Chapter 3 #2
“I hate letting you down. With your father, I was never able to—” She shakes her head rapidly.
Thank fuck she doesn’t continue that sentence.
Anything involving my father is better left unsaid.
Her hand covers mine and she squeezes, surprising us both.
I’m not sure what to do. She lets go quickly and sniffs. “Let me talk to George.”
As she’s saying this, a creak from the old kitchen door is the only warning we get.
“Talk to George about what?” Jonah’s voice is full of barely controlled rage. He fills the doorway, puffed up like one of George’s roosters and holding Maisy’s hand as she peeks out from behind him.
I absolutely cannot deal with Jonah and his attitude right now. “Everything’s fine, Jonah. No one needs protecting.” I stand, readying myself, already knowing he won’t back down. “You can go.” Maybe putting St. Jonah in his place will make me feel better.
“Mommy sad?” Maisy asks Jonah. Her eyes are huge in her sweet baby face.
Mom sniffles and then the fwiip fwiip tells me she’s aggressively grabbing tissues. “Mommy’s fine, sweetie.”
I don’t dare take my eyes off my stepbrother as Maisy runs past me to get to Mom. “This isn’t something you need to fix.” I make a shooing motion.
He glares as if I’ve set out to personally ruin his day. “I wasn’t talking to you, Vivian.”
Adrenaline surges through me as I imagine taking him down a notch or two. He’s taller by a few inches and much bigger than I am. But he’s also a good guy—sickeningly so—and I don’t intend to play fair.
He steps closer, but I don’t—can’t—back down. His face is tight as if he’s barely holding himself back, and when he crosses his arms, his stupid biceps bulge in response like he’s arming himself. “Ask George what?”
“Last time I checked, your name isn’t George. This has nothing to do with you.”
“If it involves my dad, it involves me.”
I tsk. “Put your muscles away, Jonah.” The need to push him, to break him, builds like a fast-rising tide. Inevitable. Overwhelming. I paste on my fakest smile. “It’s nothing, dear brother.”
His eyes narrow and the tension in the room rises to alarming levels. “Carolynda is crying.” His voice is harsh and so low that only I can hear. The country twang he tries so hard to erase is more pronounced. “You upset your mother.”
“I didn’t—” I stop. What am I doing? “I don’t owe you an explanation.” Using my shoulder, I shove him out of the way as I storm from the room. Getting into a fight with Jonah will end badly for me. I’m not the favorite son.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear his heavy steps behind me.
Stomping. This farmhouse was built in the sixties by Jonah’s grandfather, at least according to George.
What if Jonah’s foot goes through the wooden steps?
What if he gets stuck? I can easily picture it—Jonah cussing as he struggles to get free.
It releases a bit of that storm inside of me. I can almost breathe.
“Hey, asshole,” he yells, closer than I expect.
I grab the handle of my door, desperate to escape. It’s not Jonah I’m afraid of. It’s this need to confront him. To scream at him. To satisfy this yearning—but what am I yearning for? Grabbing him and—then what? Shaking him?
“Vivian,” he says in a tight voice as he grabs my arm and jerks me around. As if I weigh nothing. “Stop ignoring me.”
He’s entirely too close. The heat of his body. The scent of warm vanilla, which shouldn’t be enticing at all. He’s two inches taller than me, so I have to look up, and I hate it. Note to self: next time, get the gorgeous Louboutins with the four-inch heels.
“What did you do?” The words are a harsh whisper against my cheek. His eyes flash with emotion too complicated to understand. Anger. And something else. His fingers tighten on my bicep.
My body shakes with the effort of controlling my emotions. “Stop being dramatic, Jonah.”
He scoffs. “I’m being dramatic?”
“You’re the one stomping up the stairs and manhandling me.”
Something flashes across his face, but it’s gone before I can identify it. His jaw tightens as he seems to chew on the words he wants to say. “Your mom has been under a lot of stress lately.”
Not sure those are the words he meant to say, but if his intent was to piss me off, they do the job. “How would you know? You’re never here.” I place my hands on his chest and push. Except, he doesn’t budge. My blood burns through my body like hot lava, ready to explode.
“This is so typical,” he says, his usual good looks twisted in anger
What the hell does that mean? Doesn’t matter. I’m done. “Okay. Good talk.”
He growls as he crowds me against the doorframe. My hands, still on his chest, are captured between us. His pecs are firm, and I can feel the beating of his heart. My fingers flex against my will as he leans closer. “Why is everything always about you, Vivian? Always.”
Breathing is difficult. He’s too close. Is that desperation or anger in his voice?
Or is the lack of oxygen making it difficult to think?
“You’re the one up in my business.” It comes out breathier than I’d like, but I can’t stop the words.
“Why do you have to know everything going on in my life, Jonah?”
He sucks in a breath, and something flashes in his eyes. Panic? But I can’t stop to analyze it. It’s like the game I used to play with Frankie. Mortal Kombat. Finish him.
“I could say the same about you.”
The passion in his eyes, his breath on my face, the firm muscles under my hands, confuse my body into thinking this is something it’s not. I need to push him away. And words are the only weapon I have. “I can assure you, brother, when you’re gone, I barely think about you.”
His eyes darken and satisfaction runs through me. Direct hit.
I give in to my need for oxygen and take a deep breath. I instantly regret it as the scent of warm vanilla and clean sweat hits me. Oh God.
He slams a hand against the wall and pins me in place against the doorframe.
I jerk my head toward the sound. His arm is close and the sleeveless T-shirt he’s wearing reveals his dark armpit hair.
The scent of his sweat is intoxicating, and my legs threaten to give out.
I lean back against the doorframe. Jonah’s body is the only thing holding me up.
“You don’t think about me?” His words are a whisper against my neck. “I don’t believe you.”
My body is alive. On fire. This is what I wanted, right? To confront him. To show him he’s not in charge. But this feels more like surrendering. Something I would never do.
I shift my feet to regain my footing and his leg juts between mine as if it belongs there. His thigh presses against my now throbbing cock and I bite back a moan. Don’t hump his leg, Vivian. Have a little self-respect.
“Vivian,” he says, his voice sounding rough. “I—”
“Jonah?” George’s voice cuts through the lust-filled haze. He sounds close. Is he standing at the bottom of the stairs?
Jonah jerks away from me. “Be right there, Dad.”
He swallows hard, and then his eyes meet mine. “Whatever’s going on needs to stop.” Then he turns and rushes down the stairs. “Hey, Dad. Good to see you.”
As their voices fade, I slump against the doorframe, my heart still pounding. My body is shaking. The adrenaline rushing through me has nowhere to go.
I enter my room in a daze, leaving the lights off as I lock the door. Throwing myself on the bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to ignore the pounding of my heart and the insistent throbbing of my cock.
What the actual fuck?
This reaction isn’t because of Jonah. It can’t be. I hate him. But it’s understandable that my body forgets that. Jonah has so many muscles. And sure, he’s attractive if you’re into boy-next-door-who-turns-into-a-beast-when-challenged.
I’m not into that. And I refuse to give in to my body’s demand that I jerk off to thoughts of my stepbrother. That’s a line I will not cross.
When the ache becomes unbearable, I adjust myself. Pleasure zips through me. A need so intense I can’t ignore it.
Jonah touching me with his rough hands. One gripping the back of my neck. The other squeezing my cock.
A sob escapes me. No. Not Jonah. Not my stepbrother. I have to think of something to make this go away.
My father. His lips twisted in disgust. George. Disappointed. And maybe he’s disgusted as well.
Jonah would point at me and laugh his ass off.
That helps to deflate my boner. But it leaves an unwanted residue like a sticker that won’t quite peel off. No matter how much you pick at it.
I’m tired of just existing. Living in a town that barely tolerates me. Working a job I could do in my sleep.
No chance of finding someone who wants me for me and not just a hookup. And most of the guys from this area are either closeted or in denial.
San Diego Pridefest is my chance to show everyone what I can do. A way to live my life on my terms.
I just have to get there. No matter the cost.