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.”
“Yeah, sure,” I grunt out, avoiding Dad’s relieved smile.
As soon as they walk off, I take a moment to stare at Alis. His white-blond hair is messy and sticking up on one side. He keeps his hair longer than me, and it’s sometimes shaggy looking, hanging into his eyes and over his ears. The jersey is tight on his lean runner’s body and shows off his lightly muscled arms. When he stretches his arms above his head, and I catch a peek of his dark underarm hair that’s the same color as his eyebrows and roots, my mind wanders to where else his hair is dark.
“You can’t suck me off here in front of our dads,” he says, his deep brown eyes filled with mirth. “There’s always later…”
I smirk as my gaze roams down to the front of his shorts, a semi-erection evident beneath the black material. “You’re not going to get inside my head and mindfuck me before the meet.” I lick my lips, enjoying his sharp breath in response. “Though I must say, I wouldn’t mind having you on your knees right about now.”
He grumbles, bending over to touch his toes. We both know it’s an effort to hide how his dick perks up for me.
“Come on, Wonderland, you’re supposed to put up better walls than that.” I move to where I can see his ass while I stretch. When I was with Naomi, I always liked her ass. Seeing Alis’s, tight and muscular as the shorts strain over it, I realize I’m most definitely an ass man no matter the sex. A fine ass is a fine ass.
“Are you seriously checking me out in front of everyone?” Alis asks in an exasperated tone over his shoulder.
“Like you don’t know that ass is hot.”
“Whatever.”
“Did all those guys who fucked you appreciate it?”
“Go away.”
“Did they worship it?”
“Fuck off, Voss.”
“Did you let them bite it? I’d pay good money to be able to bite it and leave a bruise that’d have you remembering me every time you sat down.”
“You’re a dick of massive proportions.”
I laugh and shrug. “Most of that sentence is correct in the sense my dick is huge, but you already knew that.”
“Unbelievable.” He sighs and shoots me a penetrative glare. “What are we doing?”
“Warming up.”
“No, us.”
“There is no us.”
He snorts out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay.”
“Aww,” I tease. “You want to be my boyfriend, bro?”
His middle finger flies up, and then he storms off toward Coach Davies. I strut after him, pleased at riling him up. After Coach hypes us up and the meet starts, I lose myself to the sport, eager to see my teammates do well. Our football team was always exceptional, with a lot of the players moving on to play for the University of Florida. They swap out their black and red for blue and orange, but still a gator through and through. I’m just surprised to see the track team is also good.
A dude named Mikal, a six-foot-five black guy on our team, annihilates on the high jump. I’m so fascinated by his form and skill, I nearly miss being called out for my race. We line up, our school’s 100-meter dash runners alternating with our opponent. I’m in the second lane, and Alis is in the fourth. Everything around me turns into a blur as we ready ourselves for the whistle, hunched down and poised to spring forward. I’m hyper-focused, intent on only one thing.