2. Montana
2
Montana
W alking back to my car, I awkwardly wedge my phone between my cheek and shoulder, digging through my bag for my keys.
“So it went alright? You think you’ll like the position?” Wesley, my boyfriend, asks.
Position. The position. Which one?
“Uh, yeah,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my bag across my chest and unlocking the car door. “I think it’s going to be good for me. Really good.”
“Thank God. I was worried sick about you. I know you don’t do so well with certain people…”
Opening the door, I slide into the seat, gritting my teeth to quiet the pained hiss that escapes when I sit. Mental note: soak in the bath at the new place, and tell Wesley my period came early. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It just means I know how you are, baby. You aren’t a people pleaser. You’re brash and, quite honestly, a bit harsh sometimes. You get along with some people, but not with most.”
I laugh to myself. Maybe not in real life, but online, I’m the definition of a people pleaser, but he’ll never know that.
“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he assures. “I like those things about you.”
Like. Not love. Yes, it’s only been a few months, but Jesus, my charms have never failed me before.
“Well, rest assured, the interview went great. Hope to get a call back soon with the schedule. An advance is already on its way to my account, and I should be able to start as soon as next week,” I say, feeling my phone vibrate against my face with a message.
I check the screen, seeing Markie’s text come through.
Markie Mark: Was the dick good or what?!?!
Jesus. Leave it to Markie to be on dick patrol. It’s as if she timed it. She might have, actually.
“Love to hear it,” Wesley continues. “Having a stable job while committing to the orchestra and online classes sounds insane, but I know you can handle it.”
I can handle far more than he can even begin to imagine. That’s what happens to people who have no other options. They know no other way than to fight through life, pushing setbacks aside. But not once in Wesley Hopkins' life has he had to push through unfortunate circumstances. Not with his family name. Not with generations of wealth built up beneath him.
“Alright, Wes, I gotta run,” I interrupt, starting up the old Chevy. It groans before the engine finally revs up. “Going to meet up with Phil on the other side of town this afternoon.”
“Ahh, yes. The man who you refuse to call Dad . I almost forgot that it was today. Good luck,” he replies tenderly. “Hopefully you’ll get along, and the rooming situation pans out. I’d hate for you to have to live too far off campus this year. It would make it so much harder for us to see each other with practice starting up soon. And you know I need to see you.”
The practice he’s referring to is rugby. He’s the captain of the Titans, the championship team at Vermoitin College in the flourishing city of Montgomery, where my sperm donor enrolled me in general studies. However, my primary focus is the formal audition with the Montgomery Fine Orchestra I have coming up. The goal is to weasel my way into the selective organization and showcase my talents to the conductor in order to become the first chair cellist.
The general studies are a side effect of being near Phil. He pulled some strings to get me a head start on my future, as if he actually cares—as if I care. Wesley told me to take the opportunity—to try out college because I’ve definitely got the brains for it. What I don’t have is the drive.
I don’t want to put myself into debt just to gain a college degree I can fuck off with. I don’t want a place in Corporate America. My interests have always been a bit darker. Fitting in with the Joneses has never seemed appealing. Yet I always seem to find myself riding this fine line between the two, straddling the prospect of both when the opportunity presents itself in order to appease others. It’s why I can’t commit to tattoos.
Phil’s push for me to move back to Montgomery to be close to him and his new wife after the incident in Perrysville provided this change—a useless father, a cold dead body, a drug dependency, and a sudden arrest all got me here.
“I’ll let you know how it goes,” I say, finishing the call.
As soon as I hang up, my fingers get to work, texting Markie back.
Money Shot: Best dick of my life. Fuck. Me.
I pull up to the address, my car engine sputtering sick-sounding coughs through the rusty exhaust, barely making it to my destination as I park. Rechecking my phone to confirm I’m in the right area, I eye the three crooked black numbers on the house, noticing an absent number by the sun-stained space on the siding that highlights where it should be. I check the house next door, 2044—The one across the street, 2043. The only one missing is the house without the number. Fitting.
Small single-story homes line the block. Metal fences and overgrown weeds line each property, and a large black dog with pointy ears and a studded collar stands on the dried grass, the hair on his haunches raised, barking in my direction. This can’t be the place.
My phone vibrates in my lap .
Markie Mark: Better than Wesley?! How’s that gonna work? It worked when you were anonymous and fucking your fingers, but I thought you gave that up? Are you ever going to tell him about it? Are you ever gonna tell me why you left?
The guilt I feel is unmatched, yet this is nothing more than work for me. There is a definitive separation between my relationship and my side gig. Besides, Wesley likes me. Croix is just a man I used to get off with on camera to make some spare change. As for my online career…why I gave that up is something not even my best friend knows about. That secret lies between me and the depths of my soul, and it will remain that way until the end of time. A woman never gives up her darkest secrets.
Money Shot: Cross that bridge when I get to it. Or when I’m on my deathbed. Whichever comes first.
Markie Mark: Well, I need dick detail. Text me the goods after the sexy step-bro meet-up. So many cocks, so little time.
If I know anything about Kathy Sinclair, Phil’s new wife, it’s that she has a dweeb for a son. Our parents conveniently met at a Christian seminar while they were both in Vegas. One thing led to another that night, and they found themselves slurring out vows at some drive-through wedding chapel so they could fuck and not feel bad about it. It’s the most outlandish thing either of them have done in their adult lives, yet they are far too proud to admit that.
I desperately wish I could call my bestie and talk all things cock and balls for hours, but no. Here I am, in the middle of some suburban dump, ready to make this stranger's home my own.
As soon as I scroll to my sperm donor’s number to confirm I’m in the right hell hole, I see his car approaching mine. He parks his shiny new SUV and jogs across the street in his brown slacks and favorite tan corduroy jacket. Apparently, I can’t hide my distaste for this entire situation.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, bracing himself on my car and leaning down to talk to me through my open window. “But it’s only a few blocks from campus, and you'll be in good company here, unlike Perrysville.”
Perrysville. Not alone, like I was with my mom, who was out on benders all night or at home, living in a different drug-induced dimension. I don’t miss the intention behind his not-so-subtle jab.
“Besides, you wouldn’t want to stay with just Kathy and me. We’re old and boring.”
That’s his nice way of saying, ‘I don’t want my troublesome daughter staining my new bride with her dirtiness.’ His way of politely pawning me off on someone else while still keeping up appearances. I know how hard this move is for him. How difficult it is to accept who I am back into his squeaky clean life again, but he’s trying with the hope I’ll fix myself to appease his new wife.
“Hi to you too, Phil,” I say, forcing him to step back as I open the door and get out of the car.
He pauses his prepared speech to give me an awkward side hug.
“Sorry. Hi.” He forces a smile. “And you can call me, Dad, you know.”
My face contorts into a look of pure revulsion, and his smile quickly deteriorates.
“But seriously, you can play your cello at all hours of the day and not worry about disrupting anyone. Plus, this way, you’ll have time to genuinely connect with your new stepbrother.”
I nearly shiver in disgust at the thought.
My new stepbrother.
From what Phil has told me, Kathy’s son, Shane, is a few years older than me, misunderstood, but has a great head on his shoulders. Sure. Those two things rarely go hand in hand.
Either way, it’s going to be a challenge for me. Immediately moving in and living with this person is a cause for disaster.
“He’s a great kid. Working through some stuff, sure, but he’s a very respectable young man,” Phil continues. “I think you’ll get along just fine.”
That just tells me Phil has absolutely no idea who this man is, nor does he care.
We approach the large black dog with his cropped ears and studded collar, still barking wildly at the gate and flashing his canines at Phil as he nears the sidewalk.
“Rocco, down!” he demands, but the dog continues barking, his hackles raised between his shoulder blades and down his back. “I said, down, boy!”
Rolling my eyes, I dig inside my purse, pulling out a fresh stick of jerky. Biting the packaging open with my teeth, I spit the bitty plastic piece left in my mouth onto the concrete and drag the meaty stick along the fence in front of the rough-looking mutt. His nose immediately twitches.
“Work smarter, not harder, Phil,” I say casually, peeling back the rest of the plastic and tossing the meat stick to the far corner of the fenced-in lot.
He grunts, shaking his head, before opening the now guardless gate and allowing us in.
The screeching of rusted metal on metal pierces my ears, and then we’re walking along a broken concrete sidewalk lined with overgrown weeds.
GUARD DOG BITES—USE SIDE DOOR is plastered to the front door, printed on an old, wrinkled white paper.
“Could’ve told me he had a dog. I’m more of a fish person, myself,” I mutter, scowling at the mutt in question.
“Well, technically, it wasn’t his dog,” he says wearily, leading me around the side of the house toward the door by the garage. “Until it was.”
I peep the garage, noting two shop tables lined with various tools and car parts and an old push-lawn mower. I’m surprised to see there are also three shiny black motorcycles inside.
“Until it was…What does that mean?” I ask, continuing our conversation as I eye the bikes. They’re nice. New. Doesn’t seem like they belong here.
Clearly, Phil had certain details he didn’t want to address when he told me about this new arrangement, which was apparently sure to work out great for everyone.
“Just…c’mon,” he says, awkwardly holding the door open with one shoulder, my bag hanging on the other.
Rocco rounds the corner of the house, and I squeal, hurriedly pushing into the door past Phil.
I stumble into the kitchen, catching myself on my feet and holding tightly to the purse strap across my chest. It smells like stale beer, weed, and yesterday’s sex in here. Exactly what I would expect a house of off-campus chaos to smell like.
The kitchen is surprisingly clean, though. Aside from a few empty energy drink cans and an old take-out menu, the wooden floors have some shine to them, and there are actually a few dishes in a drying rack near the sink. But just as I’m casually gazing around the space, almost impressed it’s not a total disaster, I spot what looks like a red lace thong near the hallway.
“Hello?!” Phil calls out, quickly tossing an old burger wrapper from the counter along with a red solo cup into the trash near him.
Just as I’m about to announce how horrible of an idea this is, I nearly jump out of my shorts when Rocco bursts through a doggy door at the front of the house, burrowing his way toward the kitchen. The scrambling of his paws on the hardwood draws my attention to the living room, where a man stands, leaning casually against the frame leading to the kitchen.
My spine stiffens, and ice trickles its way through my bloodstream.
“Ah, there he is.” Phil gestures toward him.
It’s him.
The ice melts into waves of fiery heat that gather in my chest, rising up my neck and into my cheeks. Air. I need air.
“Montana, this is Shane Delacroix, Kathy’s son.”
Delirium sets in as the blood drains from my face. My pulse pounds in my head, and I can’t hear anything other than the muffled beats of my raging heartbeat. Shane Delacroix? Croix? His mother’s name is Kathy Sinclair. My body nearly collapses with my inability to stand. It’s him.
My eyes trace a line to Phil and back to Croix. I’m desperately trying to keep my cool, yet entirely unsure of the worlds crashing together around me.
The man, who I'm now introduced to as Shane, takes a step forward, wearing an entirely different outfit than the one he was in earlier. The business attire is long gone, replaced by dark-fitted jeans and an oversized white band t-shirt. A silver chain necklace dangles from his neck, and two lip rings now sit on the outer portions of his bottom lip. More tattoos line his exposed arms and he smells fresh, as if he showered again. After being covered. In me.
He gives Phil a quick nod, then holds out his hand to me.
“Melanie, was it?” he asks.
He’s wearing an easy smile. An arrogant smile. A smile that tells me the little secret between us is one he was already well aware of.
My eyes narrow and threaten to gloss over. I want to cry. I want to vomit. I want to freak the fuck out and punch this guy in the throat right here, right now, for one-upping me. But then I would be forced to explain to my father that I just had the wildest, most impure sex of my life with my new stepbrother hours before coming here. Traces of his cum are still coating my skin as I stand here between them. I had been hoping to take a bath after I settled in.
“Montana,” Phil clarifies, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Montana,” I reply sharply.
“Ah, that’s right,” Shane says quickly, his hand retreating. “So sorry about that.”
Nothing about his tone is apologetic. This energy in this house is chaotic. It’s the buildup to a storm; the thickness, the electricity, the maddening rage…
“I’ve told Shane about your classes and orchestra, so he and the guys know not to be too crazy, and to be on their best behavior ,” Phil says, emphasizing the last two words.
Shane cocks his uniquely shaved brow, a lazy grin on his face that insinuates he will do no such thing.
“Guys?” I turn to face Phil behind me. “What are you talking about? Guys?”
He swallows thickly. “Well, this house is kind of owned by Shane’s friend, Cade Wheeter. But they all stay here, so…”
Owned by his friend?! So now I’m truly cashing in on a stranger’s home. This is so fucked. Phil is so lost in this new pussy, this dream of a new life, he can’t even think straight.
And honestly, I don’t know what’s worse at this point. Living with my mother, who loved me the only way she knew how, despite her addictions preventing her from being the parent she wished to be, or living with Phil, the man who has his goals in check, so much so that he often forgets he even has a daughter.
“I don’t know.” I rub my throbbing temples with my fingers. “I don’t think this is the best idea.”
“Well, he and their other friend live here as well. The place may look small, but it has four bedrooms. Plenty of space.”
Phil moves to my side, pointing down each hallway where I assume there are two bedrooms at each end of the house. I can tell he’ll do anything and everything to convince me this is the best idea. There’s no place for me in his home. Arguing will get me nowhere.
Shane won’t take his eyes off me, looking like a starved lion that just had a thick-ass zebra dropped into his pen. He won’t even blink. His half-lidded gaze peers down at me with some sort of unresolved spite as Phil continues talking to himself. My mouth becomes his focus, his eyes lingering for a half beat before ever so slowly trailing the length of my body.
My insides quiver with remembrance.
“And while I did forget they had a dog now, I thought I remembered you liked animals. Right Mon?” he adds.
My attention falls back on Rocco, who’s drinking water in the kitchen, sloshing the liquid all over the floor.
“No,” I say, reverting my glare back to Shane. “I hate dogs. They’re disgusting, needy fleabags with peas for brains.”
Shane leans casually against that frame again, crossing his arms over his chest as his eerie glare sets in.
“Makes sense,” he says beneath his breath. “It’s hard to like the things that hate us. It’s all about the energy you give off. Yours reeks of self-absorbed brat. Even the dog can sense that.”
I open my mouth to retort, but he quickly interrupts. “I saw the face you made outside,” he says. “Place a bit beneath you?”
Stupidly assuming we’re getting along, Phil bustles around behind us, loading up the dishwasher with sporadic dishes he finds around the kitchen to let us talk without him overhearing.
“Quit pretending you're something special, trash rat. You belong in the gutter with the rest of us,” Shane continues. “And don’t even think about feeding Rocco that crap again. His stomach can’t handle your overprocessed bullshit.”
The gutter? Fucking me on camera has placed me in the gutter, apparently. Funny how the man I met at the audition is a far cry from this insensitive dick before me. And overprocessed? The dude’s skin is leaking nicotine.
I take a step forward, my frustration overflowing. “Well, maybe you should keep that mutt on a fucking leash,” I retort, louder than I’d planned. I’m losing my cool.
“Hey now, Rocco’s not all that bad. He’s just a little protective of his people, aren’t ya, boy?” Phil says, moving to rub Rocco’s side.
Shane takes a step toward me, leveling our faces. “Maybe we should keep you on a fucking leash,” he whispers, then glances back at my dad before straightening again. “Huh, Monty?”
My blood chills with the sharpness of his tone. Seems like he’d do it, too.
Done petting the wild animal, Phil stands, dusting his hands off on his pants, oblivious to the standoff between Shane and me.
“I asked Shane if he would show you to your room so you can unpack and start getting comfortable,” he says with a smile, already heading toward the door we came in. “Give you guys some time to get to know each other before we all get together for dinner Monday night?”
My eyes line with worry. He’s really just gonna leave me here? With this guy? The guy that I just unknowingly let fuck me relentlessly on camera. The guy that clearly has it out for his new stepsister for reasons unknown.
“Don’t worry, honey. I already told Shane about your boyfriend, Joshua, was it? And the fact that he’ll probably be over later tonight. It’s not a big deal to these guys. They have house guests, too.”
Shane resumes his position against the doorframe, still gazing at me, looking bored as ever, while I brush off the fact that Phil called Wesley Joshua.
“I gathered.” My face contorts with disgust when I glance over at the red panties lying on the floor.
“Where are the other guys, Shane?” Phil asks.
He tips his head toward one wing of the house. “Playing Vicon Cross.”
I turn to see if Phil has any idea what he’s talking about, but when I look, his brows are knit together, and he’s slowly nodding. Yeah, no idea.
“They’re gamers. You won’t see them much,” Shane explains, running his palm across the back of his neck.
Knew it. Someone had to be in here beating their meat. This place reeks of excess semen, cigarettes, weed, and stale pizza.
“Alright, Mon, I’m heading out. Kathy and I have a dinner date set up, and your old man needs to shower.” He pushes through the screen door, smiling amicably as if he’s happy to have checked this little project off his to-do list. “I’ll grab your cello from the car.”
My shoulders sag, and a frustrated mumble slips from my lips.
Phil returns with the oversized case, setting it near the door, then departs as quickly as he came. And I’m left standing alone in this house with a man I know nothing about yet can still recall the taste of.
I turn to face him, and the slowest, most haunting grin slides across his perfectly structured face as he watches Phil’s car drive down the street. Rocco comes up and sniffs my leg, pausing as his eyes find mine, assessing this new stranger in his home again. A glob of drool and water stains my calf as he lets out a quiet grunt before walking away toward the living room. My gaze shifts back to Shane, and my face floods with heat.
His face screams my inconvenient truths—lies, deception, ruthlessness.
“Liars and thieves between us,” he says.
I work to assess his statement. If you only knew.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask, bitterness in my tone seeping through.
He simply blinks his dark lashes once, slow and uncaring.
“The company. The audition. The fake pay that’s supposed to hit my account by tonight?! My time was completely wasted, and for what? Nothing.” My rage continues to simmer. “Why?!” I yell, unable to hold it in. “You tricked me! Assaulted me! What is it you want?”
He rushes forward, startling me enough that I trip over my own feet. His hard body presses me firmly into the kitchen wall behind me, and his palm covers my mouth. My eyes widen with fear, and a panicked cry leaves my throat.
Blinking once more, his lip twitches and he appears to calm himself from doing whatever he initially wanted to. My pulse lashes wildly in my neck.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” he says. “Accusing me of assault is entirely irrelevant when I have video evidence of you crying from your thighs for it. Green light, remember? You gave me the go-ahead, and consent is a beautiful thing.”
His expression is a warning, ensuring my silence as he slowly and carefully peels his hand from my mouth, allowing his fingers to caress my lips as he does. The act makes me want to vomit. The anger, the rage, the buildup of shame I’m feeling begs to release onto him.
“And leverage,” he adds.
“What?”
“You want to be a sex worker?” He tilts his head to the side, not backing away from our closeness.
I swallow thickly, realizing the power he now has over me. My secrets. He has them. But which ones?
“Does Daddy know his little princess likes jewels up her ass when she gets fucked?”
My back teeth grind together as I work to restrain myself, recalling all of what we did. The echoes of everything he had me begging for by the end ring in my head. Fuck, the power he has now…
Shane peers up at the ceiling, grinning, and I study that decrepit moth on his neck again, the eyes bleeding down his throat. “Or better yet,” he continues, his focus back on me. “Does Wesley or his dear old dad, Chief Conductor Hopkins, know the auditioning cellist in the Montgomery Fine Orchestra has a real fetish for having all her holes used and ran through on camera?”
That chill of terror grips me again, tension tightening my shoulders. How does he know about Wesley and Conductor Hopkins? This leverage he speaks of is like a boulder running over me. This guy knows the dark parts of me, and now he has video proof, affording him the opportunity to ruin me when and if he sees fit. I have to play his game, and I have to play it right.
“Leverage for what?” I question, keeping my cool. “What would a low-level piece of shit like you need to harass a promising young academic for?”
A humored grunt crawls up his throat, his mouth curling at the corners, stretching the piercings. “You’re gonna make me a lot of money, sis ,” he hums.
A needle-prick sensation slithers along my neck and shoulders, running down my spine at his statement.
“Sextortion? That’s your leverage?” I reply coolly. A tone that doesn't at all match my insides. “How very manly of you to use sex against a woman.”
His hand comes up again, and I flinch. Cocking his thumb like a gun, he places his pointer and middle finger at the center of my forehead and clicks his tongue, pretending to shoot me in the head. Then his maddening grin returns, and a light chuckle leaves his throat. I stand still as ever as he trails those fingers down my nose, giving that a little pinch.
“Doesn’t need to be, sweetheart.” He smiles sweetly. “We can tell him together what you’ve done. Call up Mom and Daddy Dearest before their big date, or wait until Wesley finishes getting topped off by his roommate. It can all be over tonight. Admit the truth about who you are, a gutter rat whore, and we can settle this. Quick and easy.” He shrugs.
I knew I was taking a risk by putting myself out there, but I’d hoped my real life and online persona would never collide. Not yet, anyway.
“Or,” he continues, “You can earn me all my fucking money back by doing as I demand.”
So that’s what it is.
“I’m not becoming the pawn for your idiotic money mishaps. What’d you do? Lose a bet to a mafia don?” I scoff. “Your inability to function as a sustainable adult is not my fucking problem. Call Mommy for that, or be a big boy and take the ass-whooping you deserve.”
I turn to leave the conversation, but an arm slamming against the wall stops me. Peering at it, my gaze trails to a vein protruding from his neck before meeting his threatening stare.
“You’ll do as I say if you don’t want your little boyfriend to hear his girl beg for cock in her ass on her knees like a desperate slut. You fucking owe me.”
Owe him?
“Trust me, I was surprised as ever to find out my new sweet little sister was willing to take things a step further and sell that forbidden fruit,” he continues, his eyes trailing my body again before he licks his full lips.
My chest tightens, and the need to breathe becomes a full-on task.
“The best part is you don’t even know what you’ve done,” he whispers, his face more serious than I’ve seen it. Running one hand down along the side of my head, he softly pets my hair. “No idea who you’ve brought to life. But you’re sure as shit gonna fix it.”
His eyes hold a familiar, deathly look to them—a complete lack of humanity.
My brows lower as a million thoughts race through my brain. Before I can respond, Shane pushes himself off the wall and walks away from me, heading down the left hall as if he’s already bored with my lack of pushback. I stand there momentarily with my bags, my legs practically jelly, unsure if I should follow him or not.
I reluctantly decide to, screaming internally when I realize his bedroom is conveniently adjacent to the one he’s pointing at.
“Sharing the wing with my new stepbrother. How remarkably kind.” I approach my designated door. “Just look at us, getting along so well. Our parents would be so proud,” I continue, my expression vacant as I throw my bag onto the bedroom floor with a thud.
He leans his head back against the doorframe of his room. “Not the first thing we’ve shared.”
I scoff in disgust, pushing my way into the room and slamming the door on him, his stupid words, and this stupid-ass day. It’s time I reevaluate how I’m going to proceed with my plans if I have any hope of making them work.
“Or the last, sis ,” he promises through the pale wood before sending a fist against it, making me jump.