PULSE: A Stepbrother Romance (8 page)

PENSACOLA

PRESENT DAY

C
oming to Pensacola had been a
complete mistake.

I knew that
I’d been too hard on Saffron. She didn’t understand that I had to keep her at
arm’s length – ignorant of my feelings for her. Every syllable that I’d uttered
had filled my heart with regret, but I’d lashed out as hard as I could bear.

All because I
was still a coward.

The poor girl
had only offered me dinner. It was the perfect opportunity to forget all about
earlier in the day, to push everything out of my head. She must have envisioned
us chowing down and bonding over some comedy flick. Instead, maybe she thought
I’d convince her into watching a horror film – testing her mettle and
making her prove that she was nearly as tough as I was.

I turned onto
a side street, the wind whipping at my shirt and jeans. Under the streetlights
of Pensacola, I headed towards the interstate, uncaring where I went.

It wasn’t
good for me to focus on her while I drove.
Maybe
I should turn back
, I thought to myself
I
can just beg her forgiveness and tell her that I was being stupid. I wasn’t
feeling well. She’d hate me, but she’d believe me.

Perhaps there
was a part of the night I could salvage, after all.

But I had
just missed my turn, and now I was heading onto the interstate. Under the
orange glow of the lamps, I was already peeling towards the main throughway,
and I realized that my split-second decision had already been made for me. With
a small amount of regret, I stayed the course, not knowing how far I’d drive.

It wasn’t a
total loss. I was supposed to use Saffron’s credit card at places away from the
Beach House. Ownership of the house itself was shielded by three different
shell corporations, but there was no hiding a credit trail. It’s why the house
was so well stocked. If anyone was coming down to Pensacola to find Saffron, I
was supposed to make sure they didn’t find what they were looking for. As wind
whipped through my hair, I gave the throttle a little twist. This would all be
over soon and I could get back to my life… It was probably better that way.

SAFFRON

Chapter 9

PENSACOLA

PRESENT
DAY

S
awyer came back late that night. At
the time I was curled up in a thick chair, nursing a small carton of ice cream
and watching some 90s sitcom on Netflix. The door quietly opened and closed;
his motorcycle helmet softly fell to the couch nearby, and he ascended the
stairs without a word.

I wanted to
say something to him.

Fear
prevented me; I thought he’d lash out again.

It was
already 2AM in the morning, and I hadn’t slept since the long flight here. The
rest of the evening was spent tossing and turning fitfully in bed. Usually, I
was a rampant and colorful dreamer – but my confusion and fear
stole these things from me.

Several days
passed. I walked on eggshells around Sawyer, afraid of setting him off again.
To my chagrin, I realized that I was
dying
for his attention again. But I knew better than to try to reach out to him.

Instead, I
buried myself in my books. After a long afternoon of desperately trying to lose
myself in my backlog, I finally let go of my frustration enough to sink into a
story. This one was an alternate history book, the critically beloved debut
novel of a relative unknown. After eight years of research, it begged the question:

What if Eisenhower had been the first elected
Presidential WOMAN?

It was a
ridiculous concept to me, but the author was clearly a fanatic of the time
period – and of the titular president him(her?)self. I could see a fair
share of immediate logical fallacies in the work, and the writer’s grasp of
recent political history was somewhat
tenuous
,
but it was a compelling enough read nevertheless.

That one was
a little denser than my usual reading fair, so I strove for something lighter
and fluffier afterwards. If undisturbed, I could typically finish a book in
under a day, unless it was an absolute doorstopper like a lot of the weird but
wonderful fantasy writers out there. I didn’t engage that genre often, because
it wasn’t typically my thing; however, there were a few that came highly
recommended down the pipeline, either from a few bookish friends or from
critics I loved.

This one,
“Seventy Suns,” was no different. It had been sitting on my shelf for a few
months now, and a few friends had been pressuring me to finally tackle it
– asking every couple of days if I’d started. It was always the same
thing:
Oh come on, you’re gonna love it
or
even something like
I’m not talking to
you again until you get to Chapter
17. If there was a particular part of
the book that was mentioned, it was usually that one.

I eyed the
book carefully, holding it in my hands. Even as a hardback, it was still thinner
than some of the
really
hefty books
I’d read. Sitting at a typical page count in the near 300s, it was one of the
more reasonable fantasy books that I’d read.

Across the
front was a painting of a young, female pirate, the tip of her sword held
valiantly high as she stood atop the edge of her pirate ship. The background
was an inky black; mist surged all around her, giving it that strong,
edgy
look that a lot of contemporary
pieces seemed to go for in the last few years.

I buried
myself in the book, but it took me a while to get into it. Often, I’d grow
bored with it, setting it down to favor something else. It wasn’t anything with
the writing style, which was great; the imagery and the details were pretty
fantastic as well.

Guess it just
wasn’t my kind of tale.

I eventually
persevered, and when I finally hit the single page that was Chapter 17, I
suddenly understood – and then I couldn’t put the book down. I’d already
read three other books from front-to-back while trying to get through
just this one
but, with six chapters to
go, I couldn’t fathom dropping it.

I won’t spoil
it for you.

It was pretty
awesome, though.

By that
point, I realized that I hadn’t seen Sawyer in a few days. In fact, it had been
close to a
week
. But I was determined
to not be the one to break the silence with the jackass, even if I was willing
to peer out of the corner of my eye when he walked down the hall, or scrounged
around in the kitchen while I was watching television.

Of
course
he was always shirtless. The
asshole just loved to strut his body around like it was on freaking display.
Getting a good look at his muscles, even a brief or sideways glance, revealed
those achingly wide shoulders, rippling arms, and washboard abdominals. If he
had been anyone else, I’d have been salivating at the very thought of running
my fingertips down that
incredible
musculature…

Quit it
, I would have to remind myself.

He’s not just an asshole. He’s your BROTHER.

Well…
stepbrother
, at the least. So what if I
admired how he looked? He took damn good care of himself, and it really showed.
As fucked up as it was, when I got really bored while he was off doing whatever
the hell he did, I’d slink into my bedroom and masturbate…mentally slapping
some celebrity’s face onto his body.

I tried my
best to separate Sawyer himself out of the situation, although I couldn’t help
it. I’d masturbated to him before, when we were younger. Even before he got all
super hot
on me, I was attracted. I
could only barely deny it to myself. It was always on the fringe, like trying
to remember something you’ve forgotten and it’s
just on the tip of your tongue
.

But I
wouldn’t finger myself to
him
.

There’s no
way I’d let him get into my head like that.

In the
meantime, while I read books and loitered around the house, I decided to make
good use of the city. Luckily, I didn’t have to call Hensley every time I
wanted a trip into the city, nor did I have to summon a taxi with ridiculous
fares and questionable quality. Instead, I went the
Uber
route, pulling up my iPhone app and sending out a digital
beacon for a driver. Ten minutes later, a sleek, small black car would pull up
in the driveway, and I’d be escorted wherever I wanted to go.

It was
usually some college kid, sometimes someone in their upper twenties. The rides
were friendly enough, but I never wound up with the same driver twice. That was
fine with me – I’d indulge the driver with small talk, but I wasn’t out
to make friends.

Instead, I
was out to see the sights.

If I just so
happened to get some
serious
shopping
done at the same time then, well, that was a cross I was willing to bear.

The drivers
gave me recommendations when I asked for them, and they helped me stay out of
the saturated tourist areas. I heard a lot of good information on which
attractions were the ones to visit and, after a shopping trip or two, decided
to take a look at the Pensacola Lighthouse.

We had never
been to the lighthouse during our vacations. I’d asked to go a few times, and
Sawyer had even backed me up on it, but our parents had turned down the
occasion time and time again.

Admission was
cheap, just a couple of dollars. What I hadn’t been prepared for, however, was
the
climb
. I’d foolishly figured that
there was an elevator or something to the top…I mean, why
wouldn’t
there be? But that wasn’t the case. Instead, I had to
ascend
177 steep stairs
with a
handrail to climb the spiral to the peak…

But that view
was
breathtaking
. While the museum
portion of the lighthouse was interesting enough, giving a solid glimpse into
the history of the place (and a few ghost stories), it was the sight from the
top that really made it all worth the while. The Naval base wasn’t far, and it
looked positively
tiny
from my
vantage point…and then there was the ocean.

The
magnificent, incredible ocean.

While I
stared at that ocean, I thought about my life. I felt so small and
insignificant in that place, staring at that gorgeous palate of nature. I
reflected on the few memories of my biological father that I still had; I
drifted through early recollections of life alone with my mother, and how
stressed she had been until my trip to Bristol; I thought about Chet, and the
changes that he had brought to our lives.

I even
thought about Sawyer.

Why was he
even here? What had Dad said to him that made him come back? Why had he agreed
to come down to the beach house? Dad could have hired any number of body guards
and private security. Why Sawyer?

It occurred
to me there were lots of questions left unanswered.

As much of an
asshole as he was, and as obvious as it was that he wanted to stay out of my
life, I couldn’t help but still be drawn to him. I couldn’t put my finger on it
– or
wouldn’t
. I was still
afraid of him, and how angry he had been acting, but maybe he would soften up. There
had to be a reason he came… I wasn’t sure.

It didn’t
make things any easier. I couldn’t understand how someone could hate me as much
as he did, and as I stared over that beautiful ocean view, it killed me a
little inside.

SAWYER

Chapter 10

NEW ORLEANS

THREE
½ YEARS AGO

G
ary, somewhat unsurprisingly, turned
out to be a greedy son of a bitch. We were reaching maximum capacity on what
the police could turn a blind eye towards, and every weekend he was determined
to make a few more bucks than the last. When the intake weakened, he’d drop our
prizes to compensate, or threaten to downsize the teams.

It became
clear that he was a loose cannon. He was going to milk this side business dry
and take us all with it. It was like Slippery Pete said:
Stubborn bastard. He stays the course, man. No matter where those
tracks go.

We all knew
what was coming the night that he threw gambling into the mix. His criminal
associates, while still small fries in the seedy underbelly of New Orleans,
were dangerous on their own. They may have been smaller cogs in the overall
machine, but as men they were still tied to some very powerful men…men who were
otherwise untouchable.

And weaker
links in the chain can be broken.

It was only
by dumb fucking luck that Slippery Pete happened to have a grudge against my
opponent. He didn’t explain what had happened or why
this asshole
was the one guy in the world who could piss him off by
sheer virtue of
continued existence
,
but it should have been me in the ring.

The fight
started chaotic. Slippery Pete was a skilled Brazilian Jiu-jitsu practitioner,
having studied the art for a decade and a half – showing how little
Gary’s little street fighting enterprise had progressed until I showed up. But
sheer talent backed up his son’s years of hard work and dedication. As I
watched him weave and dance in the ring – now an impromptu cage with the
addition of a tall, thick wire-link fence – I realized that I would
have been caught completely off-guard if this guy had ever faced me. That went
double
if I had pissed him off anything
like this other contender.

Just like the
other fighters, I hung around on the other side of the improvised cage, against
the back entrance to the bar. While we were covered with an overhang across the
area, I felt an odd sense of claustrophobia.

Maybe it was
our esteemed guests. While the usual throng of spectators was here, there were
a small handful of competing criminals. I had actually worked for a few of them
during my weeks of punishment, seeing their brutality up close and personal.

Oddly, one of
them wasn’t here.
The Naysayer
, they
called him. His absence left something in my stomach. I’d spent one night on
his bodyguard detail, and he was the shrewdest out of them all. The tale went
that he got his name from his habit of turning down most of the work that came
his way…he didn’t like to take risks, and if there was a shadow of a doubt
whatsoever, he said
no.

Hence the
name.

In hindsight,
I should have seen it coming. While the criminals set their grudges aside and
gambled against one another over the fights in a completely disorganized mess
(with such unregulated bids as
Team Red
wins, Piledriver is knocked out during the night,
and
Barber defeats Slippery Pete
), I couldn’t shake the feeling that
something was up.

Excusing
myself from the other fighters, I slipped inside the bar to take a piss. The
place was locked up from the other side and empty, and that’s why I heard the
glass break and the door swing open.

I was just
about to flush the toilet when the noises registered. Quietly popping the
Employees Only
door open from the other
side, I could see a large group of officers fanning out from across the door,
flashlights held against their pistols.

Fuck
.

A major flaw
in getting back outside was that there was no exit from the backrooms. This
left me with the realization that
someone
was about to check this door, and besides trying to hide in one of these
painfully open rooms, I’d have to slide back upstairs.

But I was
heavy from my training, and the stairs were loud in the middle of the night.
Letting the door quietly rest against the frame, I backed up slowly,
considering my options.

It all
happened at once.

The sudden
burst of deafening activity from behind the walls told me that the raid party
had sprung upon their prey. Loud footsteps bounded into the building –
probably the other fighters – and I heard the police fly into action. In
the midst of the commotion I ducked into a side room and quickly retrieved my
wallet, then flew up the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible, hoping
against all fear that the sounds were drowned out by the cacophony of
commotion.

The door
didn’t fly open immediately, but I was going to be above everyone soon. I was
unfamiliar with Gary’s living areas, and I needed an escape. Fast.

The muffled
sounds of authority figures called commands to the throng of people, and a few
gunshots were fired to keep everyone in line. I thought of the layout of the
nearby buildings, and how I might best use them to my advantage. The alleyway
beside the bar led around to the shelter behind, and was clearly filled with
police. However, on the other side…

I darted into
what looked like Gary’s bedroom, lifted a window, and poked my head out. There
was a large sign, obstructing anyone from seeing me; I could
probably
reach it, but whether or not it
would hold my weight…

Ducking back
inside, I knew I looked conspicuous. Completely unclothed besides a pair of
shorts, I was going to stand out and attract the eyes of any officers in a
half-mile radius.

I knew I
didn’t have much time. Quickly pulling the drawstring to his tiny closet, I
grabbed a hoodie, some jeans, and a belt. Ripping my shorts off and throwing
them into the back of the closet, I threw everything on over my boxers and
zipped the belt up as close as I could. There was a pair of sandals here
– I took those too, and then pulled the string back down…but not before
my eyes fell upon a small box in the room, with the lid slightly askew.

There was a
paper bill, barely sticking from the top.

I quickly
emptied the box: I couldn’t tell in the semi-dark how much it was, and I
stuffed everything into my jean pockets. Considering that I had only ten bucks
to my name, whatever my asshole proprietor had shoved in here was probably
enough to get out of the city.

Not like you’re gonna need it anyway,
I thought to
myself.

I could hear
the door slam downstairs. I immediately flocked as silently as possible to the
window, shoving the sandals into the front pocket of the pullover hoodie.
I need my skin for this,
I thought to
myself.
The last thing I want is these
oversized things to fucking slip and send me falling to that pavement.

I pulled
myself out of the window and clung onto the sign, praying that it was anchored
enough to withstand balancing me. Climbing out and standing with my feet on the
sill, I held onto it, shrouded from the moonlight and hidden from anyone coming
into the alley. I slowly pulled myself to it, realizing that I could improvise
a shaky, death-defying climb with it.

I’m a street fighter, not a fucking action hero,
I thought to
myself. But the movement I could hear from the stairs convinced me, at least
for just a few minutes…
oh yes I am.

I climbed
just out of view and froze, afraid of tipping anyone to my location. The sounds
of police officers raiding the bedroom came to my ears, and I knew that the jig
was up – someone was going to peer through the one, obviously open
window, then look up…

Miraculously…that
didn’t happen. I heard the window
close
as
some incompetent cop muttered about a draft.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Once the
sounds faded away from the bedroom, I quietly crawled up the sign, hoping I
wasn’t about to slice my hand on something and plummet to the unforgiving
concrete below.

The sign
stretched up to a third story – what it was, I had no idea, nor was I
interested in stopping to find out. It affixed to the top of the building, and
I paused to gather my courage.

Swinging a
hand free, I grasped the ledge. My other hand grappled to it, and I almost lost
my handhold. With my feet against the wall –
thank god I didn’t try this shit in shoes
– I pulled myself
up and onto the top of the building.

There wasn’t
time for celebration. I had to get as far away from here as possible, but I had
the luxury of being able to
run
now.
Ensuring my wallet was still on my person, I bolted across the floor, ducking
around the air conditioning units and the various metallic pipes. The next few
buildings were smacked up against this one, all with a level enough floor, and
I needed to break for it.

I crossed
over four or five buildings before another alley crossed my path. My eyes
spotted a fire escape down the side of the building – I slapped the
sandals on, dropping to the floor. As I raced down the stairs and around to the
other side, I disengaged the fire escape ladder.

It had been
my intention to catch it and lower it, but the thing dropped with such severity
that it was impossible. With a loud, echoing
succession of noises, it fulfilled its role and gave me a ladder to the
ground.

I didn’t have
time to waste – if anyone with a badge
heard
that and was coming, it was all over anyway. I practically
slid down to the ground and raced to the edge of the alley.

There were
some cops in sight, but they were preoccupied with the raid – none of
them were facing my way. Pulling the hood over my head, I casually strolled
away from the scene, keeping near the buildings. Nobody called after me; nobody
tackled me from the dark.

An hour
later, I arrived at the Greyhound station that had brought me to New Orleans.

Hello, old friend,
I warmly
greeted the station as I approached a ticket kiosk. There was only one question
to answer… Where was I going to go? I stared at the list of destinations. A bus
was headed out to Los Angeles in the morning. I could find myself a quiet
corner of the station and wait… There was Seattle even later in the day, and a
few Midwest destinations where I could bore myself to death counting fields of
corn.

No… I was
running now. Running from all the things I’d done. There would be questions
asked about the bust, and far as I knew, I was the only one who got away.
People tend to put two and two together, even if the answer isn’t four. Half
the criminal underworld was at that fight. They’d be looking for a patsy.
Somebody would be laying this one at my feet.

The next bus
was leaving tonight, heading towards Pensacola. There was a city I never
thought I’d see again. I’d spent plenty of time there with the family at my
fathers Beach House, but that was years ago. Nobody would recognize me. I could
blend in… But there was another reason to go.

I knew
someone there. Someone I could trust. Someone who could get me back in the
cage… Fighting was in my blood now, and no amount of fear or danger was going
to keep me from it.

I retrieved
some of the wad of bills and bought the ticket.

Within
fifteen minutes, I was on the bus and seated by myself. There weren’t many
people here – and most of them had paired off or formed small groups
between two rows – and I chose a row by myself in the middle. Peering
over my shoulder, I realized that nobody was paying much attention to me, and I
decided that it was time to count my resources.

I pulled the
bills from my pocket, flattening them in my hands and counting them out before
sliding them into my wallet.

Over three thousand dollars,
I choked to
myself. I felt bad, but it would have ended up some corrupt cop’s Christmas
bonus if I hadn’t taken it. Now, at least it offered me a way out of here. As I
slid the wallet into my pocket, Slippery Pete entered my mind again, and I
reflected on him with remorse.