Sprigs_Of_Hazel

You push your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose, reach for the door handle, and step out of the car. The afternoon light hits the white tank top you’re wearing clinging to your curves. The cutoff denim rides high on your thighs, sun-tanned skin on full display. You grab your duffel outta the backseat and make your way up the driveway.

Ric stands by the workbench with a rag thrown over one shoulder, directing Tommy who is at the side of the car, half under the hood where you can only see him from the waist down. Joel is leaning against the side of the garage, one sneaker braced against the concrete lip that meets the driveway, with a bottle of water dangling from his hand.

“Look who’s home!” your mom shrills out.

The sound surprises Tommy, who straightens up too fast and bangs his head on the hood above him. “Son of a—” He bites it off, backing out clutching the back of his head. Joel’s been looking at you ever since the car pulled into the drive. Now as you round the car, his eyes drag over you but he catches himself and looks away. Though you take in the look of surprise on his face before he can mask it. That pleases you in a way you could have never anticipated.

Ric turns, smiles, and wipes his hands on the rag, before throwing it onto the workbench. When he gets over to you he folds you into a one-armed hug. “Look at you,” he says, pulling back. “Sun got ahold of you!”

“10 weeks out under it everyday, it was bound to happen,” you reply with a chuckle.  

Out of your peripheral vision, Tommy steps out from the garage making his way to you, sly grin slapped on his face. That’s when you notice his hair. It's blond now – or trying to be. The roots are coming in dark, a good inch of his natural color reclaiming its rightful territory. 

For a moment you reconstruct the entire fiasco in your head. Tommy shirtless in the bathroom, squinting into the mirror, slapping bleach on like he was trying to frost a cake. Knowing the sink had to have worn half of it, the counter getting the other half, and somewhere in the blast radius there had been one of the black towels that fell victim to the chemical casualties, now speckled orange. Undoubtedly still laying stiff as a board in the bottom of the communal towel hamper.  Probably one of his band tees too, that he’ll insist still looks, kinda sick.

“Think I got it even?” Tommy asked Joel, scooping up more bleach into his gloved fingers.

“No.” Joel replied, as he in all likelihood stood there in the doorway taking in the fumes, the mess, and Tommy’s optimism with the disapproval of an older brother who had seen this sort of foolishness before and against his better judgment was about to participate in it. Because then came the back of his head, this was where Tommy’s ambition finally ran out of road as he shoved the bowl of bleach into his older brother's hands. “Just do the back for me.”

Joel likely sighed and stepped forward, “Hold still.”

“I am holdin’ still.”

“No ‘ur not, ‘ur  twitchin’.”

“Well, you’re jabbin’ me in the scalp!”

“I’m tryin’ not to get bleach down your neck.”

“Little late for precision, don’t ya think?” Tommy said, looking in the mirror at his older brother behind him.

Joel surely glared at the back of Tommy’s head, and despite every objection, still finished the back for him. Oh how clearly you could see the brotherly love. 

Tommy finally makes it over to you in the driveway, hands shoved into his pockets, then takes one back out just to point vaguely at the silver hoops climbing your ear.  “What’s all that?”

You touch one of the hoops, tilting your head. “Earrings…” you say, giving him a look that says dumbass. 

“Nooo, really captain obvious?” He smirks, serving it back. “Thought maybe you got attacked by a tackle box.”

Oh here we go, he’s already starting it. 

You gotta shut this shit down. Looking at him over the top of your sunglasses, with a bit of sass in your voice you say, “If I get enough of them, I can pick up FM radio. Right now I’m just getting static… aaaaand apparently the sound of you fishing for a reaction outta me.”

A barrel of a laugh leaves Ric as he looks over to Tommy, who now seems about as comfortable as a fish outta water. Pun intended. Visibly you can tell he wasn’t prepared for you to dish it right back to him. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Ric says, grinning as he looks between you and Tommy. “Camp sure sharpened you up little lady.”

Joel looks down at the water bottle in his hand, but you still catch the smile he’s trying to kill.

Fuck, that felt good. ‘Bout time Tommy gets knocked down a peg or two for once. 

“I’m gonna take my bag in,” you say smiling, already turning to head into the house. Your mother says something about dinner in 15, and about unpacking later. You tell her okay, that you just wanna get freshened up after the bus ride.

~~

“So tell us everything!” Your mother says, the second you sit down at the dinner table. “Did you make friends? Was the food terrible? Did you swim every day?”

Always with the 20 questions, your mom. 

You appease her, answering her questions and then some. Telling them about the lake, the camp, some of the friends you made. Then about one little girl who microwaved a metal spoon to show her friends that it causes pretty sparks, and about another little camper who smuggled a frog in her pillowcase and didn't tell anyone until the screaming started at lights out. 

Your mother laughs. Ric shakes his head and says, “Kids are somethin’ else.” 

Halfway through telling them all this you look up to find Joel watching you. His eyes jump away fast and back to his plate. You keep going with the story like nothing happened, but every time your attention shifts to your mom and Ric, you notice Joel’s gaze coming back to you. Even when you’re not the one talking. 

The table quiets down, the sound of forks against plates and ice shifting in the glasses of sweet tea. The Wheel of Fortune is playing faintly from the living room TV nobody turned off. 

"Meet any cute boys?" your mother asks, materializing the question out of thin air, trying to rehash the unanswered question from earlier in the car. 

Tommy makes a sound under his breath. Joel’s fork stops half way to his mouth. Ric lets out an incredulous “Honey.”

“What?” She sips her tea, giving Ric a look, completely unrepentant. “She’s a young lady now, it’s a valid question.”

Your mom looks at you like well, you gonna answer the question? So you swallow the current bite of food and dab at your mouth with your napkin, taking your sweet time.  “Maybe.”

Your mom's eyes light up like you just told her she won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes. "Anybody special?!" 

Suddenly you are acutely aware of the silence from all the dudes at the table. You reach for your tea, taking a sip. Enjoying yourself now given the current climate of the table – where all the males seem uncomfortable with this conversation. They better get used to it, they have a step-sister & step-daughter now.

“There was this one guy…”

"Oh, I knew it!" She leans forward, both hands flat on the table. "Did he kiss you?" 

You lower your eyes to your plate, pretending to fight an embarrassing smile. “Mom.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t pry.” She sits back, satisfied. “I’m just glad you had a good time, sweetie.”

Your step-brothers say almost nothing the rest of the meal. That’s how you know something is very, very off. Tommy, under normal circumstances, would have interrupted at least a couple times, asked whether anyone drowned, made stupid jokes or at least flicked a pea or two at Joel's head. Something. But no, he seems to be minding his manners. Joel mostly eats and keeps to himself normally during dinners, but he oddly can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. 

As dinner comes to a close, you stand to carry your plate to the sink. Tommy is already up and reaches the archway to the kitchen first, but instead of barreling through like he always does –shoulder checking you and the frame to steamroll his way through– he steps back.

“Go ahead,” he says, eyes on his own plate.

Two words that sound so bizarre coming out of his mouth, and without Goody attached. 

You pass him without comment, yet that night in bed you replay the way Joel looked at you across the table, the way Tommy didn’t make jokes or rude comments at your expense, and how he moved out of your way. Tommy Miller, the same Tommy Miller who has never, in the whole time you’ve lived here, ever moved out of anyone's way for any reason – let alone for little ol’ you.

You can’t help falling asleep wondering what the hell happened to them while you were gone.

~~

The entire next month the changes keep coming in the brothers’ behavior towards you, more so Tommy’s. He still likes to give you shit here and there but it's more playful –no longer hurtful or degrading– similar to how he teases Joel. 

You come out of the bathroom, Tommy is standing there waiting. “You fall in?” he asks. You give him a tight lipped smile that conveys ha-ha and flip him off without breaking stride and he can’t help but laugh.

A few days later he lobs a balled-up sock at the back of your head while you're doing homework at the kitchen table. You turn around slowly, giving him the flattest look you can manage. He's already got his hands up. “Wasn’t me.” There's no one else in the room. 

Also, Tommy doesn’t once call you Goody. You keep waiting for it, bracing for it every time he opens his mouth. But it never comes. Then you notice his presence more. He begins to materialize in whatever room you occupy. 

You’re making a PB&J in the kitchen… Suddenly Tommy needs to reorganize the junk drawer – a task you can almost guarantee he has never done in his life, a junk drawer he has only ever contributed to. 

Joel’s presence also becomes more notable, though not as much as his brothers. You’re reading on the couch? Joel decides the TV remote needs new batteries right that minute – never mind that the remote was working fine the last time you saw it in use and he's not even watching anything. It's obvious enough that you'd find it funny, if it wasn't also really baffling. 

And to top it off, Tommy starts being terrifyingly kind. 

You come home from school one day, drop your bag, head to the kitchen for something to tide you over before dinner, and there, sitting on the counter is a cold can of cherry Coke. You pick it up and hold it for a second, then crack it open and take a sip. 

Tommy slinks in a second later, pulling open the fridge. "Oh yeah," he says, barely glancing your way, "Saw that at the gas station. Thought of you." As he's reaching past the milk to grab a Capri-Sun like what he just said was normal. You didn’t even know he knew what your favorite soda was. Somewhere in that chaotic, bleach-damaged brain of his –between the Pantera, Cowboys from Hell lyrics and whatever else takes up real estate in his noggin– he squirreled away that information one day. 

You stare at the can, part of you wants to be touched by his kind gesture, but this is the same Tommy who was always raggin’ on you and made your life a living hell. 

“Uh–thanks,” you say, unsure of how to react.

Tommy shrugs while stabbing the Capri-Sun with straw. “No worries.”

No worries? No worries?!

All you’ve ever done around him is worry. This is a total mind-fuck.

~~

Kindness aside, there's still the matter of the noise. The hordes of teenage boys. The late night chaos. 

It's a Thursday night. You've all migrated back to the basement after dinner and you can already feel the evening revving up. You know within an hour or two this basement is going to sound like an Rage Against The Machine concert crossed with a frat house. This on a Thursday, because apparently Friday can’t come soon enough and they need to get a jump on the fun to be had. 

You're on the couch, textbook balanced on your thighs. When you notice your step-brothers talking by their bedroom doors. You decide – tonight's the night. 

"Hey." You snap the textbook shut. The sound cuts through whatever Tommy was about to say to Joel. They both look over. "Sit down for a sec. Wanna talk to you both." It comes out as a directive, not a request. 

Tommy raises his eyebrows but comes over and sits on the edge of the coffee table. Good boy. 

Joel continues to stand by the doorway to his room, arms folded. "You too, Joel,” you say nodding towards the couch. “Sit."

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy looks at Joel. Joel unfolds his arms and comes over, lowering himself onto the armrest at the opposite end of the couch. Joel’s not entirely sure what's happening but has decided compliance might be his best bet. 

You set the textbook aside and pull your legs underneath you, turning to face them both. "Here's the deal. The friends, the music, the noise – I get it. You wanna have fun. I'm not trying to take that away from you. But on school night? Can you give it a rest?”

Tommy opens his mouth but you hold up a finger. 

"Please, I'm not done." You say kindly. 

"Friday night – go nuts. Saturday too, I don't care, do both. Hell, I might even hang around for it. But Monday through Thursday, I need to be able to sleep and study without feeling like I live inside a Marshall amp." You lean back into the couch, crossing your arms, looking between the both of them. "Are we clear?" 

For a hot minute, neither of them says anything. You brace yourself for the pushback. For the eye roll, scoff combo that they have perfected. For one of them to say, where the hell do you get off thinkin’ you can tell us what to do? Or for Tommy to dust off the old nickname. 

Instead, Tommy glances at Joel. Joel gives a small nod in return. 

"Yeah," Tommy says. "That's fair." 

What?! No way it was that easy.

You don’t waste any time responding, thinking they might come to their senses. “Alright, I’m glad we can all see eye to eye on this.” You say, letting a grin break through. 

"You're kinda scary now, you know that?" Tommy says, but he's smiling. 

"Good." You lean forward, elbows on your knees. "You should be scared." 

"Oh, I am. Terrified." He puts his hands up, leaning back away from you, clearly not at all frightened. 

Joel, who's already pushing off the armrest to leave, just shakes his head and rolls his eyes at both of you. 

You give Tommy a lop-sided smile, he grins wider as he stands. "A'ight, boss. We'll keep it down." 

"Thank you, that's all I ask."

"You want me to tuck you in later too, or—"

"Tommy."

"Gone. I'm gone." He backs toward his room with both hands still up, that stupid grin not going anywhere.

The Thursday night crowd doesn't show. The basement stays quiet. You actually finish your reading assignment before midnight for the first time since moving in.

Huh. Maybe you should've grown a spine months ago.

~~

“Sweetie, can you go tell your brother's lunch is ready?” You sigh, feeling put out by your mom’s request and heave yourself off the countertop, where you've been watching her watching her assemble chicken quesadillas from the leftover rotisserie chicken from last night. The woman wastes nothing. It has been nice though, since your mom shacked up with Ric, she's become more domestic – you haven't had this many homemade meals since… ever. 

Halfway down the basement steps, you hear their voices yappin’ away — but with your name tangled up in them. Your hand finds the banister, your legs screeching to a stop before you hit the 7th step – the one that groans like Ric when he gets up outta his recliner. 

Tommy sprawls out the couch, one arm slung over the back, converse resting atop the coffee table. Joel sits on the other end, elbows on his knees, staring at the TV Tommy just muted. 

“I’m just saying.” 

"Well don't," Joel says, not looking over.

"I'm gonna. She grew up."

Joel shakes his head, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

"What, she didn't?" Tommy's arms spread wide, shoulders raising, daring Joel to argue.

"Just drop it, Tommy." 

Tommy lets out a short laugh, the kind that says he's not dropping anything. "You were staring at her at dinner last night… and the night before, and the night—”

“Shut up!” Joel cuts off his little brother, still refusing to look at him.

“I’m not blind, man. You were, the whole fuckin’ time!”

Joel glances toward the bottom of the stairs. “Just shut up, she’ll hear you.” 

"From where, upstairs? She's not got bat ears." Tommy waves a hand dismissively.

Your hand tightens on the banister. You should move. Go back up, give them their privacy. 

Ha. Yeah, fuckin’ right. 

Instead you continue to stand there in the shadow of the stairwell – listening. 

Tommy’s voice drops a notch, per Joel’s request to shut up. “I’m just saying she got back from camp all...”

“All what?” Joel asks, finally looking at him.

Tommy takes his sweet time answering, slumping back into the couch. "Hot."

Hot. Hot. Tommy thinks you're hot? And based on what Tommy just said about the staring, maybe Joel does too. 

You start to pull apart your thoughts that feel like a wadded-up tangled mess of headphones that have been in the bottom of your purse. So this is why they have been acting so weird, why things have changed. You didn’t expect for it to feel this good –their validation of you– but it does. For about two seconds. Before you discern they’ve only changed their behaviors towards you cause you’re easier on the eyes now. Fuckin’. Men. Only thinking with their dicks. Why are you not surprised. 

Joel doesn’t speak for so long you almost wonder if he left the room, but then you hear him. “You’re an idiot.”

Tommy laughs. “Yeah, alright, whatever.” He tips his head toward Joel. "You gonna tell me I'm wrong?" 

Joel stands up, pacing to the other side of the basement, needing distance from the conversation. 

“Let’s just stop talking about this, ‘kay?” Joel says, feeling conflicted. He knows Tommy’s right about both things, you are hot and he was staring. He also knows hating himself for both doesn’t make either one less true. 

You step back one stair, then another, soft as you can. Then you turn and climb the rest of the way up, stopping at the top.

Soooo, this changes everything and it's not exactly devastating news. 

Yeah, they were always mean to you before. But you'd noticed them too, in their messy, grunge-worn way. Both of them doing their own changing over the summer. Tommy and his bleached curls. They kinda suit him, makes that stupid grin he flashes at you feel different. And Joel had cut his shoulder length hair off not too long ago. Now it sat shorter with layers, falling loose and a little messy, curls gathering at the nape of his neck. It softened him. Makes him feel more approachable now.

And okay fine, having this new intel on their thoughts of you gives you a heady little power trip. You're not above admitting that. Though you don’t want revenge, you don’t want to make them miserable. You're not interested in cruelty. You lived on the receiving end of it long enough. The hurt from the past is still there, furrrr sure. The nickname. The inconsiderateness. The sleep you’ll never get back.

But….

A sly little smile forms on your lips.

If Joel's staring anyway, you'll give him something to look at. If Tommy thinks you grew up, you'll show him exactly how much. Curiosity now takes hold of you. What happens if you don’t avoid their eyes? If you start sitting closer to them? If you make them just uncomfortable enough to wonder? 

They just so happen to exist in the same spaces – this cramped, confined, no-privacy basement. You can keep your halo. You can keep your manners. Keep every inch of the goody, good girl innocence they’ve assigned you. You don’t have to do anything obvious. Nothing blatant. Nothing you can’t explain away. That’s the beauty of plausible deniability. Good girls don't flirt with their step-brothers. Anything like that happening? Well… that's just your imagination, boys. 

You shake the thought loose and head back down the stairs, louder this time, letting your feet announce you. A little over halfway down you call out to them sweetly. “Tommy? Joel? Lunch is ready!”

~~

You start testing the waters, ASAP. 

Joel makes it stupidly easy the next morning, leaving one of his band tees in the bathroom, black and soft from one too many washes. You know he wore it yesterday. You watched him come home in it. 

You pick it up off the counter and out of pure morbid curiosity, you bring it to your nose and inhale. His essence has sunk into the cotton from a full day of wearing it against his skin.

Fuck.

You never knew Joel smelled that good. 

You pull it on over your damp skin. The hem hangs lower than your own shirts, skimming the tops of your thighs. Underneath, you wear nothing but a pair of plain white cotton panties. Innocent enough but still a smidge dangerous.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, your head snaps toward the door.

Perfect.

You hurry across the hall to your room and leave the door open behind you. You wack a pencil cup off your desk on purpose. It hits the floor with a clatter. 

“Shit,” you mutter, loud enough for the benefit of whoever’s just come down the stairs. Then you rise onto your toes and stretch over your desk toward the top shelf, arm lifted, back arched just enough to make the shirt ride up conveniently. Wink wink.

You hear footsteps arrive at your door. “You okay?” Joel asks, already halfway in. "You need—" He stops. Clearly, his concern arriving before his caution.

His eyes start at your shoulders, though quickly migrate lower, there, a flash of white cotton and the bottom of your ass cheeks are peeking out from under the shirt, then finally, to the long bare line of your legs. 

You keep reaching, then look over your shoulder at him. Innocent. Struggling. "Hey… can you—can you help me? I can't reach the book I put up here." Then you turn around to face him, hands bracing the edge of the desk, leaning back onto it. His eyes drag up you slowly, fighting every inch of the climb.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, already knowing the answer but needing to ask a question to try and walk this back, make the situation more normal. But that's when Joel realizes his plan has backfired. He hasn't taken a single breath since he walked in here and you're leaning against the desk, looking up at him, in his shirt that is riding the edge of your thighs.

You look down at yourself like you’ve only just remembered what you’re wearing. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot to bring clean clothes into the bathroom after my shower.” You give him a small, sheepish smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Then you think about it – even if it had been Tommy who came in to help you, it still would’ve worked. Tommy would’ve seen you in Joel’s shirt and started building a whole story in his head. He would’ve wondered why you had it, wondered why you were wearing it, and if Joel knew. Either way, somebody was leaving this room bothered. 

Joel swallows hard, staring at his shirt on your body. A shirt that carries his smell and is now warming up with yours. “I–I don’t mind,” he says finally. “But that shirt ain’t clean either. I wore it yesterday.”

You smile, dragging your eyes up his body now. “I know.” You turn back, reach again, back arching slightly again with the effort, fingers grazing the edge of the book.

Joel tries not to look at the way the shirt rides up, showing off the curve of your ass, tries not to think about the fact that you're bent over your desk wearing his shirt and basically nothing else. This is wrong, you're his step-sister. He needs to leave, needs to get out of this room right now. He’ll grab your book for you and go. 

Behind you, Joel moves. “I’ll get it,” he says, coming closer.

Then he’s right there behind you. The space is small and confined. He leans in, half his body presses against half of your backside, pinning you gently into the desk. One of his hands braced on the desk beside you. His other arm reaches past yours, fingers closing around the book, plucking it easily from the shelf.

This is the closest he's been to you since – since ever, Joel thinks. You smell like him, like you rolled around in his bed, and you're warm and soft, pressed right against him.  He backs up fast, putting distance between you.

You turn to face him.

"Here you go." He holds the book out immediately. 

You reach for it letting your fingers brush his as you take it. "Thanks, Joel." 

"'Ur welcome." His eyes drop to the floor. "I gotta go,” he says, and then he’s gone – out the door and down the hall. 

You stand there for a second with the book in your hand, biting back a smile that wants to spread wide across your face. You got to him. You toss the book onto your bed and go back to getting ready for school. By the time you leave your room, you decide to wear his shirt for the rest of the day.

Let him see it again.

Let Tommy see it too.

After all, there’s nothing strange about borrowing a shirt.

~~

You begin spending more time around the Miller Brothers, downstairs on their side of the basement instead of hiding in your room or staying out with friends. You make sure the shift feels natural and not all at once. 

The couch isn't huge. So you use that to your advantage – an excuse to sit close that can be blamed on limited space, on the way the cushions dip in the middle, or on the fact that you’re all just… family now.

Tommy leans into the contact every time. Spreads his legs a little wider so his thigh stays glued to yours. Lets his arm drape along the back of the couch behind you. As far as Tommy's concerned, if you're offering proximity, he's accepting. 

Joel on the other hand goes rigid the second you settle against him. Every muscle locks up, not moving, eyes fixed on the TV. He never sits in the moment long, 5 minutes at the most before standing abruptly, muttering something about getting a drink, and disappearing up the stairs. You picture him standing at the kitchen counter with a glass of water he doesn't actually want, waiting for his pulse to come down. Bless his heart. 

The touches escalate slowly over the next month. Always deniable. Always just on the edge of too much.

You reach across Tommy for the remote and your tits press softly against his arm. He gets visibly affected — that cocky little grin turning a little dazed. 

On a long drive home from a family trip to San Antonio, you “fall asleep” in the back seat of your mom’s Camry. Your head ends up on Joel’s shoulder and the back of your hand resting atop his thigh. Purely innocent in sleep.

Joel continually tries harder to resist you after that first encounter in your room, you can tell. He gets stern — short answers, avoiding eye contact, disappearing to the garage or his room whenever you enter a space now.

But he can’t stay away. No matter how many times he tells himself to put distance between you, he keeps showing up on his own terms, whenever it feels safe. 

The pattern repeats in a dozen different ways. It turns out, you’re very good at this. Good at the games. Good at reading them. Good at knowing exactly how far to push before pulling back. Good at keeping everything just ambiguous enough that nobody can accuse you of anything. You still look like the good girl. Polite at dinner. Helping your mom with dishes. Smiling sweetly when Ric praises you for being so responsible. All the while you know you have them both on the edge of their seats.

~~

The following weekend, you’re in your room reading when you hear Joel and Tommy talking just off the hallway. You dog ear your page and get up. They're heading for the side basement door when you come out of your room. “Where ya goin’?” you ask, walking up to them. 

“Snack run,” Tommy says, grabbing the door handle.

Mmmm. A late night field trip with the two of them sounds fun. “I’m coming with you guys.”

Tommy looks instantly delighted. Joel looks at your outfit — the short white tennis skirt and the tight little short-sleeve top that hugs your chest. 

“It’s a little cold out,” Joel says. “You might want a jacket. Get one and we'll meet you at the truck." They head outside and you spot one of Tommy's cardigans hung over the side of the couch. You slip it on and follow. 

Tommy's waiting by the truck with the passenger door open, looking down at his feet. He glances up when you reach him. Your hands grab a hold of where the window's rolled down and you stick your head through.

"Ready?" you smile, looking between them.

Tommy's eyes drop to what’s draped over your shoulders. "Nice cardigan."

You grab the door frame and swing around it, letting yourself stop just shy of bumping into him. “I know, right?” you say playfully, tilting your head.

You look warm… and cute, drowning in his clothes the way you were drowning in Joel’s shirt a couple weeks back. And if Tommy’s being honest, he felt jealous when he saw you wearing Joel's stuff. Not of Joel, per se. He just wanted you wearing his things too, wanted you to claim him in that way too. 

But he knows he wasn't very nice to you before. Tommy hates the memory of it now, hates that he was a dick to you. Hates thinking of you possibly avoiding rooms because of him. He never wants to be mean to you again. The thought of hurting you or making you feel small, actually makes him sick to his stomach. 

You breeze past him, hopping into the truck. The smell of your vanilla body mist snaps him back to the moment. He watches you slide across the bench seat before getting in after you. The bench, like the couch, forces closeness. Both your thighs pressed against one of theirs. Joel starts up the truck and Brass Monkey by The Beastie Boys come through the speakers low, drowned in static, until Tommy smacks the dashboard and the interference clears. 

The ride isn't long. Not at this hour in a small town with no one on the roads. The mini-mart parking lot is mostly empty. A handful of cars scattered across the asphalt. A line of shopping carts, sticking out of the cart corral. Someone evidently not finishing their job before the graveyard shift. 

The automatic doors shudder and squeak when you walk through. The three of you wander the aisles together. The emptiness makes it feel intimate, like you're the only three people awake in the world.

Tommy grabs a bag of chips. Joel picks up beef jerky. You open the cooler door and reach for a blue Gatorade, removing the plastic, you twist the famous nipple top with your mouth and take a sip. 

"’Ur gonna buy that now, right?" Joel asks, watching you suck on the bottle.

"Obviously." You hold it out to him, giving it a little shake. "Want some?"

For some sick reason he wants to put his mouth where he just watched your tongue lick the small hole at the top. He takes it, lets his lips lie where yours did. Concealed by his mouth, his tongue rims the same tiny hole before he tips it back, then hands it back to you. You take another sip, eyes on Joel the whole time. Repeating the same actions. Then you hold it toward Tommy, silent question in the gesture. Tommy grins. “Don’t mind if I do.” He drinks and hands it back. Your eyes don't leave him when you bring it back to your lips, taking another sip just like you did after Joel. You twist the cap closed with your mouth and give them both a smile before wandering toward the candy aisle and the boys follow. Joel grabs a Snickers. Tommy gets Skittles.

At the checkout, their stuff goes up first. You hang back behind them with your Gatorade in your hand. Joel glances down at the conveyor belt, seeing only a few items left. His eyes find you and you give a shy small smile, rocking back and forth on your feet. 

"Put your Gatorade up here." Joel nods to the black moving belt. "I'll get it."

You start to shake your head. "No, it's okay, I've—"

Joel steps right in front of you, grabbing the bottle from your hand and sits it down next to his things. You watch the bright blue liquid slosh around as it moves towards the cashier.

At the register, Joel pulls his wallet out. You drift up beside him, peering over the counter as the bottle gets scanned. Your temple rests against his shoulder for a brief second until you feel him looking at you. You lift your head and look up at him.

"Thank you, Joel."

You slip behind him and Tommy to grab your Gatorade at the other end of the checkout.

Joel settles up as you waltz towards the entrance, where you had noted a coin-operated mechanical horse just outside when you first walked in. The equine is sun-faded, mostly a dull cream color now – having seen its fair share of rodeos.

You set your gatorade on the ground and hop on, fluffing our tennis skirt over the back of the hard plastic saddle, gripping the worn-out reins, pondering momentarily – just how much you can get them to do for you? Joel bought your drink. Can you get them to pony up for this too? 

You hear the automatic doors open. You sit still, waiting to see if they'll notice. Wrapped up in their own conversation, they look out toward the parking lot, scanning for you. "Fuck, where'd she go?" Joel's panicked voice asks Tommy.

You clear your throat and they spin around. "I wanna ride it." You say with a girly, somewhat childlike voice.

Tommy and Joel look at each other. It’s a quick look, but full of information. 

Tommy's face says, You seeing this? 

Joel's face says, Don't start. 

Tommy's face replies, I have every intention of starting.

"I gotta quarter or two I think." Tommy says, patting his pockets.

Joel shifts the grocery bag higher on his arm. "I ain't spending money on that."

"Please, Joel!" you say sweetly, adding a little whine to your voice. 

And because for some fucked up reason he can't explain, he knows he won’t refuse you. Joel sighs in defeat, handing his bag to Tommy. “I’ll check the truck.” he says, stalking off towards the parking lot.

He comes back 20 seconds later with a few quarters from the cupholder.

"This is stupid," Joel mutters, feeding coins into the slot.

“And yet,” Tommy says, grinning, “here we are.”

Between the two of them, they scrape together enough. You beam like they've just bought you a Sony Diskman with ESP – because you fuckin’ hate when the CD skips. 

Joel and Tommy look at each other again and then up to you on your noble steed. Both already happy just by the fact that you look so genuinely pleased by their ridiculous effort. Joel feeds the last coin in and steps back, taking his bag from Tommy. The horse lurches to life. For the first few moments it’s absurd and stupid, and you can’t help but laugh. Which makes your step-brothers chuckle along with you. 

But then your hips sync up with the motion. 

Up, forward, down and back. Up, forward, down and back.

The boys stand there watching – captivated. Joel finally forces himself to look away. Then back again, furious with himself that he can’t help but look, feeling his whole body flood with mortification and with something he should not be feeling outside a mini-mart in the dead of night because his step-sister is on a kids mechanical horse ride. 

Your hips move with the motion, hair falling over your shoulder, the softness of your laugh like this is innocent fun. But it's not, nothing about this is innocent. Not the way you are moving, not the way Joel’s jeans are getting tight. He shifts the plastic bag to hang casually in front of himself, like he's just adjusting his grip.

Tommy does the same two seconds later. He knows there is definitely a line being crossed here,but he can’t seem to find any fucks to give – standing there delighted and hypnotized, watching you in his cardigan and the slow rocking of your hips, while all the blood in his body rushes south.

Then you glance at them while the horse keeps moving, holding eye contact with each of them in turn. You can tell you've already put a rise in their Levis, but you want to push it just a little more, gallop just a little further. So you start to let out little breathy exhales that borderlines on something else entirely as you look at them. Then the plan starts to reverse course slightly, finding that the rocking movement and their eyes on you have started to make you feel some type of way. So what the hell, you’re already here. You let yourself feel it, shifting your hips against the hard plastic of the saddle, grinding down, letting a small whimper escape your mouth. 

Unfortunately, that’s when the horse slows down – your cheap thrill coming to an end. Who knew the 75 cent pony ride outside the Git-N-Go would be the most action you've seen all year.

That’s when you hear Tommy. “I think we have some more quarters if you want to keep riding?”

You almost laugh but keep it contained, and you would totally be lying right now if you said you weren't disappointed that the ride wasn’t longer. But looking at the brothers' faces right now, you know it stopping where it did was for the best. 

"Oh, it's okay." You say, sliding off, all bright-eyed and pleased with yourself. "That was fun." You step between them, putting a hand on both their chests and giving them 2 taps each. "Thanks for the quarters."

Tommy makes a helpless sound that might be a laugh. "Anytime." Joel doesn't answer and you push past them, making a beeline for the truck.

"What the hell was that?" Tommy asks Joel as soon as you're out of earshot. "Did she almost just—"

"STOP." Joel cuts him off. "Shut the fuck up."

"Come on, boys! I wanna go home!" you shout from the driver side window. “And can one of you please grab my gatorade!”

~~

Back in the basement with the snacks, it’s just the three of you. The hanging swag light in the corner casts a dim, warm glow across the shared space. You go to your room and change into an oversized tee and some tiny lounge shorts that barely cover the curve of your ass.

You’ve claimed the middle spot again. The boys are digging into their snacks. When Tommy opens his bag of skittles you stick your hand out. "Thanks Tommy," you say when he pours a handful into your palm. 

"Which ones are your favorite?" he asks.

"Grape.”

"No way! Mine too!" Tommy says as his face brightens. "See, Joel? Told you grape's the best!"

Joel just rolls his eyes, while you pop another purple one in your mouth. “The grape ones are just superior.”

"Right?" Tommy leans into you a little closer. "Finally, someone gets it!"

A re-run episode of The X-Files is on –something about reincarnation and a field where Mulder died in a past life– when the boys finally finish eating. 

At first it’s the usual — Tommy’s arm draped along the back of the couch behind you, his fingertips occasionally brushing your shoulder, and Joel’s rigid warmth against your other side. 

But the longer the episode drags, the bolder you get.

You stretch, arching your back like you're feeling cramped. You look at Tommy first, knowing he’ll give you the answer you're in search of – ipso facto, making Joel more likely to be agreeable for what you're about to ask.

“Hey Tommy… could I lay my legs over you to get a little more comfortable?"

Tommy's eyes light up upon your request. “Yeah, c'mon, get comfy,” he says without hesitation, patting the tops of his thighs. He can’t believe you’re really doing this. He’s already thinking about how soft your thighs are gonna feel on his lap. 

You swing your legs across him, with your back to Joel now. You rest the side of your head against the back of the couch for a moment before turning to look over your shoulder at him.

"Joel," you say in a sweet voice, "would it possibly be okay if I laid my head down on your lap?"

He looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. 

Joel wants to say no. He should say no. But the way you’re looking at him, he knows he won’t because part of him wants this – no matter how wrong he thinks it is. And now he’s also feeling pissed off at Tommy for allowing you to start this little charade.

"Um… I—I guess so," he finally says, and the bright, grateful smile you give him right then makes him feel like it’s worth it. 

You slide your ass over until it’s snug against Tommy’s side, gathering your hair, you let it spill across Joel's lap as your cheek presses against the muscle of his thigh through his jeans.

You nuzzle in like you’re just getting comfortable, moving your head in small circles. The fabric of your shirt riding up your back as you settle. You can feel the sudden tension in both of their bodies.

Tommy looks over at Joel. A wicked grin spreads across his face. He gives a small, encouraging nod, daring his brother to let this happen. 

Oh for fuck’s sake, Joel thinks, why the hell does Tommy always wanna play with fire like this?

Joel's arm hovers in the air for a second, not knowing where he should place it. He finally settles it on the back of the couch. 

You drape your arm over Joel’s leg, hand resting lightly on the top of his thigh closest to you. After a few minutes, your hand starts moving slowly, up and down your step-brother's inner thigh, nails grazing lightly on the denim. You keep the motion casual, absentminded, like you’re just fidgeting while you watch the show. But every pass brings your hand a little higher, closer to forbidden territory.

Tommy watches the movement of your hand on Joel, his own palm mimicking the motion on your leg. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above your knee at first, then higher, tracing the hem of your sleep shorts. He likes watching you touch and tease his brother like this. His fingers start kneading the flesh of your inner thigh, each pass pushing the boundary a little further. He so badly wants to slide his finger right under your shorts and feel how wet you are for him and Joel. He’s starting to get a boner just thinking about it.

Joel’s breath becomes audibly louder. His hand along the couch finally slips down onto your shoulder, fingers flexing, fighting the urge to grip you. You can feel him beginning to get hard against the side of your face. He shifts once, trying to adjust without being obvious, but it only brushes his growing hardness more firmly against you.

The episode plays on, muffled voices of Mulder and Scully talking about government cover-ups, but the only tension in the room that matters is the one building between the three of you.

You keep stroking Joel’s inner thigh, then you squeeze it ever so slightly and feel him throb against your cheek. Your head moves again –a tiny, comfortable adjustment– nuzzling closer, lips accidentally grazing the fabric near the tip of his cock. Joel lets out a quiet, strained breath that dies somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and his hand tightens slightly on your shoulder.

None of you say a word. The TV glows across your bodies — three people on a couch pretending to watch it, two pairs of hands exploring, moving in the dim light. Totally normal family bonding. 

Tommy can tell Joel’s about to snap, that he’s so close already and your hand hasn’t even fully touched him. Right now, he’d argue this is single handedly the hottest thing he and Joel has ever done. 

Your fingers drift higher, so close to the tip of his cock. Joel tries not to move, meanwhile his mind is spiraling. 

Don’t fuckin’ cum, don’t fuckin’ cum. Joel chants in his mind like a mantra. But the feeling is so strong and it wants to take over. Joel knows if you keep doing this, keep teasing him, he’s not gonna be able to stop it, he’s just gonna cum. Part of him doesn’t even care anymore. You’re soft little hand makes him feel so fucking good. 

Tommy's fingertips slip fully under the hem of your shorts now, grabbing and kneading at your soft flesh, inching dangerously close to your underwear. You're so wet it's almost embarrassing. But you're a little too busy enjoying yourself to be embarrassed. It feels so good being touched by a hand other than your own. You try to keep your breath calm, this was only supposed to be to tease them, yet here you are wet as can be as you share touches. 

Not even thinking now, your thighs fall open slightly, just a little, giving Tommy more room. You can feel your pulse between your legs, the want making you swell.

Your fingers drift higher on Joel, finally tracing along his length through the denim – with the lightest, teasing touch. He's bigger than you expected, and the realization floods your body with a pleasing feeling. You can't help but wonder if it runs in the family. 

Joel's mind is unspooling. Every rational thought he has is getting drowned out by the feeling of your hand. He's about to cum and you haven't even touched skin.

Tommy's fingers reach the edge of your panties, about to touch you where you've been aching for it.

“Boys?” Ric’s voice calls out, already halfway down the stairs.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Tommy's hands fly off you. You bolt upright, swinging your legs off his lap, snatch the blanket from the floor, covering you and Tommy. Joel grabs the nearest throw pillow and shoves it over his massive erection.

You lean forward –elbows on your knees– and stare at the TV. Joel shoots Tommy a look, silently pleading him to handle this – to do the talking since he can’t focus enough to form words right now, can’t think past the throbbing ache now straining against the throw pillow with his grandma’s needlepoint on it that says, All Things Grow With Love. 

Ric hits the bottom of the stairs and rounds the corner. "Oh hey guys... anddddd gal." he says, eyes squinting, taking in the scene. "Heard your truck leave earlier, just wanted to make sure you got back okay."

"Yep, we sure did," you say, standing up and faking a yawn. "But I'm getting pretty tired, I'm gonna head to bed now. Thanks for letting me tag along guys, I had fun tonight." You turn and give them both a sweet smile. 

Tommy manages a casual, “No problem.” But you can tell his voice is slightly off. Joel doesn’t look at you. 

As you make it to your bedroom you hear Ric say to the brothers, well that was nice of you boys, including your sister. I'm proud of you both.

A few more words are exchanged between Tommy and Ric you think, but you can barely focus. You close the door and lean against it for a second, heart still racing.

Not long after you hear Ric's footsteps ascend the stairs.

You wait. The brothers speak but it's too low, you can't make out the words. Then you hear one of their bedroom doors shut, followed by the bathroom door. The fan clicks on. The sink water starts running.

You creep out of your room and peek around the corner to the living area. Tommy's door is shut. Joel's is open – he must be in the bathroom.

Quiet as a mouse, you get up next to the bathroom door and press your ear against it. At first there's just the sound of water. The fan whirring. Then a quiet, muffled groan and the faint, unmistakable sound that skin on skin makes when a person thinks no one can hear them. 

Oh shit.

He must think with the fan and sink water running that you can't hear him. And maybe that would be the case if you weren't literally pressed up against the door. But you can hear everything. 

You feel pretty darn proud of yourself for having this effect on him, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about you. Your cheek against his thigh, your fingers tracing along the length of him, the way you nuzzled into his lap like a little puppy.

It doesn't take him long, which doesn't surprise you — you teased his inner thigh for a solid 20 minutes. You can hear the sound of his release come though the door, the word fuck repeated several times in a strained voice. 

You quietly dart back to your room and shut the door, heart pounding.

Why are you so turned on right now?

It was just your step-brother touching himself after you riled him up all night. That's all. Just Joel getting off in the bathroom. You lean back against the door, one hand sliding desperately down into your tiny shorts.

Shit. 

You're so wet.

Your fingers find your clit and you start slow, two fingers rubbing in tight circles, then pressing harder, faster. You think about Tommy. Is he in his room right now doing the same thing? Hand wrapped around himself, stroking fast, thinking about how close his fingers got. You think about how Joel sounded just now. You come embarrassingly fast, biting down on the collar of your t-shirt to muffle the sound, legs trembling, pressing your shoulders harder into the door. You stand there for a moment afterward, breathing hard, stunned at yourself. 

You make your way over to your bed and collapse onto it, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that happened tonight. You ultimately decide you can't let things go that far again. That was just a mistake. You were feeling lonely and you pushed the line way too far, made things too blurry. Completely threw the plausible deniability out the door.

They’re your step-brothers for cryin’ out loud. You don't like them like that.

Right?

I'd love to hear what you think so far!

Please consider reblogging it really helps us writers keep writing for you babes and it gets more eyes on the story so others can enjoy it too! <3

next chapter - mama's boy

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in the last couple posts I’ve made about this series or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

Okay first of all

This is so good. I’m literally speechless.

Also I had no idea drinking Gatorade could be so sexual 🙂‍↔️ well done

The gallery was already crowded with people within its first hour of opening. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement and anticipation, particularly outside the closed exhibition hall for which the very event you were here for will be held.

Your heels clanked against the hardwood flooring as you approached the growing queue. Aside from you, everyone here seemed to have been long aware of the reception.

Your hand reached inside the small bag hanging over your shoulder and you fished out the ticket you had received yesterday. Your eyes perused over the letters printed on the thick rectangular paper over and over again.

Just what, was your luck?

Your feet unconsciously moved with the line until you finally reached the staff in charge of the event admission.

"Madame? Your ticket, please." The staff's voice pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked up to find him looking mildly annoyed at your lack of focus.

"Pardon." You extended your hand to lend him the ticket, but instead, he only blinked at you as if you just offered him illegal money. "Is there a problem?"

"We use digital tickets, Madame."

Confused, you glanced over to the person behind you who looked just as impatient. The woman, whom you guessed was about your age, held up her phone to show you her ticket.

You turned back to the staff. "But this is still a ticket, no?—"

Before the staff could deny your entry, the faint sounds of chatter and camera shutters grew in your ears. You—and everyone else—whipped your head in the direction of the noise to see a group of people swarming a moving subject.

The actual reason you're here.

Reed Richards.

From the distance, you could see him flashing a polite smile as he answered questions thrown his way from the journalists. But your gaze didn't get to stay long on the man because the staff once again called you.

"I cannot let you enter yet, Madame. I have to consult my manager to make sure this ticket is valid."

Sighing, you let the woman behind you through as you stood next to the line, wondering if you should give up and leave, or give this man—in a boring, plain black blazer—a good headbutt so he could perhaps see better. Do you look like you'd scam your way inside with fake tickets?

Your patience was running thin as you watched the other visitors pass through. After calling someone over with his in-ear piece, a bald man, presumably in his mid 50s, rushed over. You assumed he was the manager.

They discussed the issue, and he took hold of your ticket, examining it like a lost artifact—and you had to physically hold yourself back from rolling your eyes.

"Mademoiselle. You made it."

The familiar soft voice shook your train of thoughts. Your head swiftly turned to find the artist himself standing next to you with hands shoved down the pockets of his trousers.

The paparazzi had left him alone, finally; the ones invited for media coverage already heading inside to get the best views and set up their tools.

"H-hi. You." You stammered, unsure on how to react after your encounter yesterday. It brought a chuckle out of the man.

"I believe I told you it's Reed." He smiled, showing off his dimples. "Though, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing yours, yet."

You swallowed as you stared into his eyes and told him your first name.

Reed repeated it. Your name sounded light on his tongue, like a brush on a canvas.

"That's a beautiful name."

He tore his eyes from yours and briefly glanced down at his watch. "The event starts in twenty. Best to get seated now."

"That's the thing.."

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

The two gallery staffs stopped their chatter to look at Reed. Their eyes widened at the unexpected presence.

"Monsieur!" The manager placed his hand over his chest and bowed curtly, and the staff followed suit.

Reed brushed off the greeting and went straight to the point. "Is it true that you're not the letting the owner of this ticket inside?" He pointed to your ticket that the manager was holding.

"Uh, yes. We're informed that all tickets are in digital form."

"Well," Reed gently took the ticket from the manager's hand. "This one is legit. I personally gave it to my special guest. So if you will.." He smiled; the kind that made the gallery employees shudder.

"Right away, Monsieur!"

"Merci bien." Reed nodded in satisfaction.

The staff quickly allowed you in. You thanked them, feeling relieved that the spectators of your earlier predicament no longer looked at you like a fraudster.

You caught sight of Reed already heading off to the back entrance reserved for staffs, but he turned his head in your direction and sent you a quick wink.

You have to thank him later for saving your dignity.

You immediately frowned at the thought your mind had conjured up.

No. HE got me into this trouble.

You shook your head to shrug off the debate arising in your head and went to find a seat; somewhere at the end of the row where you wouldn't be attracting anymore unwanted attention.

When you had finally settled in your seat and calmed down, your ears finally registered the sound of cello filling the room.

At first, you thought it came from the speakers. But then you craned your neck to look between the heads sitting in front of you and found a man in a suit playing the instrument, live.

The bow glided over the strings purposefully, and his loose curls swung over his forehead with matching intensity. You recognised the melody, Andante Cantabile by Tchaikovsky. It sounded wistful and tender, perfect for the atmosphere inside the hall.

The opening performance ended and you softly clapped along with the other guests. As the cellist stood, you managed to get a better look of the talented man. He held his cello and bow in one hand and bowed, smiling gratefully.

At the same time, Reed emerged from the white partitioned wall that displayed his artworks, and the claps only grew louder at his appearance. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.

You spot the cellist's smile breaking into a grin as he gave Reed a little bow. He was about to leave with his cello, but Reed stopped him, placing a hand on his arm. The cellist, wearing a suit with a black bow tie was caught off guard as Reed led him to the center of the room.

"Please. Another round of applause for my good friend, Alex Serian." The room erupted with applause, and the man, whom you now know as Alex Serian, bowed again, this time with a slightly embarrassed smile.

You found Reed chuckling at his bashful response, which you had to admit, was adorable. Finally, with a pat on Alex's shoulder, he disappeared behind the same wall Reed came through.

"Thank you all for coming." You attention again shifted towards Reed, now standing in front of everyone with his artworks displayed behind him. He talked about how his latest works came about with bright eyes and the same excitement as you witnessed yesterday; when you shared your thoughts about a painting that was apparently his.

The memory had you biting your lower lip to suppress the embarrassment that had been plaguing your mind. You barely had any sleep last night thinking of how you must have made a fool of yourself.

Despite it all, you couldn't miss the chance to see Reed Richards's other masterpieces before the general public does. So here you were.

"Thank you again for coming, and please, help yourselves." Reed gestured towards the lines of frames holding his paintings after ending his speech.

Everyone started leaving their seats, thrilled to see his works up close. The media on the other hand, was quick to approach him for more questions, shoving mics into his face.

You took your time with each painting, observing the colours, the intentionally asymmetrical shapes, the brush strokes, the similar art style to the painting you saw yesterday. You found yourself smiling, finding joy in seeing patterns and seeing what makes each painter unique.

Your feet halted before a painting placed on the other side of the room. There were only two main colours. Black for the background, and orange for the subject. At first glance you thought it was mars. But no, it was a fox; curled up into an almost perfect round. The painting took your breath away, partly due to your love of foxes.

You lost track of time studying the fascinating artwork, and before you knew it, you were one of the last few visitors left inside the exhibition room.

"You've stared at this one for a while. I didn't expect the fox to receive most of your attention." A pair of heels softly clanked against the hardwood floor before stopping right beside you. "I'm almost jealous."

Your head whipped in his direction, and you found Reed smiling at you. You instantly mirrored his smile. "It's really beautiful."

"I'm glad one person thinks so."

"I'm serious."

Reed chuckled before playfully bowing with a dramatic flair. "I appreciate your kind words, Milady."

"Stop it." You gently slapped his arm without thinking, chuckling in embarrassment, as you caught some visitors' eyes on both of you. "We're in public." You continued in a hushed tone.

Reed only smiled and watched the twinkle in your eyes as you laughed. "So you won't mind if it's in private?"

His question made you stop, heat suddenly creeping up your cheeks as your heart thumped against your ribs. What the hell is happening?

"I don't—Not like that!"

Reed laughed. "Apologies, love. I was merely teasing." He placed his palm over his heart to show how sorry he was; but the way he bit his lower lip to suppress another chuckle told you that he relished in seeing your reaction.

Just then, another set of footsteps approached you. You both turned to find the man who played the cello earlier, looking slightly... disheveled. He smiled at Reed before sparing a glance at you.

"Alex." Reed tugged his sleeve to pull him over. Alex smiled as Reed introduced you both to each other, and you shook his hand with a polite smile.

Alex then turned to his painter friend and leaned close to whisper in his ear; which you could somehow still hear—very clearly. "Will you stop dragging me around?"

You had to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing. This man sure didn't appreciate being the center of attention.

"Where were you anyway?" Reed gave his friend a look. Alex's lips parted but no words came out.

"Just went to get some drinks." He said after a beat of silence.

"Right." Reed smirked. You watched their exchange in amusement.

"How did you two know each other?" You asked, redirecting the conversation to something that wouldn't keep pushing Alex to the corner. The man gave you an appreciative look.

"We met in art school." Alex nodded in confirmation. "He made me do his painting assignment." He then added bluntly. The cellist snapped his head towards his friend in betrayal.

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did. How else did you get an 'A' for that class when all you did was play cello and—"

"Fine, alright?"

Reed grinned in victory at his surrender, forcing the chuckled you had tried to contain out of you. You could tell they'd been friends for a while.

"Come on, dinner's on me." Reed said, voice turning softer as looked at you.

"Me?"

"Yes, and us." He jerked his head towards Alex.

"It's alright," Alex said, "you two can go together. I'll get something on my way back to the hotel."

"Absolutely not. I owe you for that performance."

"You don't owe me anything though." You interjected, feeling almost bad that you might be getting in between their plans.

"It was a mistake on my part that the gallery staffs almost didn't let you in because iof the ticket I gave you. So I do owe you a proper apology." Reed looked at you hopefully. For a second, you thought his eyes looked rounder, like puppies. And it made you want to give in.

"You sure?"

"Very."

Alex watched the whole thing like a tennis game. Reed's eyes on you didn't waver, and he then added,

"Please."

At that word—and the way he said it—Alex's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn't say a word.

"Alright." You finally gave in. "I guess I'd enjoy some company for tonight."

The implication that you rarely had company at night had Alex curious. "Why? Are you single?" He inquired, which earned him a jab from Reed.

"Uh, yeah. I am." You answered with a sheepish smile.

Alex's eyes sparkled with mirth and he glanced at his friend with a grin.

"Don't mind him." Reed said, subtly glaring at the man next to him. "Come. I know a place."

The atmosphere of the restaurant was warm and cozy. The three of you ate your meals and filled the silence with lighthearted conversations. You hadn't felt so happy talking to people in a while.

"You haven't shared your thoughts on my paintings yet today." Reed pointed out as he wiped his mouth clean of his tomates farcies.

"It wouldn't matter. I'm no art critique."

"That's exactly why it matters. My art are not for critiques—though they are, unfortunately, important for PR. But ultimately they're for myself, and for the people who find joy and comfort in it."

You sighed, knowing that aside from fine arts, Reed Richards was a master in the art of persuasion—or at least you couldn't seem to resist him.

So you talked, and talked, and the two men listened without cutting you off.

Alex looked at you before his gaze landed on his friend who was listening intently to everything you had to say—and a small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You finally arrived home after midnight, thanks to Reed and Alex who made sure you got back safely.

You felt your heart fluttering the whole time as you recalled your conversations. The way Reed valued your opinions, the way he listened to you without interrupting, the way his voice would get softer whenever he talked to you.

You wondered if you'd ever get to see him again.

Reed and Alex walked down the dimly-lit pavements back to their own hotel after sending you back.

"You should've gone to that dinner without me." Alex said, breaking the silence of the night.

"What? Why?"

"Because clearly, you didn't need me there. It could've been a date."

"But it wasn't supposed to be a date." Reed looked at him in confusion.

Alex's lips parted in disbelief. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Reed's neck, holding it in a headlock. "Do you even know how to pick up a woman?"

"Ow! Let go, idiot! I'm not like you."

"You're the idiot! You're literally in love with her!" That immediately shut Reed up.

Alex let him go with a shove, sending the man stumbling on his feet. "And yeah, I'm a ladies man." He shrugged. "So if you don't make your move, maybe I will."

Reed gasped, and his hands suddenly itched to wipe the smirk off the menace he unfortunately called friend's face. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Try me."

Sensing the warning signs in Reed's eyes, Alex instantly took off, with the man in glasses chasing after him into the night.

Deep down in his heart, Reed knew Alex was right.

When he looked at you, he saw a woman who spoke his language—a woman who could interpret the strokes on his canvas.

And Reed knew he had fallen. Hard.

Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

~~

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

~~

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

~~

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

~~

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

~~

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, blue eyes a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

~~

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

~~

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

~~

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

Tag list #1:

First of all I love your humor and I love the way you handled Tate, making us discover his character little by little, at the beginning he even seems nice and then as the chapter went on I started to hate him more and more, what a fake, little bitch, snobbish and judgmental guy 😤

He doesn't want a girlfriend, he wants a doll to show off and shape as he pleases, how disgusting!

I hope reader will realize this soon, although I can understand why she fell for it, the glam, the fake gallantry and politeness and the love bombing… UGH.

I have a feeling his poor mother got caught up in this pattern before she realized what she was getting herself into, giving the bruise… I feel so sorry for her.

And oh my god, the boys! I loved the way they handled themselves, with great emotional intelligence, knowing how to wait and see how the situation unfolded without directly opposing him. And I'm happy they're ready to face whatever comes next with her, because that's what she needs. Sometimes mistakes are only visible when they're thrown in your face, but it's only right that people who truly care about you know how to help you without holding anything back and being truly there for you. They’re so precious, I want to cry 🥹

Come to find out during the rest of this conversation with her they eloped at the courthouse last Saturday while you were left alone to fend for yourself. Eating an expired box of lasagna hamburger helper and watching re-runs of Home Improvement. And she tells you this like you’re supposed to be grateful because you'll finally be escaping this shitty apartment and you’ll have a yard, a garage, and won’t have to listen to the neighbor above you practice their Irish step dancing at all hours any more. 

Your mothers always been one to make hasty decisions but never ones this quick or this life altering. Eloping after only 3 months together, 3 months isn’t enough time to know somebody, no matter how many times she repeats, when you know, you know.

Though at least it’s with Ricardo Miller –or Ric as he insists– and not one of the other deadbeat exes she’s dragged through the apartment – i.e. the one dude who talked like he was selling extended warranties and lived off her paycheck after your dad bailed. But Ric comes as a package deal. Not just the house with the yard and the garage, but with 2 sons. Joel, 15, same as you, and Tommy a year younger. Who are now effectively as of last Saturday at around 2:30pm, your new step-brothers. 

Oddly enough the men your mom dated in the past either had no kids or they had sons, not once did they ever have a daughter. So you were always stuck with the prospect of possible step-brothers. Which, when you were younger was fine, always leaning more rough-n-tumble tomboy-ish anyway. Playing sports, never afraid to get dirty, part of you genuinely liked doing the things that were more boyish, but looking back now, you know a piece of you just wanted to be apart, and not be the odd one out.

The secondhand smoke from the Marlboro Ultra Light your mom just lit up assaults your nose before she cracks the drivers side window, reminding you what day it is. Move-in day. Your mother had squealed with excitement at you this morning after you emerged from your room. In response you had given her a tight smile and jazz hands. Now heading towards your new house, you really start to ponder what your relationship with your new step-brothers will look like now that you're older and quite different from the person you used to be. More reserved and quiet now. You really hope you’ll get along with these 2 boys and can end up being friends, you don’t see why not, you’ve always been able to make friends with anyone. But seeing as your mom decided to jump into a whole new life so quickly, you’ve heard little about them, only seen a photo or two, and have yet to actually meet. 

You arrive at the house, and you’ll give your mom credit where credit is due. This house is definitely a couple steps up from the apartment. It’s a 2 story house, white exterior and navy blue door with a clunky brass knocker on it, windows adorned with shutters you’re sure don’t work as intended – these purely for aesthetics only. Straight away you can tell Ric is probably like one of those old farts who tells people to get off my lawn, because here in Texas where the summers are brutally hot and the grass should be a dry and crunchy light beige color, his is a lush green.

The ’92 Toyota Camry, your mother’s beloved champagne-colored chariot, pulls into the driveway, Ric’s truck is already backed in with the tailgate down and your whole life stacked in uneven cardboard boxes that he, you and your mom loaded up this morning. The last bits of your life, all here to be placed under his roof.  

Your mom kills the engine and just sits there, both hands on the wheel, smiling at the house like it’s the answer to her white picket prayers. Through the windshield, you watch Ric directing his sons on what to do, he points somewhere and one of his sons follows through. Even though you can tell the teenage boys aren’t super happy about having to do manual labor on a Saturday. 

You notice Joel first, on the ground beside the truck, taking whatever gets handed to him. He’s in faded jeans and a loose old T-shirt you can tell used to belong to somebody else before it belonged to him. Then there’s Tommy. He is taller than he looked in the picture your mom showed you, wearing a Nirvana shirt with the sleeves cut off and a rip across one knee of his jeans. You can very much tell the brothers have a similar style and probably share most of their clothes, since they’re only a year apart in age.  

“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.

You wanna laugh in her face. That question has become one of her favorites these past couple of months, mostly because it can be answered with two words to let her off the hook.

“I’m fine,” you say.

She nods, choosing to believe you.

Outside, Tommy jumps down from the truck bed, his Converse landing with a smack. Joel says something to him and gives a playful wack upside the head. Tommy answers with a face and his tongue poking out from between his lips. 

Oh, Lord. Brothers. 

Your mom checks herself in the rearview mirror. “Ready?” she asks, floofing her bangs. 

Not even close. 

But she’s already opening her door. You get out after her, feeling the Texas heat radiate up off the driveway. Ric looks over first and lifts a hand in greeting, smiling wide and welcoming. The boys turn with him and you know how sometimes people look at you and you can feel them deciding what kind of person you are before you’ve even said a word? Yeah… Tommy does that, his eyes move shamelessly up and down you. He grins a little, like he’s been handed something new and entertaining. Joel’s look is shorter. He doesn’t rake over you the same way, he just looks at you with a blank expression. 

“Well helloooo there pretty lady, fancy runnin’ into you here.” Ric says with a chuckle, coming forward to kiss your mom on the cheek. 

Hardy har har. Looks like he got dad jokes.

Ric turns to you then. “And there’s our girl.”

Our girl.

You fight a look of disgust that wants to take shape on your face. You do not care for that wording one bit, though maybe that’s unfair. You know he means well, he’s a nice guy, you’ve met him a handful of times, never getting a weird pedo vibe from him, unlike that one dude your mom dated, the one who asked you if you wanted to play Twister with him when you were 12. So you let his wording slide. Small mercies. 

“Hey Ric,” you say, fitting a small pleasant smile on your face. 

“These here are my boys.” He gestures back toward them. “Tommy and Joel.”

You say hi. Joel says hi back and gives you a little salute with two fingers.

Tommy says, “Hey,” with a face that suggests the word has several hidden meanings, none of which are nice.

Your mom is beaming, seemingly already convinced y’all are the Brady Bunch.

“Why don’t you boys show her where her room is?” Ric suggests, looking at his boys. Tommy glances toward the house, then at Joel, like maybe one of them can dodge it but Ric points at the stack still in the truck. “Take one of these boxes with you, they go to her room.”

Joel grabs a box, then Tommy and he jerks his head toward the house. “C’mon.”

You follow Tommy as he cuts through the living room –not giving you any time to take in the space around you that you’ll be calling home– and heads for the steps that lead to the basement –okay… 3 story house, you stand corrected– and you follow him down with Joel on your heels. The staircase is narrow, boxed in by solid walls on both sides, so you're single file the whole way down. At the bottom, Tommy turns right and the space opens up to the living room. He informs you that he and Joel occupy the main living area of the basement and their rooms are on the other side of it at the far end. It's a cozy cave of guitars and game controllers, with dark wood paneling, a big stereo, and a worn-in plaid couch, along with a TV on a stand against one wall. 

You’re led back to the bottom of the stairs, there going the other way is a small hallway with 2 doors. Tommy walks through one of those doors. “And here we are.” He drops the box at the foot of your bed –that Ric has so graciously already put together for you, huh, maybe this guy will be good for your mom afterall– as your eyes move around the space. 

Your room is small, square, same plain wood paneling along the walls. There’s one little window high up near the ceiling where a strip of daylight comes in level with the lawn outside. If you stood on the mattress, you figure you could hoist yourself up and shimmy out of it, if you ever needed a possible escape route. 

“Cute,” your mother says from behind you, arriving breathless with two smaller boxes in her arms. “Isn’t it cute?”

She’s clearly trying to get you to love it.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you lie, enthusiastically. 

Joel sets his box down by the dresser, his eyes moving once around the room, then to the hallway, then back to you. That’s when you realize that the other door you passed was a bathroom and you’ll be sharing it with them. You look up to the ceiling and let out a breath through your nose, hoping this won’t be a point of contention between you and the brothers. 

Tommy notices and says, “Just don’t take forever in there and we’ll get along fine.”

Your head turns to look at him. “I don’t take forever,” you say nicely with a smile. 

Tommy widens his eyes trying to act innocent. “Didn’t say you did.” 

Then under his breath he mutters –but yeah, it doesn’t look like it– quiet enough that your mom and her old ass ears miss his insult. But you hear it, and Joel’s close enough to hear it too. The words hurt and make you feel like shit. You don't glob makeup on or anything, but you brush your hair, put in little efforts here and there. You're far from a bridge troll and at least always thought of yourself as pleasant looking, but you guess you are pretty plain. 

Joel finally speaks for the first time. “Tommy,” he says with a slight reprimand to his voice.

Tommy lifts both hands. “What? I’m just saying.”

You look down at the floor, now feeling ugly –u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi ugly– and smaller than ever. Your mother, oblivious to the interaction that just happened and to your current feelings, claps once and says, “This is going to be SO good, I can feel it.”

~~

After that day, one of the first things you learn about Joel and Tommy is that they take long showers. What in the hell are they doing in there?? This noticeably starts affecting your new life, 2 weeks into living here. Standing in the hallway at 7:15 am with your towel and shampoo tucked under your arm – you already know better than to leave your shampoo in the bathroom, found that out week 1 when you suspect over half of it was squirted down the drain – waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the water has already been running for 20 minutes. You let out a frustrated sigh and politely knock again. 

"Occupied." Tommy says cheerfully and unbothered, while the water keeps flowing. 

"I have school," you say through the door.

"So do I."

"Then why are you still—"

"Relax, Goody. I'll be out in a minute."

You continue to stand there in the hallway with your shampoo and your towel, doubting he’ll be out in the next minute. What’s hard is knowing somewhere upstairs your mom and Ric are having breakfast together, all happy, and you're down here losing a war of attrition against one of your new step brothers.

The door finally opens six minutes later. Tommy comes out in a cloud of steam with a towel around his waist and his hair dripping, looking pleased with himself. He glances at you, sees the worry and upset look on your face, and grins. 

"See? A minute," he says, and disappears around the corner.

Now you stand in the steam he left behind, the mirror completely fogged, and you just know there's probably not a single drop of hot water left.

The brothers don’t really ever take you into consideration and Tommy most of all finds it amusing if he inconveniences you. They have their own world downstairs, their own hours, and are always with each other. Your bedroom, carved out of their territory, just a door they walk near on the way to the bathroom. You keep your room tidy. You do your dishes. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You are, in every outward way, the model of a person who is not causing problems. Yet they don’t become your friends, like you’d hoped for, instead all there is is turbulence.

It's Tommy who coins it, during the first week of living here. You're at the kitchen table with your school books fanned out — even though classes only just started, you're trying to get ahead, knocking out a reading assignment before dinner — when Tommy spots the highlighters lined up by color and pulls a face. "Geesh," he says, nudging Joel as he trails in behind him from outside. "See? Told you she was a goody." 

Goody. As in two-shoes. As in no fun.

Apparently they've already decided what kind of girl you are before they really know a single thing about you, and you can’t figure out how to prove them wrong without sounding pathetic. So you don't try. You don't let it show on your face how much the new nickname hurts you. But that night, back in your room, a few tears slip down your face, there is only so much you can take. And everyday you see just how happy your mom is with Ric and how well he treats her, and you don’t want to be the person who ruins it, but this house you live in now, definitely doesn’t feel like home to you.

~~

Weeks go by. Then a few months. The weather changes and you keep learning more about your new step-brothers. In the cooler months the boys wear old ratty flannels over their T-shirts and Tommy digs out a few colorful sweaters and cardigans, trying to look like his idol Kurt Cobain. 

Ric and your mom stay in their own little world upstairs, They make dinner together. They fall asleep on the couch watching old movies. They go to estate sales on Saturdays and come back with things to make his house their house. Eye roll. 

Which means you, Joel and Tommy are basically unsupervised, all the time. The boys take full advantage of this. Friends over on school nights, music until whenever, the basement running on its own hours entirely. You can hear it through the wall when you're trying to sleep — laughter, guitars strumming, noise of teenage boys who have never once been told to keep it the fuck down. Clearly, never having to fight for their right to party. You’ve gathered that Ric trusts his sons fully, because the brothers have a lot of people over, more than your mom seems to be aware of. All coming in through the basement door. You like to think if your mom knew her 15 year old daughter was down here constantly surrounded by 14 and 15 year old boys, she might say something to Ric. But she never seems none the wiser. And you never let on about it.

You discover more about the brothers listening though the walls at night, like how Tommy is always trying to be the center of attention. Surprise, surprise. He laughs first and loudest. Joel hangs back more, but not in a shy way. You’ve gathered he’s a pretty confident person around his friends. And the 2 of them together are impossible. They move around each other without thinking. One drops something, the other picks it up. It’s like they share the same instincts, forged from years of roughhousing, shared space, and a silent alliance against the rest of the world. One forgets his wallet on the counter; the other is already tossing it to him before he even pats his pockets. They finish each other’s sentences, usually with some smartass remark that only makes sense to them. And they share everything; clothes, inside jokes, friends, food. You find it obnoxious and also, against your better judgement, a little fascinating. 

You slowly develop a new life of your own there, though. You aren't sitting downstairs pining for their approval like some loser. You have school. A few friends. You spend as much time out of the house and away from them as you can. 

Most days you hang around with Jenna and Riley, 2 friends you made since moving here. You steal Tommy’s beat up bmx bike outta the garage, to go to the Sonic in town. You all pool your money together, split a large order of tots and share a Route 44 Cherry Coke. On cooler evenings you ride the back roads, kicking up gravel, racing each other to the old water tower on the edge of town just to sit and watch the world move below.

Some weekends you help out at the county animal shelter because the dogs don’t care that you’re the new kid or what’s going on at your house. You play with the big mutts in the dusty yard out back and sneak them extra treats when no one’s looking. You've always preferred the big ones — the ones other people pass right by because they look like their too much to handle. Those are the ones that make you feel the most safe cause they just wanna be close to you, wanna prove their loyalty to you. They just wanna love you and be loved back. You like that.

So no, you're not completely miserable. It more so feels like death by a thousand stings. Because your step-bothers can be so infuriating. They take your laundry out of the dryer before it’s done. They both talk over you at dinner. Always leaving the toilet seat up, you learned to check after falling in once in the middle of the night. They use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll. 

But there is the one thing Tommy does that just chaps your ass like nothing else, and it happens at least once a month and you know he does this shit on purpose. You caught him doing it before and he just smirked like it was funny. 

You wake up, get ready for school, and drag yourself into the kitchen hoping for something easy before the bus comes. Your eyes land on the Frosted Flakes box sitting there on the shelf. For a second your mood lifts. 

Hell yeah.

You’re already tasting the sweet crunch, imagining pouring a big bowl and drowning it in milk. You reach up excited now and pull the box down with actual energy for the first time that morning, but the box feels way too light. That rush of excitement collapses instantly into pure annoyance, then disappointment. You stand there staring at the stupid colorful box in your hands, the bright tiger on the front still smiling like everything’s fine. They're Grrrreat! 

You open the top anyway, hoping maybe there’s a handful left at the bottom. There never is. Just an empty bag shoved back in the box like trash. It makes you want to slam the empty box on the counter. Instead you just crush it hard between your hands. It’s such a small thing, but it fucks up your whole morning every single time. That brief spark of this is gonna be good followed by the letdown. It feels exactly like living here.

Yet you still don’t hate them, just wish they’d be nicer to you. What you do hate is how they can make you feel like a stupid little girl with one look and how they can be so inconsiderate of you, but so instinctively considerate with each other. Mostly, you hate that after a while, being called Goody starts to feel less like an insult and more like a role you’ve been shoved in. So you play it. You keep your grades up. Keep your room neat. Keep your mouth shut more than either of them deserves. You become very, very good at not being seen or heard. 

Time still carries on, winter comes and goes, and to your dismay, the bathroom situation never improves. The noise doesn’t either. You finally invest in a cheap pair of ear plugs with your allowance but they only help so much. 

~~

By the time school is 3 weeks away from letting out for summer, your eyes feel like they're gonna bleed and you are starting to feel a deep-seated anger that you truly have never felt before. Every slammed door, every late-night jam sesh from the boys’ side of the basement is like a hand shaking your mattress, pushing you past the point of delirium.

It’s been 8 months of Tommy and Joel’s friends coming and going in packs, always loud, shouting over each other, playing music or video games. Now on the rare occasion Ric will holler down the stairs to keep the volume down before he goes to bed, but you know once he gets into the bedroom with your mom and their big box fan, they won’t hear a thing. It won’t be 10 minutes later somebody’s laughing again, the TV or music is up, the bathroom door is slamming, somebody’s banging something against the staircase wall, and there goes another decent night of sleep. 

So when the flyer goes up on the school bulletin board for a 10 week counselor program at a lakeside camp a bones throw from Austin, you tear off one of the tabs before you even finish reading it.

It’s not for the fresh air. It is not about some grand destiny and finding yourself in nature or any of that hippie dippy bullshit they put on the flyer. It’s solely about leaving. You sign up because your brain feels like stew and the thought of being trapped downstairs all summer listening to the boys and their friends shred the same three Nirvana riffs just might cause you to be committed. 

You're filling out the application at the kitchen table, your mom brings over dinner and the rest of the family arrives. "Camp counselor, huh?" she asks as she sets down the main course and peers over your shoulder. “Will they let 15 year olds do that?”

“Mmhm, plus I’ll turn 16 while I’m there,” you say, continuing to write.

Your mom sits down with a sad look on her face. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I suppose we can celebrate it when you get back. Where’s the camp?”

“Somewhere on Lake Travis,” you inform her.

Ric, to his credit, thinks it sounds practical. “Looks good on applications,” he says around a forkful of food “Responsibility. Leadership and all that.”

Tommy, lounging in his chair with one knee up and laughing says, “You all gonna gather ‘round the campfire and sing kumbaya?”

You roll your eyes to yourself and keep writing. 

“And braid friendship bracelets?,” Joel adds smirking.

~~

You get an acceptance letter 2 weeks later that feels like a pardon from the president and the whole house knows by dinner that night – thanks to your mom of course. 

She’s thrilled, probably more so because she will have something new to talk about with her friends. “10 whole weeks!” she says. “We’re all sure gonna miss you!”

Sureeeeeee you will. 

Then Tommy buts in. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “We’re gonna be inconsolable.”

Joel chuckles. Tommy lifts his brows, cutting a look to Joel. “Think they got a merit badge for bein’ a goody?  Maybe they’ll teach her how to loosen the hell up out there.”

“Watch your mouth boy,” Ric says sharply, pointing his fork at him.

Tommy’s shit-eating grin immediately slips from his face.

“Both of y’all knock it off,” Ric adds, looking from Tommy to Joel. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with her wanting to do something worthwhile with her summer, and you two knuckleheads ain’t gonna sit here and make a joke out of it.”

Joel drops his eyes to his plate as Tommy mutters, “Was just kiddin’ around.”

“Well, I’m not,” Ric says. “She’s a sweetheart and good girl. Better sense than most kids her age, definitely more than the pair of you put together. I’d be real pleased if more young people acted the way she does.”

While Ric’s words are nice and all, you have never wished more than right now that teleportation was a real thing and something you had the ability to do. Your mom just smiles, pleased, at the lovely things her beau just said about you. And here you are the good girl at the dinner table, held up like an example. Such a little sweetheart.

~~

Later that night, Tommy comes up to you, stands with his shoulder leaning against the bathroom door frame, while you're brushing your teeth.

“Better be a good girl and run along to bed now, wouldn’t want you up past your bedtime,” he says. 

You look up at him in the mirror, spit into the sink and reach for the towel, not answering him. You can feel your eyes start to build tears, and it only gets worse the harder you try to hold them back. It's been months of this - of him treating you like shit. It's becoming too much. 

“Aww,” Tommy smiles and leans in towards you. “You gonna cry?”

“No! Shut up,” you say, looking down at the hand towel you’re holding. 

His grin widens as he pushes off the frame satisfied with himself and heads down the hallway, straight past Joel, whose back is resting against the wall, arms folded. He wandered over to use the bathroom, but ended up hearing the whole exchange between you and his brother.  

You make eye contact with Joel and look down fast, but not fast enough, tears finally slipping loose. Humiliating in their timing, happening in front of Joel. But something in his face changes, his arms drop, he pushes off the wall and reaches toward you, the movement surprising him as much as it does you. 

“Hey—”

You back up away from his reach and flee before he can say anything else, before your body can betray you any further. You make it to your room, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with shaking fingers.

You back away from the door, wiping furiously at your face with the back of your hands, angry now on top of everything else. Angry at Tommy and angry at Joel for always just standing there, laughing along. But now he wants to act like he gives a shit about your feelings cause he witnessed the effects of Tommy’s berating. 

The floor creaks outside your door. Then Joel’s voice comes through the wood. He says your name, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Go away!” you shout, a sob breaking out of you. “I can’t wait to get away from both of you!”

A moment passes and Joel speaks again. “I’m sorry, I’ll—” 

You cut him off. “I said go away!” 

The floor makes another little sound as Joel stands there, and then you hear the sound of his retreating footsteps make their way down the hall. You stand in the middle of your room listening until he’s gone. Only then do you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head. Now upset and angry with yourself too, because for the first time since moving into this house, one of them saw you break. 

~~

You get the feeling that Joel must have said something to Tommy about what happened after he teased you the other night, because for the next week -the week before you leave for camp- Joel and Tommy steer clear of you. You’re grateful.

A few days before you leave, your mom takes you to K-Mart and lets you pick out two pairs of shorts and a new one-piece bathing suit that doesn’t feel matronly but is still modest, and lives up to your Goody name.

The morning you leave, the basement is quiet, assuming both the boys are still dead to the world this early, and part of you would love to be loud and interrupt their sleep, but you don't wanna have to interact with the pair and most importantly you don’t want to be like them.

Tip-toeing down the hall, you sit your duffel at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, you see Joel, sitting on the couch, faintly lit by the bathroom night light coming from the hallway. 

He looks over. “You need any help?” he whispers.

The offer catches you off guard, part of you wants to ask if he has a fever. 

“I’ve got it,” you coldly reply. 

Now you can’t be sure due to how dark it is but dare you say Joel looks a little hurt.

~~

The camp bus is set to leave from the H-E-B parking lot in town. Your mother hugs you twice. Ric says, “Have fun, kiddo,” and squeezes your shoulder. Tommy was still asleep when you left and Joel despite being awake doesn’t come, though you didn’t expect him to. 

Boarding the bus, your nose notes the smell of sunscreen and someone's body spray fighting a losing battle. You carry your backpack down the aisle and take a window seat by yourself. After the bus pulls off and you wave goodbye, you spend the first 15 minutes doing a threat assessment. Which girls look friendly. Which ones came already locked in with their own people and have no interest in expansion. At the next stop sign, a brunette with a high ponytail drops into the seat beside you in cutoff shorts.

“Hi! You look normal enough. Mind if I risk it?”

“That’s a bold assumption,” you say chuckling.

“Anna,” she smiles, sticking out her hand.

You tell her your name, and that is that. By the time the bus gets to the lake, you've swapped stories. Anna has told you about the time she accidentally set her aunt’s patio umbrella on fire with a magnifying glass. You’ve told her about your step-family, presenting it like a joke you don’t care much about. She seems to read between the lines anyway and just nudges your shoulder with hers and says, “Well, their loss. You’re funny.”

It surprises you how much you need to hear something like that right now. And it gets you more excited for what else is to come at camp. 

~~

Your cabin is a narrow row of bunks with screened windows and one small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. It should feel cramped. Somehow it doesn't. Here it just feels communal instead of invasive, the way things at home feel invasive. Nobody stays in there forever. Nobody leaves the floor wet on purpose.

That first night, you wake up on instinct around 1:30am, certain there must be shouting, or music, or the sound of roughhousing on the other side of the basement. There is only the fan. A throat being cleared in sleep. Somebody turning over in a bunk hard enough to make the frame creak. You lie there in the dark and feel your whole body slowly realize it can finally relax. 

By the end of the first week, the dark circles under your eyes start fading. And by the second, you stop waking up at every small noise. The lake itself is prettier than it had looked in the brochure. There are dragonflies that skim low over the surface and disappear before you can track them. Then there are mornings when mist hangs over the water making everything feel calm and serene. You come to love the routine of camp. Waking up early. The way breakfast smells from across the field. The chaos of girls getting ready in the cabin. The scheduled activities.

At first, you wear the new one-piece your mother bought you and sit with your knees together and laugh with your mouth mostly closed and say sorry too often. Sorry for reaching across someone. Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for being sorry.

Anna notices. Saying things like you apologize too much, you know you don’t have to do that here with us. And other things such as why do you always do that, when you tug your shorts down after standing, you have good legs, stop hiding them. 

By the third week, little things begin to shift.

Anna lends you a different swimsuit, then a different top, then a pair of shorts that show more thigh than you would’ve dared on your own. She doesn’t push you to wear them, though she does have the subtlety of a fire alarm, but it seems some of her confidence rubs off on you. 

At first, wearing one of her bikinis makes you feel overly exposed. You keep tugging at the fabric that covers your tits, crossing your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is staring.

“Everybody has seen what you’ve got to offer before babe,” Anna says, sunning beside you on the dock. “But with jugs like those attached to the rest of that bangin’ body, be prepared for some stares.”

You sheepishly look down and try to hold back a smile. The confidence in her words embolden you, you stop folding in on yourself and just let yourself be. 

After that, things change faster. You get a little color. Then a little more. Your shoulders deepen from pale to golden honey. The bridge of your nose freckles. Your hair goes lighter in places where you spray the lemon scented Sun-In spray on it. One day you catch your reflection in a small bathroom mirror, looking miles different from the girl who showed up in sensible shorts with her whole personality tucked in.

One of the senior counselors, a girl named Liza with bleached bangs, pierces your ears in the craft cabin after curfew with a needle sterilized over a lighter. And not just the lobes, but small silver hoops up along the cartilage, 3 on one side and 2 on the other. You adore how they look on you. Then Anna tries to talk you into a nipple piercing while you're at it.

"Absolutely not," you say.

"Oh come on, you'd love it."

"Anna."

"Fine. Eventually you'd love it."

By week four you're laughing louder. By week five you’re rolling the legs of your shorts up twice instead of once and not tugging them back down every time you stand. By week six you catch boys looking. You start to love the male attention you're getting. Becoming bolder, holding eye contact with them just long enough that the boys grin back at you.

Then flirtation with Grant starts. He’s one of the senior counselors that oversees water sports, which means you see him every afternoon at the dock while helping the small kids. He’s really sweet and easygoing. The first time he really notices you, you’re dragging a canoe up onto shore, he steps in and lifts the other end like it’s nothing.

“Dang girl, let me help you,” he says. “You trying to impress somebody?”

“Is it working?” you say, eyeing him. 

“…Maybe,” he says, with a grin and a look where you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

After that, he starts finding reasons to talk to you. What you like most is that he doesn’t call you a Goody.

~~

Before you know it, the middle of July is here, along with your 16th birthday. You told Anna not to make a big deal of it, and wouldn’t you know it, she doesn’t listen. Shocker.

So of course, on the night of your birthday, after lights out, Anna leads you down to the dock where a loose half-circle of junior and senior counselors have gathered.  Somebody has smuggled in a bottle of rum. Somebody else has brought a cake in a smashed plastic container. The lake is like black glass and the near full moon lays a silver path across it, so bright, it looks like you could walk across it. They light the candles and sing to you, badly. You make a face, laugh and tell them to shut up, embarrassed by being the center of attention. A paper plate with cake gets pressed into your hand and the rum burns all the way down.

That’s when Anna starts a game of truth or dare. She doesn't start with you, which you are so thankful for. She works her way around the circle, you watch and laugh, thinking maybe you're going to get through this without becoming the subject.

Then it gets to Grant.

"Truth or dare," Anna says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking at her.

Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

A few people oooh like idiots. Anna tips her head, pretending to think, though you bet she’s had this cocked and loaded since the game began. 

“I dare you,” she says, drawing it out, “to kiss the birthday girl.”

The dock erupts. People clapping. Somebody pounds a heel against the wood. Anna looks at you so pleased with herself, part of you wants to throttle her. 

Grant glances at you first. That is what you remember later. That he looks at you first. Not at Anna. Not at the crowd. At you. Suddenly the sweatshirt you wore to help keep the chill of the night off of you, is now holding in the flames that burst over your skin. You know everybody is watching. You know that 6 weeks ago this would have sent you straight into yourself, a turtle retreating under its shell.

Instead, you lift one shoulder, licking your lips and say, “C’mere handsome, make my birthday wish come true.”

The whole circle loses its mind.

Grant laughs a little under his breath, and moves closer. One hand comes up, holding your face then his soft lips press against yours, lips now moving together slowly in unison as all sound fades. When he draws back, the cheering rushes in all at once. You give a coy laugh. Grant is grinning at you now.

“Worth the wish?” he asks, a little flushed.

You can still feel the shape of the lips on your mouth. “Definitely.”

Anna is shrieking like she has personally orchestrated the moon landing, and you can’t find it in you to be too upset at her after that kiss. 

Lying in your bunk after the night comes to a close, you press your fingers to your lips and stare up into the dark. It isn’t really about Grant, well not only about him. It’s about the fact that somewhere between the H-E-B parking lot and that kiss, between the one-piece swimsuit and Anna’s relentless campaign against your old self, you realize how much more at ease you are in your own skin.

~~

Your duffel is fuller leaving than it was arriving. A borrowed paperback one of the girls gave to you. A camp T-shirt you cut up because Liza told you to stop dressing like the assistant manager of a Christian bookstore. A Polaroid from the dock, all of you squinting sun-drunk into the camera, Anna half climbing onto your back. A bottle of vanilla body spray that Dee brought and didn’t like, so she gave it to you. Anna tosses you one of her tank tops, which you put on to head home in. White and tight, hugging your tits and accentuating your waist perfectly, paired with the same shorts you arrived in, only now you’ve taken shears to them, making them super short. Your legs are darker and your hair is lighter. The messy bun atop your head allows the silver on your ears to flash when you turn your head.

Grant meets you at your cabin door, the morning it’s time to leave and takes your duffel, carrying it for you. The bus lot is last-minute chaos. Girls calling to each other and crying. The adult counselors checking names off clipboards. 

Grant bends to slide your duffel under the bus, then turns back to you. 

"So," he says. "You were fun to have around, I’m gonna miss you." He opens his arms and you step in, he pulls you flush up against him, his chin brushing your temple.

When he leans back, one hand stays at your waist, the other reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Just in case.”

You take it, already smiling before even opening it. Inside is his number, and beneath it, in his handwriting, In case you need someone to talk to. Or advice about guys.

You glance up at him. “Advice about guys?”

“I know at least one.”

You laugh, folding the paper back up. “And he’s an expert?”

“Debatable,” he says. Then, a little softer, “The first part was the important one.”

There is that feeling again, that bright little lift low in your stomach – the same one you got when you kissed him. You know it's not because you think Grant is the love of your life. But because how he actually gives a fuck about you, and about all the things you told him about your home life between makeout sessions behind the mess hall. 

Behind you, Anna shouts, “We’re boarding babe! C’mon!”

You turn halfway and yell, “Get on the bus, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Grant laughs, looking over your shoulder at her,  then looks back at you. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m always here if you need someone in your corner”

“I know, thank you, really.”

His gaze dips to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. His lips meet yours in a simple goodbye kiss. His thumbs brush once at your sides through the cotton of the tank top, then he lets you go.

“Go on, pretty girl.” he says, nodding toward the bus.

Your hand closes around the folded paper, stepping back. You stand there for a moment looking at him and it occurs to you that you are going to miss him or maybe more the feeling he gives you and not so much him. You’re not naive, you figure the odds of ever seeing him again are slim, you’re okay with that, you can make peace with that. You know how to handle a person no longer being in your life. 

“Bye, Grant.”

You turn and head toward the bus, your duffel already swallowed beneath it, your flip-flops slapping warm pavement. You climb onto the bus with his number tucked in your palm. You drop into the seat beside Anna and shove at her shoulder. “Move over.”

She eyes the paper in your hand. “Did he give you his number?”

Your hips raise up and you shove it into the pocket of your shorts. “Maybe.”

She clutches her chest. “My work here is done.”

As the bus pulls away, you glance out the window. Grant lifts a hand. You lift yours back. Then the camp begins to recede. The dock. The cabins. The trail to the lake. The place where you became more yourself.

But with every mile home, the old life starts coming back into view.

~~

The ride home feels shorter, you wish it was longer, not eager in the slightest to come back to what awaits you. Before you know it, the bus hisses to a stop in the same H-E-B lot you shoved off from. Your mother is already there, standing beside the champagne chariot in sunglasses, one hand lifted against the glare. You de-board, grab your duffle, say bye to Anna –excited to have learned at camp she lives one town over, so you’ll be able to hangout– and head toward your mom as she calls out, “There’s my girl! Lord, look at you!” Pulling you into a hug. She leans back to get a better look, both hands on your shoulders.

“You got tan,” she says, then squints at one ear then the other. “And pierced.”

“Mhm.” You say, hoping she doesn’t disapprove. 

“You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much, the house just isn’t the same without you, honey.”

The old duffel gets chucked in the back seat. Your mother talks all through the drive. She asks a little about the camp but says you can talk more about it at dinner.

“I’m sure Ric and the boys would love to hear all about it too!” 

You’re kidding… right?

It’s nice to see your Mom’s still delusional.

Then she asks if you met any boys, which makes you turn and look at her because she hasn't asked you that sort of question in a while.

"What?" she says, smiling at the road ahead. “I’m your mother, not a nun.”

You let out a short laugh but don’t answer her question and she doesn’t ask again. You watch the road along with her. The familiar turnoff's coming back one by one. The gas station with the busted Coke sign. The feed store with the faded mural on the side.

Your mother keeps talking, filling the car with what she and Ric have been up to while you were gone, but you’re not really listening. The closer you get to your neighborhood, the more you start to feel the outline of the basement again. You look down at your hands instead, trying to distract yourself. Silver rings circle your fingers now, two on your left hand, one thin one on your right thumb. Nails painted a dark blue with that Wet ‘n Wild shimmer Dee let you borrow. You twist one of the rings absently, then lift one bare foot into the seat without thinking, your knee bent toward your chest. Your mother glances over and catches sight of it.

“Is that a toe ring?”

You wiggle your little piggies, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”

“Who are you?” She laughs. “And what have you done with my daughter?”

You rest your temple against the seat and look at her, returning the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Oh, listen to this girl,” she says, delighted, and reaches over to tap your knee. “Camp put some mouth on you.”

Maybe it did. Or maybe the mouth was always there, tucked away with a dozen other things you got used to hiding. The radio fills the rest of the drive. That Collective Soul song, December, the one that's been everywhere all summer. 

When the Camry finally turns onto your street, you sit up a little straighter without thinking. Body bracing for impact, the old you bracing for impact. But you aren’t that person anymore, you left that little timid bitch at camp. You pop your gum once, cross your arms and settle back against the seat. If those two boys want to make your life difficult, they can fucking try. They haven't met the real you yet. 

I'd love to hear what you think so far!

Please consider reblogging it really helps us writers keep writing for you babes and it gets more eyes on the story so others can enjoy it too! <3

Next Chapter

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in the last couple posts I’ve made about this series or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

[WIP]

Chapter 1 - Cargo

Chapter 2 - My empire of dirt

Chapter 3 - My boy only breaks his favorite toys

Chapter 4 - I bet on losing dogs

Chapter 5 - Heal these broken lips

Chapter 6 - Fire meets gasoline

Chapter 7 - Can you save me from this darkness?

Chapter 8 - So pretty when you love me

Chapter 9 - Dark but just a game

Chapter 10 - Fuck it I love you

Chapter 11 - When a good man cries

Chapter 12 - Redemption day

Chapter 13 - Blowin' in the wind

Chapter 14 - Man of constant sorrow

Chapter 15 - Can you find me?

Chapter 16 - The feral dog I worship

~Moodboard~

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

~~

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

~~

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

~~

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

~~

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

~~

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

~~

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

~~

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

~~

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

Tag list #1:

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

~~

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

~~

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

~~

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

~~

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

~~

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

~~

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

~~

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

~~

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

Tag list #1:

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

~~

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

~~

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

~~

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

~~

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

~~

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

~~

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

~~

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

~~

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

Tag list #1:

You didn't even see him approaching at first, but his voice was the first part of him your senses registered. That gentle, and soothing voice.

"You've been staring at this one for quite a while."

Your head slowly turned to find a man in full white. The sleeves of a cashmere sweater with black stripes hung intentionally over his broad shoulders. It took you a second to realise he was talking to you.

Your eyes did a quick once over from his head to toe. Each part of him—his curls, mustache, plain white t-shirt that exposes his toned arms, white trousers, and black oxford—screamed perfection. A thought flashed through your mind,

He could replace the painting you were staring at, and you wouldn't complain.

"Mademoiselle?" His little head tilt and soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. He is not French. You knew that much, now.

"Sorry. You were saying?"

A tiny smile tugged at his lips and you were forced to witness those perfectly sculpted dips of his dimples and the creases around his eyes appear on his angelic face—all the while acting like he's not the most beautiful piece of art you had seen all day.

"This particular painting seems to have caught your eye. May I know what's in that beautiful mind of yours?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

"Well," You turned to look back at the painting. You had no idea who this stranger was, but he seemed just as passionate as you about art, so you decided to let him into your thoughts.

You talked, and talked, and you noticed the way he looked intently at you the whole time. It felt unnerving at first; until you understood that he was genuinely interested in what you were saying. That's when all hell broke loose, and you let your mouth run free.

"—though, I do think that it's a strange choice of colour."

You catch the raise of his eyebrows at your last statement, and for a second, you thought you had personally offended him.

"You think so?" He queried.

You stilled, mentally kicking yourself for talking too much. The expression on your face, however, wrote out your thoughts; and it brought a small chuckle out of the stranger.

"Don't worry. You can say it." He leaned closer, breath faintly brushing over your ear. "It'll be our little secret."

Heat crept up your cheeks and you timidly nodded. At the same time, a whiff of his cologne painted your sense of smell.

Gosh, he smells so good.

"I just think that.. a contrasting colour would do even better. Makes the little details pop." You said. "But I'm not a professional painter, so what do I know—"

"You're not wrong." He quickly said. You looked at him in surprise; but from the look of his face, you could tell that he was being genuine.

He smiled at you before looking at the painting again. "It would look nice with a contrasting colour." You took in the way his eyes roam over the delicate art. "but if I were to make a guess, I think the artist might have wanted to highlight the subject alone—hence the blend of complimenting colours and abstract details."

"Don't you think so?" He turned to you again, eyes twinkling with excitement. You had never seen someone get so excited over a painting in an art gallery. It usually ranges between taking mandatory pictures to show off that one had seen a piece of classics, and sketching a painting they admire.

"Sure." You nodded. For some strange reason, you didn't want your conversation with this stranger to end.

He straightened up and reached down the pocket of his pristine white trousers. It still amazed you that he hadn't gotten a fleck of stain on it.

"Hey. If you're free tomorrow, maybe you can come to his reception." He handed you a piece of rectangular card with an identical painting adorning the background.

"I got an extra. You'll get to meet him in person. Maybe then you can talk to him about your suggestion." He winked.

You hesitantly accepted the ticket, thanking him.

"Unfortunately, I have to go now. Lovely meeting you." He extended his hand and you took it with a smile.

"Likewise." You said as you shook his hand. "What's your name?"

"Reed Richards; but call me Reed." He said with a little polite bow. "Hope to see you again, mademoiselle."

You watched him leave, unaware of the huge smile carved on your face and the intense pounding of your heart. But as you looked down at the ticket in your hand, your smile gradually faded.

Meet the Artist

REED RICHARDS

Oh.

So his voice wasn't the first part of him that you knew. You glanced at the painting hung against the plain white wall.

It was his mind.

Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3

Come to find out during the rest of this conversation with her they eloped at the courthouse last Saturday while you were left alone to fend for yourself. Eating an expired box of lasagna hamburger helper and watching re-runs of Home Improvement. And she tells you this like you’re supposed to be grateful because you'll finally be escaping this shitty apartment and you’ll have a yard, a garage, and won’t have to listen to the neighbor above you practice their Irish step dancing at all hours any more. 

Your mothers always been one to make hasty decisions but never ones this quick or this life altering. Eloping after only 3 months together, 3 months isn’t enough time to know somebody, no matter how many times she repeats, when you know, you know.

Though at least it’s with Ricardo Miller –or Ric as he insists– and not one of the other deadbeat exes she’s dragged through the apartment – i.e. the one dude who talked like he was selling extended warranties and lived off her paycheck after your dad bailed. But Ric comes as a package deal. Not just the house with the yard and the garage, but with 2 sons. Joel, 15, same as you, and Tommy a year younger. Who are now effectively as of last Saturday at around 2:30pm, your new step-brothers. 

Oddly enough the men your mom dated in the past either had no kids or they had sons, not once did they ever have a daughter. So you were always stuck with the prospect of possible step-brothers. Which, when you were younger was fine, always leaning more rough-n-tumble tomboy-ish anyway. Playing sports, never afraid to get dirty, part of you genuinely liked doing the things that were more boyish, but looking back now, you know a piece of you just wanted to be apart, and not be the odd one out.

The secondhand smoke from the Marlboro Ultra Light your mom just lit up assaults your nose before she cracks the drivers side window, reminding you what day it is. Move-in day. Your mother had squealed with excitement at you this morning after you emerged from your room. In response you had given her a tight smile and jazz hands. Now heading towards your new house, you really start to ponder what your relationship with your new step-brothers will look like now that you're older and quite different from the person you used to be. More reserved and quiet now. You really hope you’ll get along with these 2 boys and can end up being friends, you don’t see why not, you’ve always been able to make friends with anyone. But seeing as your mom decided to jump into a whole new life so quickly, you’ve heard little about them, only seen a photo or two, and have yet to actually meet. 

You arrive at the house, and you’ll give your mom credit where credit is due. This house is definitely a couple steps up from the apartment. It’s a 2 story house, white exterior and navy blue door with a clunky brass knocker on it, windows adorned with shutters you’re sure don’t work as intended – these purely for aesthetics only. Straight away you can tell Ric is probably like one of those old farts who tells people to get off my lawn, because here in Texas where the summers are brutally hot and the grass should be a dry and crunchy light beige color, his is a lush green.

The ’92 Toyota Camry, your mother’s beloved champagne-colored chariot, pulls into the driveway, Ric’s truck is already backed in with the tailgate down and your whole life stacked in uneven cardboard boxes that he, you and your mom loaded up this morning. The last bits of your life, all here to be placed under his roof.  

Your mom kills the engine and just sits there, both hands on the wheel, smiling at the house like it’s the answer to her white picket prayers. Through the windshield, you watch Ric directing his sons on what to do, he points somewhere and one of his sons follows through. Even though you can tell the teenage boys aren’t super happy about having to do manual labor on a Saturday. 

You notice Joel first, on the ground beside the truck, taking whatever gets handed to him. He’s in faded jeans and a loose old T-shirt you can tell used to belong to somebody else before it belonged to him. Then there’s Tommy. He is taller than he looked in the picture your mom showed you, wearing a Nirvana shirt with the sleeves cut off and a rip across one knee of his jeans. You can very much tell the brothers have a similar style and probably share most of their clothes, since they’re only a year apart in age.  

“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.

You wanna laugh in her face. That question has become one of her favorites these past couple of months, mostly because it can be answered with two words to let her off the hook.

“I’m fine,” you say.

She nods, choosing to believe you.

Outside, Tommy jumps down from the truck bed, his Converse landing with a smack. Joel says something to him and gives a playful wack upside the head. Tommy answers with a face and his tongue poking out from between his lips. 

Oh, Lord. Brothers. 

Your mom checks herself in the rearview mirror. “Ready?” she asks, floofing her bangs. 

Not even close. 

But she’s already opening her door. You get out after her, feeling the Texas heat radiate up off the driveway. Ric looks over first and lifts a hand in greeting, smiling wide and welcoming. The boys turn with him and you know how sometimes people look at you and you can feel them deciding what kind of person you are before you’ve even said a word? Yeah… Tommy does that, his eyes move shamelessly up and down you. He grins a little, like he’s been handed something new and entertaining. Joel’s look is shorter. He doesn’t rake over you the same way, he just looks at you with a blank expression. 

“Well helloooo there pretty lady, fancy runnin’ into you here.” Ric says with a chuckle, coming forward to kiss your mom on the cheek. 

Hardy har har. Looks like he got dad jokes.

Ric turns to you then. “And there’s our girl.”

Our girl.

You fight a look of disgust that wants to take shape on your face. You do not care for that wording one bit, though maybe that’s unfair. You know he means well, he’s a nice guy, you’ve met him a handful of times, never getting a weird pedo vibe from him, unlike that one dude your mom dated, the one who asked you if you wanted to play Twister with him when you were 12. So you let his wording slide. Small mercies. 

“Hey Ric,” you say, fitting a small pleasant smile on your face. 

“These here are my boys.” He gestures back toward them. “Tommy and Joel.”

You say hi. Joel says hi back and gives you a little salute with two fingers.

Tommy says, “Hey,” with a face that suggests the word has several hidden meanings, none of which are nice.

Your mom is beaming, seemingly already convinced y’all are the Brady Bunch.

“Why don’t you boys show her where her room is?” Ric suggests, looking at his boys. Tommy glances toward the house, then at Joel, like maybe one of them can dodge it but Ric points at the stack still in the truck. “Take one of these boxes with you, they go to her room.”

Joel grabs a box, then Tommy and he jerks his head toward the house. “C’mon.”

You follow Tommy as he cuts through the living room –not giving you any time to take in the space around you that you’ll be calling home– and heads for the steps that lead to the basement –okay… 3 story house, you stand corrected– and you follow him down with Joel on your heels. The staircase is narrow, boxed in by solid walls on both sides, so you're single file the whole way down. At the bottom, Tommy turns right and the space opens up to the living room. He informs you that he and Joel occupy the main living area of the basement and their rooms are on the other side of it at the far end. It's a cozy cave of guitars and game controllers, with dark wood paneling, a big stereo, and a worn-in plaid couch, along with a TV on a stand against one wall. 

You’re led back to the bottom of the stairs, there going the other way is a small hallway with 2 doors. Tommy walks through one of those doors. “And here we are.” He drops the box at the foot of your bed –that Ric has so graciously already put together for you, huh, maybe this guy will be good for your mom afterall– as your eyes move around the space. 

Your room is small, square, same plain wood paneling along the walls. There’s one little window high up near the ceiling where a strip of daylight comes in level with the lawn outside. If you stood on the mattress, you figure you could hoist yourself up and shimmy out of it, if you ever needed a possible escape route. 

“Cute,” your mother says from behind you, arriving breathless with two smaller boxes in her arms. “Isn’t it cute?”

She’s clearly trying to get you to love it.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you lie, enthusiastically. 

Joel sets his box down by the dresser, his eyes moving once around the room, then to the hallway, then back to you. That’s when you realize that the other door you passed was a bathroom and you’ll be sharing it with them. You look up to the ceiling and let out a breath through your nose, hoping this won’t be a point of contention between you and the brothers. 

Tommy notices and says, “Just don’t take forever in there and we’ll get along fine.”

Your head turns to look at him. “I don’t take forever,” you say nicely with a smile. 

Tommy widens his eyes trying to act innocent. “Didn’t say you did.” 

Then under his breath he mutters –but yeah, it doesn’t look like it– quiet enough that your mom and her old ass ears miss his insult. But you hear it, and Joel’s close enough to hear it too. The words hurt and make you feel like shit. You don't glob makeup on or anything, but you brush your hair, put in little efforts here and there. You're far from a bridge troll and at least always thought of yourself as pleasant looking, but you guess you are pretty plain. 

Joel finally speaks for the first time. “Tommy,” he says with a slight reprimand to his voice.

Tommy lifts both hands. “What? I’m just saying.”

You look down at the floor, now feeling ugly –u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi ugly– and smaller than ever. Your mother, oblivious to the interaction that just happened and to your current feelings, claps once and says, “This is going to be SO good, I can feel it.”

~~

After that day, one of the first things you learn about Joel and Tommy is that they take long showers. What in the hell are they doing in there?? This noticeably starts affecting your new life, 2 weeks into living here. Standing in the hallway at 7:15 am with your towel and shampoo tucked under your arm – you already know better than to leave your shampoo in the bathroom, found that out week 1 when you suspect over half of it was squirted down the drain – waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the water has already been running for 20 minutes. You let out a frustrated sigh and politely knock again. 

"Occupied." Tommy says cheerfully and unbothered, while the water keeps flowing. 

"I have school," you say through the door.

"So do I."

"Then why are you still—"

"Relax, Goody. I'll be out in a minute."

You continue to stand there in the hallway with your shampoo and your towel, doubting he’ll be out in the next minute. What’s hard is knowing somewhere upstairs your mom and Ric are having breakfast together, all happy, and you're down here losing a war of attrition against one of your new step brothers.

The door finally opens six minutes later. Tommy comes out in a cloud of steam with a towel around his waist and his hair dripping, looking pleased with himself. He glances at you, sees the worry and upset look on your face, and grins. 

"See? A minute," he says, and disappears around the corner.

Now you stand in the steam he left behind, the mirror completely fogged, and you just know there's probably not a single drop of hot water left.

The brothers don’t really ever take you into consideration and Tommy most of all finds it amusing if he inconveniences you. They have their own world downstairs, their own hours, and are always with each other. Your bedroom, carved out of their territory, just a door they walk near on the way to the bathroom. You keep your room tidy. You do your dishes. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You are, in every outward way, the model of a person who is not causing problems. Yet they don’t become your friends, like you’d hoped for, instead all there is is turbulence.

It's Tommy who coins it, during the first week of living here. You're at the kitchen table with your school books fanned out — even though classes only just started, you're trying to get ahead, knocking out a reading assignment before dinner — when Tommy spots the highlighters lined up by color and pulls a face. "Geesh," he says, nudging Joel as he trails in behind him from outside. "See? Told you she was a goody." 

Goody. As in two-shoes. As in no fun.

Apparently they've already decided what kind of girl you are before they really know a single thing about you, and you can’t figure out how to prove them wrong without sounding pathetic. So you don't try. You don't let it show on your face how much the new nickname hurts you. But that night, back in your room, a few tears slip down your face, there is only so much you can take. And everyday you see just how happy your mom is with Ric and how well he treats her, and you don’t want to be the person who ruins it, but this house you live in now, definitely doesn’t feel like home to you.

~~

Weeks go by. Then a few months. The weather changes and you keep learning more about your new step-brothers. In the cooler months the boys wear old ratty flannels over their T-shirts and Tommy digs out a few colorful sweaters and cardigans, trying to look like his idol Kurt Cobain. 

Ric and your mom stay in their own little world upstairs, They make dinner together. They fall asleep on the couch watching old movies. They go to estate sales on Saturdays and come back with things to make his house their house. Eye roll. 

Which means you, Joel and Tommy are basically unsupervised, all the time. The boys take full advantage of this. Friends over on school nights, music until whenever, the basement running on its own hours entirely. You can hear it through the wall when you're trying to sleep — laughter, guitars strumming, noise of teenage boys who have never once been told to keep it the fuck down. Clearly, never having to fight for their right to party. You’ve gathered that Ric trusts his sons fully, because the brothers have a lot of people over, more than your mom seems to be aware of. All coming in through the basement door. You like to think if your mom knew her 15 year old daughter was down here constantly surrounded by 14 and 15 year old boys, she might say something to Ric. But she never seems none the wiser. And you never let on about it.

You discover more about the brothers listening though the walls at night, like how Tommy is always trying to be the center of attention. Surprise, surprise. He laughs first and loudest. Joel hangs back more, but not in a shy way. You’ve gathered he’s a pretty confident person around his friends. And the 2 of them together are impossible. They move around each other without thinking. One drops something, the other picks it up. It’s like they share the same instincts, forged from years of roughhousing, shared space, and a silent alliance against the rest of the world. One forgets his wallet on the counter; the other is already tossing it to him before he even pats his pockets. They finish each other’s sentences, usually with some smartass remark that only makes sense to them. And they share everything; clothes, inside jokes, friends, food. You find it obnoxious and also, against your better judgement, a little fascinating. 

You slowly develop a new life of your own there, though. You aren't sitting downstairs pining for their approval like some loser. You have school. A few friends. You spend as much time out of the house and away from them as you can. 

Most days you hang around with Jenna and Riley, 2 friends you made since moving here. You steal Tommy’s beat up bmx bike outta the garage, to go to the Sonic in town. You all pool your money together, split a large order of tots and share a Route 44 Cherry Coke. On cooler evenings you ride the back roads, kicking up gravel, racing each other to the old water tower on the edge of town just to sit and watch the world move below.

Some weekends you help out at the county animal shelter because the dogs don’t care that you’re the new kid or what’s going on at your house. You play with the big mutts in the dusty yard out back and sneak them extra treats when no one’s looking. You've always preferred the big ones — the ones other people pass right by because they look like their too much to handle. Those are the ones that make you feel the most safe cause they just wanna be close to you, wanna prove their loyalty to you. They just wanna love you and be loved back. You like that.

So no, you're not completely miserable. It more so feels like death by a thousand stings. Because your step-bothers can be so infuriating. They take your laundry out of the dryer before it’s done. They both talk over you at dinner. Always leaving the toilet seat up, you learned to check after falling in once in the middle of the night. They use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll. 

But there is the one thing Tommy does that just chaps your ass like nothing else, and it happens at least once a month and you know he does this shit on purpose. You caught him doing it before and he just smirked like it was funny. 

You wake up, get ready for school, and drag yourself into the kitchen hoping for something easy before the bus comes. Your eyes land on the Frosted Flakes box sitting there on the shelf. For a second your mood lifts. 

Hell yeah.

You’re already tasting the sweet crunch, imagining pouring a big bowl and drowning it in milk. You reach up excited now and pull the box down with actual energy for the first time that morning, but the box feels way too light. That rush of excitement collapses instantly into pure annoyance, then disappointment. You stand there staring at the stupid colorful box in your hands, the bright tiger on the front still smiling like everything’s fine. They're Grrrreat! 

You open the top anyway, hoping maybe there’s a handful left at the bottom. There never is. Just an empty bag shoved back in the box like trash. It makes you want to slam the empty box on the counter. Instead you just crush it hard between your hands. It’s such a small thing, but it fucks up your whole morning every single time. That brief spark of this is gonna be good followed by the letdown. It feels exactly like living here.

Yet you still don’t hate them, just wish they’d be nicer to you. What you do hate is how they can make you feel like a stupid little girl with one look and how they can be so inconsiderate of you, but so instinctively considerate with each other. Mostly, you hate that after a while, being called Goody starts to feel less like an insult and more like a role you’ve been shoved in. So you play it. You keep your grades up. Keep your room neat. Keep your mouth shut more than either of them deserves. You become very, very good at not being seen or heard. 

Time still carries on, winter comes and goes, and to your dismay, the bathroom situation never improves. The noise doesn’t either. You finally invest in a cheap pair of ear plugs with your allowance but they only help so much. 

~~

By the time school is 3 weeks away from letting out for summer, your eyes feel like they're gonna bleed and you are starting to feel a deep-seated anger that you truly have never felt before. Every slammed door, every late-night jam sesh from the boys’ side of the basement is like a hand shaking your mattress, pushing you past the point of delirium.

It’s been 8 months of Tommy and Joel’s friends coming and going in packs, always loud, shouting over each other, playing music or video games. Now on the rare occasion Ric will holler down the stairs to keep the volume down before he goes to bed, but you know once he gets into the bedroom with your mom and their big box fan, they won’t hear a thing. It won’t be 10 minutes later somebody’s laughing again, the TV or music is up, the bathroom door is slamming, somebody’s banging something against the staircase wall, and there goes another decent night of sleep. 

So when the flyer goes up on the school bulletin board for a 10 week counselor program at a lakeside camp a bones throw from Austin, you tear off one of the tabs before you even finish reading it.

It’s not for the fresh air. It is not about some grand destiny and finding yourself in nature or any of that hippie dippy bullshit they put on the flyer. It’s solely about leaving. You sign up because your brain feels like stew and the thought of being trapped downstairs all summer listening to the boys and their friends shred the same three Nirvana riffs just might cause you to be committed. 

You're filling out the application at the kitchen table, your mom brings over dinner and the rest of the family arrives. "Camp counselor, huh?" she asks as she sets down the main course and peers over your shoulder. “Will they let 15 year olds do that?”

“Mmhm, plus I’ll turn 16 while I’m there,” you say, continuing to write.

Your mom sits down with a sad look on her face. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I suppose we can celebrate it when you get back. Where’s the camp?”

“Somewhere on Lake Travis,” you inform her.

Ric, to his credit, thinks it sounds practical. “Looks good on applications,” he says around a forkful of food “Responsibility. Leadership and all that.”

Tommy, lounging in his chair with one knee up and laughing says, “You all gonna gather ‘round the campfire and sing kumbaya?”

You roll your eyes to yourself and keep writing. 

“And braid friendship bracelets?,” Joel adds smirking.

~~

You get an acceptance letter 2 weeks later that feels like a pardon from the president and the whole house knows by dinner that night – thanks to your mom of course. 

She’s thrilled, probably more so because she will have something new to talk about with her friends. “10 whole weeks!” she says. “We’re all sure gonna miss you!”

Sureeeeeee you will. 

Then Tommy buts in. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “We’re gonna be inconsolable.”

Joel chuckles. Tommy lifts his brows, cutting a look to Joel. “Think they got a merit badge for bein’ a goody?  Maybe they’ll teach her how to loosen the hell up out there.”

“Watch your mouth boy,” Ric says sharply, pointing his fork at him.

Tommy’s shit-eating grin immediately slips from his face.

“Both of y’all knock it off,” Ric adds, looking from Tommy to Joel. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with her wanting to do something worthwhile with her summer, and you two knuckleheads ain’t gonna sit here and make a joke out of it.”

Joel drops his eyes to his plate as Tommy mutters, “Was just kiddin’ around.”

“Well, I’m not,” Ric says. “She’s a sweetheart and good girl. Better sense than most kids her age, definitely more than the pair of you put together. I’d be real pleased if more young people acted the way she does.”

While Ric’s words are nice and all, you have never wished more than right now that teleportation was a real thing and something you had the ability to do. Your mom just smiles, pleased, at the lovely things her beau just said about you. And here you are the good girl at the dinner table, held up like an example. Such a little sweetheart.

~~

Later that night, Tommy comes up to you, stands with his shoulder leaning against the bathroom door frame, while you're brushing your teeth.

“Better be a good girl and run along to bed now, wouldn’t want you up past your bedtime,” he says. 

You look up at him in the mirror, spit into the sink and reach for the towel, not answering him. You can feel your eyes start to build tears, and it only gets worse the harder you try to hold them back. It's been months of this - of him treating you like shit. It's becoming too much. 

“Aww,” Tommy smiles and leans in towards you. “You gonna cry?”

“No! Shut up,” you say, looking down at the hand towel you’re holding. 

His grin widens as he pushes off the frame satisfied with himself and heads down the hallway, straight past Joel, whose back is resting against the wall, arms folded. He wandered over to use the bathroom, but ended up hearing the whole exchange between you and his brother.  

You make eye contact with Joel and look down fast, but not fast enough, tears finally slipping loose. Humiliating in their timing, happening in front of Joel. But something in his face changes, his arms drop, he pushes off the wall and reaches toward you, the movement surprising him as much as it does you. 

“Hey—”

You back up away from his reach and flee before he can say anything else, before your body can betray you any further. You make it to your room, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with shaking fingers.

You back away from the door, wiping furiously at your face with the back of your hands, angry now on top of everything else. Angry at Tommy and angry at Joel for always just standing there, laughing along. But now he wants to act like he gives a shit about your feelings cause he witnessed the effects of Tommy’s berating. 

The floor creaks outside your door. Then Joel’s voice comes through the wood. He says your name, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Go away!” you shout, a sob breaking out of you. “I can’t wait to get away from both of you!”

A moment passes and Joel speaks again. “I’m sorry, I’ll—” 

You cut him off. “I said go away!” 

The floor makes another little sound as Joel stands there, and then you hear the sound of his retreating footsteps make their way down the hall. You stand in the middle of your room listening until he’s gone. Only then do you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head. Now upset and angry with yourself too, because for the first time since moving into this house, one of them saw you break. 

~~

You get the feeling that Joel must have said something to Tommy about what happened after he teased you the other night, because for the next week -the week before you leave for camp- Joel and Tommy steer clear of you. You’re grateful.

A few days before you leave, your mom takes you to K-Mart and lets you pick out two pairs of shorts and a new one-piece bathing suit that doesn’t feel matronly but is still modest, and lives up to your Goody name.

The morning you leave, the basement is quiet, assuming both the boys are still dead to the world this early, and part of you would love to be loud and interrupt their sleep, but you don't wanna have to interact with the pair and most importantly you don’t want to be like them.

Tip-toeing down the hall, you sit your duffel at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, you see Joel, sitting on the couch, faintly lit by the bathroom night light coming from the hallway. 

He looks over. “You need any help?” he whispers.

The offer catches you off guard, part of you wants to ask if he has a fever. 

“I’ve got it,” you coldly reply. 

Now you can’t be sure due to how dark it is but dare you say Joel looks a little hurt.

~~

The camp bus is set to leave from the H-E-B parking lot in town. Your mother hugs you twice. Ric says, “Have fun, kiddo,” and squeezes your shoulder. Tommy was still asleep when you left and Joel despite being awake doesn’t come, though you didn’t expect him to. 

Boarding the bus, your nose notes the smell of sunscreen and someone's body spray fighting a losing battle. You carry your backpack down the aisle and take a window seat by yourself. After the bus pulls off and you wave goodbye, you spend the first 15 minutes doing a threat assessment. Which girls look friendly. Which ones came already locked in with their own people and have no interest in expansion. At the next stop sign, a brunette with a high ponytail drops into the seat beside you in cutoff shorts.

“Hi! You look normal enough. Mind if I risk it?”

“That’s a bold assumption,” you say chuckling.

“Anna,” she smiles, sticking out her hand.

You tell her your name, and that is that. By the time the bus gets to the lake, you've swapped stories. Anna has told you about the time she accidentally set her aunt’s patio umbrella on fire with a magnifying glass. You’ve told her about your step-family, presenting it like a joke you don’t care much about. She seems to read between the lines anyway and just nudges your shoulder with hers and says, “Well, their loss. You’re funny.”

It surprises you how much you need to hear something like that right now. And it gets you more excited for what else is to come at camp. 

~~

Your cabin is a narrow row of bunks with screened windows and one small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. It should feel cramped. Somehow it doesn't. Here it just feels communal instead of invasive, the way things at home feel invasive. Nobody stays in there forever. Nobody leaves the floor wet on purpose.

That first night, you wake up on instinct around 1:30am, certain there must be shouting, or music, or the sound of roughhousing on the other side of the basement. There is only the fan. A throat being cleared in sleep. Somebody turning over in a bunk hard enough to make the frame creak. You lie there in the dark and feel your whole body slowly realize it can finally relax. 

By the end of the first week, the dark circles under your eyes start fading. And by the second, you stop waking up at every small noise. The lake itself is prettier than it had looked in the brochure. There are dragonflies that skim low over the surface and disappear before you can track them. Then there are mornings when mist hangs over the water making everything feel calm and serene. You come to love the routine of camp. Waking up early. The way breakfast smells from across the field. The chaos of girls getting ready in the cabin. The scheduled activities.

At first, you wear the new one-piece your mother bought you and sit with your knees together and laugh with your mouth mostly closed and say sorry too often. Sorry for reaching across someone. Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for being sorry.

Anna notices. Saying things like you apologize too much, you know you don’t have to do that here with us. And other things such as why do you always do that, when you tug your shorts down after standing, you have good legs, stop hiding them. 

By the third week, little things begin to shift.

Anna lends you a different swimsuit, then a different top, then a pair of shorts that show more thigh than you would’ve dared on your own. She doesn’t push you to wear them, though she does have the subtlety of a fire alarm, but it seems some of her confidence rubs off on you. 

At first, wearing one of her bikinis makes you feel overly exposed. You keep tugging at the fabric that covers your tits, crossing your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is staring.

“Everybody has seen what you’ve got to offer before babe,” Anna says, sunning beside you on the dock. “But with jugs like those attached to the rest of that bangin’ body, be prepared for some stares.”

You sheepishly look down and try to hold back a smile. The confidence in her words embolden you, you stop folding in on yourself and just let yourself be. 

After that, things change faster. You get a little color. Then a little more. Your shoulders deepen from pale to golden honey. The bridge of your nose freckles. Your hair goes lighter in places where you spray the lemon scented Sun-In spray on it. One day you catch your reflection in a small bathroom mirror, looking miles different from the girl who showed up in sensible shorts with her whole personality tucked in.

One of the senior counselors, a girl named Liza with bleached bangs, pierces your ears in the craft cabin after curfew with a needle sterilized over a lighter. And not just the lobes, but small silver hoops up along the cartilage, 3 on one side and 2 on the other. You adore how they look on you. Then Anna tries to talk you into a nipple piercing while you're at it.

"Absolutely not," you say.

"Oh come on, you'd love it."

"Anna."

"Fine. Eventually you'd love it."

By week four you're laughing louder. By week five you’re rolling the legs of your shorts up twice instead of once and not tugging them back down every time you stand. By week six you catch boys looking. You start to love the male attention you're getting. Becoming bolder, holding eye contact with them just long enough that the boys grin back at you.

Then flirtation with Grant starts. He’s one of the senior counselors that oversees water sports, which means you see him every afternoon at the dock while helping the small kids. He’s really sweet and easygoing. The first time he really notices you, you’re dragging a canoe up onto shore, he steps in and lifts the other end like it’s nothing.

“Dang girl, let me help you,” he says. “You trying to impress somebody?”

“Is it working?” you say, eyeing him. 

“…Maybe,” he says, with a grin and a look where you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

After that, he starts finding reasons to talk to you. What you like most is that he doesn’t call you a Goody.

~~

Before you know it, the middle of July is here, along with your 16th birthday. You told Anna not to make a big deal of it, and wouldn’t you know it, she doesn’t listen. Shocker.

So of course, on the night of your birthday, after lights out, Anna leads you down to the dock where a loose half-circle of junior and senior counselors have gathered.  Somebody has smuggled in a bottle of rum. Somebody else has brought a cake in a smashed plastic container. The lake is like black glass and the near full moon lays a silver path across it, so bright, it looks like you could walk across it. They light the candles and sing to you, badly. You make a face, laugh and tell them to shut up, embarrassed by being the center of attention. A paper plate with cake gets pressed into your hand and the rum burns all the way down.

That’s when Anna starts a game of truth or dare. She doesn't start with you, which you are so thankful for. She works her way around the circle, you watch and laugh, thinking maybe you're going to get through this without becoming the subject.

Then it gets to Grant.

"Truth or dare," Anna says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking at her.

Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

A few people oooh like idiots. Anna tips her head, pretending to think, though you bet she’s had this cocked and loaded since the game began. 

“I dare you,” she says, drawing it out, “to kiss the birthday girl.”

The dock erupts. People clapping. Somebody pounds a heel against the wood. Anna looks at you so pleased with herself, part of you wants to throttle her. 

Grant glances at you first. That is what you remember later. That he looks at you first. Not at Anna. Not at the crowd. At you. Suddenly the sweatshirt you wore to help keep the chill of the night off of you, is now holding in the flames that burst over your skin. You know everybody is watching. You know that 6 weeks ago this would have sent you straight into yourself, a turtle retreating under its shell.

Instead, you lift one shoulder, licking your lips and say, “C’mere handsome, make my birthday wish come true.”

The whole circle loses its mind.

Grant laughs a little under his breath, and moves closer. One hand comes up, holding your face then his soft lips press against yours, lips now moving together slowly in unison as all sound fades. When he draws back, the cheering rushes in all at once. You give a coy laugh. Grant is grinning at you now.

“Worth the wish?” he asks, a little flushed.

You can still feel the shape of the lips on your mouth. “Definitely.”

Anna is shrieking like she has personally orchestrated the moon landing, and you can’t find it in you to be too upset at her after that kiss. 

Lying in your bunk after the night comes to a close, you press your fingers to your lips and stare up into the dark. It isn’t really about Grant, well not only about him. It’s about the fact that somewhere between the H-E-B parking lot and that kiss, between the one-piece swimsuit and Anna’s relentless campaign against your old self, you realize how much more at ease you are in your own skin.

~~

Your duffel is fuller leaving than it was arriving. A borrowed paperback one of the girls gave to you. A camp T-shirt you cut up because Liza told you to stop dressing like the assistant manager of a Christian bookstore. A Polaroid from the dock, all of you squinting sun-drunk into the camera, Anna half climbing onto your back. A bottle of vanilla body spray that Dee brought and didn’t like, so she gave it to you. Anna tosses you one of her tank tops, which you put on to head home in. White and tight, hugging your tits and accentuating your waist perfectly, paired with the same shorts you arrived in, only now you’ve taken shears to them, making them super short. Your legs are darker and your hair is lighter. The messy bun atop your head allows the silver on your ears to flash when you turn your head.

Grant meets you at your cabin door, the morning it’s time to leave and takes your duffel, carrying it for you. The bus lot is last-minute chaos. Girls calling to each other and crying. The adult counselors checking names off clipboards. 

Grant bends to slide your duffel under the bus, then turns back to you. 

"So," he says. "You were fun to have around, I’m gonna miss you." He opens his arms and you step in, he pulls you flush up against him, his chin brushing your temple.

When he leans back, one hand stays at your waist, the other reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Just in case.”

You take it, already smiling before even opening it. Inside is his number, and beneath it, in his handwriting, In case you need someone to talk to. Or advice about guys.

You glance up at him. “Advice about guys?”

“I know at least one.”

You laugh, folding the paper back up. “And he’s an expert?”

“Debatable,” he says. Then, a little softer, “The first part was the important one.”

There is that feeling again, that bright little lift low in your stomach – the same one you got when you kissed him. You know it's not because you think Grant is the love of your life. But because how he actually gives a fuck about you, and about all the things you told him about your home life between makeout sessions behind the mess hall. 

Behind you, Anna shouts, “We’re boarding babe! C’mon!”

You turn halfway and yell, “Get on the bus, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Grant laughs, looking over your shoulder at her,  then looks back at you. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m always here if you need someone in your corner”

“I know, thank you, really.”

His gaze dips to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. His lips meet yours in a simple goodbye kiss. His thumbs brush once at your sides through the cotton of the tank top, then he lets you go.

“Go on, pretty girl.” he says, nodding toward the bus.

Your hand closes around the folded paper, stepping back. You stand there for a moment looking at him and it occurs to you that you are going to miss him or maybe more the feeling he gives you and not so much him. You’re not naive, you figure the odds of ever seeing him again are slim, you’re okay with that, you can make peace with that. You know how to handle a person no longer being in your life. 

“Bye, Grant.”

You turn and head toward the bus, your duffel already swallowed beneath it, your flip-flops slapping warm pavement. You climb onto the bus with his number tucked in your palm. You drop into the seat beside Anna and shove at her shoulder. “Move over.”

She eyes the paper in your hand. “Did he give you his number?”

Your hips raise up and you shove it into the pocket of your shorts. “Maybe.”

She clutches her chest. “My work here is done.”

As the bus pulls away, you glance out the window. Grant lifts a hand. You lift yours back. Then the camp begins to recede. The dock. The cabins. The trail to the lake. The place where you became more yourself.

But with every mile home, the old life starts coming back into view.

~~

The ride home feels shorter, you wish it was longer, not eager in the slightest to come back to what awaits you. Before you know it, the bus hisses to a stop in the same H-E-B lot you shoved off from. Your mother is already there, standing beside the champagne chariot in sunglasses, one hand lifted against the glare. You de-board, grab your duffle, say bye to Anna –excited to have learned at camp she lives one town over, so you’ll be able to hangout– and head toward your mom as she calls out, “There’s my girl! Lord, look at you!” Pulling you into a hug. She leans back to get a better look, both hands on your shoulders.

“You got tan,” she says, then squints at one ear then the other. “And pierced.”

“Mhm.” You say, hoping she doesn’t disapprove. 

“You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much, the house just isn’t the same without you, honey.”

The old duffel gets chucked in the back seat. Your mother talks all through the drive. She asks a little about the camp but says you can talk more about it at dinner.

“I’m sure Ric and the boys would love to hear all about it too!” 

You’re kidding… right?

It’s nice to see your Mom’s still delusional.

Then she asks if you met any boys, which makes you turn and look at her because she hasn't asked you that sort of question in a while.

"What?" she says, smiling at the road ahead. “I’m your mother, not a nun.”

You let out a short laugh but don’t answer her question and she doesn’t ask again. You watch the road along with her. The familiar turnoff's coming back one by one. The gas station with the busted Coke sign. The feed store with the faded mural on the side.

Your mother keeps talking, filling the car with what she and Ric have been up to while you were gone, but you’re not really listening. The closer you get to your neighborhood, the more you start to feel the outline of the basement again. You look down at your hands instead, trying to distract yourself. Silver rings circle your fingers now, two on your left hand, one thin one on your right thumb. Nails painted a dark blue with that Wet ‘n Wild shimmer Dee let you borrow. You twist one of the rings absently, then lift one bare foot into the seat without thinking, your knee bent toward your chest. Your mother glances over and catches sight of it.

“Is that a toe ring?”

You wiggle your little piggies, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”

“Who are you?” She laughs. “And what have you done with my daughter?”

You rest your temple against the seat and look at her, returning the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Oh, listen to this girl,” she says, delighted, and reaches over to tap your knee. “Camp put some mouth on you.”

Maybe it did. Or maybe the mouth was always there, tucked away with a dozen other things you got used to hiding. The radio fills the rest of the drive. That Collective Soul song, December, the one that's been everywhere all summer. 

When the Camry finally turns onto your street, you sit up a little straighter without thinking. Body bracing for impact, the old you bracing for impact. But you aren’t that person anymore, you left that little timid bitch at camp. You pop your gum once, cross your arms and settle back against the seat. If those two boys want to make your life difficult, they can fucking try. They haven't met the real you yet. 

I'd love to hear what you think so far!

Please consider reblogging it really helps us writers keep writing for you babes and it gets more eyes on the story so others can enjoy it too! <3

Next Chapter

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in the last couple posts I’ve made about this series or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3