Stuck On My Stepbrother (4 page)

I smiled and drank some of my coffee. It was like drinking honey. Three sugars, my ass! There must’ve been at least ten in there. ‘That’s so sweet, Patrick,’ I said, and saw a blush spread across his cheeks. He obviously thought I was referring to
him
as sweet, and not the coffee. I found myself blushing too, and didn’t try to correct myself.

For the next couple of hours, the sugary coffee woke me up enough to get on with a bit of work. I finished up an ad I’d started working on yesterday afternoon, and even managed to make a couple of calls to clients, put some feelers out, generate a bit more business to follow-up on later in the week. Patrick got on with his work too, and Jen still remained absent. I didn’t discuss it with Patrick, but I decided she must have pulled a sickie, not because of a hangover – as I was sure her liver had taken worse abuse than that, and she’d still come to work the next day – but, I thought hopefully, maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she felt terrible about her cruel display last night, and was building up the courage to apologize. And I, of course, would graciously accept. That was my daydream, anyway. I’ve probably already told you that I’m a bit of a daydreamer.

When the clock hit twelve I didn’t waste any time in hurrying out of the office and into the cool air outside. I’d been planning on getting myself a big lunch, to make sure I soaked up any last remaining alcohol fumes inside me, and also to try and replace some of that weight I’d lost through the recent nerves and anxiety of finishing my Degree and starting my first proper job. But once I was out in the open, enjoying the refreshing breeze, I found myself heading towards the shopping mall instead of the pizza place.

It wasn’t a big mall. It was the kind you get in suburbs all over the world, with too many indoor plants, scuffed sneaker marks on the floor, and the smell of disinfectant and hot dogs wherever you go. You know the type. I passed a couple of candy stores, a mother and baby store, and then a place selling cheap garden furniture, and headed straight for Kohl’s. I couldn’t afford anything fancy; I’d already got myself a dress for the awards last night. I’d have to go without all other luxuries until payday. But something told me I ought to buy a new outfit for my meeting at Global tomorrow. Whether I was about to get a punch in the guts or a handshake, I wanted to look good. This was Global Media, for Chrissakes. I couldn’t wear my mousy-brown pants and a crinkly old shirt there. I needed something confidence-boosting. Something that made me feel worthy.

And of course, it had crossed my mind that perhaps I would see my stepbrother again. And for that reason, I knew I had to look good. I didn’t know why exactly, but I just felt like I
needed
to impress him.

On the way to Kohl’s, I spotted a display in a window on my right that caught my attention. I stopped walking, and went up to the window. In the center of the display, there was a white mannequin, its skin like polished marble, and upon its body was the tightest, most revealing dress I’d ever seen. I mean, sure, I’d seen all manner of teeny tiny outfits on popstars, on the screen. I’d seen Lady Gaga in sheer dresses which barely covered her private parts. Paris Hilton in ‘princess’ dresses with thigh-high slits, Gwyneth in jaw-dropping side-butt-showing outfits. But you can get away with that sort of thing on the red carpet. You can’t get away with it in real life.

And yet the dress in this window was for sale, for women strolling through the mall to pick up and try on. There was no visible price tag, but this wasn’t a showy mall. It couldn’t be more than – what? A hundred dollars? Two hundred?

The top half of the dress contained three thin straps at the back, made of a luxurious, shiny black fabric. They wound around to the front, where they opened out into two thin black triangles, to cover little more than the mannequin’s (non-existent) nipples. Beneath the waistline, the silky black material clung to the model’s hips, with two thin, sheer panels down each side. The hemline of the skirt was short, skimming the thighs. It was devastatingly beautiful – and devastating at the same time.

I took a closer look at the mannequin. Nope. She wasn’t wearing panties – they would have been on display with a dress like this. But would anybody wear this for real? Where would you wear it? A restaurant? A nightclub?

I realized that I had my hand pressed up to the glass. I looked around at the other shoppers in the mall, but no-one seemed to have noticed me. I wasn’t exactly someone that stood out; I’d always been good at blending into a crowd. Even when I was standing slack-jawed at a store window, practically falling against the glass.

Anyway, what was I doing? I needed to find a dress I could actually wear tomorrow. Something smart, conservative, businesslike. Something that could make me look like less of a young girl, fresh out of university. Less like the girl who cried onstage in front of everybody who’s anybody in the world of newspapers last night. Less like someone’s pathetic little cry-baby stepsister.

I wanted, finally, to be taken seriously.

Back at the office, Patrick was asleep at his desk. I put my shopping bag down by the door, took off my jacket, and then settled down to work. The dress I’d bought in the end wasn’t too bad. It was inexpensive – thank you, Kohl’s – but smart and flattering. Pale green, like the underside of ivy leaves, with an Empire waist, knee-length, and with a sweetheart neckline. Not bad for fifty dollars.
 

As I worked, I tried to hit my computer keys quietly, so I didn’t wake Patrick. He looked kind of cute, scrunched up on his desk like that. I hadn’t been here long, but he’d been a pretty good friend to me since I’d started. I was pleased I worked in a place with someone like him.

Now and then, I felt his eyes on me. In more than a friendly way, I think. My guess was just that Patrick had a thing for the ladies – he could have charmed anyone he wanted with that lovely Irish accent of his, that fluffy blond hair, that cheeky smile. I mean, I wasn’t attracted to him or anything… Of course not. If anything, he looked a bit too similar to my ex-boyfriend, actually. My ex, Jacob, and I had been in a relationship throughout the whole of university. It was me that finally broke it off. Jacob was a lovely guy – a med student, with an immaculate academic record, a place on the university baseball team. My mom loved him. She’d go out of her way to impress him when he came to stay, bringing him tea and cakes – things she never did for other guests, trying to charm him with stories from her youth. I think, in many ways, she made more of an effort with him than I did.

The problem, though, was that I just didn’t feel it. That spark. That head-over-heels feeling I’d been assured by Hollywood that I’d feel when I met Mr. Right. Jacob was just… Jacob. Nice, polite, smart, Jacob. He was always saying things like, ‘It’s up to you, honey, whatever you think’s best,’ and ‘What do you want me to do, darling? Whatever it is, I’ll do it.’ Stuff like that. He was so
unlike
my wild, naughty, rebellious stepbrother that it was unreal. And I couldn’t help but secretly compare him to Adam, though I’d never admitted that out loud before.

When I thought about it, on my more hormonal days, I got this sick, knotted feeling in my stomach when I thought about breaking up with Jacob. We’d talked about moving in together, having a family… heck, we hadn’t even had
sex
yet. Can you believe that? Three years together and we’d never got further than third base. And that was only once or twice.

I just wanted it to be
special
. But whenever I tried to work out what ‘special’ involved, I couldn’t figure it out. Candles? Music? Oysters? Wine? I know Jacob would have done all of that stuff for me. He would have done anything. By the end, he appeared desperate. I only had to say ‘I like lilies’ and I’d get a bunch of them, waiting outside my dorm room door within the hour. But it never felt right to me. And so, when push came to shove, and we went away for the weekend to cerebrate the end of my Degree, to a cottage in the countryside, with a four-poster bed, candles, not another soul in sight for miles on end… that’s when I did it. I broke up with him. ‘I’m sorry, Jacob,’ I told him. ‘It’s just not working for me. It’s not you…’ You know, all the usual clichés. I mean, you’re probably getting an idea of how much of a nervous rambler I can be sometimes. Well, this was a three-hour epic. At the end of it, we were both crying, and then Jacob drove me back home, said goodbye to my Mom, and we never talked again.

That was two months ago. And I still honestly don’t know if I did the right thing.

My phone rang at around half two, waking Patrick up and making him jump. ‘Shit!’ he shouted. ‘What did I miss?’

I shrugged my shoulder up to my ear, indicating that I was taking a call, and he got up and left the room. After a couple of minutes he came back, spruced up, smelling of aftershave, and looking back to his old self.
 

I had finished my call now. ‘Nice nap?’ I asked, smiling.
 

‘Not bad thanks, flower,’ said Patrick. He’d taken to calling me that since he found out my name was Rose on the first day. It was kind of funny. He was actually one year younger than me, but he spoke to me like I was a delicate little thing in need of protecting sometimes. Patrick straightened his tie as he sat down, licking his lips, which looked a little dry all of a sudden. ‘Listen, Rose. Feel free to tell me to fuck off or shut up or whatever, but do you fancy… maybe… going for a quick hair of the dog after work?’

‘Hair of the dog?’ I asked.

‘A quick drink. Hangover cure. Just a small one.’

I was exhausted. I still hadn’t eaten. I’d got a meeting at Global I needed to be fresh for the next day. But thinking about Jacob this afternoon had been stirring something inside me…

Patrick’s a nice guy.
 

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I accept your offer. Just one drink.’
 

One drink won’t hurt. Will it?

The bar opposite work wasn’t the nicest in the world. It had a couple of pool tables in the corner, dominated by men in vest tops with faded tattoos. There were big plasma LCD screens on every wall, and the barmaids had a sort of grumpy, jaded look, so that even though most of them were probably my age, they looked like they’d been stuck in this job for a thousand years. It made me even more eager to get somewhere with my career. Advertising sales wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do, but it was a start. All I needed to do now was figure out the rest… Easy, right?

Patrick was on his third drink, and I was on my second. I’d eaten a bowl of chips, at least, so I’d lined my stomach, but it was hardly the hearty meal I’d planned on having today. I’d raid the refrigerator when I got home later. Mom would have put some cold potato salad in there, if I was lucky. That had been one of my favorites since I was a girl. I sometimes thought I’d do
anything
for a bowl of potato salad.

‘Well,’ Patrick said, taking a big swig of beer. ‘Jen’s gonna get in trouble with Christina tomorrow. She hates it when people pull sickies. Even if you
are
genuinely sick, come to think of it. She’d much rather you sat at your desk, vomiting, than stayed at home, not making any money.’

‘Or stayed at your desk
sleeping
,’ I said, giving Patrick a playful poke in the ribs.

We were both silent for a moment. It was the first time I’d ever broken the invisible ‘personal space’ barrier between us. I felt like maybe touching his torso had been the wrong thing to do. I mean, if he’d touched
mine
…

Luckily, Patrick began smiling again, and I decided I hadn’t upset him.
 

‘I feckin’ hate baseball,’ Patrick said, looking up at the plasma screen opposite us. The volume was off, but it looked like a rowdy scene. The fans were cheering and yelling. The camera zoomed in on a young boy, stuffing his face full of popcorn, and a man beside him, presumably his father, spilling beer on top of his son’s head.

‘You hate baseball?’ I said, grinning. Maybe Patrick wasn’t so similar to Jacob after all.

‘Not my thing at all,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m a
lacrosse
man.’

He struck a silly pose, as if he was holding a lacrosse stick, and we both burst out laughing, and this time, Patrick gave
me
a playful nudge. He didn’t touch my ribs though, like I’d done with him. He went for the safer option of the lower arm.

I couldn’t believe this. It felt like I was flirting. After I broke up with Jacob I thought that maybe I’d never find anyone to flirt with again. And it felt nice. Really nice. Patrick was a nice guy.

I made a mental note to stop using the word ‘nice’ so often.

‘So tell me about yourself, Rose,’ Patrick said, wriggling slightly further forwards on his seat, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on mine. ‘What do you do when you’re not working in
the glamorous world of local news
?’

I smiled. ‘Well, I finished university in the summer,’ I told him. ‘I have an English Language Degree.’

Patrick pretended to nod off, and I almost poked him in the ribs again, but restrained myself.

‘At uni I did a lot of swimming. I like getting out into the countryside on my bike. I love riding as fast as I can. Sometimes–’ I broke off, realizing what I was about to say.

‘What?’ Patrick urged.

‘Sometimes I feel like all I want to do is ride on my bicycle, as far away as possible, and never come back.’

‘Ride where?’
 

‘Anywhere but here,’ I said, with a sad shrug, realizing I’d never said that out loud before.

Patrick studied me long and hard for a while. I felt his eyes boring deep into me. ‘Ah,’ he said at last, ‘a nihilistic escapist. I can see why you’ve joined advertising sales. Welcome aboard. You’re one of us, now.’ He grinned again, and I felt embarrassed I’d let my guard down like that, but pleased by his reaction.

‘What do you say?’ asked Patrick, picking up his drink. ‘One more for the road?’

I looked at my empty glass, and shook my head. ‘I’d better not,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be sensible. Big day tomorrow.’