9. The Rescue
THE RESCUE
Trevor
Idrive with both hands clamped hard on the wheel, pushing eighty through a Minneapolis still too stunned by dawn to fight back.
The sky is the color of wet cement, the towers downtown rising out of the mist like a row of upended knives.
Every few blocks, the traffic lights catch up and try to slow me, but I take the amber every time, not so much as tapping the brakes.
The city looks deserted, slicked with last night’s rain and a thin haze of old exhaust.
The Mercedes eats up the miles, the dash a cold blue glow against the predawn.
I adjust the seat, but the muscles in my back stay knotted, the adrenaline refusing to drain off.
There’s a vibration running through my arms that isn’t from the car.
It’s from the call. It’s from the photos. It’s from my stepsister.
My phone is face down on the passenger seat. I don’t dare flip it over. I know exactly what’s waiting there: not one, not two, but four text messages from Kayleigh McEnroe, each one a new punch to the sternum. I replay the sequence in my head as the city streaks past:
I was at Spoon and Stable, a dinner I did not want to be at, across from Kristen—she’s six feet in her heels, all limbs, a bottle-blonde Valkyrie with the kind of ass that’s the obvious work of a talented surgeon.
She wore a backless dress, nothing underneath.
She spent the first hour talking about Love Island and the second hour talking about her “crypto portfolio,” which is code for “I have two grand in Dogecoin and need a reason to bring it up on dates.”
The only thing that kept me present was the way Kristen looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention: up through her lashes, pupils dark and huge, like she wanted to start a fire right there at the white linen table.
She’d have blown me in the men’s room if I so much as nodded.
It’s not that I didn’t want to, but some primitive part of me was already elsewhere, pacing a cage, waiting for something better.
Then my phone buzzed. I figured it was work, my run group, or maybe even another woman that I’ve been dating. I keep a couple in rotation. It’s nothing personal, it’s just the way I operate.
But when I opened my phone, what I saw stunned me.
It was a photo of my innocent little stepsister, standing in front of a mirror, just the edge of a towel at her hip, blonde hair loose and wild, her tits so big and perfect they seemed like a Photoshop prank.
The areola was this sensual, dusky pink, the kind you only see in late-night Cinemax and never in real life.
She held the phone in one hand, other hand just barely covering a nipple.
I felt a rush of heat, unexpected, dizzying, as my cock instantly hardened.
Two seconds later, another one: Kayleigh, this time sitting on her bed, the towel gone, her thighs parted just enough to reveal the pink wetness of her pussy.
She wasn’t even looking at the camera, just off to the side, lips parted, the tip of her tongue visible as she bit it.
Her left hand was between her legs, spreading herself open, a perfect rose triangle glistening with female nectar.
Her clit was enormous, almost swollen. She looked sensual, womanly, and like an absolute slut in control.
Then the third: this one a close-up, full spread.
Not even a pretense of modesty. Her fingers pinched her labia apart, index and middle straining, the inner lips of her vag peeled back and dripping, her clit perched like a ripe berry above the slit.
The focus was slightly off, but it made it look even dirtier—like a screenshot from a cam site, sent just for me.
I wanted to fall to my knees. I wanted to press my mouth to that steaming snatch, worshipping it with my lips and tongue until Kayleigh came like a wild animal on my face. I wanted to see more.
Clearly, I lost the thread of Kristen’s conversation altogether. I could see the ’s lips move, but I heard nothing. All I could think of was the color of Kayleigh’s nipples, the soft shadow under her breast, the slick shine of her cunt.
I locked the phone, turned it over, but I couldn’t stop.
When the buzz came, minutes later, I flipped my cell over again.
This was the photo that broke me: Kayleigh, on her side, one leg pulled up and propped on the headboard, camera set up on a timer and aimed at her ass.
She reached back and spread her cheeks, exposing her pink, perfectly puckered asshole, a glisten of lube or spit making it shine.
Her foot was still in a high heel—trashy, dangerous, totally deliberate.
She had her face turned toward the lens, just visible in the mirror, and the look was pure invitation.
If she’d said “Daddy” I would have ejaculated on the spot but instead, I was at this fucking dinner.
What I wouldn’t have given to press my mouth to that tight asshole, slipping my tongue into her rectum to hear her shriek.
What I wouldn’t love to have Kayleigh experience an intense anal orgasm with my cock buried deep in her anal canal, stretched so hard she winced with discomfort.
I spent the rest of the dinner pretending to care about the menu, but every time I blinked, I saw Kayleigh.
My stepsister. My stepsister’s asshole. Her breasts, her tight pink vag.
I was hard for the rest of the night, half-hard even now, hours later, the memory churning in my bloodstream like fentanyl.
When I finally got home—Kristen left with a disappointed little “goodnight” and a kiss to my cheek—I jerked off in the shower three times, fists white-knuckled on the tile, every image in my head the forbidden, perfect thing I couldn’t have.
Each time, the orgasm came on so fast and violent that I felt sick after, like I’d lost a liter of blood.
I was going to call Kayleigh. I was going to text her, maybe even drive over and drag her into my bed, consequences be damned. But I waited, because the only thing better than fucking is anticipation, and I wanted to let the urge simmer, see how far she’d take it.
Instead, at six in the morning, the phone rang. What the fuck? It better be a fucking emergency, and sure enough, it was.
“Trevor?” Kayleigh’s voice was a raw little mouse squeak, all the previous night’s bravado boiled out. “I’m—I’m in county lock-up. Can you… Can you come get me? Please?”
There was a long pause, and I could hear someone coughing in the background, the thick, echoing sound of a holding cell at shift change.
I said yes, because what else could I say? I may be a monster, and especially when it comes to my naughty stepsister. But I wasn’t going to leave her to rot.
I didn’t ask why. I didn’t need to. I could guess: some kind of fight. A commotion, a disturbance, the neighbors called the police, and Kayleigh was caught in the slipstream. My stepsister has always been a mess, but last night, things took a turn for the insane. If it was a game, I needed in.
Now, I’m three blocks from the jail, and my hands are shaking. Not from fear. From anticipation.
I pull into the lot, kill the engine, and sit for a moment, staring at my reflection in the window.
The man looking back is all sharp lines and predator focus, the stubble along my jaw more silver than I remember.
My eyes are bloodshot. My mouth is a thin, hard line.
I look like someone who’s spent all night hunting, stalking his prey.
Inside, the lobby is a strip-lit cave: taupe cinderblocks, a row of plastic chairs, a vending machine that hums at a frequency designed to irritate the soul.
The front desk smells like cheap coffee and Clorox.
There’s an old radio hissing low behind the bulletproof glass.
The only other people in the room are a junkie sleeping open-mouthed on a bench and a cop who looks up when I step in, recognizes me, and immediately straightens.
I’m a Cahill. We’re known about these parts, what with my dad being a prominent developer and my own fortune made from AI.
You can see it in the way the staff go rigid, the way they start saying “sir” without even thinking.
I could probably set the building on fire and they’d thank me for the publicity.
I take a number and wait, but it’s pointless. A woman in a blue blouse appears in less than a minute, blinking at her tablet and smoothing her hair. “Mr. Cahill? Right this way.”
Her badge reads SANDERS. She’s pretty, but in a completely forgettable way. She leads me past the security doors and into a warren of hallways, talking as she walks.
“Your stepsister’s in holding, but it’s not a serious charge. A little altercation at a party, she’s not listed as the primary aggressor. There’s a friend—Stella Moreland—in the next cell. The report says your stepsister was a bystander. Probably just in the wrong place.”
I nod, not listening. My mind is still on the photos, the four-shot spread of Kayleigh’s cunt, the look on her face as she teased me through the lens.
I remember the last time I saw her in person—at the wedding, all pink dress and soft cleavage, the way she blushed and looked away when I caught her eye.
She was a good girl, or pretended to be, but the truth was right there on the screen: my stepsister’s a slut who needs hard cock in her pussy, and I’m just the man to give it to her.
We stop outside a metal door with a dirty window. The sergeant knocks once and pushes it open.
Kayleigh sits on a steel bench, hands in her lap, legs pressed together, body hunched in on itself.
She wears a tight pink dress, wrinkled and stained at the hem.
Her hair is a frizzy halo, the makeup around her eyes smudged gray, cheeks splotchy and raw.
She looks like she hasn’t slept, and she hasn’t.
But even wrecked, she’s gorgeous. Maybe more so because I want to wreck her too.