Side Swiped By My Step Brother (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Emma

Four Months Later

Denis sat next to me in the oil painting workshop and I couldn’t help but be completely impressed by the life-like African animals he was able to paint on his canvas. You’d almost think they were photographs if you didn’t know better.

              But now, he’s poised above me, and his skills in the bedroom vastly pale in comparison to his skills on the canvas. He’s propped himself up on his forearms as he pumps his hips, his head thrown back, eyes closed. I know enough French to be able to get by, but he says something totally unintelligible and then pulls out and, lo and behold, comes all over my chest.

              He opens his eyes and looks at the puddle. “Wow,” he says, breathless. His gaze finds me and he grins, as though he’s just given me the best gift in the world. “That was incredible.” He rolls off of me. “Wasn’t it?”

              I grab the first thing my hand happens to brush against—his Gucci shirt—and I wipe his come off of my tits.

              “I think it’s time for you to go,” I say. He’s about to fall asleep, probably with the idea that he’ll wake up after a short nap and we’ll have an encore. No thanks. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” I hand him the shirt.

              “Oh,” he says, taking the shirt, looking disdainfully at the wet spot now covering the front of it. “I thought we might—”

              “No.” I shake my head. “It’s really time for you to go.”

              I lie there while he gets dressed. He stands there for a moment, in my tiny studio apartment, looking completely flummoxed.

              “Can I give you a kiss good-bye?”

              “I don’t think so.”

              Perhaps I should feel bad about treating him this way, but I don’t. Since arriving in Paris three months ago, I’ve had a handful of sexual encounters, ranging from serviceable (I got off) to downright mediocre (instead of getting off, I get come all over my tits).

              Denis’s shoulders droop a little, but then he straightens and gives me a little wave. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says, and then he’s gone.

              I get up and go into the bathroom. I’ve been renting this little studio in Paris’s 7th arrondissement, and it’s tiny but perfect—I’ve actually come to think of it as home, even though I’m on a month-to-month rental and the money that Zack loaned me will be running out sooner rather than later.

              I think about this as I stand under the warm water, washing all traces of Denis from me. I’d like to stay in Paris—maybe I could get a job at an art gallery or a café. I could continue taking classes, and maybe even enroll at the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts—that is, if I was accepted.

              But as an American girl, my time so far in Paris has been pretty wonderful, aside from the mediocre sex I’ve been having. That isn’t the reason why I came here though, and I frequently remind myself of this. I came here to focus on art, on my painting, and I’ve actually been able to do just that. My days are spent working on my paintings, going to the workshop, taking a break for lunch at one of the many cafes, and then getting back to work.

              It is a bit of a fantasy, an extended vacation that I’ve been living, and I know that I can’t keep doing this forever. I will have to get a job, I will have to enroll in school, or something. But returning to L.A.? Who knows.

              I’m less worried about it now anyway, since one of Megan’s friends has been subletting my room, and I deferred my enrollment for a year, but I’ve realized that I don’t actually want to be an architect. Sorry, Dad, but it’s just not the path for me.

              That is one thing that I leaned from Jai, whether or not he was aware that he was teaching it to me. You shouldn’t live your life based on what other people think, you shouldn’t try to mold your existence so it conforms to some socially or culturally acceptable idea of who you’re supposed to be or what you’re supposed to do. And it’s hard not to think about Jai, to wonder what he’s up to, if he’s got a new girlfriend, if he ever thinks about me.

              And I will have to see him at some point, I suppose, but maybe not. Maybe I can keep putting it off. Mom’s on the phone right now, and though she’s called under the pretense of just having a chat, I know that she’s eventually going to ask me if I will be coming home for Christmas, which is in less than a week.

              “And how is life in Paris?” she asks.

              “It’s good. I’ve been doing a lot of work with my painting. It’s just been really great to be able to spend so much time focused on it.”

              “I’d love to see some of your work. So would Zack. In fact, he was hoping that we’d be able to be your first customers. Do you have anything for sale?”

              “No, not yet. And I wouldn’t charge you guys.”

              “I’ve seen some of your paintings, Emma, and you’re very talented. And I know the stuff I saw wasn’t even anything you were taking seriously. I can just imagine what the quality of your work is like now. And remember, sweetheart, if you don’t take your work seriously, you can’t expect anyone else to, now can you?”

              “No, I guess you’re right.”

              “I am very proud of you. I will admit, it was surprising at first,” Mom says, “you just up and leaving like that. But at the same time, I’m proud of you for going after what you want, even if you had previously started down another path. A lot of people would have just kept on doing what they were doing, and maybe regretted that for the rest of their lives. I am proud of you, Emma. I want you to know that. And I’m happy you’re doing what makes you happy.”

              “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “It means a lot to me that you feel that way.”

              “That being said,” she continues, “I’d still like it if you would come home for Christmas.”

              “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

              “I want to see you! I want to hear about Paris, but I want you to tell me in person. I want us to be all together as a family. It’ll be our first Christmas all together.”

              That’s what I don’t want to hear, but of course I can’t tell her that. Perhaps if she had said It will just be Zack and me and your sister this Christmas then I would have given it some consideration, but if there is even the slightest chance that Jai will be there . . . no way. I just can’t do it.

              “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but I just don’t think I’m going to be able to make it home for Christmas this year.”

              She sighs. “Okay, Emma,” she says. But even though the disappointment in her voice is undeniable, there’s no way I can explain to her why I can’t come back. “And am I still keeping your exact whereabouts a secret? It seems a little odd, seeing as this much time has elapsed.”

              “Well, it’s not like you have to guard the information with your life or anything, but . . . yeah, I guess, if you wouldn’t mind not broadcasting it to the world, that’d be good. I like being anonymous. I like feeling as though I am out here and very few people know where I actually am.”

              “Both your sister and Jai have been wondering.”

              I bristle at the sound of his name. “Oh, really?”

              “Yes. Your sister especially—you know she doesn’t like secrets like this. She thinks she’s missing out on something. But I know Jai would like to know, too. I don’t see what the harm is in telling them.”

              Really, there probably wouldn’t be any harm in her telling them I was in Paris, but I really do like the sense I get that no one knows where I am. Especially these days, with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, people always knowing everything about everyone else. I haven’t been on any of those sites since I left. And I certainly haven’t visited any online dating sites, either.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jai

Four months back in London and things haven’t exactly gotten easier, as I assumed they would.

              On the plane ride back across the pond after leaving L.A., I gave myself a stern pep talk. It went along the lines of: Jai, you’re fine, you’ll get over this. You had some really great sex and got a little caught up, but you just need to get out L.A., you need to get back home, stop thinking about her, go out with the boys, go on a few dates, get laid. Forget about her and you’ll be back to your old self, pronto.

              To prove this point, I even wound up shagging the girl I sat next to on the plane ride home. After we collected our luggage, she invited me back to her flat, where we spent the several hours going through many of the positions in the kama sutra. This girl (I don’t believe ever actually formally introduced herself to me) was hot—tall, slender, thick blond hair, full lips and fuller tits—but the sex was nothing compared to what it would’ve been like if she’d been Emma.

              And then, wouldn’t you know, right when I’m about to come, this girl asks me to pull out and come all over her tits, which I do, all the while trying not to laugh.

              There have been a few other girls these past couple of months. My mates are perplexed, they don’t like seeing me like this, and they’ve set me up on various dates, some of which have ended with shagging, some which have not. But how exactly do I explain it to them? I can’t, so I don’t. I find myself working from home more often than not; we’ve got an office with a great view that overlooks the River Thames, but interacting with my colleagues—despite the fact that many of these people are my good friends—is more tiresome than enjoyable. Because I can’t stop thinking about her, and time is not making it any easier.

              In fact, right now I’m sitting on my couch, laptop next to me. I should be working on updating our company’s site (my mate William and I launched WorkIt two and a half years ago, which is a site for globe trotters and other travelers to find short- and long-term work wherever they happen to be in the world) or answering emails, but I’ve been holding Megan’s business card in my hand for the past five minutes, telling myself that I will call just one last time.

              Because I’m sure, at this point, that Megan thinks I’m a straight up psycho, but I don’t know what else to do. I may have called her a handful of times, but only because Internet searches have yielded nothing. While Emma does, in fact, have a couple of social media profiles, it would appear that she hasn’t visited any of them recently, and any attempts on my part to contact her through these sites have proved unsuccessful. I even went so far as to consider creating a fake Facebook page and messaging her from that, on the off chance that she was still using Facebook and just ignoring me, but then I realized how shitty it would make me feel if she were to actually respond to my fake profile.

              And I was holding out a shred of hope that she’d be there at Christmas, and hell yes I would fly back to L.A. for that, but I spoke to Dad on the phone earlier and he informed me that only Jessica and her fiancée would be in attendance for Christmas that year, and that Stephanie was rather upset about it.

              “So, where is Emma, anyway?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

              Dad coughed before responding, instantly making me suspect he knew exactly where Emma was but wasn’t about to tell me.

              “You know, she’s doing pretty well,” he said, and I didn’t point out that he was answering a question I hadn’t asked.

              So now, really, my only hope is Megan. She answers on the fourth ring, sounding rightfully wary.

              “It’s Jai,” I say in a rush. “And I’m sure you’re sick of me calling. I know I would be sick of me calling.”

              “That doesn’t even make sense,” she says. “Because you wouldn’t be calling yourself.”

              “You’re right.” I take a deep breath, and, not for the first time, wonder if I sound as psychotic as I feel at the moment. Have I somehow turned into one of those stalker ex-boyfriends? The sort of guy simply incapable of accepting the fact that someone doesn’t want to deal with you anymore?              “You really fucked her up, you know,” Megan says. “When she saw you with that other girl at the wedding? I mean, I know you guys weren’t technically boyfriend or girlfriend then, but she was actually coming to tell you that she wanted to be with you and then she walks in on you having sex with someone else. That really—”

              “Wait, wait,” I say. “She told you that?”

              “Yes.”

              “She told you she saw me having sex with someone else?”

              “Well, maybe she didn’t say those exact words, but she said that had she walked into that room any later then that’s exactly what would’ve been happening.”

              “But that’s not true at all. And I would’ve explained that to her if she hadn’t run off the way she did. That girl she saw me with is a friend of the family, someone I’ve known for a while, and she’s a lesbian! She had a little too much to drink and she wanted to lie down.”

              “In your bed.”

              “In my bed. So what! I didn’t realize there were rules against that. And if Emma had just waited a second I would’ve been able to explain that all to her and she wouldn’t have had to disappear.”

              “Is that really the truth?”

              “Yes—it really is the truth.”

              Megan sighs. “Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll tell you where she is. I’m partially doing this because I feel responsible, because I was the one who set up that stupid dating profile for her in the first place. I kind of wonder how things might’ve been different it I hadn’t done that.”

              “Maybe they wouldn’t have been different at all. Whether or not you set that profile up for her, our parents were still going to get married, we’d have still met.”

              “I know, but if you met first knowing that you were going to be stepsiblings, maybe you wouldn’t have started sleeping together in the first place.”

              “Maybe. Or maybe not.” I could just imagine the two of us meeting, the ridiculous amount of sexual tension that would be there, constantly. How long until we finally caved? It would’ve happened eventually, I’m sure of it.

              “She’s in Paris,” Megan says. “She’s gone to Paris, and she’s focusing on her painting, which is something that she’s wanted to do for a long time now.”

              “Have you talked to her recently?”

              “Last week. And she sounds like she’s having a really good time. So please don’t go over there and fuck everything up for her, okay?”

              “I promise.”

              Megan gives me the address. I’ve been to Paris a handful of times, and I know exactly where Emma’s staying.

              “Thank you, Megan,” I say before we get off the phone. “I really appreciate you helping me out.”

              “It’s not just you I’m helping out,” she says, and then she hangs up.*              While I do appreciate his concern, my mate William has gone a bit too far this time, setting me up on a blind date.

              “Just ring her up and tell her no,” I said to him, after he’d announced that I had plans on Friday night, courtesy of him.

              “Can’t do that,” he said, refusing to elaborate any further. “Besides—you need to get out and be reminded that there are plenty of other women out there. And that life is far too short to waste it pining over one specific person. It’s bad for the morale, Jai. No one wants to see their boss moping around, going through life in a perpetual funk. A couple weeks, maybe a month even—sure, we’ve all been there, but it’s been getting worse, if anything. So you’re going on this date. I’ve set the whole thing up.”

              “Have you even seen this girl before? Do you have any clue what she looks like?”

              He looks at me as though he can’t believe I would actually ask such a question. “Of course I saw her. I wouldn’t just send you off with any old person. Christ, that would probably set you back another six months. And this has already gone on long enough. So you’re meeting your date—Anabel—at Segue at eight o’clock. You better be there.”

              “Or what?” I said. “You’re going to fire me?”

              But, here it is, Friday night, a little after eight, and here I am, sitting at a table at this ridiculously posh restaurant, wondering what I’m doing. No, actually, I’m wondering about Emma. Now that I’ve got the information, now that I know where she is, I feel hesitant, I feel as though hopping on a plane and flying to Paris and showing up on her doorstep will be more a proclamation of my certifiable insanity as opposed to my true feelings for her. In other words, what I can’t help but wonder now if what I think of as a really romantic gesture is just going to convince her that I am no one she wants to be around.

              Because before I actually knew where she was, it was easy enough to be certain about my actions, were I to ever get her address. Before I knew the address, it was absolute fact that I would be going to see her—all I needed was to know her location. Now I’ve got it though. Now I’ve got it and suddenly things don’t seem so certain. In fact they—

              “Excuse me, are you Jai?”

              I jerk my head up—I’d been staring at the white tablecloth, transfixed with my own thoughts. A woman is standing there, a beautiful woman, wearing a tight red dress. She’s got black hair, pale skin, and the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

              “Yes,” I say, standing up so quickly that my chair almost topples over. “Yes, I’m Jai. You’re . . .” I struggle to remember the name William told me.

              “Anabel,” she says finally, smiling.

              “Yes, Anabel. I’m sorry—I’m terrible with names. Here, have a seat.” I go around the table and pull out the chair so she can sit down. Vaguely, I’m aware that everyone in the restaurant is watching us, some more conspicuously than others.

              “William said I wouldn’t be disappointed, and he was right,” she says when I take my seat again across from her. Her arms are slender, her wrists delicate. She’s got a thin gold ring on her right ring finger.

              “He told me the same,” I say.

              “And . . .?” One finely sculpted eyebrow shoots up half an inch.

              “And . . . much as I hate to admit it, he was right again.”

              She laughs, and her teeth are perfectly straight, perfectly sized, they look like they could be jewels in their own right.

              We get wine, and then we get appetizers, and then entrees. We talk and laugh, and when we’re done with our entrees, we order dessert—chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream. The cake is in the shape of a flower.

              And when we’ve finished, and the bill’s been paid, and we’re outside, I don’t even have to think about whether or not I should ask her back to my flat, because she invites herself.

              “Why don’t you show me where you live,” she says. “The night is still young.”

              Actually, it’s not, but I take her to my flat anyway. She stands in the living room, after inspecting my bookshelf.

              “William told me I was to give you some special attention.” She slides her shoulders out of her dress and wriggles out of it. Her bra is black lace, with a red bow. The dress lies there like a puddle, and she steps out of it, still with her high heels on. Her legs appear to go on forever, thighs not even close to touching. “William told me to make this a night that you wouldn’t forget.”

              She reaches around and unhooks the bra, lets it fall to the floor. Her breasts are round and firm, her nipples pale pink.

              Now, up until this point, I hadn’t actually been thinking about Emma. Anabel and I had had a rather pleasant dinner, which I hadn’t expected on a blind date, regardless of how hot the date was. She could hold up her end of a discussion, and that felt good. For the first time in quite a while I was able to get Emma off my mind. And that felt good, too.

              But here we are, and my cock is stirring, pushing against my pants, and Anabel’s stepping out of her g-string to reveal the skimpiest of landing strips. She’s standing here in front of me on those beautiful gazelle legs, calves marvelously accentuated by those high heels, those legs that run straight up to the curve of her arse, which looks almost delectable as her tits, even her collarbone is sexy, the resting point for the slender, delicate neck.

              She holds my gaze and brings her fingers to her mouth, licks them, and then puts them between her legs. She rubs herself and pinches her left nipple with her other hands. She begins to moan, just a little.

              All this is happening, and yes, my cock is getting harder by the second, trying valiantly to work its way out of my pants, but the most peculiar of things happens: I can only see Emma. I know it’s not Emma here in front of me, but that’s who I see, one hand rubbing herself, the other playing with her tits. It’s Emma voice I hear, biting back the little whimpers of pleasure. And it’s so strange because I’ve spent the better part of the night not thinking about her.