Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) (21 page)

Faster Dirtier (Take Me…#5) (A Team Ferrelli Novel)
by Colleen Masters

STEPBROTHER BASTARD

A Hawthorne Brothers Novel

Book One

* * * 

by Colleen Masters

Prologue

Just Outside of Spokane, WA

The cool light of morning has barely begun to filter through
the flimsy motel curtains, but my looming headache still throbs at this
slightest hint of day. I can sense the impending hangover circling overhead
like a sinister bird of prey, ready to dive down and ruin the rest of my day.
It’s not a sensation I’m accustomed to: I haven’t had this much to drink since
graduating college a few years ago. And now, I’m starting to remember
why
.

I pry open my eyes by a hair’s breadth and groggily appraise
my surroundings. The grubby motel room looks even bleaker in the cold light of
day. But you get what you pay for, I guess—and this was the cheapest place I
could find en route to my destination. Besides, I didn’t need anything fancy
last night. Just a place to crash before the second leg of my long drive from
downtown Seattle to middle-of-nowhere Montana.

The former has been my home since finishing undergrad, the
latter was my mother’s, when she was a girl. My mom, Robin, has returned to her
hometown of old for the summer, and summoned me and my two younger sisters to
join her. She says she wants to get some painting done, fill her lungs with
fresh air…but I can’t help but wonder what else has motivated this return to
her roots. Then again, I’ve never been able to suss out the rationale behind my
mother’s flights of fancy. Why should this time be any different?

Throwing off the scratchy, questionably clean comforter, I
swing my legs over the side of the bed, gritting my teeth as the contents of my
head throb painfully against my skull. Brushing my dark blonde,
shoulder-skimming, and very disheveled hair out of my face, I scan the room for
a coffee machine—caffeine is always my first order of any given day. My bleary
eyes rove over my unopened suitcase, the singularly bad hotel art on the walls,
and the trail of discarded clothing leading from the front door to the narrow
bed I’m perched upon now…

All at once, the pounding in my head evaporates as my heart
takes up the frenzied beat. The last twelve hours swim up in my boozy memory,
walloping me with a series of realizations. First of all, for all the clothing
scattered around the room, not a stitch of it happens to be on my body.
Secondly, it isn’t just
my
clothing that’s strewn every which way—half
of the items very clearly belong to a man. And as I whip around to peer over my
shoulder in the dim half-light, I’m reminded of
which
man, in
particular.

“Good lord…” I whisper, springing gingerly out of the motel
bed. I clutch a sheet to my naked body, staring at the man I’ve been bunking with
all night. His face is turned away from me, but there’s still plenty of him to
see all the same. 

Surprise gives way to amazement as I take in his broad
shoulders, muscled arms, and heavily inked back. Faint red lines stand out
among the numerous black tattoos—those are nail marks.
My
nail marks. I
swallow a gasp as he rolls over to face me. He drapes one of those thickly
corded arms across my side of the bed, as if reaching out for me. A tight twang
of sensation pulses between my legs, and I become aware of the telltale,
satisfied soreness there. While I rest my eyes on my bedmate’s sculpted,
slumbering face, the events of last night come back to me in a rush. As I
recall the cause of that delicious soreness I’m feeling, my knees begin to
quiver so hard that I can barely stand.

Pulling the sheet tightly around me, I dash into the motel
bathroom and sink down heavily on the edge of the tub. I clasp my hand tightly
over my mouth, trying to keep my jaw from smacking against the tile as it drops
to the floor. But even so, a laugh of disbelief escapes from my throat. I know
this was supposed to be a layover and all, but I didn’t expect quite so much
emphasis on the
laid
part. 

Well, Maddie…
I think to myself, letting out a deep
sigh, you
’
ve
got
a nasty hangover, a day-long drive, and a sexy stranger sleeping in your bed.
What happens now?

“Hell if I know,” I mutter out loud, my baffled voice
echoing off the grimy tiles of the motel bathroom. I’ve never been very good at
embracing the unexpected. And waking up still-drunk next to a tatted-up bad boy
on the way to a quiet family vacation is about the last thing I’d ever expect
from myself.

What can I say? I’ve never been very good at half-measures,
either.

My best friend Alison McCain cocks her head at me, watching
from the couch as I overstuff my suitcase for the coming two weeks. I’ve been
multitasking—packing for my vacation while filling her in on the details of my
latest breakup. Allie, on the other hand, is entirely single-minded, here.

“So wait,” she says, gesticulating with her wine glass, “Did
you break up with him, or did he break up with you?”

“It was mutual, Allie,” I mutter, straining to zip up the
seriously overpacked bag. This is a laughably typical predicament for me—I’m
constantly over-planning, over-thinking, over-preparing. I’ve never managed to
take even the shortest of trips without dragging half my earthly possessions
along. On the one hand, this compulsive trouble-shooting makes me excellent at
my job in event marketing, where something is always on the verge of going
seriously wrong. On the other hand, it’s obnoxious as hell, even to me.

“Maddie, Maddie…” my redheaded best friend sighs, taking a
healthy swig of her Pinot Grigio, “It’s never mutual.
Ever
. You were
with this guy for six months. It couldn’t have just evaporated like—”

“Fine,” I sigh, leaning back on my heels. Allie is
relentless in her dirt-digging. I may as well just hand over the buried
treasure of my latest failed relationship and let her have at. “I was the one
who wanted out, but I let Paul think it was a mutual decision.”

“That sounds like the Madeleine Porter I know,” Allie nods,
sending her halo of short red curls bouncing, “I’m glad you finally pulled the
plug. You guys have been on the fritz for…well…most of the time you’ve been
together, actually.”

“In more ways than you know,” I reply, pulling myself up to
fetch a glass of wine. If we’re going to get into the nitty gritty of my love
life, I’m going to need a drink.

“Do tell…?” Allie prods, swiveling around as I walk into the
kitchen…or rather, the corner of my one-room studio apartment that’s posing as
the kitchen. I was lucky enough to get a job after graduating; plenty of my
classmates didn’t weather the post-recession market half as well. But at 24,
I’m still not raking in enough dough to rent more than a couple hundred square
feet. I tell myself it’s romantic. Bohemian, even. But really…it’s just my only
option.

“Let’s just say that things in the bedroom were…less than
electric, there at the end,” I tell Allie, pouring myself a deep glass of white
wine.

“Really?” she asks, genuinely surprised. “But Paul is
gorgeous
.
What I wouldn’t do for cheekbones like his.”

“One, your cheekbones are excellent,” I inform her, flopping
down on the couch beside her, “And two, he
was
gorgeous, and he’d be the
first one to tell you.”

“Ugh,” Allie says, wrinkling her nose. “One of
those
.”

“One of those, indeed,” I reply, taking a sip of wine, “It’s
like, he expected me to get off on his well-manicured chest hair alone. I
honestly think
he
could. And he certainly wasn’t very forthcoming with
any
other
methods of getting the job done…”

“Wait-wait-wait,” Allie says, eyes widening into saucers,
“Are you telling me he didn’t take care of you? He seriously didn’t even make
you come?!”

“He almost did. Once…” I sigh, averting my eyes.

“But you were with him for a
six months
,” Allie
exclaims, “How in the name of all that is good have you survived without—?”

“I’ve been taking care of myself in that department, don’t
you worry,” I assure her, “I mean, s
omeone
has to.”

“Damn right,” she says firmly, distress fading from her
eyes. “Well, I’m proud of you for ending things with him, then. You deserve
more than some rich, handsome, lawyer anyway.”

“Isn’t that the trifecta of excellence, where men are
concerned?” I ask sarcastically, taking another long sip.

“For some women, maybe,” Allie shrugs, “But not for you,
Miss Porter. Not for you.”

“Ugh. I know,” I moan, letting my head fall back against the
couch, “What is the matter with me? I tell myself that I should find a stable
relationship, with a respectable, mature guy…”

“But then you get bored stiff by each and every one of
them,” Allie completes my thought, her vibrant green eyes sparking with
insight. “Did it ever occur to you that you may be going after the wrong sort
of guy?”

I cock an eyebrow at my best friend. Alison and I were
roommates in college, long before we were both recruited by the same creative
agency. And while I was holding down two uneventful long-term relationships
over those four years, her dorm bed was a veritable revolving door for men of
all stripes. And a few women, too.

“I’m just not as adventurous as you are, in that
department,” I tell her, “Not that I don’t admire your inclusive attitude,
but—”

“No one’s saying you should go sow your wild oats all along
the West Coast,” she laughs, “But Christ, Maddie. You’re in your twenties! If
ever there’s a time to be adventurous, it's now. You know what you are, my
friend? You’re a serial monogamist. And that wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t
also depressing the shit out of you.”

I avert my eyes, a bit stung by her choice of words. The
truth is, I
have
been depressed these past few years, but not because of
my love life. I try not to dwell too much on the darker aspects of my life, but
remaining positive takes constant effort. My struggle with depression began
just as I was starting my last year of college, when my father was killed in a
car accident. Collision with a drunk driver, who of course walked away
unscathed. My dad, Archie Porter, wasn’t just a father to me—he was my idol. My
role model. Losing him was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll be
carrying the weight of it my entire life. Next to that pain, a breakup is
nothing but a toothache. After all these years, I can usually make it through
the day without getting mired down in that pain. But now that it’s come to
mind…

“I’m sorry, Maddie…” Allie says, her tone softening at once.
“That was super insensitive of me. I know how much you’ve been through… But,
isn’t that all the more reason to look for what makes you happy, rather than
playing it safe?”

“Sure. In theory…” I allow, shaking off the shadows in my
mind.

“Maybe in practice, too,” she smiles, draining her glass. “I
know a really easy way you can start looking, too.”

“Oh yeah?” I reply, “What’s that? Pottery class? Meditation?
Tinder?”

“Not quite,” she begins, grinning conspiratorially, “These
next couple of weeks, while you’re on vacation, I want you to grant yourself
one random hookup with a hot stranger.”

I immediately choke on my wine, I’m laughing so hard. “Have
you forgotten who you’re talking to?” I splutter, “Your best friend, Maddie
Better-Safe-Than-Sorry Porter.”

“Really?” Allie replies, “I thought I was talking to Maddie
Always-Up-For-A-Challenge Porter. What, do you need me to make this into a bet
or something? Get that competitive streak of yours all fired up?”

“…No. You can’t sway me
that
easily,” I say, lying
badly.

“Aha!” Allie crows, leaping to her feet and pointing a
victorious finger at me, “Madeleine Abigail Porter, I bet that you can’t bring
yourself to have one random hookup by the time you come back from vacation. Are
you gonna prove me wrong or what?”

“Dammit, Allie!” I groan, burying my face in my hands.

“I got you now!” she cackles, going to grab the bottle
again. “Now you’ll do it for sure.”

“We’ll see,” I laugh, letting her pour me a second glass,
“Which will win out, my hate of losing, or my hate of spontaneity?”

“The game is afoot,” Allie grins.

I raise the replenished wine glass to my lips. What are the
chances that I could
actually
throw caution to the wind and have some
fun while visiting my family for two weeks? Breaking up with Paul sucked, to be
sure, but we were hardly in love. My heart didn’t take too much of a beating
this time around. Probably, that’s because I never really opened up to him. In
the wake of Dad’s death, I haven’t really been able to feel much of
anything—least of all passion. Maybe a little rebound would do me some good.
But who the hell am I going to meet in the middle of the woods? I don’t really
dig the grizzled lumberjack type, myself. You never can tell what’s hiding in
those big, bushy beards…

“I’m gonna miss you at work while you’re away,” Allie goes
on, tugging my train of thought onto another track. “It’ll just be me, the
Dragon Lady, and Mr. Intriguing finishing up the campaign while you’re gone.”

I chuckle at her cheeky descriptions of our agency’s
co-founders, Carol (the so-called Dragon Lady) and Brian (who insists on using
the word “intriguing” at least twenty times a day, usually to describe the most
mundane things imaginable).

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not expecting the trip
to be a laugh riot,” I reply. “The Porter women don’t do particularly well in
enclosed spaces.”

“Oof. I hadn’t thought about that…” Allie says, “Which one
are you worried about butting heads with this time?”

“Oh, just all of them. As usual,” I reply with a wry laugh.
While the shared grief of our father’s passing brought us closer in some ways,
the long-standing differences between me, my two sisters, and our mother have
never ceased to cause trouble.

As long as I can remember, each of us Porter women has
marched to her own distinctive beat. I was always the bookworm of the family,
hoping to follow in my father’s footsteps as an English professor. My middle
sister, Sophia, always skewed a bit darker and more rebellious. Our baby
sister, Annabel, is in some ways the most stable one of us all, though that
makes her pragmatic and blunt, sometimes to a fault. But above all, it’s our
mother, Robin, who’s always keeping us on our toes.

When my sisters and I were little, we fancied our mom to be some
kind of fairy queen. We grew up in an old farmhouse in Vermont, just far enough
away from Dad’s university town to feel like another world; a world spun magic
into magic by Mom’s presence. She’s always been stunning, with vibrant blonde
hair and blue eyes with specks of gold—eyes my sisters and I all inherited from
her. But while she was beautiful and imaginative, it always felt as though she
was floating just out of our reach. And whenever one of us tried to pull her
down from the clouds, she’d snap from good fairy to bad fairy in an instant.
She’d become impatient and dismissive, as if she resented us for the
responsibility we came along with.

Mom’s a wonderful visual artist, a true maker, and her mind
is always on the next inspiration, the next piece. She loved me and my little
sisters dearly, but she preferred to nurture her works of art, rather than us.
It was always our sturdy father we turned to for stability. He kept us all
rooted to the ground while my mother drifted up, up and away; shoring up the
moon and stars as we looked on with wonder. But since Dad has been gone, the
rest of us have scattered to the wind.

And the thing is, I’m starting to think that we’re actually
better off that way.

“At least you have a new mission to distract you from all
the family drama,” Allie points out, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah,” I laugh, “Maybe I’ll be thanking you for this little
dare by the time I get back.”

“We shall see,” Allie says smugly, “We shall see. Hey, when
are you shoving off?”

“As soon as this little wine buzz wears off,” I tell her, “I
really should have left right after work, but I wanted a little hang session
with my best friend first.”

“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with not wanting to
spend a few extra hours with your family tonight, right?” she teases, nudging
me playfully.

“Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say,
widening my blue eyes with mock innocence.

“Sure. Right. I totally believe you,” Allie laughs. “Well, I
hope you’ll at least try to have a good time. Maybe the whole thing will
surprise you.”

 “Maybe…” I allow, “Though whenever my mother is
involved, any surprises that crop up don’t tend to be particularly good.”

“Good ol’ Robin,” Allie says, shaking her head, “I can’t
wait to hear what shenanigans she’s got cooked up for you out there.”

“That makes exactly one of us,” I reply, polishing off my
wine.

After a bear hug and a reminder of my hookup-related
marching orders, Allie hits the road. Now there’s nothing standing between me
and the impending family reunion besides eight hours of driving split up by one
night in the cheapest motel I could find along the way. How’s that for a
luxurious getaway?

As soon as my buzz has faded, I steel my resolve, grab my
gigantic suitcase, and bid adieu to my shoebox of an apartment. My iPod is
loaded up with Florence and the Machine, Muse, and Bruno Mars. If I have to
face the music, it may as well be the kind I can belt out on the highway.