Chapter 1 Damian
DAMIAN
FOUR YEARS AGO
Isn’t there some kind of blended family law that says I should hate the boy who’s about to walk into my life and take half of everything that’s mine? I can barely keep my dad’s attention as it is, and now I have to share him with his new trophy fiancée and her fifteen-year-old son?
But the truth is, I can’t wait.
I’ve wanted a brother ever since I started nursery and found out that my friends had other kids at home they could play with.
To my young ears, it sounded like a dream.
What could be better than having someone around to rope into my made-up games, to raid the fridge with, and who’d still be there whenever Dad was away with work?
It’d be like a big, never-ending sleepover.
And now, I’m finally getting a brother of my own. Sure, I’m nearly sixteen, but it’s better late than never.
I have our day all planned out. I’ve spent the morning dragging my old football net into the middle of Dad’s immaculate lawn.
I’ve repaired the basketball hoop that’s been rusting on our garage for years.
And I’ve even got the rugby highlights on standby in the den.
You know, in case it rains. British summers and all.
I’m ready hours before my new stepfamily is due to arrive, and by the time my dad’s fiancée rounds the driveway in her beat-up old banger, I’m practically bouncing out of the new trainers I ordered especially for this occasion.
“Remember, Damian,” my dad says, his hand firm on my shoulder. “Leah is very important to me. She and Kit might be different from us, but I want you to do everything you can to make them feel welcome. Do you understand?”
I nod solemnly. “I understand, Dad.” And I mean it. There’s no way I’m going to mess this up. I’ve spent days making sure that every detail is perfect.
Activities? Check.
Burgers ready for lunch? Check.
Snacks? Check.
Drinks?
“Crap, do you think I bought enough lemonade for us all? What if Leah wants some, too?”
My dad chuckles throatily, brushing his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair one last time. “I have something better than pop for Leah, son.”
Ah, he must mean the bottle of champagne I spotted chilling in our fridge.
“The wine cooler’s in the pantry,” I whisper hurriedly just as the bright red rust-mobile judders to a halt in front of us.
“And there’s fresh ice in the machine.” Unfortunately, Dad never hears my last important message, since the driver’s door flies open with a metallic shriek that echoes across our house’s vast exterior.
My first impression of the woman unfolding herself from the hazardous car is that she’s nothing like my absconded mother.
My shiny new stepmum is… well, shining. Every inch of her gleams, from her bottle-blonde ringlets, crisp with hairspray, to her gaudy silver jewellery and patent leather boots.
How she drove in those stilettos is anyone’s guess.
But what she might lack in class, she makes up for with the beaming smile plastered across her youthful face.
“Lucien!” she shrieks, tottering up the path at astonishing speed.
She flings her arms around my father and rocks him excitedly from side to side.
Dad starts to voice his own, less exuberant greeting, only to be cut off when the slight woman casts him aside and pounces on me instead.
“And you must be Damian. Luci has told me so much about you.”
My eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. Luci? I don’t think I’ve ever heard Dad called anything other than Mr Hansel before. Except for when Mum was around, of course. She called him Wanker.
I glance at Dad to gauge his reaction to the sickly-sweet nickname, but it doesn’t seem to have registered with him, which isn’t surprising.
At this point, I don’t think he’d notice anything at all unless it happened to dance across Leah Gretel’s behind.
Looks like it’s down to me to play the role of a civilised gentleman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gretel,” I say, stepping out of her hold and offering my hand the way Dad taught me.
“Oh, such a polite young man,” she giggles, catching me with one of her red talons as she slides her cold palm into mine. “Call me Leah. I just know you and my Kit will be the best of friends. Perhaps you can teach him some of those nice manners.”
Then, at the expense of my eardrums, Leah sucks in a steady breath, mulls it around in her lungs, and then lets it loose across the drive. “Kit!” she shouts, loud enough to scare the pigeons from the trees. “Kit, get your arse over here and say hello to Luci and his boy.”
Holy shit, this is it. I bite my lip, cross my fingers, and pray to whatever god deals with blending families that this is going to be okay.
Please don’t be a dick, please don’t be a dick, please don’t be a dick.
There’s a shuffle behind the car, followed by a flurry of gravel that skates across the drive to herald the reveal of my new brother.
At first, the similarities between Kit and his mother are almost freaky.
He’s like a miniature version of the brash woman, so much so that I steel myself in case he likes to shout, too.
But then, as Kit gets closer, the resemblance starts to feel almost…
manufactured. Yes, Kit and Leah share the same slim build and petite frame, but while Leah’s hair is parched with bleach, Kit’s is all-natural, a soft halo of white that accentuates his pale face.
And, unlike his mum’s flashing blue eyes, his are cold, glistening like ice as they dart nervously around his new surroundings and the strange family awaiting him.
Kit’s wearing stonewashed jeans, the material intentionally ripped at the knees and hanging baggy on his hips.
His skintight, white T-shirt matches his hair so perfectly that even our talented housekeeper would struggle to get the grass stains out if we dared to play football.
Suddenly, I’m questioning my carefully constructed plans for this afternoon.
“Behave yourself,” Leah hisses at Kit, grabbing him by his wrist and propelling him towards my dad before he has the chance to ready himself. “Lucien, this is my Kit.”
My dad’s cool, grey eyes scan the length of my stumbling stepbrother, quickly landing on the small strip of skin peeking out from beneath his snug T-shirt.
“Hi, Mr Hansel,” Kit mumbles to the ground.
He buries his hands deep into his pockets and rocks nervously in his faded Converse.
If I listen closely, I’m sure I can hear my father’s staunch disapproval at the display, so much so that I’m about a nanosecond away from snatching Kit out of the firing line when Dad shocks me, yet again, by pasting on a terrifyingly friendly smile.
“Kit, I’ve been waiting so long to meet you. Your mum’s been showing me videos of your dance performances for weeks. I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity.”
Wow. Dad must really like Leah.
“I know this might be a bit overwhelming,” Dad says softly. “But I’d like you to make yourself at home. Damian here has been itching to give you the grand tour for days.”
I jump at my cue and wave enthusiastically… probably a bit too enthusiastically, if I’m being honest.
“Um, okay,” Kit replies. He looks between us warily, and I don’t blame him. We’re all acting like a bunch of weirdos.
Especially me.
Why am I still waving?
“You heard Luci,” Leah trills. “Get going.” It’s lucky I’m a good catch because she shoves her son in my direction so forcefully that I only just catch him before he faceplants the gravel.
“Take Kit round the back to the garden,” my dad says, his eyes glued to the woman on his arm. They ascend the steps like a couple of limpets, stuck together so tightly I’m not sure how they fit through the front door before it slams shut behind them.
“What the actual fuck,” Kit mutters. I doubt I’m meant to hear the sentiment, but I can’t help it since he’s still slumped against me. Carefully, I set him up straight. Then, when I’m sure he won’t topple over again, I let him go and flash my brightest smile.
“So, I’m Damian, in case that wasn’t obvious,” I joke, thrusting my hand into the space between us. Tentatively, Kit extends his own. His grip isn’t firm or confident; in fact, the move that follows barely constitutes a shake, but that doesn’t matter. We can work on it.
“Come on, it’s this way,” I say, tugging on his hand and dragging him through the side gate into our garden.
It’s time to get to know my new stepbrother. He might be a boy of few words, but I have a feeling that’ll change soon enough. Once I get him talking, I just know we’ll be the best of friends.
I’ll make sure of it.
“So, you don’t like football? Like… at all?” I ask incredulously, swinging on my desk chair. We had to abandon the garden tour when Kit’s skin started to turn pink in the sun.
“No, I don’t really understand the rules,” Kit says apologetically, kicking his legs back and forth over the edge of my king-sized bed.
“That’s okay,” I reassure him. “The rules are pretty lame anyway.”
They’re not, but I don’t want my new little brother feeling bad about something as stupid as football.
It turns out that Kit is a few months younger than me, which means I’m the older brother.
It’s my job to be the bigger person here.
And that isn’t exactly hard when I have at least four inches on him.
“What about basketball? I have a hoop. We could whack on some more suncream and play first to ten?”
“I’m not really into sport,” Kit grimaces, plucking at my navy blue duvet.
“Didn’t Dad say you danced?”
“Do you like to dance?” He perks up instantly. Kit looks so excited that I briefly consider lying, but my two left feet would give me away pretty quick.
“No. But dancing’s a sport, right?”
“I think it’s more of an art,” Kit shrugs. “Not that I’ve had official lessons or anything. Whatever I know, I’ve copied off YouTube.”
“Oh. Well, I’m crap at art anyway,” I sigh.
And so it goes on. We can’t find so much as an inch of common ground to stand upon.
We disagree on everything, from music and books to our favourite school subjects and the best pizza toppings…
I still maintain pineapples belong nowhere near a savoury meal.
Even a movie marathon would be out of the question because Kit’s beloved horrors are the stuff of my nightmares.
But I’m not giving up yet. We might be polar opposites in almost every way, but there has to be something we agree on.
I drag my fingers through my inky black hair and look around my room for inspiration. Suddenly, my eyes land on the old games console gathering dust beneath my television.
“What about video games?” I ask eagerly. “Do you play?”
“No luck there,” Kit laughs. “I’m shit at the controls. All I can do is mash the buttons.”
It’s the best news I’ve heard all day.
“Me too!”
And so began the time-honoured tradition of Kit and me sucking at video games. We called our avatar “Hansel and Gretel” (because what else would it be called?) and specialised in failing missions and dragging unsuspecting players down with us.
Our combined subpar performance had us blocked by over thirty gamers from around the world. I swear there were threads on very serious forums warning people not to accept us onto their team. And we never got any better, no matter how hard we practised.
Once our parents married, Kit transferred to my school and moved in permanently.
Gaming became the highlight of my day. We’d get home from the academy, raid whatever fancy snacks Leah had stocked in the fridge, and storm upstairs to make some poor sod cry into his headset.
That was never our intention, of course.
We tried our best, honest, we did. But we were just so bad that our nights always ended that way regardless.
Then, after ushering a sleepy Kit back to his own room, I’d burrow into whatever pillow was free from Kit’s drool, content in the knowledge that I was right all along.
Having a stepbrother is the fucking best.