s the discharge form from prison. It dawns on me that’s what all this stuff is, everything he had with him in prison. I think of my picture on his wall, the countless hours he must have spent lying there thinking about me. I put everything back in and zip the bag back up, pushing it to the side and lifting the floor of the boot away to reveal the spare. For a minute I’m relieved when I don’t see anything… and then I see the corner of something. I lift the wheel and there, just like Hernandez said, is the stash, five or six bricks of ice. There’s no doubting it. This isn’t sugar. These boys aren’t out to bake a cake. It’s Brock car, I tell myself. Of course he knows it’s here. Hernandez says Brock loaded it himself. He lied. He’s probably onto you, trying to put you off with the call. I close the boot and look down into a distorted version of myself in the black gloss of the paintwork. Brock, what’s going on? “Need some help?” I spin around, heart pumping. It’s Hernandez.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Hernandez holds his belt. “Looking for something?” Think. “I left some clothes in here.” Hernandez nods. I can’t tell whether he’s taken the bait. He looks around. “Took me a while to find this place. He’s real on the down-low about his personal details, that brother of yours.” Hernandez takes a step closer. My piece is inside. I’m naked out here if he tries something. The balls. He makes for me and I’m going to hammer his balls so hard he’ll be burping them out for weeks. He sees me shift harder against the body of the car. “Hey, there’s nothing to be scared of. I’m not who you think I am. All that stuff with the bikers, and Birdie, it’s been taken care of. One of the other guys was running again, but we got to the bottom of it.” Lie. “Your brother’s clean.” Lie? “And you,” I ask, “are you clean?” “When I want to be. At all other times I like to be dirty—real dirty.” The filthy shit thinks I’m actually going to fall for a line like that. “You’re not running?” “Of course not.” “Those bikers seemed pretty sure of it.” He takes another step closer. He smells of cheap tobacco. “You’re the cop. You tell me.” “I don’t deal with that stuff.” “No, you’re too busy running the beat, huh? Real police work.” “Yeah.” “Probably for the best.” “Why do you say that?” “Just sayin’. People who get mixed up in what we do, what we did,” he corrects, “sooner or later they get burned.” His eyes drop down by body in an ‘S’, lingering on my crotch. “And I would hate to see a body like yours damaged in any way.” I push past him. “I’ve got to go. Brock’s in the flat if you want to see him.” Back in the safety of Champers, I take a deep breath. Stick to the plan.

* I drive down to see Alice again before she leaves to head back to Rosie. “You okay?” she says, buttering up a mud scone while we watch the gym junkies at the beach oiling themselves and pumping iron. It’s like a crazy kind of body circus here— freaks galore. “You seem a little, I don’t know, tense.” I snort into my coffee. “You could say that.” “Work?” “Yeah.” “Look, I know we only just got in touch together again, but if you need help, even just an open ear, you let me know, okay? You could Skype me. We do have that kind of technology in Rosie now.” “Oh, I thought you were still using cans and wires?” She laughs, warm and friendly, the kind of laugh only country people seem to be able to produce. “You’d be surprised by how forward-thinking Rosie has become since you and your folks left.” “It’s just, that guy I’m seeing, the one I told you about? I’m not sure I can trust him.” Alice watches me carefully. “Everybody has trust issues, Maddy. That’s universal. I know I had them when I met my guy. He was, how shall I put it, kind of a criminal.” “He wasn’t into cars, was he?” “Matter of fact…” “You not sure we’re seeing the same guy?” Alice laughs. “No chance, but I do know where you’re coming from. I don’t know. I just had to trust my gut.” “Funny, that’s the exact opposite of the advice I’ve been getting.” “Well, take it or leave it, but it worked out well for me, why not for you? You deserve it, right?” “Like Donald Trump deserves a kick to the head.” We both laugh at that, some of the former tension I’ve been keeping slipping away again in this dip into the old and comfortable. *

Brock’s waiting for me when I come into the granny flat. He’s got two glasses of lemonade waiting, mint and all. I close the door. “Where’d you get the mint?” “Your neighbor’s garden.” “Charming.” He pushes a glass closer. “A peace offering. Come on, take it.” “We’re not kids again. Lemonade isn’t going to make it all better. It’s not going to make this all go away.” “Try it and see.” I pick up the glass and take a sip. It’s actually fucking good, but I don’t let on. “Not bad.” “Not bad? I’ve been squeezing lemons for the last half-hour.” “I thought you were having a big pow-wow with Hernandez.” “He stopped by, wanted to talk, but I told him where I stand. I got back into the club because I thought it was clean—just cars, racing. If they’re running for the cartel again I’m just going to have to find a new hobby.” “Knitting?” He stands up and cautiously places his hands on my hips, pulling me close. In the filtered sun his eyes are endless oceans. “I could think of other hobbies… group hobbies.” “You think you can just charm your way out of this?” His hand slides up under my shirt, brushing over my belly. “Yeah, I kind of think I can.” I push him away. Time for confession. “I never told you, but I spoke to Dad. He confirmed your story about that night. You’re telling the truth.” “And that comes as a surprise?” I sit down on the couch, take another sip. Stuff’s damn addictive. “I just don’t know where I stand with you. It’s complicated.” He sits next to me, plucking a strand of my hair and rolling it between his fingers. “It doesn’t have to be. Let me show you.” “Aren’t you supposed to meet with those bikers, the threat, Birdie? Don’t you remember any of this? Or don’t you care?” “Hernandez gave me his word he sorted it all out.”

“You actually believe him?” “When you live on top of someone for as long as we did, you get to know them, like really know them. He says he fixed it, I believe him.” I sigh. “Whatever.” Brock heads to the counter and picks up his keys. He tosses me a jacket. “What’s this?” I ask. “We’re going out?” “Why?” “I think we both need a bit of fresh air, to relax a little. Can you do that?” “I don’t know.” “There’s nothing for it then. Meet you outside in five.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Outside, it’s getting cold, a storm moving onto the horizon fresh and hot from the desert beyond. Brock’s Camaro is the same color as the mottled sky above as we punch through the gloom on the way out of town. It’s coming into the weekend. Everyone’s headed home t o their families and roasts and perfect lives. We don’t speak at first. Instead, I focus on the whip-whipping of the windshield wipers clearing the glass. My pussy’s wet against the leather, wet against the crotch of my panties, the seat of my jeans. I’m annoyed at him, but I still have urges. I’m still horny. I wonder whether he can smell my arousal. In a twisted way, I hope he can. “Where are we going?” He smiles. “My secret.” I make a motion of zipping my mouth back up. We approach the airport, moving past the terminal and around to the industrial area at the rear. Brock pulls up to a security box. “Um, I don’t think we should be here,” I caution. Brock just smiles, winding down his window. “Relax.” A tubby guy approaches and bends down next to the window. He reaches in and takes Brock’s hand. For a second I think they’re going to arm-wrestle it out. “Brock, my man, how the hell are you?” “Good, good, Freddie. I want you to meet my stepsister, Maddy.” Freddie reaches over and clutches my hand. “A pleasure. Heard a lot about you.” “So everyone keeps saying,” I mutter, punching Brock in the arm. Freddie places his hand on Brock’s shoulder. “You got a real good brother here, a really good guy.” “We right to head down to the spot, Freddie?” Freddie stands up nodding. “For sure. You know the way.” “Thanks, Freddie, I owe you one.” “You owe me ten,” Freddie laughs. “Have fun.”

Brock winds his window up and we drive on as the boom gate opens. It’s not long before I realize we’re driving inside the actual airport zone. There’s a booming sound above, a jumbo jet landing just ahead of us. “Whoa!” I stammer. “Did you see that? You sure we’re supposed to be here.” Brock smiles, glancing sideways. “Of course not, but what’s fun that’s not illegal?” I press my thighs together. “I could think of a few things.” We’re on the actual tarmac. Holy fuck we’re dead. We’re running perpendicular to the actual airstrip now, glowing markers passing by. A jumbo jet is on the strip. I’m looking right down at it, picking up speed fast and heading straight towards us. “Ah, Brock.” He’s focused on driving. “I see it.” He boots the accelerator and we go flying ahead, the jet taking off and lifting just over us. I’m surprised the wheels don’t peel our roof off. “You are insane.” “Is that a compliment?” Brock makes for a series of concrete structures near the end of the strip. It’s a good thing his car’s black. It blends in. Anything else and we’d be done in an instant, the Feds, the cops… every man and his dog converging on this space. Brock pulls up between two concrete huts and cuts the engine. He pops his door open, the humid air hammering in. “Come on.” I open my door and step out, the smell of jet fuel mixing with the imminent dampness of precipitation above. A ribbon of lightning cuts across the sky to the north. Brock swings himself up onto the bonnet of the car, lying with his back against the windscreen. He pats the bonnet beside him. I sit up onto the bonnet and take the same position. It’s actually quite comfortable. I see that this spot is remarkably well hidden. We’re sort of fenced in by concrete from every side. Brock cups his ear. “Listen.” I listen. The sound of engines coming on strong, something drawing nearer and nearer. He takes my hand. “Wait for it.” The sound grows and builds, the body of the car vibrating below my back.

A jumbo goes screaming over our heads, my hair whipping around my face and my scream drowned out by the engines. It’s so close I could reach up and touch the wheels. It disappears and I’m still vibrating. “Real thrill, huh? Better than sex.” I look to Brock wiping hair from my face. “Says you.” I hear more planes in the distance on taxi. I start speaking to the sky. “Let me guess, this is where you bring all the girls, right?” “A few.” I shake my head. “And yet you’ve never brought a single one home.” “I’m not big on commitment.” “You don’t say.” “Like you are any better. Who’s the last guy you dated?” There was a fling or two at the academy, some MMA freak a year or two ago. I had to change my phone number after that, but since? Nothing. I regularly have to dust out the cobwebs between my legs. “You wouldn’t know him.” “Suit yourself.” Brock squeezes my hand and another jet goes flying over us, the same rush following. I breathe in a lung of jet fuel and relax back, waiting for the noise to dissipate. “ You know, Dad told me you’re not such a bad guy.” Brock plays coy. “He did, huh?” “I seem to be hearing that a lot lately.” “It’s true.” I roll onto my side, well aware of our physical proximity, the sweat building on my brow and under my clothes even though the humid air is chilling fast. “I owe you an apology. I’ve been a bitch.” “Apology accepted.” “Just like that?” “Just like that.” I roll back onto the glass, the moment lost. “You didn’t want to try anything when you found me like that? Most guys your age… a half-naked girl, too drunk to argue otherwise. It was dark, right? You didn’t see much.”

“Oh, I saw enough.” I roll back onto my side, fingers hot laced together. “What does that mean?” He’s staring at the sky, refusing to make eye contact. “You’ve got to remember I was a horny teenager. It was dark, but not that dark. You were really… on show.” Even now I’m blushing. “And you weren’t the least bit excited?” He laughs. “I went back to my room, took down my pants and pulled my dick maybe two or three times before I spooged all over that Eminem album you loved so much.” “I was wondering where that got to. Oh, and you’re disgusting.” “It wasn’t the first time, believe me.” I sit up and force him to look at me, nipples growing stiff against the cotton cups of my bra, my head swimming. I duck as another plane takes off, both of us locked together, just staring at one another. “What do you mean? You masturbated to me before?” “All the time.” “Why?” “Isn’t it obvious, Maddy? It’s always been about you. All these other girls, these flings… They’re not you. I even stole your panties once.” Another mystery solved. “Mom found me jerking off into them, threatened to send me to live with my alcoholic aunt if I didn’t leave you alone.” “How embarrassing.” “You don’t know the half of it.” I swallow. “And what about now? What do you think of me these days?” The question hangs there. I wait. “I still want to steal your panties. I still think about you every chance I get. I’m still in love with you.” Almost on cue the skies open above us, the downpour falling heavy and hard. I watch Brock with my mouth, panting, water starting to run down my shoulders and back, snaking around my thighs. His hands are on my face. He pulls me towards him. We kiss.

The rain’s cold, blown away as another jumbo roars over. My ears ring, his tongue hot in my mouth. I reach up and take him around the neck. I pull my feet up onto the bonnet, lifting my skirt with one hand and pulling my panties down. I untangle them from my ankle and toss them away into the downpour. His lips are on my neck, burning against the cold, hot like the fiery fissure between my legs. I press my tongue against his, run my fingers over his Adam’s apple. He rolls over on top of me. I gasp when he takes me under the ass, lifting me and turning to place me down on the hood of his car. It buckles slightly under my weight, but he doesn’t seem to care. His voice is husky, heavy and desperate. “Spread your legs.” I do. A hand is on my thigh, his fingers inside me. I moan as he fucks me with his slim, delicate digits so at odds with his powerhouse frame. “Wider.” I like this demanding Brock. I obey and blink up through the rain, water salty in my eyes. I build, a blood-rushing orgasm sure to follow. My mouth opens to the heavens and I brace myself against the hood of the car, the back of my head on the windscreen, but he draws his finger out. Another plane, lights blurring past, our two forms lit up momentarily, hundreds of people carried away above us to holidays and lovers. He slides down my body and presses his head between my thighs. The moment his tongue presses into my body I melt from the inside out, running my fingers through his hair, drawing him towards my pussy. He presses his tongue deeper, drawing it out and flicking it over my clit already sensitive and exposed. I buck off the bonnet, hair lifting behind me and the rain hammering all around us. Cold, it mixes with the warmth of his tongue, his lips as they pull at my clit. I’m burning up already, my core clenching and drawing tight and the need to come building and growing.

I start to jerk and jam myself against his face, force him to fuck me harder with his tongue. He narrows the body of it, plunging it in and out of my hole like a little cock. I won’t be able to take much more, but I don’t want it to end now. I push his head away and lift. He goes to climb on top of me, but I push him back further, sliding from the bonnet and getting to my knees in the mud. I start to undo his belt, his buttons. “What are you doing?” “Let me,” I beg him. I take his cock out, hard in my hand. I open my mouth and he guides himself inside. He holds the sides of my head and levers into me. I suck and use my tongue, curling it around his hardness and concentrating on the indentation between his glans. His back arches and he presses forward into my throat, fucking me deeper and deeper until I’m stifled of both air and sense. He draws his cock out hot from my mouth and holds up his balls. I suck them in turn, rolling them in my mouth while his hand pumps up and down his shaft. When he re-enters my lips, I have to reach around and hold onto his buttocks he stuffs his cock so far down my gullet. I cough and splutter, but he holds me against him firmly. His excitement mounts and his actions grow more and more frenzied, his hips swinging against me. My nails dig into him. Even suffocated as I am, my arousal builds alongside his own. My hair hangs wetly against my face. I shiver and spasm but concentrate on the task desperate for the searing reward of his cum filling my mouth. He presses himself right to the root, the soft curls of his pubis against my nose, but just when I think he is to release, he pulls away, spinning me around and thrusting me back onto the bonnet of the Camaro, my cheek pressed into the cold duco. He gathers my hands behind my back and loops them with his belt. The mud and grit collect against my skin as he cinches the belt tight, my wrists pressed awkwardly together at the small of my back. “What are you doing?” I gasp, panting desperately. He doesn’t reply.

I watch my breath span out as a ghost on the paintwork while I wait. Finally, he gathers my belted wrists and lifts them, drawing my head up from the hood and my ass towards him. My arms buckle and strain. I cry out at the precise moment he fills me. It can hardly be described as love-making. He takes me hard and fast, plunging himself over and over into my tight need. I suck in air and water through my teeth, each thrust driving me against the hood. I hiss, my breath growing short and halted, his own rising to match even as the rain dumps down from the heavens. As I grow close, he slows and shortens his thrusts, reaching for my hair. He teases me, plays and fucks me at his leisure, laughing at my back. I begin to beg him, a child. His cock pops out of my cunt slick with my desire. He immediately takes hold of it, wrestling it between my ass cheeks and adding pressure to the tiny knot of my anus. I’m lost, caught in the sudden submission and my whole body filled with strange and alien sensations. I’m not sure I’m ready for this. “Brock…” I grunt and moan, never in my wildest dreams imagining he’d take my ass too, but he does with the same constant progress he tackles everything with. Inch by inch the iron rod of his cock fills my ass, the scorching press of my anal passage stretching and opening to accommodate him. He yanks at my wrists and the pain flares again, that beautiful release that has turned my sex into a soaking mess below. He fucks my ass slow at first and then builds, using my wrists to pull me back onto his cock, impaling himself deep inside me. I answer him as best I can, my hips tilting to take him. I’ve never been interested in anal sex, never even considered it, but as he takes me it starts to feel amazing, the sensation so taboo, so different to anything I have felt before. He leans down and whispers into my ear. He calls me dirty, filthy names, and with those words burning in my head I come, a climax of cataclysmic proportions flooding my entire body.

My ass begins to clamp and squeeze out his member. He lets it go, pulling out and releasing over my the pale globes of my ass. I continue to be ravaged and racked by my orgasm. It seems endless as I slide off the hood into the mud, water gathering around my hips and armpits, trails of it falling through the column of white formed by the headlights of an approaching jumbo. And there, in the mud, naked, his cum on my backside, I realize this is happening. Whether it’s right or wrong doesn’t matter. I know deep down this is meant to be. My stepbrother just fucked me in the ass, took my anal virginity… and I loved it. I’m the good girl no longer. He lies beside me in the muck and opens my legs, his mouth moving over my sopping pussy. My wrists strain in his belt. He draws away and massages my clit with the heel of one hand until, head back, I come again, letting forth an unholy shriek to the heaven s as the chill works its way down into my very bones. Back at home, sheets muddy and wet, we continue… onto the kitchen bench, the shower. We don’t stop until the sun rises. * When I wake, I can hear my cell going off through the wall. I pull myself out of bed, half-stumbling over a guilty trail of clothes we left around last night. I can hear the shower going, Brock absent from the bed. It’s work. One of the tech guy’s is on the other end. “Sorry to call you so early,” he begins, “but we lost the signal on the tracker.” It’s too early for this. “The tracker? Oh, the tracker,” I remember—Brock’s car. “It’s off?” “We’re not sure. Are you able to check it out?” I poke my head around the side of the doorframe to Brock’s room, but it looks like he’s still in the shower. “I can check it right now if you’d like.” “Perfect.” “Call you back in five.”

I throw on some jeans and creep outside as quietly as I can, checking Brock again once more through the bathroom window before I come to the garage. I get low onto my back, the concrete cold, and slide under the car, reaching for the spot where I placed the tracker. It’s gone. I search again, but there’s no sign of it. Maybe it came off, all that crazy driving? “Looking for something?” Brock’s standing above me, a towel around his waist, body wet. He tosses me something small. I catch it in both hands—the tracker. Fuck.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN “What the hell, Maddy?” He’s pissed, and I understand. “Let me explain,” I start, already feeling like a cliché. He’s up, pacing around the garage, hands gesticulating wildly. “Explain what? That the only reason you’ve taken an interest in me is because you’re on the job? What do you think I’m into, Maddy?” “I can’t talk about it.” “But it’s true, isn’t it?” I nod feeling like shamed schoolgirl. “Holy fuck. How long?” Honesty is the only way out of this. “Ever since you got back.” He sits back down holding his head in his hands. “I’ve been duped before, you know, but never like this. I never expected it from… you.” He looks me dead in the eye. “What is it? Tell me, right here, right now, what they think I’m doing.” “Drugs, of course” I blurt. “They think you’re running drugs in the car, ice, and I know where your car has been, that warehouse near the bay. You can’t tell me it’s not suspicious.” Brock seems surprised. “The warehouse? You want to see what’s in the warehouse?” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Come on then.” * The journey to the warehouse is ice cold, such a stark juxtaposition to last night. He doesn’t speak. He just rolls his hands over the leather of the steering wheel and goes faster, the car screeching around corners, running reds. I shut up. This is my mess. I can’t think of anything that could repair this, any way to dig myself from his hole. He slides to a stop in front of the warehouse. It’s late and the whole area is abandoned, only the odd vagrant or bum watching on from the dark. I’ve only seen it from above in the captain’s office. Here, in the flesh, it looks even more dilapidated. Brock gets out and I follow. He takes a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, ushering me inside.

I move through a disused office, a hallway and out into the main warehouse. The room is sectioned off, this frontal section lit with strong lighting, rows and rows of marijuana plants in place. Well, they were kind of right. Brock walks over to a plant and inspects it. “See the frost and orange hairs,” he says. “It’s close to harvest.” “It’s true,” I mutter, more to myself, “maybe worse. You’re not running drugs, you’re growing the stuff.” Brock turns and approaches me. “Yes, I am, but I won’t make a dime from any of this.” “What do you mean?” “I grow this all for medicinal purposes.” I actually laugh. “Yeah, right.” “It’s true. You remember Joe’s daughter?” “The little girl with cancer.” “Right. Joe’s the one who came to me first. He thought given my… previous work I could help, and here we are. Now I supply all kinds of people—kids, the elderly—and you know what, Maddy? It works. It takes away the pain, it helps, and it feels good to help. That’s why I give it all away.” “Admirable,” I say, “but still illegal.” “You’re right, but who knows for how long? They’re about to pass a bill making medicinal marijuana legal. I’ll be legit.” “And until then? What if you get caught?” “If I get caught, I’ll go away knowing I’ve helped a lot of people.” “These people aren’t junkies and low-lives, Maddy. These are mom and pops, career dads and mothers. They don’t want to deal with some dodgy dealer down in the pr ojects. I can supply them product I know is top shelf, product that will do its job and give them peace of mind if nothing else. Ask Joe. New York legalized it all last July. The same will happen here soon enough.” “They smoke it?” “No, nothing like that. I extract the oil, that’s all.” “But how did you fund it all?”

“I’m not proud of my past, Maddy. I did terrible things. I was a terrible human. I made a lot of money and hurt a lot of people in the process, but now I’m making amends the only way I know how.” The smell in here is pungent. It’s not helping with my train of thought. “They’ll track you through power usage.” “I rerouted it equally through the entire block. The place itself is registered to a shell company. “Clever.” “I’m not fucking around, Maddy. Believe me.” “I do.” He hangs his head. “Sure doesn’t sound like it.” He gestures to the door. “Go.” Outside, he locks the warehouse, but I’m already at his car. I tap the boot. “Open it up. Prove me wrong.” “What are you talking about?” “Tell me you don’t have a stash in here.” “I don’t have a stash in there.” I keep eyeing him. “So, prove it.” “Fuck. Fine.” He unlocks the boot, the lid popping up. I reach down to the false floor and lift it away. I’m hoping it’s all gone, just a figment of my imagination, but the bricks are still there. Brock looks in. “What the fuck. They are not mine.” “It’s your car.” He stands back from me like I’m a viper. “You did this. You’re what, framing me?” “Get over yourself, Brock.” He’s pacing back and forth. He steps down to his car, opening the door and swinging inside. “It’s all about trust, Maddy, and you can’t be trusted. Oh, and tell your boss your burned.” He slams the door and hurtles off down the road. It starts to rain, fat, smoggy droplets from the sky. Fucking perfect. *

The captain reclines so far back in his chair I can see his hair-infested belly button. “Jesus H Christ, Collins, what do you mean you’re burned?” “I mean Brock knows I’ve been spying on him.” “How the fuck did he figure that out?” “He found the tracker.” The captain brings his hand down flat on his desk. “Shit.” “Shit.” Thwack. “Shit.” Thwack. “Shit.” Thwack. “It was supposed to be so easy. I mean, Christ, you live with the guy.” “Sir?” The captain snaps. I see his entire face implode. He knows he’s let something slip. “What do you mean I live with him? Did you know he was my stepbrother?” “Of course we fucking well knew, Collins. Why do you think you were brought in?” Any icy ball is forming in my stomach, that terrible knot of realization that I’ve been played. “But what about the others? Any one of them could have put their hand up for the operation in the meeting.” “But they didn’t, did they?” “Because you told them not to,” I finish. The captain is watching me carefully. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all gone to hell and now I have to clean up this cursed mess.” I can’t believe it was his plan all along, that I was so naïve to think in the first place somehow I’d be chosen for this job on merit alone. I’m, I try to pinpoint it, angry yes, but something else. I’m… disappointed. I tell this to the captain like a father scal ding a child. He doesn’t take it well. “You are disappointed? How do you think I feel? I thought you’d handle this like a professional, but instead you’re off fucking his brains out every chance you get, and he’s your stepbrother no less. I don’t even know what to make of that.” I stand, chair falling backwards, my face red and hot. “That was private!” “Nothing’s private around here, Collins. Now get out of my sight.” I pull off my badge and take out my Glock, thrusting both down onto the captain’s desk. “Fuck you.”

And I leave. I just storm right out of there, past everyone else holding their coffees close and trying not to look obvious, like they haven’t all been pressing their ears up against the door. “Fuck you!” I scream, pointing to no one in particular. “Fuck you and fuck you and you and you and you.” You’ve done it now, Maddy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN This is the sort of thing I need to talk about. I need someone nodding and saying, ‘Yes, Maddy, you did the right thing,’ but Alice left yesterday back to Rosie and her perfect country life. Dad’s my closest option, but I’m not ready to have a heart-to-heart with him about my burgeoning sexual relationship with my stepbrother just yet. I arrive home and find the driveway blocked by two white trucks. I honk once, Dad emerging from the main house with a very serious group of men, all bald, all in black. I know immediately who they are—repo guys. I get out and immediately start on the attack. “What’s going on, Dad?” I watch as another two men carry the TV out. Dad pulls me to the side of the garden. “Calm down, Maddy. They’re just here to do a job, nothing more.” I point to the house. “They’re taking your stuff.” My TV goes walking buy. I jump to block their path, but the repo men just walk around me. “That’s mine, Dad!” He places his hands on my shoulders. “It will be fine, Maddy. Just let them take what they need to.” “You can’t do this!” I scream at them, but they just continue on like black-shirted robots. I’m sure they’ve suffered through much worse. “Are we going to lose the house, Dad?” I look him dead in the eye and know the answer. “Fuck.” I never swear in front of my dad, but this calls for a special allowance. “It will all work out,” Dad continues. “I know it.” But sadly I do not live in the same optimistic lollypop land. The house goes, the granny flat goes and then what? I can probably find somewhere, scrounge together what little money I have and find a place in a dodgy suburb, but Michelle and Dad? Without Dad working? That’s going to be a problem. That’s going to be my problem. With tears pricking my eyes, I can’t take it anymore. I head down to the granny flat and watch my possessions being carried away, those deemed worthy of resale. My whole life reduced to what is sellable and what is not.

After the trucks have left and Dad has retreated back inside to a house far emptier than it was this morning, I am left drained. I go inside and take out the five-thousand, stuffing it into an envelope and preparing to pass it onto Dad, but for some reason I can’t do it. It will help, but it’s not enough. It won’t stop the inevitable. So, I sit on the doorstep of the granny flat and wait, wait for Brock. I wait until the sun falls from sight and the air grows tepid. I wait until my bladder is about to burst, but there’s no sign of him. I look at my cell for the hundredth time. No calls. No messages. Finally, I suck it up and send Brock a text. Are you coming home? We really have to talk. No reply. I sit there and the tears come. They come in waves, streaming down my cheeks warm and turning the tops of my jeans damp. I sob, chest heaving. How did it al l get so fucked up? Where did it go wrong? I can’t even get into dinner. The food tastes bland. Everything is diminished. I go to bed, sleep coming restlessly. * Lights—real strong. They’re beaming towards me. I put my hands out to try and stop them, but they just keep coming. There’s the blast of a horn, tires screeching. The car comes to a stop right in front of me. Someone’s yelling behind the wheel. They back up and go around. I run my hands down my arms. It’s real. It’s raining. I’m wet, my pajama top soaked through and my shorts turned into tissue paper. I’m just standing on the road above our place shaking on the spot. I didn’t lock the flat up tonight. It slipped my mind. I’ve sleepwalked out here into the middle of the fucking road. I could have been killed. More lights cut through the downpour. I command my legs to move and let them carry me back to safety. Inside, I pull my wet PJs off and towel myself down, still in the process

when my cell begins to buzz its way off the breakfast table. I grab it just before it runs off the edge, wiping my eyes to make out the screen. It’s ringing. It’s him. I answer. “Brock, where are you?” “Brock’s not here.” I go cold. “Who’s this?” “Maddy, Maddy, you don’t remember me?” “Who the fuck is this?” “It’s Hernandez, baby.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Hernandez, where’s Brock?” “Brock’s a little tied up right now. You see, he fucked up.” The dread returns, an icy shard of it spearing right into my core. “What are you talking about?” “Brock’s let the po-po in. That’s you, baby. We know who you are, why you’re really hanging around.” Shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, I think you do. Your boy here came to me all flustered, throwing bricks of my stash in my face.” So he didn’t know. “He’s all crazy, asking me why I’m stashing my shit in his car, but you know what really got me, what really gets me mad?” I don’t reply. I don’t even know if I can speak. “He took it all,” Hernandez continues. “The little prick has taken crapbox Camaro of his and hidden it away. If I don’t find that car soon, there are going to be a lot of angry people around, and Brock… Brock might just have to pay the price.” I piece it together fast. Brock didn’t know about the stash. When I showed him he must have hidden the car and then gone straight to Hernandez. Smart, but stupid. I swallow, mouth Sahara dry, and speak. “What do I have to do with it?” “You want your little lover boy back, don’t you?” “Yes.” “He told you where he stashed the car, didn’t he?” I have to buy time, allow myself to think this through, so I lie. “Yes.”

“Good, real good. “Come downtown and we’ll have a little chat. I’ll text you the address. Oh, and Maddy? Don’t even think about bringing your bacon buddies in on this. If I get one whiff of cop, your boy’s gone.” The line goes dead but still I continue to yell “Hernandez! Hernandez!” into it. I look at the phone likes it’s a murder weapon, letting it fall from my hands, the screen fracturing on the concrete. I know only two things with absolute certainty: Hernandez has Brock. He’s going to kill him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN A car honks hard when I blow through a red. I’m not even paying attention to the rules of the road. My head’s scattered, thoughts rushing in and out like a new tide. I can’t find the clarity I’m looking for, the perfect solution to this mess. Clearly Hernandez doesn’t know about Brock’s little charity side project, but the ice? That’s serious, and Hernandez is desperate. I remember the way he sounded during the call. I bash the steering wheel with my hand. I try to think where Brock would have put the Camaro, just in case. Birdie’s still in hospital. Maybe she has a place somewhere? Jay? But I don’t know. I just don’t. I’m not surprised to find the address Hernandez texted me is yet another fucking warehouse, this one down by the water on the other side of the bay. On a Sunday like this the area is quiet, far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. A gunshot would go unnoticed. I pull around the back and survey the place. Hernandez’s Skyline is parked out the front, the side door open. I sit sweaty in my seat. “Get your shit together, Maddy,” I tell myself. “You can do this.” I’m not so sure as I get out, each step damning as I approach the door. The sun’s just rising above, the walls of the warehouse simmering with color. I push the door wider and step in. The warehouse is empty except for four people arranged around the center. Hernandez stands next to a chair. In the chair, tied up, is my stepbrother, a gag in his mouth. He’s looking worse for wear, no doubt about it. To the sides are two goons I vaguely recognize from nights gone by—large, unwelcome types with handguns stuffed into their pants. Good way to shoot your dick off, boys. Hernandez looks pleased with himself. “Well, well, what do we have here?” I try to maintain my composure, consider this a job like any other, but my heart’s beating its way right out of my chest. I’m perilously close to falling apart. It’s just another perp; just another job.

As I get closer, I see clearer how Brock is tied to the chair, tape over his mouth to hold the gag in and his right eye puffy and swollen. He’s been beaten and for a moment I’m filled with pure rage. Hernandez puts his hand up. “Stop right there, baby.” I stop in the middle of the warehouse floor still too far from Brock to do anything. “Strip,” says Hernandez. “Can’t have you packing now, can we?” I look to Brock. He nods his head loosely. I take a deep breath and start unbuttoning my blouse conscious of the two goons flanking me from the sides, pistols in their waistbands. That makes three targets at a minimum provided no one else is lurking in the shadows. “To be honest,” continues Hernandez, my blouse feathering to the floor, “I didn’t think you’d come. After all, who’d want to save this piece of trash?” He gives Brock’s chair a kick and laughs. “But you’re a piece of work. You know that? A pig sent undercover to spy on us.” He looks to the heavens. “Ai-ai-ai, I never would have guessed.” I kick off my shoes and tug my jeans down, face burning with embarrassment and goose bumps rising on my legs and arms in the sour air of the warehouse. I fold my jeans once and let them drop down on top of my blouse, standing straight and covering myself the best I can. “All of it,” smiles Hernandez. Again I look to Brock. Again he nods. I reach around behind my back and undo my bra, let it fall into my hands. I place it down gently, breasts exposed now and nipples hard—from the cold or the nerves I do not know. Hernandez waves his gun at me. “Panties too, baby. Let’s see that pretty pig pussy of yours.” I hook my fingers into the side of my underwear and drag the briefs down my legs, hooking them off my ankles and adding them to the pile. Hernandez crouches down next to Brock. “Wow, bra. She’s tight. I can see why you’re banging her. If we had more time on our hands…” Hernandez turns his attention back to me. “Hands by your side, turn around.” I place my arms straight by my sides, my bare sex on show, and turn.

I try to keep my voice calm and level, but it still comes out frayed. “Can I dress now?” Hernandez nods, smiling. “Sure.” I dress as quickly as I can, thankful to be shielded away from the prying eyes around me. Hernandez approaches me clapping his hands together once. “Now, to busine ss. You want your boy and I want my goods. It’s a simple transaction.” “I don’t know where they are,” I retort. Hernandez stands before me, eyes dropping down my body. Once again I feel naked. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. I could have called in a favor, back-up, the captain would have understood. Foolish, Maddy, foolish. Hernandez’s eyes are ice cold, a single tear tattooed under the right . “I hope for his sake you’re lying, girly. I’ve capped fools for much less.” There’s a long string of silence, a stalemate. He shrugs his shoulders, flicking the safety off on his weapon and turning to walk back to Brock. “Your call.” “Stop!” I yell, making it as dramatic as I can. He turns with the ugliest grin I’ve ever seen, a Cheshire ‘got ya’ grimace. He cups his ear. “Something you want to say?” “Okay, I know where the car is, your stash. I can show you.” “I’m not talking about your boyfriend’s little weed operation.” So he does know. “That means nothing to me. He can save all the kids he wants in his own time.” “I know. You want the ice, right?” Hernandez looks to his goons. “Hear that, boys? She does know what I’m talking about. Will wonders never cease?” There’s a strange sense of déjà vu about that phrase. I’m trying to calculate every option, but it’s all coming up blank. Without a weapon I can’t take down all three. I need to separate them somehow, buy time. “Now we’re on the same page then,” continues Hernandez, “where is my fucking ice?” “In the Camaro, in the boot,” I reply. Hernandez pistol-whips Brock hard, a line of red opening up just above his hairline and a crimson trail following. “I know it’s in his car, bitch. I put it there, but where’s the fucking car?”

Brock’s not giving anything away. He’s watching me with intensity, blinking blood out from his right eye. He looks woozy. I’m getting concerned this is moving quickly out of hand. Stall, Maddy. “It’s at a friend’s. I can take you there.” “I know all his friends, bitch. You’re lying.” “One of my friends,” I correct. “Give me the address.” 15 Get Fucked Street, asshole. “They won’t let you in without me.” Hernandez moves to strike Brock again, but he knows I’ve got him. He walks over to a fridge near the wall, places his piece on top and peers in, face lit by the fridge’s interior. He pulls a beer out, snapping the top off, and drinks. I watch the muscles in his neck move as he does. Beer in one hand, gun in the other, he makes his way back over to Brock. “This friend of yours, they a cop?” I realize this will work to my advantage. “Yes.” “Do they know what’s inside the car?” “No, I’m not an idiot.” “Good, good.” He seems to be calming down. Suddenly he smashes the beer bottle over Brock’s head and kicks his chair, Brock crashing onto his side. The hollow sound of his skull hitting the concrete is the worst part. Brock tries to cough against the gag, the trail of blood coming from his head now a small flood. “What did I say?” bellows Hernandez, kicking Brock’s chair again and wildly waving the gun at me. “I am NOT fucking around. What’s the address?” I shake my head, remaining firm. “I have to go with you. It’s the only way.” “The. Fucking. Address.” Hernandez punctuates each word with a shake of the gun. “I can’t give it to you.” Hernandez crouches down beside Brock, one hand on the side of his head and the other pressing the barrel of the gun into his blood-stained eye. “On the count of three, I’m going to spray his brains all over this floor. You’ll need a mop to get your brother back.” Stepbrother, I mentally correct.

Hernandez shakes his head, my dread growing. “One.” He pushes the gun a little harder into Brock’s head, Brock wincing. “There ain’t going to be a four.” I remain silent. Even if I wanted to, there’s nothing I can say. No lie. I could send him to a cop’s house, but then what, and with no warning? There’s no point endangering someone else here. This is my own fucked-up mess. “Two,” continues Hernandez, keeping the pressure on. I shake my head. “We have to go together.” My voice breaks, a sign of weakness. “Please,” I add. Hernandez looks at me like I’m Satan himself, like all his dreams have just been dashed. He prepares to fire, and I know he’s going to do it. I know this is the end of the r oad for Brock. Hernandez begins to squeeze the trigger. “I warned you. Thr-” Halfway through the word the hand holding the gun explodes in a bloody mist, what’s left of the gun spinning off into the far wall. For a moment Hernandez just holds the dripping stump up to his eyes, unable quite to believe it, before another shot opens up his chest. He looks down, looks at me, and half of his head disappears, the echo of the shot ringing through the warehouse. The goons are spinning around with guns raised trying to locate where the shots have come from, but there’s no one. Four more shots follow in the distance, two for each goon, a gurgling from the big one as he breathes his last and slumps to the ground, a sticky puddle of ooze opening up underneath him. I want to be sick, but I keep it together. This time I saw the muzzle flash. I wait for the next bullet to strike my chest, to take Brock, but it doesn’t come. Instead I watch a figure start to emerge from the back of the warehouse. They wear dark army fatigues. They have a rifle. I squint into the gloom and begin to make out features, the silver hair. Couldn’t be, but it is.

As the captain approaches, I think we’re saved. Somehow he followed me here, set up his sniper gear at the back and took Hernandez and his goons down. I’m beaming with hope, smiling, when it all shifts away. Standing next to Brock, the captain slings his rifle over his shoulder and pulls out his sidearm, aiming it down at Brock. “Captain?” It comes from my lips like a prayer. He spits at Hernandez’s corpse. There’s a groan from one of the goons. We a simple shift of the gun left, the captain fires and the sound comes no more. He aims back at Brock still sideways on the floor bound to the chair surrounded by glass from the broken beer bottle, a cut on his cheek bleeding a little but the larger gash in his head of far greater concern. “What was the last thing I told you, Collins, that day you agreed to be part of this op?” I clear my throat, speaking through sandpaper. “To watch my back.” “Doesn’t seem like you did a very good job.” “What do you want?” “I want something a little better than the piss-poor pension I’m going to be paid out when I finally fuck off from the force. I want stability. Isn’t that human? Isn’t that what we all want? Security and significance?” Money. It always comes down to money. Still, I can’t believe the captain would stoop this low. “I trusted you.” “You’re a fool then, aren’t you? But, tell you what. Let me know where that precious car is and I’ll let this scumbag live. I’m feeling generous after all.” “And me?” “I think we both know I can’t have you around, not knowing what you do. Wouldn’t be professional, would it?” “You’re just as bad as they are.” “Never said I was good, Collins. Never even pretended. Now, the car.” This is it. My heart is absolutely thumping against my rib cage, my head a single pulsating mass. Brock’s lying there bleeding getting weaker and weaker by the damn second. I don’t know where Brock’s car is. It was all a ruse, a lie. It could be anywhere.

I see everything that could have been vanishing into nothing. Brock and I, my dad, even Jay’s little girl. I’m processing all this when I notice Brock’s hands frantically working behind his back. He’s got a piece of glass from the broken bottle in his fingers sawing at the rope. Blood oozes around the glass, but he’s almost there, almost through. I stall. “Why not just take a few bricks of that haul you showed me before?” The captain laughs. “You and I both know that would be mission impossible, Collins. Far easier to take directly from the baby, don’t you think?” Brock’s almost there, almost through. “We can cut a deal.” The captain grows impatient. “Enough with the fucking games. Where’s the car?” It’s done. The ropes fall away from Brock’s hands and he manages to swing himself around onto his stomach, legs still tied to the chair. The noise catches the captain’s attention. He looks down just as Brock slashes the shard of glass across the back of his Achilles. The captain grunts and goes down on one leg, but he’s not down completely. Face scrunched up in agony, he curses before re-aiming the gun at Brock But I’m faster. In these few seconds I’ve managed to roll to the closet goon, swipe his gun from the ground and fire. I barely even think about the action. It just happens —the roll, the squeeze, the kickback. The first bullet strikes the captain in the shoulder, but I send the next two right into the center of his chest. He goes jerking to the side, trying to lift once. I fire again and he goes down for good. Brock falls to the ground. I rush over with my weapon raised and kick the captain’s sidearm away, pulling off his rifle and casting it in the same direction. I kick the ca ptain’s body, but it gives a listless roll far more in line with the dead than the living. The impact of what I’ve done hasn’t even hit me next. All I can think about is Brock. I get down on my knees beside him and undo his legs, helping him up and strippi ng away the bottom of my blouse to try and stop the bleeding from his head. I find Hernandez’s cell and call it in, struggling to get the words out and realizing as soon as I hang up that maybe I’ve acted too fast. A dead police captain, killed by me. What

are they going to make of that? Of this whole situation? It doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all. It looks messy, and detectives don’t like messy. “Took your time,” croaks Brock, coughing. I punch him in the shoulder, more of an automatic response than anything, but when he grimaces in pain I instantly feel like an asshole myself. “Shit, sorry.” “Hey, you saved my ass. I owe you.” I place my hand against his cheek, pleased to find warm and alive. “You owe me big time.” Soon the sounds of approaching sirens drown out that of our mouths pressing together and the urgent beating of my heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY I sit opposite two detectives in Interrogation Room Two. “I’m usually on the other side of the table,” I tell them, smiling. Neither seems particularly interested in my attempt to break the ice. These are downtown boys, the real deal. They’ve seen it all, or maybe not. The one who introduced himself as Fletcher, a lanky middle-ager, taps the table once before speaking. “I have to say this is a first, Collins.” I could really go a glass of water. Hell, a nice bottle of vodka would be welcome. “A first?” “Dirty police captain, sniping those perps, shot by one of his own. A mess.” “It was self-defense,” I begin. “You have to-” The other one, a more rounded individual by the name of Corsen, interrupts me. “You can save it, Officer Collins. Your friend Hernandez there had the entire warehouse filled with cameras. Of course, the captain disarmed them when he entered the premises. Seems he still remembered some of his old army tricks. Thing is, he missed one. It was on another circuit, perched high and recording the whole bloody thing. I’ve seen it,” he points at Fletcher, “Fletch has seen it, and it paints a pretty precise picture if you know what we mean.” “I’m afraid I don’t.” “It means for now, Collins, you’re off the hook, but there are going to be questions, a metric shitload of tribunals and hearings and political back-slapping, but you’ve got us, and we’ve got your back. The whole force has. You took down that dirty fucker in the best way possible. You should feel proud, if anything.” But I don’t. I feel empty, unable to stop my hands shaking thinking of the way the gun felt going off, the way the captain’s body flapped sideways caught by the bul lets. “My stepbrother?” The two detectives exchange a look. “Clean, as far as we can ascertain , but he’ll have to hang around too.” They make no mention of the marijuana. Only the captain had the results from the tracker. I make a note to find them as soon as possible, get Jay or one of the others to clean the warehouse out.

I smile. “Of course.” “You want to tell us anything else?” “I shake my head. I just want to go home.” Fletcher looks to Corsen. “What do you say? Think she’s had enough action for one night?” Corsen smiles, two of his teeth black, whether from old coffee or decay I really can’t tell. “Enough for a lifetime, I’d say.” * I wait around for Brock to get out. Medics saw to him at the station. The cut in his head has been stitched up, a graze on his cheek, but he’s surprisingly in good shape. He emerges from the doorway flanked by two more clone-like detectives. He’s smiling, pointing to his head. “Not so bad, huh?” “Head wounds always look worse than they are,” I reply, deadpan. “I’m sorry to say it’s not the first time someone’s broken a bottle over my head.” “Something about the company you keep.” A sadness draws his features down. I haven’t even considered what it must feel like to be betrayed by someone like Hernandez, someone you’ve spent so much time with, invested so much trust in. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. He nods. “People come, people go. Simple as that.” I press a hand to his chest. I don’t care who can see us, what they’re saying behind my back. I feel the comforting ba-bup, ba-bup of his heart and I feel at home. I feel this is where I belong. “I’m not going anywhere.” He leans down and kisses me. Everything else blurs out around us, the world and all its worries stripped away and only us, together, finally, remaining. Fletcher herds us towards the doors. “Get a room, you two. I don’t want to have to arrest you for indecency now.” It’s almost 2am when we get out of there. We step out into a humid rain not unlike that night at the airport. My pussy twitches at the thought of it. I don’t know why, but I’m hot, frazzled. All I want are his hands on me, his cock in my cunt.

Down the road there are a few lights on, a twenty-four-hour Chinese place I normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole but which right now is looking pretty good. A taxi blasts past. “Hungry?” says Brock. Instead, I grab him and pull him around to a small alleyway next to the precinct. He takes control, spins me, pressing me up against a leaky air-con unit. His hand is down the front of my pants in an instant, his fingers probing into the blood red, slobbery mouth of my hole. I bite down into his shoulder, rain falling between us, my hair soaked through. A wayward digit rounds out the crotch of my pants. He fingers my slit, pressing his bony middle finger inside until his second knuckle brushes the tight ring of my asshole. Above, our mouths cleave together in a heated mess. We fall to the ground and I straddle him, pants awkwardly strung between my knees as I reach between them and guide him into place. He thrusts upward hard off the wet gravel, filling me full in one stroke. I place my hands down on his chest and ride him, lowering and lifting myself on his cock until an orgasm explodes through us simultaneously that jams our loins together. I’m still moaning, halfway to unconsciousness, as his thick cock gorges my cunt with cum. He pulls me up and we dance there in the rain as I struggle to pull my pant s back up, a welcome warmth where his cock has just been. Chinese is forgotten. We feast on each other instead. The taxi driver doesn’t get in a single syllable.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE I wake up in a sudden panic, but when I roll over Brock is right there. He’s still wearing his jeans, an oily, machine smell permeating everything. I pull up close to his ear, press my bare breasts into his back until my nipples turn into stiff diamonds. “You’re filthy, you know.” “Speak for yourself,” comes the sleepy reply. “Where’ve you been?” “Working in the shed.” “I thought the police took the Camaro?” “They did.” I reach over his chest and slip my hand down the front of his jeans, pleased to find his cock hard and ready. I wrap my fingers around his shaft and pull lightly. “Good, because from now on the only time and money you’re going to be spending is on me. Will that be a problem?” “No, officer.” * I’m still buzzing from the orgasm as I step outside into a perfect summer’s day, th e sky such a deep cerulean I expect to see ripples, not clouds, above. I find Dad outside sitting on the deck. Steam’s rising from a mug on the table —two mugs. He gestures to a chair. “Got time?” I smile back. “For you? Always.” “The repo guys rang,” he starts. “They’re dropping everything back this morning.” I place the mug down the table, the warmth still in my hands. “Why?” “Someone paid off the debt—all of it.” The five-thousand is still in my bedside drawer. “Who?” “Anonymous.” “That doesn’t make any sense.” “Was it you, hon?” I laugh. “Me? I work for the cops, not Warren Buffet.” I do have a sneaking suspicion who may be responsible, though.”

“Well,” says Dad, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “whoever it was, the Lord himself for all I know, I, we, are thankful. Who would have thought?” “Seems like everything is working out,” and I think, for once, it is. He notices a scratch on the side of my face from when I rolled to pick up the gun. “What happened?” I haven’t even told him about last night, about any of the crazy shit that went down. “It’s a long story, work. I had to shoot someone.” Dad’s face hardens. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. You okay?” I nod. “I will be.” “And your stepbrother?” “What about him?” “He was involved, wasn’t he?” I nod again. “We were sort of mixed up in each other for a while there. Like I said, long story.” “You’re good for each other, you know. You always have been.” “We’re complete opposites,” I scoff. “Look at your stepmother and I. She hates jerky. I can’t live without it. Sh e loves Jeopardy. I think it’s the worst show on TV.” “Clearly you’ve never seen The Bachelor.” A moment of silence passes, three heartbeats—da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. “So, you and Brock are seeing each other?” I choke on my coffee, forced to bring the mug back up to catch the spillage. I blush instantly, vine-ripened. “Is it that obvious?” “Oh yes. It is that obvious.” “Is it weird? I mean, is it wrong?” Dad shakes his head. “There’s no blood there. You’re famil y, yes, but your friends, and more than that. Why shouldn’t you be together?” I’ve been dreading this conversation, hoping to secretly elope one day with Brock and dance off into the wind. “What does Michelle think?” “She talks about you a lot, actually. She’s proud of you. I am proud of you. You two make a cute couple.”

Gag. “God, stop it, Dad.” “Okay, okay, but we’re just letting you know you have our support.” “Thanks.” I down the last dregs and check my watch. I give Dad a hug, swiping a hidden stash of jerky from this back pocket. “Doctor’s orders, sorry.” “Maddy?” comes the plea, but I’m already strolling up the drive. My cell beeps. It’s a message from Jay: All clean. At least Brock’s little side project won’t be an issue any more. I know I’m about to walk into a shitstorm at work, but people can think whatever they like. What matters is that I have Brock. Everything’s out in the open. Dad’s got the house, his health. I feel whole. I feel alive. I find my beloved Hyundai Excel parked near the curb as always. I pat Champers once on the roof, telling him, “You’re no Camaro, my friend, but you never let me down.” I unlock the door and step in, turning over the ignition and pulling out onto the main road. The suddenly snap of acceleration that follows threatens to reef the wheel right from my hands. Smoke billows up in the rear-view, the car fish-tailing across both lanes and a loud whistling coming from under the hood. Screaming, confused, I go to press the brakes and instead step on the accelerator harder, a surge of torque forcing the car sling-shoting past a bemused guy in low-slung convertible. Finally, I pull the wheel under control and manage to get off the road, a fluttering sh-shsh-sh following. Brock. I speed-dial his number so fast my fingers blur. “Hey, baby,” he answers, voice thick and syrupy post-coitus. “Everything alright?” “What the hell did you do to poor Champers?” “Sorry, Champers needed some pop.” “Some pop? He was perfectly fine. What did you do?” “Just a little turbo kit, low boost. Just be careful of the torque-steer.” “The what?”

He’s laughing now. “Doesn’t matter. Besides, I had to make up for sabotaging the poor thing a week ago.” “Sabotage?” I recall the morning I came out and Champers wouldn’t start. “Yeah, I popped a lead off the night before.” “Just so you could come and save me in the morning?” “Well, yeah. It worked, didn’t it?” “You fucker.” “Guilty as charged.” The corners of my mouth lift with a wicked thought. “You did forget to install one thing in here, though.” “And what’s that?” I can barely contain myself. “A baby capsule.” He goes to speak and stutters. He can’t tell whether I’m serious or not, and I love that. I love everything about it. “I’m going now,” I tell him, smiling to myself but trying not to let any of this allencompassing joy translate down the line. “You better be waiting when I get h ome, because I’m going to spank you so hard you’re not going to be able to sit down for weeks.” “Looking forward to it.” I hang up sitting there quietly laughing. Maddison, what have you gotten yourself into? Do people really change? I can’t be sure, but one thing I do know as I gently ease back onto the road is that I’m ready for the ride. ###

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About Teagan Kade: Teagan Kade thinks talking about yourself in the third person is silly, just like her collection of snow globes and rare manga. When she’s not being silly, she’s hanging out with her own Brock and two children in the south of Australia, dreaming of new characters and torturous ways they can get themselves into trouble. Teagan loves hearing from her readers, all of whom are as dear to her heart as salted caramel cookies. Shoot her an email at: [email protected]. She doesn’t bite.

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Chasing Storm: A New Adult Romance I said I’d never be back, but here I am, heart on sleeve and destined for disaster. Every street reminds me of the way my first love was torn from my life, but the town’s moved on. There’s new development, a new sheriff, and there’s Storm, the antithesis of the pure, bring-home-to-your-parents boys I grew up with. He’s a danger to himself and others, completely reckless, so why can’t I stop myself falling into his arms… his bed? If I stay with him, I’m in danger of losing everything that’s important, the very moral compass that has served me so well. But his whispered words and hot caresses haunt me. I know it’s going to end in heartbreak. I just can’t get out of the way. Chapter One “Just the gas?” The guy behind the counter wears a shirt that says ‘big rig’ with an arrow pointing to his crotch. Given his gut, I can’t imagine he’s seen his dick in years. He eyes me lewdly, chewing jerky. “Yeah, thanks, Aaron.” This takes him by surprise. He looks to his shirt, looks to see if he has a nametag on. “How’d you know my name?” He squints, as if this will help further clarify the situation. “Hey, hey, I know you. You’re the what’s-her-name girl from school.” He looks to the heavens for divine inspiration. “Alice! Alice Everett, right?”

I rummage through my purse for gas money. “Guilty as charged.” Aaron leans back. “Wow, what’s a swanky city girl like you doing back here in little ol’ Rosie?” It’s a good question. I don’t really know the answer myself. “It’s just time,” I tell him, handing over the bills. “Nothing’s changed,” he laments. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” I toss him a wink before leaving. Outside, the sun beats down like a fiery hammer. I’ve forgotten just how hot it can get out here, but it’s true what they say. The air is cleaner. It may not have the hustle and bustle of New York, but Rosie – population 1000 – has its own charms. I turn back onto the highway, past the ‘Welcome To Rosie! Timber town!’ sign when a cop car swings in behind me from the side of the road with a whoop whoop. Shit. I pull over. A single officer gets out, hand on his weapon and wide-brimmed Stetson casting his face into shadow. I wind down my window and he leans in, taking off his Aviators. What a cliché. “Ma’am,” he starts, “are you aware of the speed limit on these roads?” I turn to him. He stops. “Alice?” he says. “Alice Everett?” “Dan,” I reply, unable to stop the smirk that’s pulling at my lips. “Dan Winter. Long time no see.” It’s a wonder we never dated in high school. It’s not that I didn’t find him attractive, and time has treated him well as he leans by my window, but he always seemed more interested in sport than chasing tail. I spot the sheriff badge on his shirt. “You’ve moved up in the world.” He looks down at the silver star. “I guess you could say that. And you? Heard you made it big out in the Apple.” “Yeah, something like that.” “What brings you back to Rosie?” That damned question. “I suppose I just needed a break, you know?”

“I understand.” He shakes his head, smirking himself. “Look,” he says, “I’m going to let you off now, you hear, on account of making a fresh start, but on one condition.” He’s smiling, but it’s not the kind of corporate Cheshire grin I’m used to. It’s warm, inviting, everything I came back for. “One dinner, my treat.” No more guys for a while, remember, Alice? “I’m flattered, Dan, but I’m not really on the dating market at the moment.” “Did I say a date? Dinner, Alice, that’s all. Two friends catching up.” I’m not going to be able to get out of this one. “Fine,” I relent, “dinner.” “You stayin’ with your folks?” I nod. “Great. See you at eight.” He steps away, that same coy smile on his face, shaking his head as he gets back into his patrol car and turns around in a cloud of dust and debris. No dating, huh? That went out the window fast. * “Alice, darling!” The hug Mom delivers threatens to collapse my lungs. Dad smiles on from the porch. “How are you, kiddo?” he asks, as we move inside out of the heat. “Good, Dad. Couldn’t be better.” But he knows. I can see it in his eyes. Nothing gets past him. Mom pats a space on the sofa next to her. “Seen anyone you know yet?” “Aaron, at the gas station.” Mom shakes her head. “That good-for-nothing. Been working at his daddy’s station since you left.” I clear my throat. “And Dan.” “Dan Winter?” “Yeah, he’s a sheriff now.” “Fine young man,” Dad chips in. “Done this town an awful lot of good since you’ve been gone.” Mom winks. “Bit of a looker too, if you know what I mean.”

I slap her playfully on the shoulder. “Mom! Jesus. I’m here one minute and you’re already trying to hook me up. We agreed…” She puts her hands out in supplication. “Yes, yes, I know what we agreed, but a mother can dream, can’t she?” I smile. It comes out naturally. “It’s good to see you guys.” “Good to see you too, hon,” they reply in unison. My old room’s exactly as I left it, right down to the diary on the shelf and the dusty CDs on my desk. I stretch out on my bed and stare at the ceiling. You’re here. You’re home. For the first time in a long time my inbox is empty when I open up my laptop. I check the usual feeds, call my editor, but it all seems so distant now. Dan shows up bang on eight. It looks amusing having a police car out front until I remember the last time one was here. Dan’s dressed casually when he steps out. Gone is the beige and badge to be repl aced by a tight-fitting tee and jeans that hug him in all the right places. I have to admit, he’s looking fucking fine. He approaches me with his hands in his pockets. I stand above him on the porch, leaning against the timberwork for support lest my knees weaken and I should have to be whisked away for treatment. Pfft, yeah, right. “Sorry, Alice, but every restaurant in town’s booked up solid tonight.” “Is there still just the one?” He kicks the dust. “Man, I just can’t get anything past you. Yeah, just the one, Torony’s, I’m afraid. This isn’t exactly the hub of fine dining New York is.” “No McDonalds?” “Not yet, but give it time. Although it looks the same, things are changing aroun d here. You’ll see it firsthand soon enough.” I shift my eyes down to his chest. “Not everything has changed, it seems.” “I try to keep myself in shape. I don’t play ball any more, but I coach the little ones. Passes the time.”

If he had a puppy tucked under his arm he couldn’t be more adorable, and that’s the problem. He seems too perfect. We’d settle down, have 2.5 kids and journey to the one fancy restaurant in town on Saturday night with our coupon and enjoy our one night out a month. I could never do it. I’m too much of a free spirit. I’m too reckless for him. I twist my lips together. “What shall we do then?” “Have dinner with us!” I almost collapse into Dan’s arms in shock as Mom blows in behind me. She’s got her apron on. “I’ve cooked enough for everybody.” “Were you eavesdropping, Mom?” She slaps me with her oven mitt. “Never! Now, what do you say?” “I really don’t think-” I start, but Dan interrupts. “Sure, Mrs Everett, if you think it’s no problem.” “Nothing is a problem for you, Dan. You know you’re welcome any time.” I shake my fist to the heavens and bring it back to my side just as Dan takes my elbows. “I hope that’s okay?” I give in. “Sure, why the hell not?” We head inside. Mom wasn’t kidding. She’s made enough to feed the entire town. The table couldn’t get any more colorful. That aside, I have no complaints about her cooking. I’ve missed these roasts and cook ups. Wholesome just-add-butter home cooking like this is hard to find in the Big Apple. There are only so many cronuts, Nutella scrolls and blueberry buckwheat waffles one can consume, after all. Mom and I are seated on one side of the table, Dan and Dad on the other. A cuckoo clock from Mom and Dad’s Great European Adventure (Read: generic bus tour) chimes on the wall to mark the hour. “Tell me, Dan,” says Dad, passing down the potatoes, “how’s the job?” “Good, Mr Everett.” Mr Everett? I stifle laughter by shoving a roasted carrot into my mouth. “You see,” Dan continues, “crime doesn’t rest. Those Millertown boys certainly keep us on our toes. You’ve heard about the robberies, the shootings, of course?” “Damn terrible thing.”

“We’ve apprehended two of them over the last week, but it’s hard to plug up the flow, you know?” “Those bikers?” “Without a doubt.” “Millertown?” I query. “Did I miss something?” “It’s not like you remember, hon,” says Mom. “The mill shut down and the place went to the doghouse. I wouldn’t even drive through it myself.” Dad gives her a knowing nod. “Very wise, Mrs Everett. Best to steer clear.” All I see is a story title. “You think the crime stems mainly from Millertown?” Dan wipes his mouth. “Oh, I know it, Alice. They’re become pretty brazen, too. Most of these burglaries were carried out in broad daylight. Millertown had a bit of a rep when you and I were in school, but now it’s worse than 1980s New York, full of low-lives and street scum. Like your dad said, steer clear.” “Hmpf,” is my only reply. Inwardly, just one thing is running through my mind: You have to get there. Dad spears another forkful of beans. “Say, Alice, did you know Dan here did a tour of Afghanistan?” This is news. I turn to him. “You were in in the Army?” He looks down at his food. “Yeah, for a year or two there.” “Wow,” and I mean it. Dad claps him on the shoulder. “Making us proud, he was. Serving your country is a wonderful thing, son, but there’s just as much that needs doing here in Rosie. Am I right?” Dan nods again, but something’s off. Talk of the Army has spooked him. I make a mental note to enquire further. Mom puts down her knife and fork, always a dangerous sign. “Dan hasn’t had much luck on the lady front, Alice. Pickings are slim around here, as you know.” He laughs. “Thanks, Mrs Everett, but I’m doing just fine.” She waves it off. “Oh Dan, I think you and Alice would make such a cute couple.” Suddenly Mom jumps out of her seat, shaking her finger at me. “Alice! What did you kick me for? I roll my eyes, “God, Mom! Just… leave it.”

Dan can’t stop sniggering. It’s nice to see him happy. He was always so da mn serious in school. I heard his pop had a mean right hook. He often showed up with Exhibit A in the form of a shiny black bruise around his eye the next day. Apparently his folks passed not long after I left. Mom won’t stop. “I’m just saying, he’s a real catch.” I place my own utensils down. “So why don’t you go out with him?” “Oh, Alice. What would your father think?” My parents exchange a sickly air kiss. I want to spew up all over the table. “I came back for this?” I’m thankful when Dan changes the subject. “How are you finding being back, Alice?” “It’s,” I hunt for the right word, “nice. Quiet, for sure. I almost miss the sirens.” Dan pipes up. “I can help out with that, cruise the patrol car past and give the sirens a blast at 2am. Don’t think it would go down so well with your neighbors, but the offer’s there.” I give him a mock hat-tip. “Thank you, sir.” The small talk continues, but none of it probes into the deeper issues at hand. I help Mom wash up as Dad and Dan discuss sports in the den. Normally I’d be averse to such stereotypical gender roles, but here in Rosie it almost seems unnatural not to go with it. “I’m serious,” Mom says, examining her make-up in the mirror of a dish she’s drying, “you should jump on him before someone else snaps him up.” “Jump on him? Can you even hear yourself?” She shakes her dish towel. “You know what I mean. Have some fun. Let your hair down.” I peer around the corner as Dad lambasts Dan with his ‘I could have been a quarterback’ story. The poor bastard gives me a knowing wink. Possibility swirls. “Maybe I will.”