My Stepbrother Rocks: Opening Act Read online

It's been my nickname since he learned I loved frosted flakes cereal. I didn't so much mind it, but that was when I was a kid four years ago. I'm almost seventeen now and can do without the baby names.

  “Hi Grant,” I'm finally able to speak holding a napkin over my face to pick some food out of my tooth.

  “You look amazing! Quite the grown-up,” Grant settles himself in the chair placing his napkin in his lap and rolling up the sleeves of his designer shirt. I notice he's wearing a gold Rolex with diamonds in place of the numbers on the face.

  “Thanks, I'll be seventeen in a few months,” my voice is low and I'm almost feeling intimidated by Grant's watchful eye. Probably because I hardly see him enough to feel comfortable. It's like he's a stranger every time we meet, which is why the term older brother is almost lost on him.

  “Well, if it isn't the prodigal son,” Alex chides through a mouthful of burger. “Long time, no see,” he raises his beer to toast Grant who begrudgingly raises his wine glass. I notice Grant's hand is almost twice the size of Alex's as they cross in front of me. I guess that stands to reason since he's almost ten years older.

  “Yeah, that's what working looks like. Sometimes you have to sacrifice time here and there,” Grant cuts into his filet mignon seemingly unbothered by Alex's remark. I watch him chew the meat, his strong square jaw slowly grinding the food.

  “Here and there? More like everywhere,” Alex keeps on. It's obvious there's a bone to be picked, but I'm not sure what it's about.

  “You can't own your own record label if all you can do is cut class and get yourself an extra year of high school,” Grant shoots back coolly using his knife and fork to cut a boiled carrot and place it in his mouth.

  “Ooohhh, burn,” Ian adds to the conversation. I didn't even notice he was there until that moment.

  “Ah, you're just jealous 'cuz I got a record deal from the battle of the bands competition,” Alex leans a tad in my direction. I can feel his breath on the side of my forehead and can only imagine if I turn my head I'll be almost mouth to mouth.

  “Hm, interesting,” Grant sets his utensils down and dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I advise you use a manager since you failed algebra three times. Trust me, I manage kids like you all day long and they have no clue what they're getting into. Then wake-up broke one day and featured on the music channels list of top one hundred has-beens,” Grant barely glances in Alex's direction. His calm demeanor methodically eating his food.

  “Whatever, control freak. I think I can read,” Alex sits back in his chair drinking his beer. I can tell he's angry and hurt. I wish I could reach over and stroke his thigh under the table, but move my ankle to lock around his instead. He turns to me and smiles sandwiching my leg with his other.

  “I think you should let Grant manage your band,” my dad says his eyes intent on Alex. “You could use more guidance since you're taking the road of the broke rock star.” I didn't anticipate that put-down from my dad, but then I think he hasn't been pleased that his son opted not to follow in his mighty footsteps of land developer. At least Grant was in the middle of building a multimillion dollar record label. I'm sure it's partially funded by my dad, but still my big brother was representing some high end acts already including The Black Keys, Sam Smith and BANKS.

  “Manage this,” Alex leaves the table abruptly heading to the stage. It's all I can do to stay in my seat and not run after him. I don't know why, but I've always had a way of knowing what to do or say when my brother was pissed off. It's like I understood him like no one else could, even though we weren't blood related and raised together from the day we were born.

  “He hasn't outgrown his moody twos,” Grant says smiling across the table at his dad who shrugs his shoulders and laughs. His teeth remind me of a movie star, perfectly straight and bright white. His olive skin probably helps their intensity.

  “No, he definitely hasn't,” my mom adds rolling her eyes. I look at her in horror until she looks at me. “What? It's totally true. He's got the body of a man and a boy's brain with behavior to match as you can see.” As if she knows anything about Alex and what gives her the right to belittle him? She hasn't known him forever, yet she's judging him.

  I excuse myself from the table because I know anything I say will look completely girlfriend like. I make my way behind the stage careful to keep watch and make sure my mom doesn't see me. Alex is sitting on a stool holding the microphone in his hand, his head down as though he's praying. I look around quickly and realize we're alone. I walk to his side and place my hand on his shoulder. He lifts his head and our eyes meet. We smile at each other.

  “Don't let the words bother you Alex. Without you, there would be no need for record labels or managers. In the end, it's all about you. You're the one with the audience. You're the one the public wants,” I keep my voice low and try not to sound like a teenage groupie. He places his hand over mine, his eyes search my face.

  “Thanks M. You always know what to say, but they're right. I need big experience behind me if I ever hope to make it big,” he keeps his eyes fixed on mine. It's like I have tunnel vision, his blue eyes and cock eyed puffy lips surrounded by the most glorious wavy black hair.

  He brings my hand to his face placing my palm against his cheek. I think my heart just sped up about a hundred miles an hour. Burying his mouth in it next, he kisses it, not once, but a few times. It makes me giggle nervously, but more than that it makes me want to reach in and plant my lips on his.

  I pull my hand back and smile. “Kick ass up there rock star,” I run my finger down his nose and turn to leave. Grant passes me, his brows narrowed in suspicion. His eyes dart quickly to Alex then back to me. I wonder if he saw the moment Alex and I just shared, but I don't hang around to find out.

  Chapter Four – The Jam Session

  Why am I so damn nervous? I ask myself. I'm sitting in the practice room waiting for Morgan to start our jam session, but I feel like I'm waiting for God. What am I gonna say? How do I start the conversation? I think I'm gonna be sick. Pull it together, it's not like she's your girlfriend or ever could be, she said some sexy shit about you, so what?

  “So what, what?” Morgan's voice startles me. I must've been talking out loud and hope she didn't hear more than the last two words.

  “So... what are we gonna start with? Words or music?” I'm sure my face is red as I turn to meet her smiling at me. She's holding two cream soda bottles and her diary. Her plump, pink cheeks make me wanna squeeze them, but I fear I wouldn't stop there.

  “Well, it might make more sense to put music to my words. I can probably even hum the music of yours that I wrote them to if that helps?” Morgan hands me a bottle and plops herself on the end of the small sofa.

  “Yeah, that would be great. Maybe we should pick it together,” I sit on the arm of the sofa looking down on her.

  “Um, yeah, no peeping brother,” she smiles up at me holding the book to her chest. She looks so beautiful tonight, her wavy sandy blonde hair flowing around her shoulders instead of tucked in a bun on her head. If I didn't know better I'd think her hazel eyes had specs of green in them, no purple. Damn, stop staring! I admonish myself.

  I move across from her and sit on a speaker. I pick up my acoustic guitar and tune it pretending not to watch her. Morgan holds the bottle between her knees while browsing the entries in her book. I hope she picks the last one I read the other day. It definitely sounds like something I'd write, but I'm surprised she wrote it about me. Well, more like relieved. I know way more of her thoughts and feelings than I admitted, but I couldn't bring myself to profess my love for her at that moment. It just didn't feel right after getting caught with the smoking gun. Besides, it would've seemed like an excuse just to get back in her good graces and her pants.

  “How 'bout this one,” Morgan leans forward toward me and begins reading, her voice low as though she's afraid someone besides the two of us might hear her loving words for me.

  “I stop to catch my breath,
the sound of your voice brings me to you even though we're far apart.

  I try to stifle these feelings I have for you knowing they could never be, but it seems I never win.

  Your eyes, they tell me you know what I'm thinking, the touch of your hand radiates my love back.

  So, I wonder, can it be, this forbidden desire? Will you stay in my life as my love? Tell me, are you mine?”

  I'm shaking on the inside listening to her soft voice read my favorite poem, watching her heart-shaped lips move. I wanna yell what I'm thinking inside, “Yes!” but I can't afford to scare her off. After all, she's only sixteen and as much as I see her as a woman, even more so now that I've read her diary, I have to keep telling myself there are probably a million emotions in that pretty head. Emotions I can't imagine ever screwing with or chance having them turn on me.

  “So? What do you think?” Morgan is staring at me.

  “It's perfect. Now what tune were you thinking about?” I clear my voice and adjust my sitting position. Either this speaker just got harder or I did.

  “Well, this is the tune I heard when I wrote it,” she closes her eyes and begins to hum. I immediately remember the day I was messing with those chords and structure. I'm almost in a trance watching her and visualizing her upstairs that day writing about me, us. Then I see her touching herself, getting off to me and my voice. My thighs begin to quiver, Fuck! Get a hold of yourself! She's sitting right in front of you!

  I begin to pluck the chords on the guitar as she hums working out the basic melody, then I sing. Morgan opens her eyes and watches me. I sing the entire poem and realize her expression has turned to confusion.

  “You memorized the words?” she asks after I'm finished.

  “Um, yeah, it wasn't very long. I've kinda got a memory for that stuff,” I'm totally lying and hope she doesn't realize I re-read that poem at least five times.

  She smiles, a kind of knowing smile, like she's reading my mind. I move to sit on the couch next to her. “Wanna try playing the guitar?”

  “I don't know how,” she looks up into my face and I think I might kiss her, but move the guitar into her lap instead.

  “Here, put this hand here, your arm over the top and rest your shoulder here. Now press these two strings on the neck and strum your thumb down those strings,” she's draped over my guitar as I place her hands and press her fingers into the chords.

  Morgan does as I instruct, but the result sounds like a hillbilly banjo. We laugh. It relieves the tension I think we both feel.

  “Try again,” I place her fingers on the neck again keeping mine firmly over hers.

  “I feel like my wrist is twisted like taffy,” she giggles, dropping her shoulder to get a better handle on the strings.

  “Yeah, you smell like cherry taffy too,” I poke fun, before realizing my words may seem like a cheap come on. Morgan looks at me and blushes. She quickly turns back to the guitar and runs her thumb down the open strings a few times while keeping her other fingers tightly against the neck.

  “It kinda hurts my fingertips,” Morgan pulls her hand to her face then sucks on her fingers as if they're bleeding. I can hardly stand the sight and know I won't last through this session, or whatever it is.

  “Aw, let's see baby sis,” taking the guitar off her lap, I set it on the other side of us. I pull her hand to me and examine the red tips with string imprints. I rub them lightly, which turns into me running my finger around her palm before placing my own over hers. She laces her fingers around mine. I swallow hard and look at her. Her eyes know and want and love. So I do.

  Leaning into her I place my hand on her cheek then run it under her hair to the back of her head and pull her toward me kissing her gently, testing her response. She kisses me back. We look at each other, a realization that we're thinking the same thing, then kiss again. This time, it's more intense. I move my tongue into her mouth and she responds by opening her mouth and accepting me.

  Morgan turns to me putting her hand around my neck. Instinctively, I pull her until she's laying on top of me. I know what we're doing is unheard of and unacceptable, but I just keep telling myself it can't be wrong if we both want it so badly.

  We're writhing together on the couch, Morgan's body so soft against mine. Her half shirt has ridden up to expose her lacy blue bra. I move my hand up her bare skin and stroke my thumb over her covered breast. She breathes heavy in my face, then reaches around to her back and unsnaps the bra so I can get my hand completely underneath. My dick is harder than ever behind my track pants and I know she can feel it through her barely there low rise sweat shorts.

  Our kisses have turned to lustful explorations of each others mouths. I almost feel like we're in a hurry to get into each other, as if the moment might pass and we change our minds. If we think about it too much we might. I take her hand and place it on the bulge between my legs. She pulls back to look at me, then smiles and kisses me while rolling over and pulling me on top of her. Oh, Jesus Christ I'm going to make love to my sister, I tell myself as if I don't already know.

  I'm on top of Morgan dry humping her through our clothes. Her legs are barely spread, but I can still feel my cock hit her pussy perfectly. She stops moving looks at me her eyes wide and covers my mouth.

  “What was that?” she whispers in my face. I shrug not understanding what she's talking about.

  “I heard something,” she says pushing me off of her. I sit up on the couch and look around, but don't see anyone.

  “It was probably one of us kicking something,” I offer wanting to get back to our make-out session.

  “Hold on,” she gets up and walks to the entrance disappearing around the corner to the door. I'm sitting on the couch wondering “what the hell” when she returns almost running to me.

  “The door was open Alex!” she whispers a little louder, her eyes wide and worried.

  “So what?” I reply in a low tone. I'm sure it's no big deal, but the blue balls I'm sitting on, are.

  “I swear I closed and locked the door when I came in,” she says still whispering. Wait, did she just say locked? My mind begins to replay the night. If I had known she locked the door it would've cast an entirely different light on the session.

  “Okay, well maybe it wasn't completely latched. Is it locked now?” I really want to resume our interlude, but feel it slipping away with every second.

  “Alex, what are we doing?” she turns to look at me. The words make my heart sink. This is the part where we reason away the love we have for each other and call it teen lust. Then shake hands and never speak again, passing each other as if strangers. Trust me, I've watched a dozen of these sappy romance movies with her over the past six months.

  “Morgan, we're doing what we've both wanted for awhile now. There's nothing wrong with love,” I want her to see I mean what I'm saying, not just trying to get down her pants.

  “You're right, but I need time to think. I guess I can't believe you love me as I love you,” she holds my gaze searching my eyes as though she may see something to disprove what I said.

  “Believe it,” I'm finally soft enough to stand up without my dick making a tent in my pants. I step to her and cup my hand under her chin, then kiss her. Our lips melt together and her body relaxes into mine. That's when we both hear the noise outside the door. It sounds like creaky wood floor, which can only mean one thing, someone's standing on it.

  We both look at each other in confusion, but know we can't stay here and continue. Morgan grabs her diary and heads for the door.

  “Night rock star,” she whispers over her shoulder. I can still see the straps of her bra hanging open under her shirt.

  I walk to her and put my hands on either side of her face tilting her head up to mine, “Sweet dreams my muse.”

  Chapter Five – Morgan's Exile

  I'm not sure what happened last night, but I know I can't wait to be alone again with my brother Alex. I wonder when I can stop calling him my brother. I mean, technically he's not, so I
guess I could stop anytime.

  I bounce down the stairs fully enjoying the day and all it may bring. Of course, I'm referring to my brother, damn, there I go again with the “B” word. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. I'm fully reminiscing about last night when my mom interrupts my thoughts.

  “Well, you're up bright and early little one,” she takes the bottle of tomato juice out of the fridge and pours a glass. The stench almost ruins the flavor of my fruity marshmallow crunchies.

  “Yep,” I reply with a sly grin. If she only knew what happened last night. I'd probably be burned with the pork in the fir pit tonight. I'm debating even writing about it in my diary. Since catching Alex, I wonder who else may unlawfully entering and browsing my room and reading my thoughts.

  “Good morning lovely ladies of the house! How's my princess?” my step dad ruffles the top of my hair then pours himself a large cup of coffee. He sips it black. I can't imagine drinking it without a ton of sugar and cream. Well, unless I had a hangover I guess.

  “Oh, good morning darling. I'm glad you're here,” my mom gives him a knowing look as she drinks her juice then looks back at me.

  “What?” I'm not liking the vibe I'm getting in here. I notice my step dad's face goes serious as I shove a heaping spoonful into my mouth.

  “Well, Grayson and I have been thinking,” she starts, which usually means she's been thinking AND deciding. “we'd like you to have a top notch education, the kind that gets you noticed by the Ivy league, so we're sending you to the best girls boarding school to finish out high school.”

  I choke on the last bite of cereal I've been nervously chewing. Did she just say boarding school? I'm coughing like a maniac trying to clear my throat and throw a few pieces onto the counter in the process.

  “Are you okay kitten?” I muster a laugh at my step dad's use of the word kitten. Is is supposed to soften the moment somehow, I wonder? No, I remember now, he uses it when I'm being asked to do something I don't want to do, like sell my horse. I refused, so he was sold while I was at school to remedy any last minute tantrums.