Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) (38 page)
Read Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) Online
Authors: Colleen Masters
Prologue
The Bear Trap Bar
Montana, USA
Adrenaline spikes through my already boozy blood as I slam
the bathroom door shut behind me. Flattening my back against the flimsy wooden
barrier, I turn to face my unexpected companion for the evening. He towers
above me in the dimly lit space, his sculpted features rendered all the more
intense by the low light. His close cropped chestnut hair, dark stubble, and
effortlessly cool bearing caught my eye from the very first second I saw him.
But in such tight quarters as these, every enticing aspect of him is amplified
tenfold. The sheer pitch of my fascination with him renders me all but
speechless as I drink in the sight of him. At last, we’re all alone.
He’s easily six feet tall, with a balanced, controlled body
well-conditioned by a lifetime of athletics and hard physical work. His cut,
perfectly shaped muscles are rippling with barely contained desire. And as
visceral as this moment is, it’s still hard to believe that what he desires is
me
.
God knows I’ve been fantasizing about finding myself alone with him for weeks
on end. But now that we’re here together, I’m almost overwhelmed by the
hugeness of his want. The staggering, powerful presence of him. My breath
catches in my throat as he plants his hands hard on the door above my shoulders,
caging me in with mere inches of space between us.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he growls, his dark green
eyes smoldering in the dim light of the bar bathroom.
I draw myself up with a defiant stare, keeping my eyes trained
on his face…no matter how overpoweringly gorgeous it is. Reaching around behind
my back, I slide the door’s heavy bolt into the locked position. The
satisfying, metallic click rings out loud and clear in the small room, despite
the cacophony of music and voices roaring in the bar proper. It’s the last
night of classes at the university nearby, where I’m just finishing off my
junior year. Thank god I decided to ditch the frat-sponsored school-spirit shit
show on campus in favor something a little more exciting. Or rather,
someone
a little more exciting.
“Does that answer your question?” I breathe, all but
vibrating with anticipation.
He cocks a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me, keeping me
pinned between his powerful arms.
“Not quite,” he laughs, his voice ragged around the edges,
“Try again.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer, trying to keep up. At 21, I’m hardly
inexperienced with the opposite sex. But even though this guy only has a few
years on me, he’s making the other men I’ve been with look like little boys.
It’s been a long time since I haven’t been the more dominant partner in the
bedroom…or, uh…
bathroom
, as it were. But where this particular man is
concerned, I hardly mind. In fact, I actually find myself wanting to let him
take the lead. And that is abso
lute
ly a first.
“I need a yes or no,” he goes on, easing his perfectly
balanced body toward me. “It’s a simple question, Sophie.”
My very cells are screaming to feel him against me. If he
would just come a
little
closer…
“Would I have come back tonight if I didn’t want this?” I
point out, resisting the urge to throw myself into his thickly muscled arms.
“To be honest,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to my
almost-quivering lips, “I’m having trouble getting a read on you. And let me
tell you, that’s not something I’m used to. You’re gonna have to tell me
outright what it is you want, here.”
“Why don’t you let me show you instead?” I shoot back,
letting my hands trail down his rock-hard chest.
“Come on,” he says, his full lips spreading into a rakish
grin. “You already put it into writing, didn’t you? What did that note of yours
say again?”
“You’re such an asshole,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to
fight the blush that rises in my cheeks.
“Oh, that’s right…” he goes on, letting his torso brush
deliciously against mine. He leans in close, his breath warm against my neck.
Those firm lips brush against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my
spine. “You want me to ‘Nail you to the wall and fuck you dirty’. Wasn’t that
it?”
“That…Uh…That was the gist of it,” I gasp, my thighs
clenching together as a thundering rush of need courses through me.
“Say it then,” he demands, brushing a lock of caramel blonde
hair away from my face, “Tell me what it is you want.”
“I…I just…” I sputter, lowering my gold-flecked blue eyes.
“You’ll tell me, won’t you,” he says firmly. It’s not a
question.
I force a deep breath into my lungs, gathering up every bit
of courage at my disposal (liquid or otherwise). I’m not usually one for
nerves, having conquered my stage fright at the ripe old age of four. Usually,
that steadiness carries over into my romantic life…but not now. Not with him.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m
performing
desire, I’m
experiencing
it. Turns out, there’s a pretty big difference—a difference so big that it
almost frightens me. But if I’ve learned one thing from my life as a performer,
it’s that sometimes you’ve got to follow the fear if you want to find the
truth.
“Luke,” I start softly, my voice low in my chest and husky
with lust.
“Yes?” he replies, his smoldering green eyes hard on my
face.
I take his face in my hands, my fingers resting against his
scruffy, razor sharp jaw, and lock my gaze onto his.
“I want you to nail me to the wall,” I whisper, “And fuck me
dirty.”
A blaze of fiery need erupts in his emerald gaze as he takes
me in. For just a second, he looks genuinely amazed that I’ve risen to the
moment. I may have never had a man like him before, but maybe he’s never had a
woman like me either.
I let my lips part, a snarky jab at the ready to defuse the
achingly intense moment. But before I can utter another syllable, he’s pinned
me to the wooden door with his powerful, tapered hips. A gasp escapes my throat
as he snatches my hands from his face and holds my wrists firmly above my head.
My entire body lights up like a flare as he brings his mouth to mine, kissing
me hard and fast as he presses his incredible form against me.
My back arches as I open my mouth eagerly to his, letting
his tongue sweep against mine. Our mouths move together, hungry and searching.
I’m stretched out tautly before him, and he explores my dancer’s figure with
his firm free hand. My nipples go hard as he runs a hand slowly down my side,
memorizing the lithe shape of me. He grins as he brushes a thumb over one of
those erect peaks, pleased at how quickly he’s turned me on.
“How long have you been waiting for this?” he growls,
freeing my wrists as he kisses down along my throat. His lips leave sparks of
sensation in their wake as they trail along my skin, and it’s all I can do to
keep putting one word in front of another.
“How long? Oh…Only since your very first class,” I laugh
breathlessly, writhing under his intoxicating touch.
“Hmm,” he replies, grabbing me firmly by waist, “I’ve never
met someone who was so turned on by economic theory. Kinda kinky…”
“It wasn’t so much the subject matter as it was the person
delivering it,” I smile, trying to catch my breath.
“That’s good to know,” he grins back, his voice straining with
need, “It’d be a real shame if you just wanted me for my brain. The rest of me
wants in on the action, too.”
He shifts his hips ever-so-slightly, and I feel the hard,
unbelievable length of him press firmly against my thigh. My eyes go wide as I
stare up at him, amazed by the enormity of his need for me.
“Yeah…I think I get it,” I breathe, letting my hands slide
down his cut torso, “Though I have to say, I wouldn’t mind getter a slightly
better handle on it…”
“Well Ms. Porter,” he grins, as I whip open the buckle of
his belt, “I’d be more than happy to give you one last lesson.”
The din of the bar is entirely drowned out by the frantic
pounding of my heart as Luke slips his hands up under my crop top.
“Go ahead, Prof,” I whisper, “I’m a fast learner.”
“My favorite kind,” he growls back, as I slide my hand down
the front of his blue jeans.
So consumed are we by our impromptu study session that we
don’t even notice as someone starts pounding on the bathroom door. We’ve got a
lot of material to get through, after all. And I have the feeling that I’ve
just discovered my new favorite subject: Lukas Hawthorne.
Chapter One
Sheridan University
Montana, USA
The Day Before…
I roll up onto the balls of my bare feet, perched on the
edge of the playing space. Across the stage stands my dance partner, Danny—a
quintessential all-American boy. He’s got wheat blonde hair, a toothpaste ad
smile, and an ego so big he’ll have to check it when he flies off to New York
City and becomes an instant Broadway sensation someday. I’m allowed to say as
much, as one of his closest friends—and because he’d be the first to tell you
the exact same thing. We’ve been rehearsing like crazy people these past few
weeks, working to perfect our final dance performance piece of the year. This
is our last rehearsal before we show it to our classmates and teachers
tomorrow, and our movement teacher Gary has agreed to watch and offer feedback.
Gary, a somewhat fluffy fifty-something man with wispy gray
hair, watches from the audience as Danny and I face off across the proscenium
stage. He’s a tough cookie, our teacher, and isn’t one to mince words. I’ve
learned so much from him in the three years that he’s been my movement teacher;
but above all, I’ve learned to cultivate an alligator-thick skin. And as
someone who plans to pursue a career in the performing arts, that’s about the
most valuable thing I could ever attain.
The song “Lebanese Blonde” by Thievery Corporation starts
playing over the auditorium’s sound system, and our dance piece begins. I let
my rational mind go quiet as my body moves into the space. Danny and I advance
toward each other as the song’s trippy, abstract introduction goes on. Our
choreography was carefully crafted to strike a balance between the styles of
modern and jazz, but I’m not thinking about all that now. I’m not thinking
about anything.
I’m simply moving.
Danny and I meet at center stage, mirroring each other’s
movements precisely as we mark time with the music. As I roll my body around to
face the audience, I catch a glimpse of Gary’s face. It’s pulled into an
exasperated scowl. I stumble to a halt as my teacher waves his hand
dismissively, signaling our resident sound technician to cut the music. He
does, and Danny straightens up with a start.
“Is something wrong with the track?” my friend murmurs in my
ear.
“No,” I tell him, “I think something’s wrong with
us
.”
“Impossible,” Danny scoffs, “We were flawless. Obviously.”
“I think Gary may have a slightly different opinion,” I
reply, plastering a phony smile onto my face as our teacher appraises us.
My friend and I stand side-by-side in front of our teacher.
My long blonde hair is arranged in a loose braid that hangs down my back, and
my body is clad in a tight black body suit. My full breasts and ass swell
beneath the black fabric, held up by thin straps that crisscross my toned back.
I’m no gym rat, but years of dance and yoga (plus the metabolism of a rabbit)
have landed me in pretty great shape. Though it doesn’t seem to be my figure
that has Gary looking so aggrieved.
“Can one of you please tell me what the assignment was for
this piece?” he asks in his slightly nasal voice.
Danny and I exchange a quick glance, each daring the other
to speak first.
“We were supposed to choreograph a dance piece,” Danny
starts, “In the tradition of—”
“What
kind
of dance piece, specifically?” Gary
presses.
“A…good one?” Danny offers vaguely.
“Good lord…” Gary mutters.
“A
partnered
dance piece,” I venture.
Gary gives me a good old slow clap, and I feel the heat
rising in my cheeks. I was expecting this performance to go perfectly. More
than anything, I wanted to end this year on a positive note. But it looks like
my teacher has other ideas.
“A partnered dance piece. Very good, Sophie,” Gary says, “So
then tell me…If this was supposed to be a dance between partners, why were you
following your own lead the entire time?”
I clench my teeth to keep my jaw from falling open.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t—” I stammer.
“You were, and you did,” Gary cuts in. “I could see Danny
trying to engage with you, but you were off in your own little world the whole
time. It was completely distracting. If anything, Danny should have been taking
the lead.”
“Because I’m the better dancer, you mean?” Danny asks
hopefully.
“Because you’re the man,” Gary says.
“That’s even worse,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.
“Not this again Sophie,” Gary groans, resting his head in
his hand.
“What?” I reply, unable to keep my voice from getting
heated, “I’m not allowed to take issue with the totally outdated practice of a
male dance partner leading at all costs? It’s 2015, for Christ’s sake—”
“I am trying to prepare you for a life in the arts, Sophie,”
Gary cuts me off, “A life that will, if you’re lucky, include getting paid to
perform. If you want to be out of a job because you can’t follow traditional
dance protocol without getting a hive of bees in your bonnet, be my guest.”
“Maybe I’m not interested in tradition,” I reply, folding my
arms.
“Fine,” Gary huffs, “Screw tradition, if you must. But I
didn’t stop your performance just now because you weren’t letting the man lead.
I stopped your performance because you still haven’t figured out how to work
with a partner at
all
.”
I suddenly find myself without any snappy comebacks to
dispense. He’s got me there. Since arriving at Sheridan University to study
dance and drama, collaboration has been my Achilles heel. My work has improved
by leaps and bounds when I’m working solo. I can deliver a monologue, belt out
a tune, or dance a solo piece with the best of them. But when it comes to
working with a partner, listening to someone else…I fall short every time.
“Sophie, you know I love you,” Gary goes on, hoisting
himself onto the stage and taking my hands gently in his, “I know why trusting
people, letting yourself care about people, is so hard for you. But it is
something you’re going to have to deal with if you want to be a truly great
performer.”
Sudden tears well up in my eyes as my teacher zeroes in on
what’s really been holding me back. Just before I started college here at
Sheridan, my family was dealt a huge blow. My father Archie was killed in a car
crash with a drunk driver back in our home state of Vermont. The loss
devastated my family, rendering my mother, Robin, nearly catatonic with grief.
My older sister, Madeleine, was already off at college in Washington, and my
younger sister, Annabel, was back at home with my mom. I was on my own for the
first time in my life, just when I most needed support.
Mere months after the accident, I found myself arriving here
at school for freshman orientation. I was closed off, hostile, and so,
so
angry. I’ve spent the past three years tearing down those defenses, working
through my grief in my acting, voice, and movement classes. My classmates and
professors have helped me more than I could ever have imagined possible. That’s
why it’s so goddamn frustrating to run up against my same old habits after all
this time, to be called out on a difficulty that I want to put behind me.
Really, what I want is for the wound of my father’s passing to heal. But of
course, it’s not the sort of thing you can wish away. If I live to be one
hundred, not a day will go by when I don’t feel his absence.
If only my baggage didn’t come crashing down on others quite
so often.
“I’m sorry Danny,” I say to my friend, swallowing down my
tears.
“It’s fine Soph,” he says, laying a hand on my back.
“You can’t rush progress, Sophie,” Gary says, “I know you’ll
find a way around this stumbling block. You just need to give yourself some
time.”
“Summer classes start in a few weeks… Do you think that’ll
be time enough?” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
“You’re incorrigible,” Gary sighs, “But hard-headed
stubbornness aside, I’m glad you’ll be doing the summer session this year.
There are some excellent people coming in from New York—they may be able to
offer you a fresh perspective. Since I, apparently, am far too
traditional
…”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” I laugh as Gary pulls
a melodramatic face.
“As the youths say, ‘whatevs’,” he shoots back flippantly,
hopping off the stage with more agility than seems possible, given his paunch.
“On that note, enjoy your summer. See you urchins in the fall.”
“What a charmer,” I mutter, as Gary takes his leave of us.
“That’s one word for it,” Danny replies, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe he cut us off like that.”
“Let me buy you a drink to make up for it,” I suggest,
grabbing my bag from backstage.
“It’s not even noon yet,” Danny points out.
“One word: Mimosas,” I smile, shrugging into my backpack.
“Acceptable at any time of the day. Or morning.”
“Don’t you have class or something?” Danny asks.
“Not for another hour,” I reply, “Plenty of time for a good
whistle-wetting.”
“You’ve got a problem,” Danny laughs, shaking his head.
“Come on,” I smile, lacing my arm through his, “Day drinking
is what college is for. If not now, then when?”
“That’s funny,” he says, letting me drag him toward the
exit, “I thought college was for building a practical skill set and—”
“Danny. We’re in
drama
school,” I remind him,
“Practicality has nothing to do with it.”
“Fair point,” he relents, “Lead on, Sophie. Isn’t that kind
of your thing?”
“Dickhead,” I mutter, giving my friend a playful shove as we
set off for our favorite taqueria. Nothing like pre-gaming an economics lecture,
am I right?
One hour and two drinks later, Danny and I have eased the
sting of our botched final rehearsal with a visit to P
equeñ
o,
home of the best tacos (and tequila) in town. We’ll have another shot at
performing tomorrow, anyway. No harm, no foul. I was lucky enough to be spared
the competitive perfectionist gene that my older sister Maddie most certainly
inherited. It’s a good thing, too—you can’t afford to be too precious about
rejection when you’re trying to be an actor.
“So is your class this afternoon the one with Professor Sexy
Pants?” Danny asks, polishing off the last sip of his drink.
“It is indeed,” I grin, “I have to say, I never thought I’d
actually enjoy one of my general education courses so much.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like it’s the class you’re enjoying,
so much as the eye candy,” Danny points out, “You couldn’t stand going to
lectures when that crusty old dude was giving them.”
“Thank god for jury duty,” I laugh, stretching my arms up
over my head. “Having Sexy Pants come in to sub was the best thing that could
have happened to my semester.”
“Does Sexy Pants have a name, or do his parents just have a
sick sense of humor?” Danny asks, lounging back in his chair.
“I believe it’s Luke,” I reply, “Lukas Hawthorne.”
“Professor Hawthorne,” Danny repeats with relish, “
Super
hot.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I laugh, “I can’t hear a word
he’s saying about personal finances, I’m too busy staring at that tight ass of
his.”
“That’s why I’m surprised you’re skipping class today. I
would have thought that you’d want to take one last gander before the semester
is over,” Danny says.
“I’m not skipping class,” I reply, sitting up straight in my
chair.
“Uh, yeah. You are, as of now,” Danny says, holding up his cell
to show me the time. It’s 1:00p.m. The appointed hour of my last economics
lecture of the year.
“Shit!” I cry, jumping to my feet and snatching up my
backpack, “I’ve got to go!”
“I’ll just put these on your tab,” Danny replies, nodding at
our empty glasses.
I dig a couple twenties out of my purse, chuck them in my
snarky friend’s direction, and take off like a shot out the door. The lecture
hall is all the way across campus. Good thing I’ve already got my sneakers on.
I race across the grassy lawns that sprawl between the buildings of Sheridan
University, dodging picnic blankets, study sessions, and more than a few
Frisbee games. Everyone is out and about, celebrating the end of the semester.
But not me. Hell, I’ll be back here in no time to take some summer performance
courses so I have the option of graduating early next year. Besides, I’ve never
been one for school spirit, so the festivities are rather lost on me.
Panting, sweaty, and a little tipsy, I finally lunge into
the economics building and wrench open the lecture hall door. A hundred people
swivel around in their arena-style seats to face me as I step through the
doorway, still wearing my skintight dance clothes. I know they say first
impressions are the most important, but this last impression might do a number
on my classmates’ opinion of me, too. Of course, it isn’t really my peers I’m
concerned with just now.
“Nice of you to join us, Ms. Porter,” says the tall, cut
figure facing the whiteboard at the front of the room. When that figure turns
to face me, I have to brace myself against the doorway to keep from tumbling
down the stairs that lead to him.
Lukas Hawthorne stands there in all his glory, as enticing
as he was the first day he showed up to take over our economics lecture. He’s
about six two, with a broad but balanced body. He wears his chestnut brown hair
cut short, and sports the tiniest hint of dark stubble on his distinct jaw. His
muscles have been honed by years of training for just about every sport there
is. I know, because he did that training right here at Sheridan. He’s a
legendary athlete around here, particularly in track. His gorgeous face is
plastered all over the marketing materials for the school. Those dark greens
eyes of his probably convince more people to enroll here every year than the
course offerings.