Stepbrother Bastard (2 page)

“
I
’
m
gonna miss you at work while you
’
re
away,
”
Allie goes on, tugging my
train of thought onto another track.
“
It
’
ll
just be me, the Dragon Lady, and Mr. Intriguing finishing up the campaign while
you
’
re
gone.
”

I
chuckle at her cheeky descriptions of our agency
’
s
co-founders, Carol (the so-called Dragon Lady) and Brian (who insists on using
the word
“
intriguing
”
at least twenty times a
day, usually to describe the most mundane things imaginable).

“
If
it makes you feel any better, I
’
m not expecting the trip
to be a laugh riot,
”
I reply.
“
The
Porter women don
’
t do particularly well in
enclosed spaces.
”

“
Oof.
I hadn
’
t
thought about that
…”
Allie says,
“
Which
one are you worried about butting heads with this time?
”

“
Oh,
just all of them. As usual,
”
I reply with a wry laugh. While the shared
grief of our father
’
s passing brought us
closer in some ways, the long-standing differences between me, my two sisters,
and our mother have never ceased to cause trouble.

As
long as I can remember, each of us Porter women has marched to her own
distinctive beat. I was always the bookworm of the family, hoping to follow in
my father
’
s footsteps as an English professor.
My middle sister, Sophia, always skewed a bit darker and more rebellious. Our
baby sister, Annabel, is in some ways the most stable one of us all, though
that makes her pragmatic and blunt, sometimes to a fault. But above all, it
’
s
our mother, Robin, who
’
s always keeping us on
our toes.

When
my sisters and I were little, we fancied our mom to be some kind of fairy
queen. We grew up in an old farmhouse in Vermont, just far enough away from Dad
’
s
university town to feel like another world; a world spun magic into magic by
Mom
’
s
presence. She
’
s always been stunning, with vibrant
blonde hair and blue eyes with specks of gold
—
eyes
my sisters and I all inherited from her. But while she was beautiful and
imaginative, it always felt as though she was floating just out of our reach.
And whenever one of us tried to pull her down from the clouds, she
’
d
snap from good fairy to bad fairy in an instant. She
’
d
become impatient and dismissive, as if she resented us for the responsibility
we came along with.

Mom
’
s
a wonderful visual artist, a true maker, and her mind is always on the next
inspiration, the next piece. She loved me and my little sisters dearly, but she
preferred to nurture her works of art, rather than us. It was always our sturdy
father we turned to for stability. He kept us all rooted to the ground while my
mother drifted up, up and away; shoring up the moon and stars as we looked on
with wonder. But since Dad has been gone, the rest of us have scattered to the
wind.

And
the thing is, I
’
m starting to think that
we
’
re
actually better off that way.

“
At
least you have a new mission to distract you from all the family drama,
”
Allie points out,
wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“
Yeah,
”
I laugh,
“
Maybe
I
’
ll
be thanking you for this little dare by the time I get back.
”

“
We
shall see,
”
Allie
says smugly,
“
We shall see. Hey, when are you
shoving off?
”

“
As
soon as this little wine buzz wears off,
”
I tell her,
“
I
really should have left right after work, but I wanted a little hang session
with my best friend first.
”

“
And
I
’
m
sure that has nothing to do with not wanting to spend a few extra hours with
your family tonight, right?
”
she teases, nudging me playfully.

“
Why,
I have no idea what you
’
re talking about,
”
I say, widening my blue
eyes with mock innocence.

“
Sure.
Right. I totally believe you,
”
Allie laughs.
“
Well,
I hope you
’
ll at least try to have a good time.
Maybe the whole thing will surprise you.
”

 “
Maybe
…”
I allow,
“
Though
whenever my mother is involved, any surprises that crop up don
’
t
tend to be particularly good.
”

“
Good
ol
’
Robin,
”
Allie says, shaking her
head,
“
I
can
’
t
wait to hear what shenanigans she
’
s
got cooked up for you out there.
”

“
That
makes exactly one of us,
”
I reply, polishing off my wine.

After
a bear hug and a reminder of my hookup-related marching orders, Allie hits the
road. Now there
’
s nothing standing
between me and the impending family reunion besides eight hours of driving
split up by one night in the cheapest motel I could find along the way. How
’
s
that for a luxurious getaway?

As
soon as my buzz has faded, I steel my resolve, grab my gigantic suitcase, and
bid adieu to my shoebox of an apartment. My iPod is loaded up with Florence and
the Machine, Muse, and Bruno Mars. If I have to face the music, it may as well
be the kind I can belt out on the highway.

Chapter Two

The
aged, blue-haired motel receptionist looks at me skeptically as I do battle
with my gigantic suitcase, trying to get the damn thing through the front door.
Smiling through my embarrassment, I finally roll the behemoth up to the counter
under her heavy-lidded gaze.

“
Hi.
I
’
m
just checking in for the night,
”
I tell her,
“
The
name is Porter. Mad
—”

“
And
how many of you are there?
”
she cuts me off, crossing her round arms.

“…
Pardon?
”
I reply, taken aback.

“
How
many of your little friends are waiting out there to sneak in the second I turn
my back?
”
she goes on huffily,
“
I
wasn
’
t
born yesterday, you know. I know how you young people try to take advantage,
sneaking around when my back is turned. We charge by the person, not just by
the room
—”

“
Um.
It
’
s
just me staying here tonight,
”
I tell her evenly, choosing not to be
offended by her assumptions.

“
Uh-huh,
”
she drawls, unconvinced.

“
Ma
’
am,
I
’
m
really just stopping here to sleep,
”
I press.

“
And
what
’
s
a sixteen-year-old girl doing on her own. In a place like this. At midnight.
With a suitcase full of god knows what?
”
she asks, narrowing her
eyes.
“
Answer
me
that
.
”

Ah ha
. That
’
s
what
’
s
going on here. By now, I should be used to it. Despite the fact that I
’
m
24, my 5
’
3
”
height and petite figure
tend to give people the impression that I
’
m
a teenager. Most of the time, I
’
m mistaken for the
youngest Porter sister, rather than the oldest. But hey, I
’
m
sure I
’
ll
get a kick out of that someday. Without another word, I take out my driver
’
s
license and slide it against the sticky counter.

“
This
should put your mind at ease,
”
I say briskly,
“
And
as for the suitcase, well, I
’
m afraid I
’
m
just something of a compulsive over-packer.
”

The
would-be gatekeeper inspects my ID, peering through thick bifocals. At last,
she seems to be satisfied that I
’
m
not going to be throwing a keg party in my motel room. Or hiding a keg in my
luggage, at that. But she
’
s not quite done with the
third degree yet.

“
There
won
’
t
be any
men
stopping here to meet you, right?
”
she asks, giving me a not-too-subtle
once over.
“
Please tell me you
’
re
not
that
kind of girl.
”

I
can feel my blood rising to a low boil. If there
’
s
one thing I have no patience for, it
’
s
shaming women on the grounds of their sexuality. My mother may be spacier than
Sputnik, but she taught my sisters and me
to
be fiercely feminist in our thinking. I believe that every woman should have
the freedom to make her own choices about her body, whatever those choices
happen to be.

“
Tell
you what,
”
I
say to the woman behind the desk,
“
Let
’
s
just say that I
’
m the kind of girl who
would like the key to her motel room now, please. Unless you
’
d
rather I find somewhere else to spend my money tonight.
”

“
Ugh.
Fine,
”
she says hurriedly,
thrusting a square of scuffed plastic my way,
“
Have
a lovely evening,
Miss
.
”

I
grab my key and do my best to make a dignified exit, onerous baggage be damned.
My room is on the ground floor of the split level motel, overlooking a
leaf-clotted swimming pool and a stretch of highway. In one direction lies
Spokane, Washington; in the other, Montana. I
’
ve
still got half a day
’
s drive before I reach my
destination, a lake house my mother
’
s
rented for the summer in her old hometown. At least, she described it as a lake
house when we talked on the phone. For all I know, it
’
s
actually a yurt. And come to think of it, she never mentioned renting
specifically
…
we could very well just be squatting.
You never can tell with Robin Porter.

Nudging
the door open with my shoulder, I trundle into my darkened room. I decide not
to inspect the space too closely
—
ignorance
is bliss. After a cursory sweep for cigarette butts, condom wrappers, or dead
bodies, I flop down onto the bed and gaze up at the water stains that blossom
across the ceiling.

Though
it
’
s
nearly midnight after a long day of work, suddenly I
’
m
feeling wide awake. This isn
’
t exactly a penthouse
suite, but it
’
s the first night I
’
ve
spent away from my Seattle studio apartment in over a year. I
’
ve
been working my butt off on the job
—
trying
my best to impress Carol and Brian. Their creative agency, ReImaged, is a
pretty small outfit, but we still have our share of huge clients. Though we
offer a full range of services, we specialize in event marketing
—
planning
parties and functions that double as interactive advertising for the company at
hand. Allie and I have become the dynamic duo of the ReImaged event planning
department. I love the variety and excitement that are built into my work, but
it
’
s
easy to get swallowed up by a fast-paced job like mine. This vacation is a very
rare occurrence, and even now I
’
m finding it hard to stop
thinking about the tasks that are waiting for me back at the office. The second
I get back, we
’
re moving onto our next big campaign
for the denim company Asphalt. I
’
m
already chomping at the bit to get started.

It
’
s
going to be a struggle to stay in the moment during this little getaway. Maybe
I should listen to Allie and make the most of it. But what am I going to do for
fun here, raid the vending machines and watch porn by myself? Not really my
idea of a good time. Don
’
t get me wrong, I can
appreciate a good dirty video as much as the next person
—
but
falling asleep to Pay Per View, Point Of View in a crappy motel would just be
too
depressing. 

As
I stare up at the ceiling, a sudden dash of color catches my eye. The glowing
shadow falls through the window above my bed, blinking softly in the darkness.
Pulling myself to kneeling, I tug open the creaky venetian blinds to
investigate. I don
’
t have to look very far
to find the source of the bright light. There, on the next lot over from the
motel, is a low brick building facing the highway. The place was totally hidden
from view as I drove up. It would be a fairly nondescript structure, were it
not for the glaring neon sign blinking above it, luring in weary travelers like
moths to a flame. The sign
’
s directive is simple:
“
Drink
Here
”
it reads, with an arrow
pointing straight to the front door.

“
Can
’
t
very well ignore a
literal
sign,
”
I murmur, smiling at the
kitschy signage. Maybe a nightcap would help me chill out?

The
anxiety-ridden part of my brain reels against the suggestion, and I immediately
question the wisdom of braving a dive bar on the side of the road…at midnight,
by myself. But to my surprise, the long-dormant curious side of me insists on
an adventure before turning in. I
’
ve
had a lot of trouble getting excited about anything since Dad passed away. Even
this slightest spark of interest is out of the ordinary. I can
’
t
just let it fizzle out.

Squaring
my shoulders, I rise to my feet and suit up. And by suit up, I mean making sure
that my canister of pepper spray is tucked handily in my back pocket. (Hey, you
never know.) I don
’
t want to wrestle with my
suitcase again, so my current uniform of boyfriend jeans and a white tank top
will have to do. I run my fingers through my long, dirty blonde bob, dash on
some mascara, and head out into the warm June night.

Gravel
crunches beneath my feet as I try and
look
casual, strolling toward the roadside bar. There are a couple of cars parked
outside, and a handful of motorcycles to boot. I have about as much experience
hanging around with biker types as I do kicking back with Siberian tigers. For
all I know, they
’
re equally dangerous
company to keep. The men I
’
ve dated have always been
upstanding, clean-shaven, law-abiding blokes
…
each
one more painfully boring than the next. I
’
ve
never been one to tangle with bad boys. But tonight, I
’
ll
wander into the tiger's cage. Even if only to see one up close.

With
a deep, steadying breath, I step up to the door of the bar. I can hear voices
and music from inside, an appealing sort of din. The wide front windows could
use a good scrubbing, but I don
’
t spot any bullet holes.
That
’
s
a good sign, right? Wrangling my face into a neutral expression, I push open
the heavy door and cross the threshold.

The
signature smell of liquor, cigarette smoke, and sawdust rolls over me as my
eyes adjust to the low light of the bar. An ancient juke box wheezes out a
classic hard rock tune, which underscores the rumbling tones of male
conversation. A group of men in leather cuts are huddled around the pool table
in back, in the middle of a game. There are a few women hanging around them,
too, rocking micro-mini skirts and bare midriffs. The bar itself, a long slab
of rough hewn wood, is spotted with solo men, cradling their beers in silence
and watching a hockey game playing on the TV hanging in the corner. There are
enough people around to put me at ease, but not so many as to be overwhelming.

So
far, so good. Now maybe I
’
ll actually be able to
relax and enjoy this drink. I sidle up to an empty stool at the very end of the
bar and climb up. This place is definitely built for big, strapping men, so it
actually does feel like a climb for my shorter self. The guys around me are so
engrossed in their games and pints, that they don
’
t
even notice my presence. I have to admit, I
’
m
just the slightest bit put out by this. I half expected all their heads to turn
in unison when a new woman walked into their midst, like in the movies. Guess I
’
m
not exactly what you
’
d call a classic
head-turner, though honestly I don
’
t
spend too much time worrying about it.

I
peer around the stoic, handlebar mustachioed man sitting one stool down for me,
searching for a bartender. As I run my eyes along the long rows of amber
bottles and stacked glasses, a towering figure shifts at the edge my periphery.
I swing my blue-eyed gaze toward the end of the bar and find that a tall,
broad-shouldered man has appeared there. He stands facing away from me, his
muscled back rippling beneath a plain black tee shirt as he reaches into the
bar’s
cooler
for a bottle of beer. His well-worn jeans are cut perfectly to his tapered
waist, and I can
’
t keep my eyes from
taking a good, long look at his fine, sculpted ass.