Burned: A Stepbrother Romance (2 page)

“Peter Collins?” I throw at a nurse.

“Room 202.”

I swing into the room with Brock in tow. I expect to find Dad hooked up to machines, hoses, but he’s sitting there doing a crossword as if nothing’s happened at all. Only his gown and the patches attached to his chest suggest he’s just had a heart attack.

“Oh, hey, petal,” he says calmly.

Michelle’s sitting by his side. Her eyes look a little wider than usual.

I come to the side of the bed and take Dad’s hand, Brock standing by the door. “Jesus, Dad, you gave me a real fright.”

“You? I’m the one in hospital.”

“Is it stress?”

“I don’t know, hon. You know doctors, all mysterious.”

“Maybe it’s time to cut back on the jerky.”

He laughs. “Never.”

It suddenly dawns on me what it would be like to lose my father, my only blood relative left alive. A tear rolls in a hot line down my cheek, falling from my face to the linoleum floor.

He holds my face. “Maddy, there, there. Come on. I’m fine.”

“I know,” I sniff. “I just can’t lose you.”

Dad looks to Michelle and Brock. “Can you give us a moment?”

The two of them leave and I’m alone with dad. “Maddy,” he starts, taking my hand, “I’m okay, really, but things are… difficult at the moment.”

“What do you mean? Is it Brock?”

Dad shakes his head. “Your stepmother’s taken the brunt of
that
stress, but I’m afraid our financial situation isn’t fantastic.”

“I thought you’d just been promoted?”

He looks away, fiddling with a line running across the mattress. “I lied, hon. I was fired, two weeks ago.”

“Fired?” I can’t quite believe it. Dad’s been working for the same concrete company for ten years. Nothing’s been so stable.

“And you’re behind, the mortgage?”

“A few months.”

“Months?”

“I owe the taxman, too. You know me, Maddy. I’m no good with this financial stuff, neither’s Michelle. Your mother was always…” he trails off.

“Did you get a payout?”

He shakes his head. “They’re saying I was incompetent.”

The hairs bristle on the back of my neck. I’m raging hard, ready to storm down there in my uniform and set things straight. Dad senses it, squeezing my hand harder.

“There’s nothing you can do, Maddy. Let us sort it out.”

“You can’t just let them do that, Dad. You’re entitled.”

“I know, and I’m going to fight them.”

I want to press for more details, but then again I don’t want another heart attack on my hands either. “Just rest, okay, Dad. We’ll both take a look at it when you get home. For now, concentrate on getting better.”

My phone buzzes again. It’s the captain. I haven’t even called in yet. I’m suddenly caught in a hard place, the pull to stay with Dad strong but the need to make him proud even stronger. He does look normal. “I’ve got to go, Dad. You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.”

I go to leave, but he’s still holding my hand. “And Maddy, go easy on your stepbrother, hey?”

I’ve never quite understood why Dad’s always been so lax on Brock. Maybe he’s the son he always wished he had.
Some son.

“I’ll try.”
Like hell.

I pass Brock on the way back down the hall. Michelle’s MIA.

For once Brock looks generally concerned, a cup of coffee in his hand I imagine tastes like an ashtray. “Peter okay?”

“He will be.”

“You going back to work?”

I notice I’m shaking a little. Brock sees my hand twitching, the keys rattling. “Why don’t you let me drive?”

I don’t really know why, but I pass the keys over. “Why not?”

The ride to work is quiet. I’ve got a headache now the truth is out, now the transferal of stress is complete. I had a feeling something was wrong. In a way I’m glad it’s just money, that Michelle and Dad are okay, but in another way it’s just as bad. If they lose the house, I lose the flat. We all lose.

I can’t think about it anymore. I try to pull my concentration back to work, to the op.

I turn to Brock. “Take me out tonight.”

“What?” comes the startled reply.

“With your car buddies. I want to see what it is you get up to. You said I owe you, so there you go. It can be my penance.”

He looks perplexed. “Why?”

I’ve got to be careful here. “Call it curiosity, call it I just need a break, a change of scenery.”

He laughs. “I don’t think you can handle it.”

“A couple of boys and their toys? Try me.”

“Your funeral,” Brock snaps back, the air suddenly icy again at the word.

*

Work is an endless string of briefings. I get a wire, a rundown on who’s who in the club, but it’s sketchy at best. Even the police don’t have a lot to go on at this stage.

Dad’s not home yet when I get back. They’re keeping him in for observation. It’s quiet without the lights on in the main house, without the sound of Jeopardy streaming out of the windows, a salty TV dinner spinning in the microwave.

But the lights are on in the garage next to the granny flat. Brock’s wedged under the hood of his car, spannering on something, overalls caked in grease. He looks like he just stumbled out of
Deliverance
. I don’t even bother trying to say hi. I’m too exhausted.

I make my way inside and blast last night’s pasta. I write Brock a note telling him to lock the doors, sorry that I can’t come out, and collapse under the covers wondering how the hell everything has managed to change so fast and become so damn complex. I don’t do complex. I like things simple and straightforward, organized. I’m not Brock. I cannot live in a world of chaos.

Oddly, I’m still thinking about him as I fall asleep.

*

I wake sharply.

I roll over in bed, a single limp hand searching for the clock.

My eyes bug open. Two AM?

Brock’s got music blaring from the room next door. It’s like I’ve suddenly been teleported back to 2010. Back then I didn’t mind, but now I just want to sleep.

I tap the wall.

No answer.

“Knock it off. Now!” I add.

My door suddenly kicks open and I scream, pulling the blankets tight to myself.

Brock looks on fully dressed from the doorway. He’s wearing the same leather jacket he’s had all these years. I remember when he first bought it, before distressing was the cool thing. Now it’s looking suitably weathered. Oh what stories it could tell.

I’m really having a hard time closing my mouth. I thought I’d covered myself, but it seems not.

“Purple,” says Brock, noting the color of my bra. “Nice, but I had you pegged as a crimson kind of girl.”

“What the fuck do you want, Brock?”

He picks up a discarded pile of clothes in the corner and tosses them towards me. “You want to go out? You want to see what I get up to? Let’s go.”

*

I start to get a little alarmed when we begin to head out deeper and deeper into the satellite suburbs that ring the city center. This is where crime happens. This is real poverty. It’s
Cops
re-runs for days out here, 24/7, and we’re headed right into the thick of it.

Brock pulls off the main road and heads around behind a large factory, pulling up into a parking lot filled with a group of maybe ten cars that look like they were pulled straight off a toy shelf. I’m terrible with car models, but I know there’s a mix of vintages here—sleek Japanese imports and American musclers like Brock’s Camaro.

Brock pulls up beside what I’m thinking is a candy red Corvette, a stick figure of a girl approaching from the other side of the parking lot and waving through the windows. She spots me and waves in the exact same manner.
Weird.

Brock gets out of the car and she jumps onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her head into his shoulder. Under the sodium lights I now see her hair is bright pink.

There’s a weird sensation that scurries across my skin. I try to pinpoint it, prodding until I come up with the answer—I’m jealous.

I actually step back, a little frightened at myself by this realization.

Stick Figure hops down and Brock leads her by the hand before me. “Maddy, meet Birdie.”

She takes my hand, but only the tips of my fingers, shaking them like you would a tissue. “I’ve heard so much about you, Maddy. It’s so nice to finally put a face to the name.”

I look to Brock. “Cool.”

Did you just say ‘cool’? This isn’t
The Breakfast Club
, Maddy.

Even Brock raises his eyebrows.

Two more guys walk over. They seem like average Joes that stumbled into a sports store super sale. They introduce themselves as Jay and Axel, seem innocuous enough.

More guys follow, more hands shaken, eyes connecting—rarely with my own.

So this is Brock’s clique.

There’s a food truck selling sloppy burritos in the corner of the carpark. From time to time a car swings in and people get out, hanging around, grabbing their food and disappearing on their way. The smell of sweaty meat is heavy in the air.

“So, Maddy,” starts Jay, all of us gathered between the cars, my bum warm from sitting up against the Camaro’s grille, “what do you do for a crust?”

This is going to go down well.
“I’m a cop.”

Axel actually leaps off the bonnet of his car, slapping the ground in a weird, ‘say what?’-cum-krunk move.

I laugh. “Is it that bad?”

“Man, if I knew you were bringing the po-po around I would have prepared some mud,” Jay fires at Brock.

I give Jay the bird. “Very funny.”

“You in a special squad or something?” asks Birdie, fingernails scratching peeling duco off her equally pink Asian hatch.

“No, just general duties, I’m afraid. I’ve only been on the force a year or so.”

Brock’s watching me closely. I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face. He’s been acting weird, quiet. I don’t get it, but maybe it’s got to do with the scam they’re running. Maybe he’s thinking about business.

Jay points to Brock. “Your brother here’s had a few run-ins with the po-lice. Did you know that?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him in a while, sorry.”

I’m hoping these guys can shed some light on Brock’s whereabouts.

Jay looks to Brock, something I can’t quite grasp moving between them unspoken. “Got me out of a few tight calls, he has. I owe him.”

“I hope it was nothing illegal.”

“No, maam. We’re just a car club. Nothing more.”

“Sorry, what is it you guys call yourself?” I
am
genuinely curious.

“The Midnight Club,” says a shadowy figure walking up to the group.

“The what?”

“The Midnight Club. From Main to Second Bridge in twelve seconds. That’s the only way in.

“Second Bridge to Main in twelve seconds?” I stammer. “That’s impossible.”

The mystery man winks. “Not if you’re going quick enough.” He moves into the light, whispering something to Brock and then vanishing back behind the cars. I have to find out who he is.

The boys drift off to the food truck. I pass on a burrito, keen to go without food poisoning at this hour.

Birdie comes up right against me, bumping her skeletal hip against my own.

Apart from Birdie’s flamingo hair, she appears otherwise entirely normal. “So, you’re Brock’s sister, right?”

“
Step
sister,” I correct. People always seem to make that mistake. It’s not like we look
anything
alike.

“Oh.”

“Does he talk about me?”

“All the time. If I didn’t know better I’d say he’s got a thing for you.”

Curiosity piqued. “Really?”

“For sure.”

She doesn’t elaborate further and I don’t want to push. “You been with the crew long?”

“Couple of years.”

“Any of the guys take your fancy? Brock, perhaps?”

She laughs hysterically, forced to bend over. “Oh man, Brock? No way. Besides, I much prefer,” she puts her fingers up in a vee and places her pierced tongue between them, “you know…”

“Ohhhh,” I stumble.

“Why are you really here anyhow, and don’t tell me it’s about the cars. I know all about that POS Hyundai you get around in.”

Seems Brock’s been most forthcoming with information about me, but he doesn’t know everything. “Actually, I just wanted to see what he gets up to.”

“Racing, beer, talking shop… It’s a real cycle.”

“You don’t seem so interested.”

She turns to me, her eyes lit with a sudden intensity. “Don’t let their boy-wonder exteriors fool you. They’re good guys… mostly.”