Billionaire Stepbrother Enemy Read online

  So wait, let me get back to Halloween. When we moved to the mansion, I had to switch schools since we were in a different district. It was a really wealthy district and I didn’t know anyone, didn’t fit in…but I’d been invited to a Halloween party and I was really excited and wanted to make a good impression. I got all the stuff for my costume including some really expensive makeup, but when it was time to get ready, the bags of stuff were gone. Totally disappeared.

  Then Scott tells his dad that I went shopping and spent all this money and then lost the stuff, and Randy gets really pissed off and grounds me for being irresponsible. And then, that night as I’m moping in my room, missing the party I was sure would be the most fun thing ever, Scott comes in and tells me he took my stuff and threw it away. And his face was like stone when he told me. Like he had no feelings at all. Not playing a prank that went wrong, but I’m talking cold like a freaking sociopath or something.

  That was just one thing, and maybe it sounds childish and not like a big deal, just one stupid party. Okay, fair enough. But what if shit like that was happening all the time, every single day? And you felt literally persecuted in your own house, which doesn’t feel like your own house anyway? And your mother is all taken up with her new husband so she’s not following what’s going on, and your stepbrother…your stepbrother is your enemy, not your ally.

  Your arch-fucking-enemy.

  I’m dreading dinner tonight. I can’t get out of it, since the whole point of my being here is to spend some time with my mom. But the dinner table here in the mansion is definitely one of the places where I have the biggest backload of crappy memories, where Randy used to explode over god knows what while my stepbrother needled me to the point of insanity. And also, my stepfather has this thing about dinners being sort of formal. Even on a weekday, you have to dress up and look nice. No pants. Makeup required. It’s totally fake and stupid and it makes me resentful as all hell.

  But surely I can keep it together just for a few more days, and then it’s back to my real life, where I’m the one making decisions. I may not have caviar on my table but I can eat dinner in a bra and panties if I feel like it.

  Tonight, I pick out a short swirly skirt and a pair of Louboutins my mom just bought me. I know how her mind works. She’s still feeling so guilty about the years we were poor, and she tries to make up for it by buying me fancy stuff now.

  But the thing is, I don’t hold being poor against her. She was doing the best she could after my father disappeared. And while I admit I do love these shoes (because they are awesome), buying me fancy stuff now has nothing to do with the past. In my opinion. So yeah, I’ll wear the Louboutins tonight and I’ll enjoy the fuck out of them, but Mom, don’t get it in your head that they make up for subjecting me to the Caulters.

  Because nothing can do that.

  I clip-clop down the over-the-top marble staircase and go into the living room, where a maid is passing hors d’oeuvres and getting everyone cocktails. This is on a weekday, mind you, and we’re not celebrating anything. Except maybe old Granny pushing up daisies, I don’t really know. Maybe there’s inheritance money coming—I’m not in the information loop to know one way or the other.

  I take a glass of Cristal, which apparently flows like water in this house. Scott’s not there yet, and my mother and stepfather are arguing in a corner of the room so I have the hors d’oeuvres all to myself.

  Tuna sushi. Yum.

  I’m chomping on a too-large mouthful when Scott shows up. His suit is impeccable, his hair still damp from the shower. I know he smells amazing, that dizzying mixture of expensive cologne and manly aroma, and I vow to keep my distance, out of smelling range.

  But to get out of sparkly-eye range, I’d have to leave the house.

  He’s doing it again, looking at me with amusement, his eyes all…inviting. He must be up to something.

  “Hey Ainsley,” he says, smiling at me. “You’re a sushi fan?”

  My mouth’s still full so all I can do is nod. Also I’m backing up to try to maintain distance but he just keeps coming closer.

  “I go to Japan on business at least once a month,” he says. “I should take you sometime. There’s this place right on the water, where you see them catch the fish—wild fish, not farmed—”

  Luckily this is one huge room because I’m still backing up, trying to get out from under his spell. But if I thought staying ten feet away would keep me safe, I was apparently wrong.

  Because oh my fucking god. He may be my stepbro, the guy who drove me crazy as a gangly teen—but now he’s a man. And I mean…a hunky, panty-drenching man. If you know what I’m saying.

  Ainsley, get a hold of yourself this instant. (I know things are bad when I start talking to myself like I’m my mother.)

  “Stop backing off,” says Scott, his voice stern.

  “Oh, like you’re my boss?” I answer. But I’ve run out of room and I feel the wall behind me.

  He comes up to me, close. As expected, my knees get all wobbly.

  Dammit.

  “Ainsley,” he says, his voice softening just a little. “We really do need to talk. I’m not leaving until we do.”

  “Suit yourself,” I say. “I’m going home tomorrow, and sorry Mr. Tycoon, but I’m not sure I can squeeze you in before then.”

  Um, squeeze him in? Oh lord, would I like to, would I ever like to. I’d like to squeeze his rod right in my wet pussy, is what I’d like.

  Ainsley! Get a grip!

  Scott grins at me. “You still like picnics?”

  “Huh? Uh, sure, who doesn’t?”

  “I remember how when we were kids you used to eat outside whenever you could. You used to drag me out to eat lunch under the apple tree, remember that?”

  “No. No apple tree,” I say weakly, because now that he mentions it, I get this flash of pulling him through the backyard with a basket over one arm like I was Little Red Freaking Riding Hood, and then smoothing out a blanket under the apple tree, loaded with blossoms….

  Our parents are completely wrapped up in their argument. Scott and I glance over at them, and then we look at each other. He’s standing so close we’re almost touching. The sexual tension between us is so intense I swear we’re about to spontaneously combust or something. His lips—they don’t look cruel now. They look beautiful, sculptural, delicious. I feel myself falling towards him….

  “So, everyone!” says Scott, suddenly loud. Then he claps his hands to get the attention of the ’rents. “I’ve got something planned for tonight, something a little different. If you would come this way….” And he goes to the front door and opens it. Like in the blink of an eye, he turned into a cruise director.

  The rest of us follow along wondering what he’s up to. There’s a limo out front, a ridiculous stretch, white, with two attendants holding open doors.

  “Get in, I’m taking us to dinner tonight,” says Scott, and he seems terribly pleased with himself about the whole thing.

  Show-off. Stupid, annoying, horrible, sexy show-off.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The parents aren’t saying anything and neither am I, so the only conversation in the limo is between Scott and the driver. I notice how he treats the guy—he’s respectful but not pally, you know? He’s the boss and no one forgets it, but he’s not shoving it up in their faces either, being a dirtbag just because he can, the way I bet a lot of super rich dudes behave.

  Which, all right, I’m vaguely surprised. But I guess just because he was a dirtbag to me doesn’t mean that’s his management style. Although I was sort of under the impression that you don’t get to be a billionaire without getting your asshole card stamped pretty much daily.

  I do give Scott credit in one way—he could have just coasted on his dad’s money and never done much of anything but lie around a pool or something. But instead he left home not all that long after I did, skipped college, and started his own business—make that plural, I think he’s up to seven different ones now. All tech,
all super successful. And he did it on his own, apart from probably getting some starter money from some of his dad’s contacts, but I don’t even know that for sure.

  He’s self-made, just like me. Even if my version is considerably less…upmarket.

  So anyway, the limo is gliding through the streets and I admit I’m enjoying watching people stare. It’s fun to be on the other side of the smoked glass for once. Then we’re zipping out of town and onto a narrow country road. I can’t imagine what restaurant he could possibly be taking us to way out here. It’s just farms as far as the eye can see, with maybe an old gas station here and there, long out of business.

  I can tell my stepfather is not liking any of this. Randy’s lips are pressed together and his eyes are cloudy and dull the way they get when a storm is brewing. I don’t really give two shits because he’s not my problem anymore, but I hope his anger doesn’t rain down too hard on my mom. He likes to be in control and you can see a mile away that being in Scott’s limo being taken on Scott’s surprise…it’s not sitting well at all.

  Okay, yes, I’m enjoying it, just a tiny little bit. Is that so wrong?

  Finally the limo turns down a long dirt road. We go past a farmhouse and then a barn, and finally stop at the end of the road, parking next to an old tractor that looks like it hasn’t done any tractoring in about twenty years.

  The attendants hop out and open the doors, and the three of us climb out and look around. The farm is stunningly beautiful—it’s the peak of spring and everything is this vibrant, amazing color green. Everything, that is, except the apple blossoms. There’s a whole orchard here, long rows of apple trees covered in the most heavenly, wonderful-smelling pink blossoms.

  I can’t help myself, I shriek like a little kid. Scott grins at me.

  “We’re having a picnic,” he says, and I can see in his face that he knows our parents won’t understand at all. They’re, you know, more valet parking types than picnic types.

  “I don’t see the point,” says Randy. His hands are on his hips and he’s looking around with a sour expression. “My suit’s going to be ruined with dust.”

  Even my mother rolls her eyes at that one.

  “Oh come on,” she says to him, trying to jolly him up, “it sounds like fun! Scott, you are always so creative!”

  My eyes may get stuck up in my head, I roll them so hard. Creative my ass. But…much as I try to find some way to get pissy, I’m touched. I know he’s arranged this picnic for me. And how sweet is that?

  But what is he up to? I want to jump into his arms—but I’m wary of something blowing up in my face.

  The attendants are taking coolers and boxes of food out of the limo’s trunk and then going to get everything arranged on blankets under an apple tree. My stepfather is clenching his jaw so hard I think he might crack some teeth.

  “Come on,” says Scott, reaching for my hand. And I let him take it. We walk to the orchard and down between rows of trees, blossoms falling around us like snow. The scent of them is intoxicating, and the feel of Scott’s strong hand in mine is dreamy. It might be the most magical moment of my entire life.

  “I probably should have left them at home,” he says, nodding his head back at the parents. His father is complaining to the driver about something and we can hear his angry voice though thankfully we’re far enough away not to hear what he’s saying.

  “I’m used to ignoring them,” I shrug.

  “Ainsley,” says Scott, pulling me close, and I swear I hear something in his voice.

  Something like…yearning.

  I’m all melty again. I can’t be this close to him without my body responding, getting flooded with desire, wanting to press against him, let him do anything….I’m pretty inexperienced, and—

  —okay, almost completely inexperienced. Pretty much everything I know about sex is from watching R-rated movies, all right? Just never met the right guy, is all.

  Well, actually, the right guy is enfolding me in his arms right now. We look into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and so much of what I want to say seems suddenly unimportant. His lips come closer, then graze mine deliciously.

  “SCOTT!” his father screams.

  “What the—” says Scott, taking his scrumptious lips away. “I guess we’d better….”

  So, yeah, way to go parents. At least that’s my first thought. My second thought is: did I just barely avoid doing something stupid? Because Ainsley, have you forgotten how he treated you during that horrible year?

  There I go, talking to myself in my mother’s voice again.

  We’re running back to the limo to see what the hell is the matter. I’m guessing my stepfather has manufactured some reason we have to leave—pretended to get stung by a bee or something. No, wait—he’ll blame it on my mother, that’s more his style.

  “What’s the problem, Pop?” says Scott. I’d never noticed before how cold his tone is when he talks to his dad.

  “At least I’m able to get cell reception out here,” Randy says, “so we found out early. You’re going to have to gat back to town and deal with this right away, son.” He holds his phone out so Scott can see it.

  “Oh, who cares,” Scott says, shrugging. “And hey, maybe any publicity is good publicity, right?”

  “Absolutely not and you know better,” my stepfather says. “Ainsley, how about you quit dragging Scott off to give him a blowjob or whatever it was you were doing so he can get his head straight and get back on track.”

  “What did you say?” Scott’s face is doing something I’ve never seen before. He is furious, his eyes dark, his shoulders flexing. I think he might hit his father, I mean really hit him.

  But my mother steps in between them. Always the peacemaker, and you know what? Sometimes peace is not the best thing. Sometimes stuff needs to get fought over.

  We end up getting right back in the limo and going home. No point trying to have the picnic, not with my stepfather practically foaming at the mouth and yammering on about whatever is on his phone, and not with Scott on the verge of killing him for what he said about me.

  It’s weird. Okay, yes, I admit there’s plenty of attraction between me and Scotty. But we haven’t actually done anything, so I don’t know where my stepfather is getting his ideas. And who says things like that anyway about his children—and right to their faces? Nobody who isn’t one click off of crazy, that’s who.

  Boundaries, people.

  And ironically, I don’t have the faintest idea about how to give a blowjob. Not that I’m going to be volunteering that nugget of info.

  And yes, I called him Scotty. Because he’s adorable, so there.

  Remarkably I’m not feeling that disappointed about missing the picnic. Having the ’rents there sort of got in the way anyhow, and it’s just the fact that Scotty thought of it that’s so wonderful. When I think about him going to all the trouble and expense of planning it, a kind of warmth spreads through my body like I haven’t ever felt before.

  And I’m having such dirty thoughts! Like where in the mansion could we go for a little privacy, where my stepfather won’t come barging in?

  So I spend the ride back looking out at the farms whizzing by, not paying any attention to what anyone is saying, lost in my daydreams of seeing Scotty with his shirt off. With his pants off.

  …fanning myself here…holy fuck, I want him bad.

  When we get back to the mansion, Scotty and his father disappear. He doesn’t say anything to me before going off, and I start to feel a little slighted before I remember that he’s apparently got a lot of shit to deal with right now.

  But then Mom has to stick her nose in. “I’m sorry about the picnic, Ainsley,” she says, scrolling on her phone. “But I do think Randy has a point. Look….” And she holds her phone out for me to see.

  There, in living color, is an image of Scott with his arm around a dude.

  They’re both naked.

  And there’s another dude with his head in Scott’s la
p. Like, not resting there. But doing something.

  The headline says: TECH TYCOON ENJOYS GAY ROMP.

  The whaa—?

  Now, let me be clear. Gay, straight, in between—I don’t give two shits one way or the other. Unless you’re my man. And if you are, I don’t want you hound-doggin’ around with anyone else, period.

  Now I do know somewhere inside my scrambled-up head that Scott is not my man. Not yet. We’ve shared a couple of kisses is all. But do you hear the sound of those brakes squealing? Yep, that’s me, throwing my booty into reverse and getting the hell out of this mansion of insanity.

  I told you I was inexperienced, and that’s true, but something I haven’t explained is that I have some pretty old-fashioned ideas when it comes to getting close, getting intimate. Like, it’s not just playing around. Not just for fun, just to get off. Maybe my potty-mouth is misleading, and because I sprinkle the f-bomb around I seem like the kind of chick who’s into sex play. And please understand, there’s not a thing wrong with it, I’m not judging anyone who’s into that.

  Not even Scott.

  But it’s not my thing. It’s not for me, and the last thing I want to do is cross that line with Scott, to hook up with my stepbrother only for a night, only for some quick physical pleasure.

  Nuh unh. Not gonna happen.

  I want so much more than that. Maybe you’ll say it’s corny—but I want a big whopping serving of love along with my cock. In that photo—he does look all kinds of awesome with his shirt off. And I wish it were me his arms were wrapped around, and not that hunky blond with the narrow waist and ripped six-pack.

  But that’s life.

  Next I feel a kind of chill coming over me, like my feelings are getting iced over. That’s what happens when I get hurt. But it works for me. The hurt is all bundled up and out of sight, and now I’m able to move on and do what needs doing, which right now?