Trick of the Flesh

Chapter 1

ONE

CALEB

I always forget how small this house feels until I’m standing inside it again.

College campus air feels wide, filled with noise and anonymity, but here—here every creak of the wood floors, every shift of the walls feels like they’re leaning in on me, pressing me into a version of myself I thought I left behind when I moved out.

The entryway smells like sickly sweet pumpkin spice candles and… weed?

Shit.

Dad must’ve gone all in on the Halloween theme this year, and—yeah.

There it is. A fake cobweb stretches across the banister, and plastic bats dangle from the ceiling.

A bowl of candy sits by the door, overflowing with neon wrappers for the trick-or-treaters.

Somewhere deeper in the house, I hear music—the kind of classic rock Dad insists is “party music.”

I drop my duffel by the door and take a deep breath.

It’s just the weekend, I remind myself. Just a couple of days of humoring Dad and my stepmom with their annual Halloween blowout. Smile, eat too many chips, drink just enough beer to feel loose, then go back to school and forget about all of this until Christmas.

Easy.

Except it’s not. Because he’s here.

Miguel Veracruz. My older stepbrother.

I don’t see him at first, but I feel him, like the way the air changes when a storm rolls in.

There’s a weight, a static, a heat that prickles the back of my neck.

I walk into the living room and there he is, sprawled across the couch like he owns the place.

Smoke curls from the joint between his fingers, his tattooed forearm resting across the back of the cushions.

He’s got on a black band shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, ink crawling down his tan arms like vines. His jeans hang low on his hips, one knee bent, his body loose but coiled at the same time. A wolf pretending to nap in the sun but ready to rip your throat out the second you get too close.

Our eyes meet for half a second and my stomach clenches. I look away fast, like the heat of him burned me.

“Caleb!” Dad’s voice booms from the kitchen. “You’re here!”

Saved by the bell.

I force myself to smile and turn toward the sound. He’s already crossing the tile, his arms wide, and I let myself get swallowed in a bear hug that smells like aftershave and barbecue sauce.

“Hey, Dad,” I mumble into his shoulder.

He pulls back, grinning. “You made good time. Traffic wasn’t bad?”

“Nah, it wasn’t bad at all.” I glance past him, trying to see if my stepmom is around, but my eyes flick back to the couch before I can stop them.

Miguel hasn’t moved. He’s watching me, lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer. He takes another drag of his joint, then blows the smoke slowly, like he knows I can’t look away.

My face heats up. I wrench my gaze back to Dad.

“Miggy, take it outside.” Then he turns his attention back to me. “Glad you’re here, son. We’ve got a lot to do before everyone shows up tonight,” he says, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Your stepmom’s been going nuts with decorations. Could use your help with setup.”

“Sure.” My voice comes out tighter than I want.

As I follow Dad, I tell myself not to glance back again. I fail.

Miguel’s still watching.

The kitchen looks like a Pinterest board vomited Halloween spirit all over it.

There are cauldrons, pumpkin bowls, and a tower of cupcakes iced in black and orange.

A pot of chili simmers on the stove, filling the air with spice.

And over all of it, Celeste—my stepmom—buzzes like she’s running a catering business instead of a house party.

“Caleb!” she cries, sweeping over with a dishtowel still in her hand. She kisses my cheek like I’m not an awkward twenty-two-year-old trying to dodge motherly affection. “Oh, mijo, look at you. Are you even eating at school? You look thin?”

“Yeah, Ma. Just been working hard on the court, you know.”

“Mmm, I don’t like it. We’ll talk about this more tomorrow morning. You’ll help me hang the cobwebs in the dining room,” she says, not even phrasing it as a question. “Miggy was supposed to do it, but he’s useless with decorations.”

I swallow, throat dry. “Yeah, I can do that.”

She smiles brightly and flutters back to her chili.

Dad claps me on the back. “See? You’re already useful.”

I force another smile, but inside I’m screaming.

Because of course, Miguel was supposed to help. Of course he pawned it off on me. That’s how it always is. He never lifts a finger unless it’s something he wants to do. And no one makes him.

Why would they?

He’s magnetic. Everyone is drawn to him.

Except me. I try not to be.

The dining room is half-dark, lit by a single lamp with a red bulb that makes the walls look like they’re bleeding. I tug at the stretchy cobwebs, trying to spread them across the corners without tangling them into useless knots.

Behind me, the floor creaks.

My skin goes tight.

“Thought you could sneak past me, little brat?”

His voice is smoke and gravel. I freeze, heart kicking hard against my ribs.

“I’m not sneaking,” I say, too quickly. Too defensive.

Miguel steps into the room. The red light paints shadows across his face, making his eyes gleam darker. He moves closer, each step more calculated. The smell of marijuana smoke clings to him, sharp and intoxicating.

I could get high off him being this close.

I look away, focusing hard on the cobweb in my hands. “Shouldn’t you be helping in the kitchen or something?”

He chuckles, low. “I am helping. Keeping you company.”

“I don’t need company.”

“Yeah, you do.” He’s closer now. I can feel him behind me, the heat of his body radiating across the small distance. His voice dips lower, rougher. “You better run tonight, pretty boy. Because if I catch you, your big brother’s gonna wreck that sweet little hole you’ve got. ”

The words hit me like a slap. My body reacts before my brain does—heat flooding my cheeks, my chest, and my groin.

I spin around, heart pounding. “You—” My voice cracks. “You can’t say shit like that, Miggy.”

Miguel smirks, slow and wolfish, tilting his head. “Can’t? I just did.”

I back up until the wall presses against my shoulder blades. “We’re—we’re brothers.” The word tastes sour and flimsy in my mouth.

“Stepbrothers,” he corrects, his grin widening. “Don’t get it twisted, Caleb. I’m not blood. I’m not family. Not in the ways that matter to the rest of the world.”

My pulse hammers. My skin feels too tight. I can’t breathe.

“You think I don’t see it?” Miguel asks, voice soft now, deadly. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention? You think I don’t know how bad you want it?”

“I don’t.” The denial comes too fast. Too desperate.

He laughs, dark and low, stepping back finally, giving me room to breathe. But his eyes stay locked on mine, pinning me in place even from a distance.

“Keep telling yourself that, little brat,” he murmurs. “Tonight’s gonna tell the truth.”

Then he turns, casual as ever, and strolls out of the room, the scent of him left in his wake. Earthiness from the weed, sandalwood, and citrus.

I’ve missed it.

I stand there, chest heaving, cobwebs tangled in my hands, my whole body trembling.

He’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

But the heat coiling in my stomach says otherwise.

I try to shake it off and focus on the cobwebs in my hands, but my fingers won’t stop trembling. The stretchy material bunches up into knots. I want to curse. I want to throw it down and storm back to the kitchen and pretend none of this happened.

Instead, I stand frozen, Miguel’s voice replaying in my head, that filthy promise curling around my ribs like smoke: Run tonight, pretty boy…

I shove the cobweb against the wall corner, force it to stick, and back away like I’ve accomplished something. My throat is dry, my palms damp. The party hasn’t even started yet and I already want to crawl back to my dorm and slam the door shut.

Just so I can avoid the one person who makes me feel… something.

The rest of the afternoon is spent on errands Celeste keeps tossing at me.

Hang this. Move that. Carry in a case of beer from the garage.

She chatters the whole time about how fun tonight will be—neighbors, Dad’s coworkers, and some of Miguel’s friends.

“We want the whole house alive, Caleb. Halloween only comes once a year.”

I nod and smile when I’m supposed to.

Every time I pass through the living room, Miguel is there.

Always there. Sometimes with a fresh blunt, sometimes scrolling through his phone, sometimes just sprawled across the couch with his arm thrown over the back like a throne, the TV with hockey highlights going.

He doesn’t even pretend to help. He just watches me, lazy and sharp all at once, like he’s cataloguing every move I make.

I hate how aware I am of him.

I hate the way my body reacts when his gaze lingers too long.

And I hate myself most of all for wanting him to look.

At one point, Dad sends me outside to string orange lights across the porch. The air is cool, the leaves crisp beneath my sneakers as I move about. I should feel better out here, away from the suffocating gaze of Miguel’s eyes, but I don’t. Because I know he could step outside at any moment.

He doesn’t.

But I imagine it anyway—him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, blunt glowing in the dusk. Watching me.

Smirking.

Waiting for me to crack.

By the time the sun dips low, the house glows in orange and purple, music thumping from the speakers Dad set up in the living room.

Bowls of chips and candy are out, and drinks are lined up on the counter.

Guests will be arriving soon, and Celeste has gone upstairs to change into her witch costume.

Dad’s already half in one—he bought a ridiculous Dracula cape he insists on swishing every time he passes me.

“Relax, son,” he says when he catches me fidgeting with a plastic skeleton on the mantle. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, and maybe get Miggy to share some of the endless pot he seems to have. Relax.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Relax…right.”

Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have Miguel lurking like a shadow, waiting to pounce.

I go upstairs to drop my bag in the guest room and change out of my travel clothes. Jersey, my favorite jeans; something comfortable and low effort. I catch myself in the mirror and pause.

I look… fine. Average. Nothing worth staring at.

Not like Miguel.

He’s taller and broader, with ink spread over tan skin in patterns I never let myself study too long. His jaw is sharp, and his mouth is always curled in that perpetual smirk that makes me want to both punch him and kiss him.

He’s fire and smoke, and I’m just… nothing.

“He’d never want me anyway,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. My face flushes. “And he’s my brother. I can’t.”

The words sound hollow even as I say them.

When I come back down, the first wave of guests are trickling in. The living room fills with chatter and laughter, bowls of chips crinkling as hands grab fistfuls. Dad is playing host, booming with energy. Celeste floats around with a tray of drinks.

And Miguel—of course—has changed too.

He’s ditched the black band shirt for a tighter one, plain black and short-sleeved, with his tattoos more visible.

A silver chain hangs at his throat. His hair is pushed back, slick at the top, but the back is a short ponytail, an attempt to tame his curls.

On his head is a black mask, neon blue X’s for the eyes and stitching for the smile.

He’s still smoking, even though Celeste keeps swatting at him and telling him to “take it outside.” He ignores her.

He looks like sin personified.

I hate how my stomach flips when his eyes meet mine from across the room.

The night stretches. People laugh, music swells, and I do my best to stay busy—refilling bowls, fetching drinks, cleaning up stray wrappers—anything to avoid standing still long enough for Miguel to corner me again.

But I feel him.

He’s always on the edge of my vision, lounging against doorframes, leaning against the counter, always watching me.

Taunting me.

At one point, he cuts across the kitchen, brushing past me close enough that our shoulders touch. His mouth dips near my ear as he passes.

“Tick, tock,” he murmurs.

I shiver so hard I nearly drop the plastic cup in my hand.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That I’m paranoid. That Miguel isn’t serious.

But the heat in his eyes, the promise in his voice—no.

He’s deadly serious.

By the time the party hits full swing, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve caught myself glancing toward the living room, toward the couch where Miguel sprawls like a wolf at the edge of the firelight.

His friends surround him now—loud, rough, the kind of guys who drink hard and laugh harder.

He leans back, bottle of beer in his hand, gaze cutting through the chaos straight to me.

Like a wolf watching the herd.

Like he’s waiting for the moment I stray too far.

I look away fast, my chest tight.

It’s just a game, I tell myself. He’s just messing with me, like he always has.

Except it doesn’t feel like a game anymore.

It feels like a hunt.

And I’m his prey.

By the time I sneak away to the kitchen for a breath of air, my hands are shaking. I lean against the counter, trying to steady myself.

Just the weekend. I just have to survive the weekend.

But Miguel’s voice curls through my head again, dark and certain: You better run tonight, pretty boy. Because if I catch you…

My body responds with a rush of heat, shame burning behind my ribs.

Fuck, there’s something wrong with me.

I press my palms to the counter and bow my head.

God help me.

I want him to catch me.