Ruined By My Stepbrother novel · Chapter 12 of 32

Chapter 12: Fourth of July

"She wants a sequel," I said.

"She wants a comeback story. 'Cold Plate returns to the chef who framed him.' It'll be the most-read column of the year."

"So write it. Give me four stars."

"Hattie."

He leaned on the pass.

"If I give you four stars, it's a favor from your stepbrother. If anybody finds out, your comeback is a fraud."

"And if you give me less?"

"Then I'm lying."

"Then say no."

"If I say no, she sends somebody else. And she asks me why."

The kitchen was empty except for us and the dishwasher's radio.

"I'll handle it," he said.

"How?"

"I don't know yet."

The Fourth of July fell on a Saturday.

My father always closed the boat on the Fourth, so I close Low Tide at eight.

We did one fast early turn of fried clams and lobster rolls, and at eight I flipped the sign and sent everybody to the beach.

Then I drove to Columbia Avenue in a blue cotton sundress with my hair still smelling like the fryer.

Glenn had hung bunting on every rail of the porch.

He had a cooler of beer, a huge citronella candle and the Phillies on the radio.

"Our first Fourth!" he yelled from the steps. "As a family!"

My mother was in a rocking chair with a glass of white wine and a sweater over her knees.

Barrett was sitting on the top step with his back against the post.

He'd showered.

His hair was still damp and curling, and he had on a faded gray T-shirt and shorts.

He didn't look at me when I came up the steps.

I sat on the step below his and leaned back.

My shoulder blades touched his knees.

He didn't move them.

At nine-fifteen the first firework went up over the beach, two blocks away.

It broke white and gold over the rooftops, and Glenn cheered.

My mother laughed at him.

Glenn put his arm around her rocking chair and pulled it close to his, scraping across the porch boards.

They were watching the sky.

Barrett's fingers touched the back of my neck, under my hair.

Just the tips.

Just once.

A red one went up and cracked open.

He leaned down so his mouth was near my ear.

"I left something in the carriage house," he said.

"What?"

"Come find out."

He stood up and stretched.

"I'm grabbing more ice, Dad."

"Good man!"

He went down the steps and around the side of the house.

I counted three fireworks.

Then I stood up too.

"Bathroom," I said.

"Mm-hm," my mother said, watching a green one.

The side yard was dark and smelled like cut grass and hydrangeas.

Every time a firework went off, the whole backyard lit up blue or red and then went black again.

The carriage house sat at the back of the lot under an old maple.

Next to it was the outdoor shower, a wooden stall with no roof and a door that latched with a hook.

The water was already running.

Steam was coming up over the top of the wooden slats into the dark.

His gray T-shirt was hanging over the door.

I stood there with my heart going.

"Barrett."

"It's warm," he said from inside. "I tested it."

"Our parents are on the porch."

"Our parents are watching the sky."

A white one burst overhead and lit the steam silver.

I reached behind my back and pulled my zipper down.

My zipper came down and the dress fell to my waist, then I pushed it over my hips and stepped out of it.

I hung it over the door next to his T-shirt.

The latch clicked when I hooked it.

He was standing under the water with his back to me.

Broad and wet, his ass tight in nothing at all.

I had never seen him fully naked.

He turned.

Water ran through his chest hair and down his stomach.

I looked at him.

Then I looked lower.

"I said yes," I said. "Don't you dare stop this time."

"I'm not stopping."

He pulled me under the spray.

The water was hot and it hit my back and ran down between my legs.

His hands went to my ribs and he kissed me.

Not slow.

His mouth came down on mine like he'd been starving.

I bit his lower lip.

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