Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) (4 page)

Alone in my room, I hook up my camera to my laptop and
import the newest round of pictures. There are shots of my hometown friends
from the night of our last farmhouse party, of my journey from Vermont to
Montana, and even a handful from the woods this morning. My camera is my
constant companion, I don’t go anywhere without it. You never know when you’re
about to stumble upon something amazing. Something beautiful. I scroll down
through all the thumbnail images, running my eyes over the shots of Montana’s
lush landscape. But as I glance at the last picture of the batch, I feel the
breath catch in my chest.

There, in the center of the frame, is none other than Finn
Hawthorne.

I must have accidentally snapped a shot of him just before
he scared the shit out of me. He’s pictured striding confidently along the
path, easily bearing the weight of his huge backpack, the muscles of his
tattooed arms and broad shoulders rippling beneath his rugged clothes. His dark
blonde hair falls across his forehead, perfectly tousled, and the sharp line of
his jaw is emphasized by the shadowy forest light. Those golden eyes are fixed
firmly on the lens, and even now it feels as though his gaze is running right
through me.

I glance up nervously, making sure the bedroom door is
closed before I click on the thumbnail image. The shot of Finn expands, taking
up the entire laptop screen. I’m usually fond of my photographs, but my
fascination with this shot is of a whole other order. I feel as though I
couldn’t tear my eyes away from this likeness of Finn Hawthorne if I tried. And
sure, the fact that he’s simply a gorgeous man goes a long way to explain my
attraction. But there’s something else, something running beneath his
impeccably sexy surface that draws me in deeper with every passing second.
Something about his expression—his knowing, unsparing, unafraid
expression—makes me want to know everything about this man.

And, this being the digital age and all, that knowledge is
only a Google search away.

Feeling like a first class creeper, I pull up my internet
browser and punch “Finn Hawthorne” into the search bar. Maybe I can casually
peruse his Facebook page, get a better sense of who I’m dealing with here? A
little research never hurt anyone. But as the results load, it isn’t the usual
smattering of social media profiles that pop up. No Facebook page, no
Instagram, no OkCupid.
Nothing that betrays any
personal information at all. Instead, the page is flooded with hits for music
videos, live recordings, and publicity photos for a band called The Few.

The Few… I’ve heard of these guys before. One of my friends
back in Vermont took great pride in being up to speed with all the newest
things in music—the less mainstream the better. I’m sure he put on Point
Blank’s debut EP at one of my farmhouse parties. They’re a Portland-based rock
band, and apparently have a pretty big local following. Their sound is in the
same vein as The Black Keys, Kings of Leon, The Raconteurs. But what does any
of that have to do with Finn Hawthorne? I click through to the band’s main
website to find out.

The Few website looks pretty legit. This isn’t just some
garage band—they seem to be really established. There are west coast tour dates
listed, glossy PR materials, and even some merch for sale. A music video starts
playing automatically on the home page, and a pulsing, intoxicating guitar
introduction rings out through my room. I hurry to lower the volume, not
wanting to attract any attention, as a man’s face appears on my screen. It
isn’t Finn’s face that takes over my screen this time, though. This face
belongs to another guy, probably in his late twenties, with dark hair and
brooding eyes. His hair is shorn on the sides but long on top, the longer locks
gathered into a samurai bun on top of his head.

“That explains the hipster haircut…” I mutter, resting my
chin in my palm as the video continues. I’m into the band’s sound, and find
myself nodding to the mounting beat. They’re really onto something, even if the
video is more a tribute to the front man than anything else. As he begins
singing in a dark, gravelly, strangely magnetic voice, the camera finally cuts
to a wide shot of the band, arrayed across the floor of an abandoned warehouse.
I scan the faces of the three other musicians and feel a pulse of excited
recognition rip through my core.

There, standing just behind the long-haired front man, is
Finn Hawthorne. He’s got a classic electric guitar slung across his chest, his
feet planted firmly on the warehouse floor as he plays. The instrument is like
an extension of his body, his fingers moving effortlessly across the strings
and frets. He’s rocking black jeans and a charcoal tee shirt that strains
against his perfect pecs and biceps. His entire body seems charged with the
music he’s creating, not a single cell is inactive. His sleeves of tattoos
stand out in high contrast against his tanned skin, and his dark blonde hair is
shoved back from his sculpted face.

Again, it’s his face that captivates me more than anything.
His set jaw and fiery eyes are simultaneously still and expressive. The nature
of his emotion is complex, shifting between anger, passion, pride, and pain.
The raw, intense presence that he so naturally exudes overpowers even the
preening, pouting performance of the front man. No wonder the lead singer tries
to keep the camera solely on himself—the second it pans to Finn, he totally
steals the show. Without even trying.

I pause the video on Finn’s face just as his eyes flick up
toward the camera and pull up my candid photo of him in the forest, lining up
the two images on my screen. My eyes flit back and forth between the two
versions of this man I’ve barely met. How can this up-and-coming rock star be
the same rugged outdoorsman I came across in the woods yesterday? And why is it
so impossible to look away from him? In the music video, his gaze is full of
venom and adrenaline. In my photo, his eyes are inventive, cunning, and direct.
I was hoping to learn more about Finn Hawthorne by giving him the old
Google-stalking treatment, but I have more questions now than ever.

“Who the hell are you?” I murmur, leaning in close to my
laptop.

Without thinking, I reach toward the screen, tracing my
fingertips along the outline of his gorgeous face. There’s no use denying that
I find this man incredibly sexy. Sure, it’s weird that our parents know each
other, but I’ve learned not to let my mother’s dalliances run my life. If I
did, I’d never get anything done. She’s had plenty of lovers since my dad died,
and none of them lasted more than a few months. Even if she is getting it on
with John Hawthorne at the moment, that doesn’t mean it’s a serious relationship.
Certainly not serious enough to plan around. My smoldering fascination with him
has only been stoked by his mysterious life. As long as I can keep myself from
getting burned, I don’t see any reason to put out that fire just yet.

I jump about a foot in the air as my bedroom door clatters
open. Robin bursts in, looking every bit the earth mother in her flowing
bohemian layers. I snap my laptop none-too-subtly closed, clutching it to my
chest as she enters uninvited.

“What’re you up to in here?” she asks mischievously, eyeing
my computer. “A little afternoon porn session?”

“Yeah. Absolutely,” I reply flatly, rolling my eyes, “I
always love to take in an orgy after a long day of traveling.”

“You know I don’t judge people when it comes to their sexual
preferences,” she replies airily, “There’s no shame in embracing your erotic
power.”

I wonder if she’d be singing the same tune if she knew what
was actually pulled up on my computer. My mom’s a free-loving hippie, but
something tells me that even
she
would prefer I stay far away from Finn
Hawthorne. Crushing on the son of my mom’s current flame is just a little too
taboo to justify. To anyone but myself, that is.

“Now that my alone time has been compromised, is there
something you needed?” I ask my mother.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she replies, flicking a golden
curl over her shoulder, “I need a hand in the garden. The cherry tomatoes are
ready to be harvested.”

“There’s a garden here, too?” I ask, rising to my feet, “Is
there anything this house doesn’t have?”

“Not since my girls arrived!” Mom beams, lacing her arm
through mine.

“Ugh. You
had
to make it corny,” I mutter, letting
myself be led away.

And just like that, we set to playing house here in the
Montana woods. Despite my mumbling, I’m actually pretty content to be under the
same roof as my mom and sister again. We haven’t been in the same place for
this long since Dad passed away. And I can’t deny the fact that I’m super
intrigued by the prospect of scoring some one-on-one time with the youngest
Hawthorne brother.

Maybe there’s hope for this little vacation yet?

Chapter Three

My first full day at the lake house is surprisingly
pleasant. I make myself scarce, exploring the property and surrounding woods,
getting my bearings in this beautiful, remote place. I’ve always been the sort
of person who needs plenty of open space to think, unwind, and find my center.
And if there’s one thing this place has in spades, it’s wide open space. From
the cool, clear lake to the expansive sky above, everything feels just a bit
larger than life out here.

After having lunch with Sophie out on the back porch, I grab
my camera and set off to scope out the perimeter of the property. The late
afternoon sunlight does incredible things to the shadowy landscape around here.
Just as I’m completing my circuit and coming back around to the front of the
lake house, I spy a new car parked in the long driveway. I’d recognize this
beat up old number anywhere. I remember being incredibly jealous when Maddie
saved up enough to buy that clunker. My oldest sister must have just arrived.

“Hey, Annie Leibowitz!” I hear Sophie call from the
verandah, distracting me from a patch of Queen Anne’s lace that’s just crying
out to be photographed.

I glance up at the house, blinking in the bright sunlight.
Sophie stands on the porch in her yoga clothes, waving my way. And sure enough,
there’s Madeleine at her side, looking a little worse for the long drive from
Seattle.

Set side by side, you’d never guess that Maddie and Sophie
were related. Whereas Sophie’s body is all long, lean muscle and womanly
curves, Maddie’s is petite and compact, full of energy and ambition. Maddie’s
dark blonde “lob” is even at odds with Sophie’s long caramel waves. I don’t
make any more sense in the mix, being both the youngest and tallest, with
willowy limbs and the bright blonde hair we all had when we were small. The
only feature we all still have in common is the color of our eyes—light blue
with flecks of gold throughout. This is also the only tangible thing any of us
have inherited from our mother.

But they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, so
maybe the four of us are more alike than we seem, deep down. On the surface of
things, however, I don’t think you could put together a more disparate family
of women if you tried.

“Hi Maddie,” I call across the lawn, striding over to greet
my big sister, “Did you get lost or something? The day
’
s half gone.
”

“Probably just dragged her feet all the way here,” Sophie
says and I step up onto the deck, “Not that I blame you.”

“Uh-huh,” Maddie says, not at all convinced. My two older
sisters have always butted heads, but getting into it within five minutes of
being in the same place must be some kind of record. I feel a twinge of
preemptive exhaustion at the task of keeping peace between them for the next
couple of weeks. Somehow, it’s always come down to me to keep the women in my
family from ripping each others’ throats out. And something tells me this trip
isn’t going to be a particularly easy one to referee.

“Some place, right?” I observe diplomatically of the lake
house, “I can
’
t believe we get to stay here.”

“The question is
how
do we get to stay here,” Maddie
cuts in, hands on her hips. “I know we
’
ve never
necessarily been hurting for money, but this seems a little exorbitant for four
people. Don
’
t you think?”

Crap. She has no idea about John Hawthorne either. Or his
three strapping young sons. She’s going to lose her shit when she realizes what
Mom’s been hiding from her. Sophie grins wickedly as she comes to the same
conclusions.

“Oh, it
’
s not just four of us,” she
says to Maddie, riding high on schadenfreude.

“What do you mean?” Maddie asks, looking back and forth
between us.

“You don
’
t know?” I ask tentatively.
Surely Mom didn’t forget to tell
all
of us even the most basic details
about our stay here? Then again, this is
our
mom we’re talking about…

“Of course she doesn
’
t,” Sophie
replies, “Mom didn
’
t say anything about it to us.”

“Guys. What is it I don
’
t know?” Maddie
demands of us.

“
Ask Mom,
” Sophie shrugs, “I
’
m sure she
’
ll explain everything.”

Looking on as our mother appears on the porch and breaks the
news about John to Maddie is like watching a car wreck in slow motion. It’s
gruesome, and unsightly… and I can’t look away for a minute. Sure, I was
surprised to find out that Robin had been shacked up with John out here all
these months, and Sophie was less than pleased, but Maddie looks positively
gutted. She was closer to my dad than any of us, and held him up not only as a
great father but as a role model. Maddie had every intention of following in
his footsteps as an English professor, until he died. She was so destroyed by
losing him that devoting her life to literature, the way he did, was just too
painful a prospect. Whereas Mom’s affairs are annoyances to me, to Maddie
they’re affronts to Dad’s very memory.

On that note, I guess the pleasant leg of this vacation is
officially over.

My heart breaks for Maddie as she’s introduced to John
Hawthorne. The poor girl was completely blindsided by this house-sharing
arrangement. And her distress is only amplified when she finds out that we’ll
be sharing the lake house with John’s three sons as well. I’m actually
surprised by how hard she seems to be taking all of this. I get being annoyed,
but my oldest sister looks to be on the verge of tears by the time Sophie
steers her out to the backyard for some fresh air and a pep talk.

Something else must be going on
with
Maddie back in Seattle. To be honest, I know next to nothing about her life out
there. I know she works for a marketing agency, ReImaged, and has at least one
close friend that I’ve heard of. But when it comes to the rest of her life, I’m
totally in the dark. We’ve seen so little of each other since she went away to
college, I think Maddie still sees me as “Bambi”—the awkward twelve-year-old
bean pole I once was. That’s why I duck away to let her and Sophie have a
moment to themselves, taking a little loop around the huge house. They may
fight like crazy, but Sophie has always been good at soothing Maddie’s anxious
nerves when need be. Even as I look on from afar, Maddie lets out a little
laugh as Sophie brushes a tear from her cheek. Just like clockwork.

By the time I’ve rejoined them in the back yard, my sisters
have been distracted from their conference. They stand looking off toward the
woods, at the mouth of a wide path leading away from the property. My ears
catch the sound they’re keyed into—the roaring of a motor off in the forest. As
I look on, an ATV lurches out of the woods, speeding across the grassy lawn.
Straddling the growling machine is a heavily tattooed man, too inked-up to be
Finn. (How embarrassing is it that I can already say so for sure?)

“He doesn
’
t seem to be slowing down…” I
observe, stepping up behind my sisters as the ATV bears down. Maddie jumps a
little at my sudden reappearance.

“We need to get you a cowbell or something,” my oldest
sister mutters. 

“Is he going to stop?” Sophie asks, staring at the reckless ATV
driver.

“I have no idea,” Maddie says, stepping between me and the
quickly-advancing vehicle. Once a big sister, always a big sister.

As one, my sisters and I cry out in surprise as the ATV
turns sharply our way. The wide tires slice a deep rut into the perfect grass,
and I shield my eyes as gravel and dirt come flying our way.

“What the hell was that?” Maddie yells as the engine cuts
out. “Last I checked, running over your houseguests isn
’
t
exactly good manners.”

The driver lifts off his helmet, giving his brown curls an
impatient shake. In dark jeans and a black tee shirt, with lines of ink
darkening his arms and chest, he looks every inch a bad boy biker type. His
hair just barely brushes his collar, and his cruelly handsome face is twisted
into a scowl of displeasure. So, this must be the oldest of John’s sons. And
the meanest, by the looks of him.

“You wanna talk about good manners?” he all but spits at
Maddie.

I watch as my sister’s eyes go wide, so startled is she by
his venomous response. Her lips move soundlessly, and all the color seems to
drain out of her face. I don’t blame her for being scared—this guy looks like
he’s fresh out of a biker brawl. And not in a way I find particularly sexy.
Don’t get me wrong, I love myself a bad boy—just not the kind I suspect would
actually break someone’s neck for looking at him funny.

“Didn
’
t mean to spook you,” the eldest
Hawthorne brother says, grinning rakishly at the three of us, “You city girls
are awfully jumpy.”

City girls?
I think to myself.
I live on a farm,
for Christ’s sake.

“And you country boys are hard to track down,” Sophie
replies coolly, “Which of John
’
s boys are you?”

“I
’
m Cash,” he says, staring hard and
fast at Maddie.

“I
’
m Sophia,” Sophie goes on, “The
doe-eyed one is Annabel. And the short one right there is—”

“
Madeleine,
” Maddie squeaks, holding
out a trembling hand, “
Madeleine Porter
”.

Cash Hawthorne looks blankly down at her outstretched hand
as Sophie and I trade a puzzled glance. Why is she acting like such a basket
case in front of this guy? Surely she’s not
that
intimidated by his
rough-and-tumble routine. I guess the guys Maddie is used to tend toward the
clean cut and lawyerly. And to be fair, Cash's intensity is pretty off-putting.
So much so that I’d rather take him in small does if I can help it.

“Let
’
s… go see if Mom needs any help in
the kitchen,” I say, backing away slowly.

“God yes,” Sophie murmurs, joining my in my flight, “Hell,
we could use a knife to cut through all this male ego clogging up the air.”

We leave Maddie to fend for herself with Cash Hawthorne—call
it “exposure therapy”—and hurry back into the kitchen. Robin sits at the
roughhewn wooden table, flipping through some old cookbooks.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask her, leaning on the kitchen counter,
“I’m assuming we can just throw the Hawthorne wolf-men some raw steaks and call
it a night?”

“Ha, ha,” Mom trills, “Very funny. I still need a little
while to work out the menu for tonight. Why don’t you girls go get cleaned up
in the meantime?”

“No thanks,” Sophie says, popping open a bottle of red wine
across the kitchen, “I’ve got some important drinking to do. Something tells me
I won’t want to be entirely sober for this little dinner party.”

“You do realize that we’re not in a No
ë
l
Coward play, right honey?” Mom says to Sophie, without looking up from her
cookbook, “You can put the drama on hold for one evening. I promise it won’t
kill you.”

I sidle out of the kitchen as bickering erupts in my wake.
It takes all my will power not to put myself in the middle of their argument.
But I have to break out of the peacekeeper role at some point. Might as well
start flexing that muscle now. Besides, I really do need to slip into a clean
outfit before the younger Hawthorne boys get back from camping. After trudging
around in the woods all day, my current getup is looking more than a little
rumpled. I know it’s ridiculous, wanting to look decent for the Hawthorne guys.
But I guess this whole situation has me feeling a little ridiculous.

Stepping into my guest room, I close the door behind me and
promptly tear off my slouchy gray tee shirt. I can feel my nipples hardening
beneath my thin pink bra. It’s chillier out here by the lake than I’d expect in
the summer. Stepping out of my jean cut-offs, I glance at the standing mirror
hanging from the back of the bedroom door. My long, slender torso is white as
porcelain after a long winter hidden under sweaters and coats. I’ve never been
the tanning type—mostly because I’ve never once been able to achieve a bronzed
glow. My skin bursts into freckled madness if I spend more than fifteen minutes
in the sun.

I run my hands over the points of my hips, the modest swell
of my ass. Turning this way and that in the mirror, I try to look at myself
impartially. The few guys I’ve been with, along with all my girlfriends, have
always been crazy about my slim shape and well-placed curves. I’m fond of them,
too, but not because I just happen to be skinny. These long legs have carried
me along hikes and treks, these arms have embraced and opened wide to grab as
much of life as possible. One of these days, I know I’ll meet someone who will
love my body for what it can
do
, rather than just how it looks.

One of these days…

Turning away from the mirror, I’m just about to start
digging through my suitcase for something to wear when the bedroom door
clatters open. I glance up with a sigh, expecting to see my mother standing in
the doorway once again. We Porter women are used to seeing each other in
nothing but our unmentionables. Growing up in a mostly-female household, we all
got pretty used to wandering barely clothed. Nudity just isn’t a big deal for
us, because we know that the female body is nothing to be ashamed of. But as I
open my mouth to ask my mom what she wants, I feel it fall open in an “o” of
mortified shock instead.

Finn is standing on the threshold of my bedroom, his hand
still wrapped tightly around the doorknob. His face is frozen in an expression
of surprise—and not displeased surprise, either. For a long moment, it feels as
though time has simply ceased to function. While Finn is dressed in a variation
of his hiking outfit, with a red bandana tied across his forehead, I’ve got
nothing on but my pale pink bra and white cotton panties. But under Finn’s
awestruck, intent gaze, I may as well not be wearing anything at all. My erect
nipples ache as his eyes brush over them, a pang of anticipation throbs
steadily between my legs with shocking intensity. Finn’s golden eyes flash as
they rake down my slender body, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to cross
the room, catch me up in his arms, and take me right then and there.