Romance: TOXIC (Forbidden, Pregnancy, Taboo Romance, Stepbrother Romance, New Adult Short Stories)

Copyright@2015 by Celia Styles

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TOXIC

By Celia Styles

When my mom broke the news over Spring Break that she was going to get married again, I have to confess that I wasn’t exactly thrilled for her.  I told her it was a mistake, that he couldn’t possibly love her the way my father did and all that, but mostly I was afraid that she’d disappear into a world of designer dresses and limousines, a world that I’d always watched on TV but never dared to think that I could be a part of.  I looked the part, sure--long blonde hair that curled in those perfect ringlets that women spend hundreds of dollars trying to blow out (or would that be blow in?)--and wide blue eyes.  I ran cross-country in high school and in the junior-varsity team for my college. If you dressed me up in a designer dress you'd have no problem putting me in a five-star restaurant, until I opened my mouth.  But I couldn't afford designer dresses, so that world might as well have been in Bangladesh for all I could care.   

“Him”: Bryce Rowan Waterhouse III, a very rich man.  That was about all I knew about him for sure.  He was some kind of investor who did “things” with large quantities of money.  I met him for the first time the day after finals, when he drove up in front of a U-Haul to help me move out of my room.  He at least had the good sense to be embarrassed that everything I owned fit neatly into the trunk of his car.  We didn’t talk on the way home--to our humble little ranch house in the suburbs of Trenton. He didn’t belong in our world, and we didn’t belong in his. 

He paid for the wedding.  He flew the entire wedding party to Hawaii and put us up in a resort hotel for the entire week, all so that they could have a sunrise wedding on the beach.  I, surly and annoyed at all these changes being made without any consideration for my own plans--tutoring kids in Princeton over the summer, finding a job somewhere while getting a master’s so that I could teach high school--found the gesture pointless.  At least the wedding was a small, intimate ceremony, and I recognized a lot of my mom’s friends there.  Seeing her walk down the aisle, though, I realized that I couldn’t hate him--so much of this was done the way my mom had always wanted her wedding to be, right down to the wispy, pastel tie-dyed dress and a white wreath of flowers in her hair.  But it didn’t make it any easier to believe my mother was now Anne Mayberry Waterhouse, even as they read their wedding vows, even as they exchanged rings, even as he kissed the bride.

After the ceremony, both sides of the aisle mingled a bit, but only for a little while--the scorching tropical sun was starting to penetrate the canopies we were sitting under, and the promise of air-conditioning and icy margaritas drew us all back to the hotel like bees to honey.  The official reception would be that evening, and I was already grumpy about it.

“Hey, it’s a wedding.  Cheer up,” said a voice. 

I looked up.  The voice belonged to a surfer, which was surprising enough.  Even more surprising was that I found myself really wanting to like him for some reason.  It could have had something to do with the fact that he was wearing a sleeveless wetsuit that showed off his sculpted arms and left little doubt about the condition of the body that was underneath.  Between the sun and the salt water, though, his hair had turned an odd greenish-brown that resembled nothing so much as vomit.  But that was something I'd only notice later, lost as I was in those twinkling brown eyes that seemed to exude smiles.  “You’ve been watching?” I said. 

“Not really,” he said, shifting his board to the other side so that he could accompany me on the way back.  “Usually I’m the only one out here at this ungodly hour.”

“You got the ‘ungodly’ part right,” I agreed.  “I hope I never have to see 6:00 am for the rest of the summer.  What’re you doing up at this hour?”

He laughed.  “Before the tourists arrive is when it’s safest for pros to practice,” he said.

“You’re a professional surfer?  Get out!” In retrospect, I should have realized that, if I was going to meet a professional surfer, it would be in Hawaii.  “You mean like Kelly Slater?”

He shrugged and shook his head, sprinkling salt water drops around us.  “I get by--you know, win a few tournaments, teach a few tourists,” he said.  “It’s not much, but it pays the bills, and it’s something I love.”

I nodded.  I could understand--my mother had (strangely) despaired the most of my decision to go into teaching, saying that I could make so much more money as a lawyer, that the hours were better, and on and on.  Eventually, though, she got the point--“It’s your life,” I said. 

“You get it,” he said, grinning.  “My name’s Blake.”  We’d reached the hotel’s beachside entrance. 

“Lila,” I said. 

We shook hands, but even though the sun was starting to bake the sand I was standing on, I couldn’t quite get myself to break the contact.  His hands were rough, but careful, as they held mine.  “Can I see you again?” he asked.

Just like that.  I couldn’t believe it.  After so many “uh”- and “um”-filled “Do you want to maybe meet for coffee” propositions for dates, I was starting to think that guys were just naturally horrible about asking girls out. 
A guy who clearly knows what he wants
.  I felt a smile spread over my face. 

And then I found myself wondering what the hell
I
wanted.  I could hear, in my head, my mother’s voice, telling me
Be careful, men are like dogs, trust him only as far as you can throw him
and all the other platitudes that she’d admonish me with whenever we talked boys.  And her cautionary warnings had actually stood me in good stead when I went to school.  But this wasn’t school, and if I was ever going to have a great time with a cute guy who seemed like a gentleman, Hawaii seemed as good a place as any.

So I told him, “Yes.”

***

We made plans to meet just outside the hotel.  That way, I could just quietly ghost--give a quick toast, endure the first round of drinks, hope that the newly-married couple would be too busy opening their presents and dancing to corny music to notice that I wasn’t there.  I knew my mother would eventually notice that I was gone--I just hoped that she wouldn’t see me leave.

I had a hell of a time trying to figure out what to wear, though--I hadn’t thought to bring anything date-ish or super-flirty, and I still had to look dressed-up enough for a wedding reception.  In the end, I went to a nearby shopping boutique, where I paid too much money for a demure lace dress with some sheer patches cut away dangerously close to some unmentionable areas.  It was just risqué enough to hold a guy’s interest, not quite tawdry enough to warrant getting me kicked out of the reception. 

He was picking me up at 7:30, and I began to realize what a stupid idea this was--a guy whom I’d just met, a guy whose car I was going to get into based on nothing more than “I liked his smile”?    As the minutes ticked by I began to get more and more nervous about the whole thing. “You seem preoccupied,” said Terri, one of my mother’s friends.  “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I’m just thinking about applying to Teach for America.”

“Oh.  Well, good luck with that.”

She’d plainly had more than a few drinks already, and I dropped her off at the bar and said, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

I slipped outside instead.  He wasn’t there.  I found myself wishing I smoked--at least then I’d have an excuse to stand out there like a fool, hoping desperately that this guy--this cute, hot, nice guy--actually meant it when he said he’d be there--

“Hi, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

He’d pulled up in a silver sports car, and revved the engine a few times.  “I’ve got reservations at this really nice little place just down the way,” he said. 

“What’s it called?” I asked, as I got in. 

“McDonalds,” he said.  “Just kidding!” he laughed, when he caught my look of utter disbelief and shock.  “It’s called Tropic Thunder.”

“That sounds like a burger joint,” I said. 

“Well, I’m sure burgers are on their menu sometimes,” he said. 

“Is this really your car?”

He cocked his head and shrugged--I could tell he was flushing red even in the flashing orange of the streetlights.  “Well, to be completely honest, it’s my buddy’s.  He owns a gym that I refer clients to if they want to work out, and in return, he lets me use his car.”

“That sounds like a most perverted car-share.”

“No, you see--perverted would involve chickens,” he said. 

The line outside Tropic Thunder had maybe thirty people in it, and as we parked I became a bit worried that maybe there wouldn’t be enough seats for us.  The restaurant was tiny, wedged between a bank and a hardware store.  Blake didn’t seem a bit worried, though.  He took his time finding a parking spot in the crowded garage and we joined the line.  We were behind an old couple from Kansas and in front of a young gay couple, also from Kansas.  “I guess it’s lucky we’re here,” Blake murmured, after hi’s and hello’s were exchanged.  “Nothing to ruin an evening like politics and gender.”

“Karma says they get seated next to each other,” I whispered. 

At 8:00 the doors opened, and we all filed in.  Each of us got a number and we had to find the corresponding number on the chairs.  There were no tables--just counters, a little higher than waist-level, shaped like a U, boxing in two identical work spaces.  “How did you hear about this?” I asked, as we sat down. 

“The buddy who lends me the car,” he said.  “Pretty sweet, huh?”

The chefs filed in, three on each side.  There were quick introductions, a flashy display of knives, and then they set to work.  Suddenly the pristine, minimalist countertops and stovetops were transformed into a chaotic, organized mess of tupperware containers, alcohol fires, the rapid report of knives against cutting boards, and heady aroma of things being cooked and baked.  And then, suddenly, somehow, a
creation
was set before everybody, at almost the exact same time, and the chefs would bow, and we would applaud and eat.

It goes without saying that the food was divine.  The many textures, the many flavors, were all somehow married together into an experience that was part theater and mostly miracle.  The wines that were served with each course were a joy to taste, putting the cheap wines that students could get and pretend to be grown up with to shame. 

Afterwards, drunk on the splendid food and high on the amazing wine, we went for a walk.  The beach was nearby, the moon bright in the sky, the ocean calm and placid like a liquid mirror.  I kicked off my shoes, delighting in how warm the sand still was.  “Come on,” Blake said suddenly, grinning.  He began pulling off his socks and shoes. 

“Are you seriously--”

“Well, only if you want to,” he said, rolling up his pants.  “I was just going to wade out a little.”

He gave me a wink that strongly suggested that skinny dipping wasn’t something he’d be opposed to.  I grinned back, and hiked up the skirt of my dress. 
I’m going to make you work for the rest
.

We walked into the water, holding hands.  The undercurrent was more of a suggestion than a force, but still dangerously irresistible.  It was still warm, at that perfect temperature where everything just relaxes.  I wanted to melt into the ocean, and every time a new body part--ankles, then shins, then knees--became submerged in the soothing waters the idea of just floating away with the current became slightly stronger, more present.

A ripple lapped the inside of my thigh, setting off a tingling in my solar plexus that caught me off guard.  I didn’t think he noticed, but the way he looked at me changed--his eyes seemed to grow darker, hungry.  I hiked my skirt up to my hips and waded out a little more, until the sea water soaked my panties, the warm liquid sending electric shivers all over my body. 

He glided through the water and came up behind me.  I felt him put his arms around me, and he began to kiss me--first my ear, then my neck, then my shoulder.  He unzipped my dress, slowly peeled off one shoulder, and then the other--nobody could see me but the universe, and for a long moment that was all.  The night air was warm on my skin, but I could feel myself growing hot and wet, knowing what he could do and wondering what he would do. He didn’t touch me, but I could anticipate his hands on my breasts, his fingers pinching the buds of my nipples just enough to send tingles of pleasure deep into my core.  “I want to know you,” he whispered.  “I want to see you.”

“Yes,” I whispered. 

And only then did he touch me, just as I imagined he would.  He squeezed my breasts ever so gently, ghosting the tips of his fingers over my nipples so that I couldn't feel them, but my body knew they were there and my body seemed to rock against his on its own accord when he did that.  He slowly worked my dress off over my hips.  In the warm waters, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.  His body pressed against mine, but it was our heart that beat together.  Was it my fingers or his, teasing every last wave of pleasure out of the bud of flesh from between my legs?  Was it his hands or mine, sending those shocks of pleasure running from my nipples to a place deep inside me?  Was it my hand or his stroking his shaft?   

It didn’t matter.  By the time we staggered the ten feet back to the beach, I was more than ready for him, and as the waters lapped around us, the sensations of warmth from the water and the cool night air against our wet flesh intensified everything--the pleasurable ache of taking his girth inside me, the pulses of quiet ecstasy as he rocked himself in and out, in and out--growing ever more intense, ever more fiery, until it burned away all inhibitions and I let out a cry of triumph, laughter, victory, love.