Read Escape: A Stepbrother Romance Novella Online
Authors: Stephanie Brother
Escape: A Stepbrother Romance Novella
ESCAPE
A
Stepbrother Romance Novella
By
Stephanie
Brother
© 2015 Stephanie Brother
All Rights Reserved. This book or any
portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without
the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is
purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s
imagination.
Please note that this work is intended
only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or
over.
Kindle Edition
Cover Art - Image by Fotolia.com
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Escape – A Stepbrother Romance Novella
Stephanie
Brother
The last person I expected to see in
a police interview room was my estranged stepbrother...
Samantha
When I’m called to represent a mysterious client, I had
no idea it would put me face to face with the one guy I could never forget.
But memories are like shadows, following you around no
matter how hard you try to break free from their chains.
He was my best friend and my stepbrother, but now he’s
a stranger.
Then our eyes meet across the
interview room and I know I’m not going to be able to stay away, no matter how
many times he warns me it’s too dangerous to become mixed up in his life.
Brandon
On the outside I’ve crafted an image to help me fit in:
tattoos and muscles, street clothes and a scowl.
I’ve modeled myself on the man I despise most, the man
who took me from a happy home only to neglect me as a kid and use me as an
adult.
I’m stuck in a world I don’t want to be in because
there’s nothing for me outside of this. But then Sammie walks back into my
life and nothing feels the same.
She’s beautiful, and I know I shouldn’t want her that
way but I do. Just one touch and I can’t get her out of my mind.
I want to escape but how can I when
I know I’ve lived a life that’s put me beyond the point of return. Saving
myself now would risk the only girl I ever loved.
Contents
Samantha
My day starts off great.
Maybe that’s why I have this little niggling feeling that something’s going to
happen. Something big and maybe bad. Call it women’s intuition or maybe it’s
attorney’s suspicion. I have a gut instinct that doesn’t like too much
positive karma for fear that it’ll all swing back the other way.
When
you wake up five minutes before your alarm, style your hair in record time,
make it to the subway early enough to grab your favorite coffee and receive
chocolates from your boss for hard work all in one morning, it’s hard not to be
watching where you step for fear you’ll break your ankle to even the score.
Add to it that a very sexy man engages me in conversation at the deli counter
and then slips me his card, and I’m positively dreading the downward slip of bad
luck that’s heading my way.
Then
the phone rings and I know this is what my day has been building up to, as
ridiculous as that sounds.
“Samantha
Corrigan?” The voice on the line is deep and husky in a way that reeks of
danger.
“Yes,
speaking,” I say, with no idea who’s on the other end of the line. I shift
forward on to the edge of my seat and grab a pen, ready to jot down anything
useful.
“A
friend of mine has been arrested today. I want you to represent him. Can you
get down to the Spring Street Police Station now?”
“I
can be there in an hour,” I say, writing Spring Street on my legal pad.
“What’s the name?”
“Ask
for Connor,” he says. “He’ll be in the waiting room.” Then he hangs up.
“Connor,”
I mumble, jotting it down too. I check my phone for a record of the last call
received but it’s unknown.
When
you’re an attorney specializing in defense cases you get used to calls that
come out of nowhere, but it’s usually the defendant or his family that make the
arrangements and I usually have a few more details provided before I arrive at
the police station. The mystery caller didn’t even tell me what his friend’s
been arrested for.
Strange.
I
make a few phone calls and send three emails for other cases that just can’t
wait. Then I’m out the door with my briefcase, hopping into a cab outside the
office and heading to Spring Street.
It’s
a beautiful day, the perfect mix of sunshine and breeze, without too much
humidity. Outside the station I catch a scent on the air, floral and damp as
though someone has been watering hanging baskets, and it reminds me of days
spent in the backyard, dancing under sprinklers with Brandon. I think about
him every so often. He’s a part of my past that seems so distant that it takes
a song, a scent or another person with the same name for me to recall my
long-ago stepbrother. It’s been fifteen years since he left, promising he
would keep in touch. Shit. I swallow down a lump in my throat as I recall the
day his dad came to collect him. He sat in the backseat of his father’s truck with
his head hanging forward, not wanting me to see how upset he was about leaving.
By that point I’d become used to holding in my tears.
I
make my way through the automatic doors and into the cool waiting area, pushing
those memories aside. It smells musty, like old magazines and unwashed bodies,
the nose-wrinkling odor of crime. I scan left and right looking for someone who
resembles a ‘Connor’ and a huge, hulking man stands up and makes his way over.
He has that way of walking that is part stalking animal and part aggressive
human male. Shorn hair and all black clothes make him menacing, but I’m used
to dealing with individuals like him. I draw myself up to my full height, 5’8”
plus my skyscraper heels. Even so, I only reach his chin when he comes to
stand way too close. “Samantha,” he says surprisingly quietly.
“Connor?”
I ask.
He
nods and draws a brown envelope from inside his bomber jacket. “This is for
you. There’s payment inside. When you need more, there’s a number inside the
envelope for you to contact. The man you’re representing is being held on
assault charges. It’s important that he gets released without charge.”
“Okay,”
I say, taking hold of the envelope cautiously. Cash handed over in envelopes
is highly irregular, and the envelope is fat enough for me to suppose it
contains a large quantity. I want to tell Connor this but I can tell he’s just
carrying out someone else’s instructions, probably someone he wouldn’t want to
ignore. “What’s my client’s name?”
“Brandon
Ford,” he says, and I blink at him in shock.
“Brandon
Ford?” It’s not a particularly unusual name but it’s weird that I was just
thinking about my ex-stepbrother and now here’s Connor mentioning his name.
“Yeah,”
Connor says, stepping back and looking towards the door. “Look, I’ve gotta
go. I’ve been sitting here for hours and I got shit to do. You got it from
here?”
“Yes,”
I say, although inside I’m not sure I have.
Connor
nods and makes for the exit and I turn to the desk in a haze of memories tinged
with a little bit of fear. It can’t be my Brandon being held in those cells.
He was a good kid. Clever and quiet. I tell myself that it’ll be some other
Brandon Ford I’m representing and everything will be fine.
The
desk officer ushers me though and I talk to the officer working on the case.
The Brandon Ford being held in the cells got into a bar fight and beat a man.
The officer says it was quite brutal. He also says that Mr. Ford is suspected
of being a member of a local crime organization, known for their involvement in
illegal gambling, drug running and other nefarious activities.
I
ask if he has an existing record and the office mentions a couple of other
charges that were dropped. Then, when I’ve finished jotting down my notes, I’m
taken towards the interview room where I will meet my new client. My navy
patent heels click on the tiled floor and I adjust my purse on my shoulder,
feeling ridiculously nervous. Half of me is desperate to open that door and
find that Brandon Ford the criminal is a stranger to me, but the other half is
so damn desperate to see my stepbrother again. Hearing his name has brought up
a swell of old feelings inside me that has left me feeling shaky.
Just
as the officer opens the door, I remember how good my day has been so far.
Whoever is behind that door is about to change all that. I can feel it in my
bones.
Samantha
When I was eight my
father married again. My mom had died not long after I was born of an asthma
attack. She had the condition severely and on the day it happened, she was
standing at a bus stop on a busy road, surrounded by pollution and other
irritants, and she’d left her inhaler in another purse. By the time the
ambulance reached her she was already gone.
Thinking
about her makes my chest feel tight, partly because I spent so much time as a
child imagining what it would be like to die that way, gasping for a breath
that was impossible to force into your damaged lungs.
My
stepmom was a lovely woman who took me under her wing immediately. She had a
son who was two years older than me and we hit it off straight away.
I
was a sporty kid, so Brandon and I spent hours in our yard with bats and balls,
challenging each other to races across the field behind our home. Brandon was
always faster but he never gloated when he beat me. Instead, he’d look down at
his watch and compliment me on my timing, or nod his head and tell me my
technique was improving.
At
night we’d camp out in our tent and eat marshmallows and his mom’s chewy
home-made cookies, never running out of things to talk about. He loved nature
and would tell me all about the obscure animals he’d been reading about. To
this day I think I know more about native Australian mammals than anyone else
I’ve ever met, barring Brandon. A couple of years ago I travelled to Sydney
and spent a whole day at the zoo there, marveling at the wombats, koalas and
bilbies, wishing he was with me to see them.
He’d
wanted to be a zoo keeper when he grew up so he could work with animals. He
wanted to research their native environments and find better ways to house them
that were closer to the places they came from. Brandon had a love of people
and animals, a soft-heartedness that his mother nurtured with a stream of pets.
He looked after each one as though it was the most precious thing in his life,
but it was Wombat, his brown mongrel puppy, that he loved the best. Wombat
would sleep between us in the tent, guarding his precious owner as he slipped
into his dreams.
Even
as a nine year old I thought Brandon was beautiful. Not in a perfect-looks way
but because he had so much light inside him which seemed to flow through his
face. His eyes were a soft blue-green with gold flecks around the center, the color
of the lake we used so swim in on hot days when our parents would take us for
rambling picnics. He had long, light-brown eyelashes that were fairer at the
roots and darker at the tips. They made him look angelic when he was
sleeping. In the summer freckles would appear on this cheeks as though the
warm weather sprinkled him with glitter.
I
loved him deeply; my best friend, my brother and so much a part of my home that
I couldn’t recall what it had been like before he arrived with his mom.
We
had two blissful years together, full of innocent fun, before tragedy struck
our family and blew it all apart.
I
have the memory of the ten year old Brandon sleeping curled around Wombat in my
mind when I walk through the door to the interview room. The man sitting at
the table is big and broad, sitting with his body slumped down in chair, legs
spread wide and arms folded across his chest. Time seems to stand still as his
eyes scan over me, starting at my feet and rising slowly, seductively, as
though he wants to turn me into something he is in control of rather than the
other way around. When he finally looks me in the eye I see the flash of
recognition. It’s like a spark of electricity between us. This rugged,
shorn-haired, thuggish man is my Brandon Ford and I can’t take it in. I rest
my hand on the back of the chair that I’m supposed to be sitting on, suddenly
feeling like I might teeter in my heels. His eyes close, just for a second,
but it’s enough for me to see that he knows and is trying to pull himself
together.
“Brandon?”
I say, my voice filled with emotion, and when he opens his eyes it’s as though
he’s dropped the shutters over the feelings I had seen a glimpse of.
He
turns to the officer and says, “I want another attorney.”
“No,”
I blurt out. “Why?”
Brandon
shakes his head and leans forward, resting his strong forearms on the table,
telling me with his body language to back down and do as he wishes. My
stepbrother wasn’t anything like this man, with his brutish mannerisms and
aggressive posturing, but we have too much history for me to walk out of here
without finding out more. I want to talk to him so badly.
“Because
this isn’t any place for you, Sammie.”
His
use of the nickname he gave me throws me off guard for a second, taking me back
to those sweet times when he would whisper through the crack in my door to see
if I was awake. The nights when he’d sneak into my bed so we could read comics
feel an eon away.
“I’m
a defense attorney,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and unaffected. I
hold eye contact with him and he doesn’t look away, but I do when I see him
clenching and unclenching his bloodied fist. “You need to get that seen to,” I
say and look over to the officer. “My client requires medical treatment for
the injuries to his hands. Please can you arrange for a nurse to attend to
them?”
The
officer raises his eyebrows and so do I. If he thinks I’m a pushover he’s got
another think coming.
I
pull the chair out from under the table and lower myself to sit in it, putting
my purse on the table and finding my notepad and pen.
“I
said I don’t want you,” Brandon hisses, leaning even further across the table.
The
officer is hanging around behind me, as if he doesn’t know what to do. I need
to get Brandon to back down, otherwise I’m out of here.
“Brandon,
your friend has paid me a retainer to act on your behalf. Can I ask that you
let me do my job for now, and once we have dealt with the current matter, then
you talk to your friend and decide whether or not you want to seek alternative
representation?”
Brandon
stares at me with his blue-green lake eyes, framed by long soft-brown lashes that
are just the same in a way that is unnerving. I wonder what he sees when he
looks at me after all these years. I know it must be disconcerting for him
too.
“Please,”
I say, wanting so desperately to spend time with him and learn who he is now
and what his life has been like. He’s changed so much but he’s still beautiful
to me, so much so that I feel my heart skip a little as I take in the size of
him, the sheer masculinity.
“No,”
he says in such a firm voice I know I’m not going to get anywhere. I feel
wounded; I can’t understand why he doesn’t want me to represent him. Does he
think I won’t do a good job? Does he think I’m incompetent? My face feels
hot, as my battered pride boils to the surface. Brandon must see my reaction
because he leans back and crosses his arms again, his eyes softening. “I don’t
want you involved in this, Sammie. Trust me.”
Maybe
it’s crazy but I do trust him, even after all these years and despite the fact
I can see the evidence of violence marring his hands. I look towards the
officer who is lurking behind me in front of the closed door, and then back at
Brandon. “I’ll send someone else from my firm,” I say, and he shakes his
head.
“Take
this number down.” He nods towards my pad and pen and I do as he says, jotting
the number and the name ‘Adam’ as instructed. When I’ve finished, I look up
and catch an expression on Brandon’s face that sends a tingle all the way up my
spine. It’s the same look he used to give me when we would lie next to each
other in our tent and whisper secrets, filled with intensity and warmth. For
seconds we just study each other, Sammie and Bran-bran, best friends again.
And then, like a fog has passed between us, it’s gone. “You should go,” he
says, looking towards the door and the officer.
I
pull a card out of the front pocket of my purse and slide it across the table
to him. “Call me when you get out,” I say but he doesn’t reach to take the
card.
“You
take care, Sammie,” he says, and that’s it.
Conversation
over.
Reunion
terminated.
I
stand and pack my things, my throat burning with a rush of emotion that feels
too much for the situation. With so many years between us I shouldn’t want to
cry at what feels like rejection, but I do. I’m back in the body of my younger
self, watching my favorite person in the world leave me behind.
“Bye,
Brandon,” I say, the words catching in my tight throat, and I know I should
turn to leave but I just can’t stand the idea that this might be it. I might
never see him again. I rack my memory trying to find something to say that
might remind him of how things used to be between us, and that might make me
feel less of a stranger to him. “I went to Australia,” I say. “I held a real
wombat.”
The
police officer clears his throat behind me but I don’t care if he thinks I’m a
freak because Brandon is looking at me like he remembers.
“I’ll
speak to you soon then?” I say with a half-smile that is all I can manage, and then
I turn quickly before I lose all composure, and am led back out of the station
by the officer.
In
the waiting area I sit down to rest my trembling legs. I can’t believe it’s
him.
My
Brandon.
My
boy.
My
stepbrother.
I
swipe at my face, needing to get it together. First I call my office and
inform my assistant of what has happened. Then I call Adam.
The
phone is answered on the first ring but no one speaks.
“Hello,
this is Samantha Corrigan.”
“Did
you see your client?” the deep, dangerous sounding voice asks.
“Yes,”
I reply, “But he doesn’t want me to represent him.”
“Why?”
he asks crossly, as though he isn’t used to anyone questioning his wishes.
“He
asked for me to call you and let you know you will need to send someone else,”
I say. “I have the retainer. Can you send someone to come and collect it?”
“Connor
will be there in twenty minutes,” Adam says and hangs up.
I
look at my phone feeling a little stunned and a whole lot relieved. I’m glad
that I won’t have to deal with Adam again. He gives me the shivers over the
phone so I can’t imagine what he would be like in person.
True
to his word, Connor arrives within twenty minutes and takes the money. I stand
and leave the station but once I’m outside I can’t bring myself to go and never
come back.
Brandon
isn’t going to call me, I know this.
If
I go back to my office now I might never see him again. He didn’t keep in
touch the first time and that rejection stings just as much now as it did
then.
If
I want to see Brandon, I’m gonna have to force the issue.
