Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance (4 page)

And the whole time, I’m holding him close, and desperately trying not to think about what happens in two days, when this boy with the charming English accent who’s permanently implanted himself upon the pages of my life goes back home forever.

It’s the next day when it all goes bad.

It’s the next day, the day I’m wearing the world’s biggest smile, that I walk around the corner of the gymnasium to see him smoking cigarettes with some of the other guys from school.

I didn’t even know he smoked.

But it’s not the cigarette that stops me in my tracks and sends that cold, horrible feeling sinking to the pit of my stomach, it’s what he’s saying.

He’s bragging; he’s telling them that he slept with me.

It’s then that one of them looks up and sees me, and grins as he nods in my direction. They’re all turning then, all of them grinning and smirking at me in way that has the color draining from my face. And then he looks up, and when my eyes meet his stunned, shocked ones, I can almost feel my heart breaking as I turn to go run and hide myself away forever. 

It’s after half the cheer squad walks in on me bawling in the locker room already having heard Oliver’s little story that I spread my own little tale. I’m drying my eyes and laughing as I spin wildly untrue stories about how small he is, and how he couldn’t even get it up. And I’m telling them he cried during it, and they’re laughing and hugging me and telling me it’s going to be okay, even though I know the lies are only a temporary balm.

My story travels even faster than his, but really, it’s not like it really even matters much for him, seeing as he leaves a day later, forever. Me though? I have to stay.

I have to stay and keep telling the same lie. I have to stay and keep tarnishing the memory of one perfect night over and over again, just to make myself smile on the outside.

It certainly makes the last few weeks of high school more interesting, at least. 

*****

Outer London streaks by the windows of the taxi like drab, grey paint. Okay, I guess I was expecting that to an extent, but not
this
. It’s like being in a charcoal drawing; everything running black and sooty and crummy looking. 

I make a face as I think of all my friends back home who were just
so
excited that I was moving to London for four months. Yeah,
thrilling
. I certainly don’t see any of
them
going to live with their surprise new stepfather and the boy
they
used to make out with; also now known as “new stepbrother”.

Mom and Barney are grinning and talking animatedly together in the bench seat of the taxi, with Oliver and I sitting apart in the two backwards facing seats across from them, pointedly trying to avoid both talking to each other and looking at them.

Barney’s got an accent straight out of central casting for a period piece movie; that thick, east-end bristle and dropped consonants. My mother’s filled me in on the plane ride over about the Beckett’s change in fortunes since Oliver visited us; about the inheritance from some great aunt or something that’s gotten Barney out of the butcher business and into the luxury hotel and restaurant business, with his wonder-chef son apparently right there with him. 

Oliver might be dressed in just jeans and black v-neck t-shirt, but his dad sure dresses like new money; all swagger and flashy rings and jewelry. Fancy, expensive clothes worn almost in distain as more of a statement than any sort of appreciation for finer style. 

Honestly, I could never picture mom with a guy like this, but I guess that just shows what I know.

“So, you like, bake stuff now.” I turn from the window at the sound of Oliver’s voice. His dark eyes flash at me, and he’s smirking, as if the question is meant as some sort of barb.

I frown. “Yes, I
bake stuff
now.”

“So, what, like cupcakes and the such?”

I narrow my eyes at him. He’s speaking pleasantly in that thick cockney accent, but I can
tell
there’s something there below the surface, like he’s trying to bait me They aren’t even paying attention to anything but each other right now, but it’s like he’s putting on a facade for our parents. Like it’s all fake and he’s secretly just as pissed to have me here as I am to
be
here.

Jesus he’s gorgeous
. I freeze, frowning at the sudden intrusion of my traitorous inner thoughts while I’m trying to scowl at this boy who’s still just
smirking
at me. Smirking with those absolutely perfect lips, and those dangerously alluring eyes glinting at me.

The same lips, the same eyes, and the same, well,
everything
that hooked me before.

Yeah, I’ve fallen for
this
whole look of his before, and it is
certainly
not happening a second time.

“How are you with chocolate chip cookies? Cakes with cartoon characters drawn on top? I’ll have to double check to see if I know any five year olds with birthdays coming soon.”

He
such
a prick. 

“
Slightly
more involved than that, actually, but I guess I’ll have to show you later, sometime in the kitchen.” I roll my eyes as I turn back to stare out at the grey London rain.

I can hear him chuckle behind me. “You haven’t looked me up, have you?”

I turn back, “Excuse me?”

“Looked me up; googled me or the restaurant or whatever.”

“Of course I have,” I say, “‘
Jolie
, home to London’s hottest young sous-chef’,” I say with air-quotes, rolling my eyes. “Yes, Oliver, I’ve looked you up.” I hate telling him that, as if this little shit could possibly need his ego stroked anymore. 

Oliver grins; leaning back in his seat with a smug look on his face as he laces his hands behind his head. “Oh, no-no-no, darling, that’s
yesterday’s
news.”

I frown, “What are you talking about? Are you
not
at
Jolie
anymore?”

He chuckles, just slowly shaking his head as he turns towards his father, “Oy, dad, you didn’t tell her?”

Barney looks up from his whispered little conversation with my beaming mother and frowns. 

“What's that boy-o? Oh right, the switch.” He glances my way and shrugs apologetically; “Sorry my dear, guess I didn’t get the chance yet.” He jerks his head at my mom, “Far too occupied with this lovely bird here, you know!” My mother whoops and laughs as he turns to tickle her.

I ignore the nauseating display and narrow my eyes as I turn back to Oliver, “Tell me
what?
”

He lets out a contented sigh, cracking his knuckles loudly before slipping them back behind his head. He slouches down in his seat and kicks one foot up onto his knee, looking at me with this absolutely shit-eating grin. “Well, ‘the kitchen’ you were just referring to?” 

Oh God, now what
?

He grins widely, “It’s not home to London’s hottest young
sous-
chef anymore, luv.” He winks at me. “It is now
officially
home to London’s hottest young
chef
.” He winks at me again.  “No ‘sous’, in case you missed that.”

Please be kidding.

A lump forms in my throat as what he’s saying starts to sink in. He leans forward, raising his eyebrows at me, “So, ‘the kitchen’ you were just referring to is actually
my
kitchen now.” He grins as leans back and throws me the world’s cockiest, smuggest smirk. “Looks like I’m your new boss, sweetheart.”

If I thought London was grey before, I suddenly have a whole new appreciation for that particular color as we enter Shoreditch, the old industrial-turned-hipster neighborhood in East London. 

Of course, it’s still not distraction enough to take my mind off Oliver’s little news, or that smirking grin he’s managed to flash me anytime I
happen
to turn that way the entire car ride here. By the time the taxi pulls up in front of Barney’s massive townhouse, I’ve been in England for all of one hour and eighteen minutes, and I have
no
idea how I’m possibly going to survive being around this little shit-bag at both work and home for four solid months.

The house is honestly ridiculous, too. A
huge
four-story townhouse right on Hoxton Square Park. The place looks like the house from Mary Poppins, or the Darling’s house from Peter Pan, complete with wide stone steps and the huge wooden double door crossed with iron, like some sort of urban fairy-tale castle.

Except this is quite the opposite of a fairytale, and the only thing “princely” about Oliver is that arrogance he seems to carry around with him in his back pocket.

Welcome home.

Inside, though, is anything but old-looking like the exterior. The whole place looks like one giant bachelor pad, which makes sense I guess, considering the father and son who live here. The decor matches Barney’s gaudy clothes in terms of price over style; all flash and glamor instead of anything with actual
taste
. Giant pop-art paintings of martini glasses, black and white photographs of lingerie models and a damn
swing
in the living room. 

I mean, honestly.

Your new husband has a swing in his living room, mom.
I mean, alarm bells much?

Barney seems to follow my confused look and chuckles, “Oh, that!” He snorts out a laugh, “Well, you know we didn’t ‘ave much when Ollie was comin’ up; no money for a swing-set or nothin’ like that.” He shrugs at my mom, “First thing the little shit does when I buy the place is have that damn swing screwed right into the ceiling.” He glares at Oliver and shakes his head. 

Well, shit.
Of course I feel like a completely callous bitch thinking it was some sort of weird sex swing after hearing
that.

“Never even uses the bloody thing, at least not while I’m around.”

“Oh, but I use it all the
time
when you’re not, dad.” Oliver is nodding his head and grinning, but he suddenly looks my way when our parents look away and makes an exaggerated thrusting motion with his hips while grinning lewdly at me. He mouths the words “sex swing” at me as I wrinkle my nose and look away.

Gross
.

“Well then, let’s get you to your rooms so you can relax, eh, girls?” Barney claps his hands together before he grabs my suitcase and heads for the stairs. “Your mum and I are downstairs, where the master suite is, but I’ve got you,” he grunts as he hefts my suitcase up the stairs, “I’ve got you up here.”

There are three doors at the top of the second staircase; one a bathroom, and the other two closed. Barney opens one to a plain, if not nice and well-lit, room painted all white with large windows. “This is you, my dear.”

Well, this isn’t so ba-

“And if you need anything, Ollie’s
right
next door.”

What.

Barney chuckles, oblivious to the look of horror on my face as he turns to my mother, “Keep the young folks together and away from us, eh, darling?”

Oliver is leaning against the doorframe to my room, smirking at me and rubbing his jaw with his strong-looking hands. “Oy, you need anything,
sis
, you just knock, yeah?” His eyebrows arch. “
Thin walls
, you know,” he says with a knowing wink that only I seem to pick up on.