Step F*#K: Part Four (Stepbrother #4) (7 page)

“You look distracted,” Anabel says. “Is this not the sort of thing that turns you on?”

“Oh . . . no,” I say, my voice cracking a little. What the fuck is wrong with me? “I mean . . . yes it’s a turn on. It really is. But . . . and please don’t take this the wrong way, and I’m sure that no one has ever actually said this to you before—I’m . . . I’m thinking about someone else. I’m sorry. She’s just . . . I can’t really get her out of my mind.”

Instead of looking hurt or too terribly offended, though, Anabel just smiles. “Honey,” she says, “this night is all about you. And what
you
want. So if you want me to be someone else—that’s fine. You just tell me who.”

“Wait a second,” I say. “Did . . . did William
pay
you?”
“He did. Quite well, actually.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “So you’re a prostitute?”
“That’s not a term I would necessarily use to describe myself, but yes, I suppose that is technically correct. Not that someone with looks like yours should ever need a prostitute. But your mate was very concerned. It was rather sweet.”

“Let’s uh . . . let’s just sit down for a minute.”

We go over to the couch and sit, side-by-side, me fully clothed, Anabel completely naked.
 

“It’s not that you’re not gorgeous,” I start. She puts a hand over mine.
 

“It’s okay,” she says.

“I mean . . . we can do it, if you want. But if you do this for a living, you’d probably be just as fine if we didn’t, right?”
She gives my hand a squeeze. “Like I said: this is about you, and what you want. And if what you want is to press me up against that big picture window over there so the whole world can see while you fuck me in the ass, then that’s what I want to do. Likewise, if all you want to do is sit here on the couch, or have me get up and make you a cup of tea, then that’s what I want to do. It’s not always about the sex. Most of the time it is, but I have had a few clients who have wanted to do other things.”

I give her a quizzical look. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“You’re right—it’s always about the sex, but I was just trying to make you feel better. You look distraught, and
that
is not a look I’m accustomed to seeing on a man’s face, especially when I’m sitting next to him without my clothes on.”

“You can put them back on if you want.”

While she gets up and puts her underwear and bra and dress back on, I try to make sense of exactly what it is I’m feeling. My cock is still hard, but it’s like I don’t have any desire, other than a physical, biological one, to sleep with Anabel.
 

“Who is this woman, anyway?” Anabel asks. “William was a bit vague.”

“She’s . . . she’s someone very special to me,” I say. “She’s someone who’s very special and I’m afraid that I royally fucked things up between us.”

“Did you cheat on her?”

“No. Though I think she thinks I did.”

“And why would she think that?”
“Because she saw me helping my friend into bed, after this friend got really drunk. At our parents’ wedding. Because this girl that I like is my stepsister.”

I watch Anabel’s face process this information. “The girl you can’t get over is your stepsister?”

“Yes. Who I met before either of us knew that our parents were getting married. What we both thought was just going to be this casual hook up turned into something way more than that, because we actually really like each other. Or
did
like each other—now she won’t even talk to me. She just disappeared, and it’s taken me months to be able to finally figure out where she is. But now I don’t know if I should go to her.”

“Why wouldn’t you? If you really feel the way you do about her.”

“I just . . . I don’t know. I thought that once I found out where she was, nothing could stop me from going to see her. But now that I know, I just . . . I . . .”

“You’re afraid.”

“I am?”

“Of course. You’re afraid that she’s going to refuse to see you, or she’s going to say terrible things about you, or you’re going to get there and find out you’ve been replaced. I don’t know if any of those things will actually happen or not, but I do know that you must care about her a great deal, because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be afraid.” Anabel smiles gently and pats my hand.
 

“Do you think it’s completely fucked up that she’s my stepsister?”

“No. Especially not if you met before you knew your parents were seeing each other. If you weren’t raised together and you’re not blood relations, then there’s really no problem with it, in my eyes. But it’s not my opinion that matters. If you love her, you should go to her. Now, whether or not she’s going to reciprocate that, I don’t know, but you will at least be able to tell her how you feel, and if she doesn’t feel the same way, then you can move on. You can and you will.”
 

And she sounds so sure of it, for a moment I think that maybe she’s right.
 

I stay there on the couch for a long time after Anabel’s left. It’s getting later and later, but she’s right, every single thing she said is right, most especially me being afraid. And I can’t actually remember ever feeling fear like this over a girl, and what her reaction to me would be. Because in the past, it hasn’t mattered. I rarely ever got a bad reaction from a girl (unless I was telling her no, we could
not
be boyfriend and girlfriend) but even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared, because it didn’t matter.
 

But this does matter—it matters enough to be afraid, but it also matters enough to do something about it.
 

So I fucking do it. I buy a plane ticket to Paris. The flight is the day after tomorrow, Christmas Eve day. Mum, of course, is none too thrilled to hear that I won’t be around for Christmas. “But . . . why are you going to Paris now?” she asks. “This is a crazy time to travel. The ticket fee is going to be astronomical.”
 

“I know, I know,” I say. “But something just sort of came up and I need to go take care of it. Now.”

“Why not wait a few days?”
“I’m sorry Mum,” I tell her. “It can’t wait.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to continue her line of questioning, but thankfully she doesn’t. There’s only so much I can tell her about the situation right now, anyway. I just hope that Emma is going to be home, and more importantly not in the arms of some Frenchman when I get there.

The day before Christmas Eve, against my better judgment, I accept an invitation for a date. This guy’s name is Olivier, and he’s not in my painting workshop, though he is taking a printmaking workshop that meets right as mine is getting out. He tells me he wants to take me to one of his favorite cafes, for what he says is the best cup of
chocolat chaud
in the world.
 

“I am somewhat of an expert in this category,” he says. “Anywhere you can get a hot chocolate in the city, I’ve been there.”

“Well, then, I feel like I’m in good hands,” I say.
 

And in many regards, I do actually feel this way. Olivier is a year younger than me, lanky with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. He’s sort of growing a beard/goatee, and unlike many of his male compatriots in this city, he doesn’t seem to give a whole lot of thought to the clothes that he wears. Today, for example, he’s wearing a loose-fitting pair of jeans and a well-worn, long sleeved t-shirt with a silkscreened image of a bike on the front. On his head he’s wearing what looks to be a hand-knitted beanie.
 

But I feel comfortable with him, I feel like he’s someone I could be friends with, someone that I could tour the city with and get as many cups of
chocolat chaud
as I could handle, someone who I could visit different art museums, talk about our work with.
 

“So you’re from America,” he says when we’re finally sitting at one of the tables, right by the window so I can watch the people walk by on the street. “I’ve never been. But I think I would like to go sometime. New York, maybe.”

“New York is a pretty cool place,” I say. I take a tentative sip of the hot chocolate, the steam curling in tendrils around my face. It is thick and rich and almost startling in how delicious it is. “Wow!” I say. “This is incredible.”

Olivier smiles and leans across the table, stretching his arm out, reaching with his hand to wipe gently at the corner of my mouth. “I told you.”

“But I can’t say that New York is any better than Paris,” I say. “And it’s definitely a hell of a lot better than L.A., which is where I’m from.”

“L.A.” He widens his eyes. “But you must be around so many famous people all the time. That must be kind of exciting, isn’t it?”

“I guess, but sometimes it just seems like more of a reminder that there are so many other people out there who are far more successful than you’ll ever be. And by you I mean me.”

“You shouldn’t say that about yourself. Your painting is wonderful. You’ve got a lot of talent. It takes time to be successful in the art world. But I’d say just the fact that you came out here to pursue something you were really interested in means that you’re already quite a success.”

I drink more hot chocolate, wanting very much to believe that the reason I came out here was because of my art, even though really, that wasn’t it at all. It’s turned into that, I suppose, and it’s what I’ve told everyone, but really it was to get away from Jai. It was to go somewhere to disappear and to try to forget about him, but that’s proven far harder than I ever would have thought.
 

I think, though, if anyone is going to help me get over it, it could be Olivier. Perhaps that’s all I really need—some great sex to remind me that there are plenty of other guys out there, plenty of other men that I can sleep with.
 

And so, when Olivier invites me back to his apartment, I say yes, and when he takes my hand as we walk, I let him. He lives in the sixth arrondissement, on the fourth floor of a beautiful renaissance building. He says he has a roommate but that his roommate is never home.
 

We stand there in his bedroom, and right as I’m trying to think of something to say before the silence turns awkward, he comes over, right up to me, and touches the side of my face. The look on his own face is attentive and inquisitive, and tender, too, as though instead of this being the first time that we’ve been together, we are being reacquainted after a long time apart.
 

He bends his head to kiss me, and his lips are soft against mine, his hands moving down my shoulders, pressing the muscles in my arms. His touch is caring, soothing, and I put my arms around him as I return his kiss.
 

We make our way over to the bed but keep kissing, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands running through my hair. It feels good, but it is not all consuming. And when he gently slides a hand under my shirt, the sensation of him cupping my breast, then delicately squeezing my nipple is pleasant but not earth shattering.
 

I open my eyes as we kiss. His are closed, and he’s breathing slowly, making soft little noises. I want to feel more than I currently do. I don’t understand why that isn’t happening, why I’m not writhing out of my skin, squirming at his touch. He is cute and he is nice, yet my mind is still able to be having these thoughts, even as we’re sitting here on his bed, kissing.
 

I pull away finally. His eyes pop open.
 

“I’m sorry,” I say as he’s leaning in to kiss me again. “I . . . I don’t think I can do this.”
“Am I moving too fast?” He looks a bit sheepish. “I should be the one apologizing. I just . . . it just seemed like the perfect thing to do after going to the café.”

“It is a bit fast . . .” I start to say, but then I stop. I don’t want to lie to him. I don’t want to lead him on and have him think that all he needs is to just give me a little more time. “Actually . . . part of the reason I’m out here isn’t because of my art, but because I needed to get away from someone. Or
thought
I needed to get away from him, but really, he’s been on my mind an awful lot.”

“Is this person a boyfriend of yours?”
“Something like that. I’m not sure. We were never officially together. Actually—he’s my stepbrother now. Our parents just got married.”