She reminds me of Summer.
I pull over directly beside them. Roll down the passenger side window. My gaze locks with hers and I tilt my head, indicating I want her to come over.
They know the drill. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve done this before. I realize quickly that I’ve done this before with her. She’s pretty.
But she’s not who I really want.
“You again,” she says, her voice full of boredom as she leans into the open window. She’s smiling, her makeup garish. Her gaze sly. Knowing. “You want another blowie?”
It all comes back. The last blow job she gave me. How I pulled out of her mouth and came on her face. She became angry. I didn’t give a shit.
We watch each other coolly, and I try my damnedest to realign her features, but it doesn’t work. She’s not a puzzle.
She’s not Summer.
“More,” I tell her.
“Like what?” She lifts her brows.
I want to degrade her completely. “Your ass.”
She makes a face, pulling away from the window. “Ew. No.”
Such a prude.
“Get the fuck out of here then,” I tell her fiercely, and she rolls her eyes, pushing away from the car.
“Fuckhead!” she yells as I pull away from the curb.
I return to campus, hungry. Annoyed. Hard. I take a shower and jerk off to thoughts of Savage. With the lush mouth and soft tongue. With the vacuum quality suction and delicious pussy. I still don’t know what it feels like to be inside her.
And I want to know. I’m dying to know. I want to violate her in every way possible. The beauty of it?
She’ll let me. And she’ll enjoy every goddamn minute of it too. She’s not a prude. She’s sick.
Like me.
Once I’m finished with my shower, I slip into bed and pick up the journal, reading until I can’t take it anymore. It’s difficult, being in her head. Reading her joys. Her complaints. Her dreams. Her hopes, and how slowly but surely, it erodes. Until she has no hopes or dreams left. She’s just trying to survive.
I dream about her. Now I’m the one who’s watching her in the bathroom instead of her stepbrother, the glass wall clear, her beautiful body on complete display, only for me. Her dark eyes never leave mine as she runs her hands over her slick body, suds forming, dripping down her arms. Her legs. She reaches between her thighs and touches herself, her lips curled in a barely-there smile. Coy. Teasing.
I go to her. She gets farther away. The bathroom stretches on and on. I reach out but touch nothing. It turns into a long hall that’s never-ending and I run to her, calling her name, and when she turns around, it’s not Summer any longer.
It’s the townie. She smiles, her eyes turning red.
I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering what the fuck that was about. I’m jittery. Wide awake. I grab the journal from where I left it on my bedside table and open it, finding the spot where I left off.
It’s closer to the end of the school year, and her entries are less frequent. She’s busy with various activities, and I remember doing much of the same. There’s one journal entry that’s concerning as I read it. Again and again.
He won’t leave me alone, no matter what I say to him. I can’t take a shower without being scared he’s going to watch. I lock the door but he still slips inside. I can hear him breathe. It grows louder and louder, and I know what he’s doing. Mia says he’s jerking off. Touching himself when he watches me, which is so gross.
He’s my brother. Stepbrother, but still! I’ve known him for years. We’ve lived in the same house for a long time. I don’t think of him like that. He’s kind of gross, and weird, but I think all boys are that way. He’s worse than other boys though, because he’s too quiet, always watching me, no matter where I am. Touching me in the most obvious way.
Y leaves the bathroom every time I turn the water off, and sometimes I wonder if I’m hallucinating. Imagining it. I want to tell Mother, but she probably won’t believe me. Or she’ll accuse me of making a big deal out of nothing, which is what she always says.
Maybe I shouldn’t shower at all. Then he’d find me disgusting, and eventually stop coming near me.
Alarm flashes through me each time I read the last passage. This goes beyond a stepbrother wanting his stepsister and having a little lusty fun. There were three years between them. He knew better. She was practically a child when he started doing this.
I keep reading, despite how late it is, and how soon I have to get up for class.
Maybe I’ll skip.
There’s a familiar entry about a warm June evening. A night I lived through too.
I met a boy. He was so hot. And so cold too. Mean. He called me a whore. Who does that? And he was dead serious too. Said I was like my mother and claimed that she was having an affair with his father. I don’t want to believe it. I love Jonas like he’s my real father, and if she were to break up their marriage over a stupid affair…
I would miss Jonas so much, and our life. He gives us a good life. But maybe that would be a good thing if he found out. It could get me away from Yates. But I don’t want to talk about him or my problems.
I want to talk about the boy.
He was tall. Beautiful ice blue eyes. I felt his dick when he kissed me. It was hard, pressed against my stomach, and I touched it. I touched it! Not for real, just over his clothes. His tongue was soft, and I liked how it felt in my mouth. He was my first real kiss, and he made my stomach dip. Made my entire body feel fuzzy when he rubbed his tongue against mine. It was like my body didn’t belong to me, but to someone else. Him?
I belong to myself, I know this, but it felt so good to be pressed against a boy like that and let him kiss and kiss me. My head was already spinning thanks to all the champagne I drank, so maybe it wasn’t the kiss at all, but the alcohol. I don’t know. I just liked it. It was a fun party.
A deep breath escapes me and I slap the journal shut, tossing it onto the bed next to me. That’s all I manage to rate. A few paragraphs, mostly about us kissing and how she felt my dick. That encounter with her that night feels like it altered my entire life. I was young and angry then, and eager to blame someone else for my father’s infidelities. To blame him would be to acknowledge that he’s not perfect, and I didn’t want to do that. Not yet.
I blamed her mother—and her. That’s why I called her a whore. I wanted to see what she would do. How she would react. I wanted to make her hurt, because I was in pain and no one saw it. No one ever sees it.
Instead, her eyes flared and her breathing accelerated. I held her against the wall and she gave in to me so easily. Kissed me. Clung to me. Taught me how to kiss, when I had no clue what I was doing.
That one night changed everything. I wanted to find someone just like her, yet I never could. As I got older, I became angrier. Saw things I shouldn’t. Did things I shouldn’t either. No one stopped me, so I kept going.
I’m still going. No one stops me now. Definitely not Summer.
I think of what I want to do with her and it makes me smile. Seems like she has bad memories when it comes to sex. Maybe I could do her a favor. Help wipe away any old memories she shares with that asshole stepbrother of hers, and replace them with me. And her.
Us.
Sixteen