Feuds and reckless fury, p.10
Feuds and Reckless Fury, page 10
His words rankle me. “I’m happy where I’m at.”
“Running with that faggot?”
It takes a second for the slur to catch up to my brain. “The fuck you say?”
“Come on, Voss,” he scoffs, his lip curling up, “you can’t actually enjoy doing this track shit. Is it because you want to show up Sommers, or because you’re hoping he’ll let you suck on his dick?”
I shove him hard, sending him flying backward over the bench. He lands on his back with a grunt. With a growl, he leaps back to his feet, his hands fisted as rage thrums through him, making him shake.
“Maybe you prefer it up the ass. No wonder you couldn’t satisfy Naomi—”
My fist swings out, but it’s stopped when two arms grab me from behind. Damon steps in front of Gage to keep him from coming after me. It takes me a second to recognize the salty lime scent that belongs to Alis. I try to shake him off me, but he’s tugging me away from Gage.
“That’s what I thought,” Gage barks at me. He makes a crude gesture of sucking a dick, which sets me off. Before I can charge at him again, Alis twists me around and shoves me back toward the track.
“What the hell?” I snap, glowering at him over my shoulder.
“You fight with him, and you’ll be suspended from the track meet on Saturday.”
“So?”
“So, how am I supposed to gloat for beating your ass when your ass isn’t there to beat?” His dark brow lifts in question. “I kind of need you there to stroke my ego.”
The devious glint in his mahogany orbs alludes to much more than his ego being stroked. Fucking Sommers. He’s a little shit-stirrer in my life. It’s annoying.
“Come on,” he says, motioning with a chin nod to the track, “let’s have a little preview of this weekend.”
Smug bastard.
When I beat him by a sixteenth of a second, I feel on top of the world. I’m doubled over, panting for air, when I catch his amused expression. Fucker let me win. Asshole.
I flip him off and growl, “Again.”
The next time, he beats me all-too-easily, and damn if I still don’t feel on top of the world.
Alister
I don’t know where Canyon is by the time I reach his house after practice with Carrie in tow, but I’m eager for another chance to snoop around in his space without him breathing down my neck. While Carrie makes some pizza rolls for us, I head upstairs to sneak another peek into Canyon’s room. I twist the knob and push inside, immediately annoyed to find the bed in disarray and more clothes littering the floor.
I’m thankful to see he’s washed my clothes. They’re folded neatly and sitting at the end of his unmade bed. I shove them into my bag before dropping it to the floor so I can do something about his mess. Cleaning up his space goes quicker since it’s not as bad as the last time I was in here.
I carry a pair of shoes into his closet and find more discarded clothes in there that need picking up. When I find a whole row of costumes hanging, I snigger. What the actual fuck? I push the hangers down along the pole and then slowly push each outfit aside. Most are some variation of a similar-looking ensemble—a high-collared black button-up jacket with orange stitching. Above the costumes on a shelf is a clear plastic tub filled with what looks like wigs.
So fucking weird.
Wait a minute…
I walk back into his room, and my eyes fixate on the Mubōna Ikari—whatever the fuck that means—poster on the wall. One character, with black hair and orange at the ends, bares his teeth and holds a sword outward. The other character, a smaller guy with white hair that hangs down over one eye while shaved short on the other side, smirks as he toys with a small but lethal-looking knife at his side. Obviously, it’s a good versus evil story. The sword dude is the bad guy for sure, making sense as to why Canyon wants to dress up like him. I snort out a laugh.
“Something funny?”
That’s twice now this guy has caught me nosing around in his room. I shrug and gesture at the poster. “Didn’t take you for a nerd.”
Heat envelops me from behind, and Canyon rests his chin on top of my head. It should feel condescending as fuck, but it doesn’t. Warmth curls in my balls at our proximity. His soapy scent invades me, taking up residence in my lungs.
“Anime isn’t nerdy. It happens to be really popular,” he argues, his breath tickling my hair.
I suck in and hold my own breath when his palms settle on my hips. Not wanting to break the moment because his touch feels like electricity pulsating through me, I remain perfectly still and say, “But the dressing up as the villain is the nerdy part.”
“No, I dress up as Daisuke. He’s the good guy.”
“He’s dressed in black and looks mean.” I point to the bigger character with black and orange hair. “Looks villainous to me.”
“Actually,” he says, his voice hitching and sounding giddy, “Chibi is technically the villain. Well, his parents are. He was basically born into a Japanese mob family. Their families are enemies. Through over half the series, Chibi and Daisuke are always battling.”
My eyes flutter closed when I feel his fingers tease at the flesh just above the waistband of my jeans and under my T-shirt. His touch is frustrating. I want to hate it, but I don’t. Not even close.
“What happens halfway through the series?” My voice is a mere whisper, gravelly and hoarse.
“They get a taste of each other’s lives. Before they knew what the other dealt with day to day, they were envious of each other.” His palm slides up over my stomach, making me nearly whimper. “Once they saw how it really was for the other, they began to feel bad. They went from hating each other, to understanding each other, to befriending each other.”
“So enemies to friends?”
His chin leaves the top of my head to brush his lips against my ear. This time, I can’t contain the shudder that trembles through me. “Enemies to lovers.”
My heart pounds hard in my chest. Whatever war that’s been going on between us feels out of our control now. We’ve somehow gone from opposing sides to meeting in the middle, the magnetism drawing us together rather than pushing us apart. I want him to unfasten my jeans and take my cock in his hand. To stroke me until I come. Just like this. While we stare at the dumb cartoon characters.
His hand tickles its way up toward my pectoral muscle, dragging my T-shirt up along with it. He brushes a thumb over my hard nipple, making me squeak out in surprise.
“So sensitive,” he taunts before pinching me. “I bet you’d let me do filthy things to you. Like bite your nipple while my dick was inside you. Am I right?”
I groan at his words and give him a clipped nod. When he takes control of my body like this, I can’t think straight. I forget all reasoning and lose sense of reality. We may as well be the two characters on the wall.
“You want me to fuck you even though you hate me.” His whispered words seem to tingle through my every nerve ending. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t hate you.”
He tugs at my nipple again. “Well, I hate you enough for the both of us.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
I cry out when he shoves me against the wall, his body pressing against me so I feel the very stone-like impression of his massive cock. His grip on my nipple relaxes, and he lazily rolls it between his thumb and finger, driving me insane with need.
“Canyon,” I beg. “Please.”
“What do you want, Wonderland?”
“I don’t fucking know. I just…”
His other hand snakes down to palm my dick over my jeans. A moan tumbles out of me. Hot lips find the side of my neck, sending currents of fiery desire straight to my balls.
“I want it too,” Canyon admits. “Fuck, how I do.”
We’re breathing heavily and writhing against one another when I hear Carrie’s voice as she comes up the stairs.
“Pizza rolls are ready!”
Canyon jerks back, stumbling away a few steps. I pull myself from the wall and keep my back to the door so his sister doesn’t see my raging erection.
“Coming,” I rasp out. “Just admiring this, uh, art.”
“Ew. Not you too,” she grumbles from the doorway. “I’ll be in my room. Canny, I left some pizza rolls downstairs for you.”
“Thanks,” Canyon grunts out.
As soon as she walks off, I swivel around to face Canyon. His blue eyes are electric with feral want burning in them. I lick my lips, enjoying when his gaze falls to my mouth. We stare at each other for a long beat before I let out a rush of air and start for the door. I’m passing by him when his hand seizes my bicep. I twist my head up to look at him. With our faces inches apart, I can almost imagine his lips on mine, probing and curious and hungry. He leans forward, his nose brushing against mine, causing my eyes to flutter closed. The warmth of his breath this close is exhilarating. I part my lips, eager for his mouth on mine.
“Better leave, Wonderland, or…” His thumb drags along my bottom lip. I pop my eyes open to meet his intense, penetrating stare.
“Or what?”
“There is no or. Just leave.”
“Okay,” I croak out, unmoving. “In a second.”
We remain like living, breathing statues, fixated on each other for an indeterminable amount of time.
Far longer than a second.
Maybe minutes or hours.
“Walk away,” Canyon murmurs, breaking the silence with his gravelly words. “Walk away before I don’t let you.”
Captive to the villainous boy with a nerdy secret love for cartoons?
It takes everything in my power to pull away from his magnetic presence—every single drop of my willpower. This mind-altering addiction that is Canyon Voss has the power to completely obliterate me.
“Later, Voss.”
“That’s a promise.”
The chill that shivers down my spine is invigorating and wakes parts of me I didn’t know existed.
It’s not until I escape his delicious scent and fiery proximity that I finally breathe in a calming breath. This guy—my soon-to-be stepbrother—is changing my world. I’m still undecided whether I hate it or not.
Brother Lover: On your birthday. Two weeks. Be ready.
I yawn, staring down at my phone, wondering what in the hell that even means.
Me: Should I be scared?
He doesn’t respond, which annoys me. It’s late, and I should go to bed, but my mind is still on Canyon. It was difficult to focus on my lesson with Carrie when my blood was still burning hot for her brother. By the time I made it home, though, I’d cooled, and reality crept back into my mind.
I can’t do this with Canyon.
Whatever this is.
It feels good when it’s just the two of us, locked away by ourselves. He’s not a twat like usual, and our chemistry is undeniable. If it were anyone else, I’d pursue the hell out of him and try to make something happen between us.
He’s going to be my stepbrother.
Dad would kill me.
I can almost see the disgusted look on Dad’s face. One mixed with hurt and betrayal. He took me in when I needed a family, and letting his fiancé’s son fuck me would basically be shitting on everything he’s done for me.
He might kick me out.
Worse, never speak to me again.
Bile churns in my gut. The wind picks up outside, making the house creak, and with it, my anxiety spikes as I hear every little sound.
Was that a squeak?
I strain my ears, listening for evidence.
Another groaning cracking sound.
Another squeak? That was definitely a squeak.
Mice.
Fucknofucknofucknofuckno!
My heart rate picks up, the beats erratic and wild inside my chest. The thrumming makes it hard to hear the other sounds. Panic rises up inside me. They’re in my room, and I can’t hear them. What if they climb up on my bed? Crawl all over me while I sleep?
Fucknofucknofucknofuckno!
A full-bodied shiver trembles through me. I tuck the blankets around my body, leaving no room for mice to crawl inside with me. Once I’m buried beneath the blanket, I try not to hyperventilate in the small, airless space. My skin crawls, and I twitch as I think maybe the mice are trying to get under the blanket with me.
A whimper escapes me.
Don’t, Alis. Don’t do this.
In the past, when my panic attacks would consume me, Dad would remind me what my therapist taught me. He’d sit with me and distract me until the moment passed.
Dad. I need Dad. Dad!
Tears prickle at my eyes as I gulp in the hot air beneath the blanket. I try to cry out for him, but nothing comes out. All I have is my phone, trapped in my death grip. With shaky hands, I swipe it open. I find myself on Instagram and on Canyon’s page before I realize what I’m doing.
Thud.
Seeing his bright, mischievous cobalt eyes has me calming considerably. I swallow down the stomach acid making its way up my throat and start scrolling through his pictures. There’s a lot of him with Naomi. A few of them kissing, but most of them are possessive ones where he has her tucked under his arm.
What would it feel like to be that person?
Would he tuck me against him when the panic attacks threatened to eat me alive with imaginary mice from my past? Would he rest his head on my chin and whisper that everything is going to be okay?
He’s your enemy, dumbass.
In his room, when he was touching me, we felt far from enemies.
We felt like lovers.
On a whim, I reach out to him on Instagram messages.
Me: What’s happening in two weeks besides my birthday?
It shows he’s seen the message right away, and then he’s typing.
Canyon: Me, kicking your ass at the 100-meter?
Me: Well, you just hinted, so…
Canyon: You okay?
My heart stutters at his question. I’m able to imagine his arms around me and his expensive cologne invading my senses.
He can’t be your boyfriend, idiot, because he’ll be your stepbrother.
A picture comes through of him standing shirtless in his kitchen, a bottle of Coke at his lips, and the most incendiary, suggestive, sexy smirk on his face. Then, he sends another message.
Canyon: I owe you one of these.
It’s then I forget all about mice and panic attacks and stepbrothers.
All I can think about is Canyon Voss, my dick, and the fact I’ll owe him a Coke too.
Canyon
The cool morning air is invigorating. With football, our games were always at night, and most practices were in the afternoon. The track meet, though, is early and on our home turf. Dew still coats the grass on the football field, and a small breeze keeps the late August morning from being suffocating.
I stretch while I wait for Alis to arrive. Somewhere over the course of the week, I’ve gone from hating him and wanting to ruin his life to looking forward to being in his presence.
As Naomi says, I’m a stalker.
I’m supposed to be terrorizing him. Ruining his life. Taunting him.
So why the hell would I rather pin him to my bed or the wall and have my filthy way with him instead?
The other teammates trickle onto the track, a sea of black shorts and jerseys with the Blood Gators logo in red and white on the fronts. Yesterday after practice, Coach passed out our uniforms. Somehow, he managed to get my same football number—09—which made me secretly happy. Alis’s number was 01, which doesn’t surprise me since he has to be the best at everything.
Today, I’m going to whip his ass on the track.
A smile tugs at my lips, just imagining how annoyed he’ll be to get beat. My body thrums with the need to compete. It’s in my blood to try to be the best, knocking everyone out of line along the way. Carrie’s the same when it comes to violin. But, where she can’t nudge over the perfect Alis Sommers, I will easily soar past him on the track.
Since it’s a home meet, the bleachers are mostly filled with black and red supporters, with only a few green and white from the opposing side. I learned this week from Coach Davies that the sport is pretty competitive where we live in Florida. Where most high schools across the nation have outdoor track seasons beginning in March, ours runs the entire school year. The tri-meets, quad meets, and invitationals will happen with everyone else in the spring; the fall season is more of a practice one for our area. With football lasting only a few months, I’m looking forward to being in an all-year sport my senior year of high school.
Someone whistles, and I jerk my attention to the entry gate. Alis struts in, body relaxed, with both our dads beside him. I’m filled with a mixture of unease, anger, and excitement at seeing them.
Dad’s eager grin nearly chases away my anger. It would be easy to slip into our old relationship—him being the supportive parent who encouraged me to do what I love. But then I think of Mom. How she’s not here, though she wants to be. Because she has to work.
Because. He. Left. Us.
“Looking good, bud,” Dad says, his blue eyes twinkling as he greets me. “It’s weird seeing you out here without your gear on, but I’m looking forward to watching you compete. Give Alis here a run for his money.” He playfully pulls Alis to him, messing up his hair.
The familiarity with which they act sours my stomach. It must be evident on my face because Dad’s smile falls, and Alis tugs out of his hold.
“Ready to lose, loser?” Alis asks, a taunting smirk on his face, effectively distracting me from all thoughts of Dad.
I try and fail not to look at his lips. Why are they so full and pink and pouty?
“We both know I’m going to beat you today,” I throw back with a smug grin. “You might want to get your number changed from 01 to 02.”
Quinn chuckles and gives Alis an affectionate squeeze of his shoulder. “We’ll be in the stands.” Then, to me, he says, “We’re going to head up to the meat market for some steak and chicken after this. Your dad is going to grill out. We’d love to have you over for dinner.”
