My Stepbrother Is My Secret Master novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Seen Enough

Laurel walks in on her arrogant stepbrother Beckett, trades insults with him about the floor he says is his, can't stop hearing her Master's voice in his, and on her first day at the Academy watches him walk in as her new professor.

I picked it up and ran the silk ties through my fingers.

Same lace. Same little scalloped edge.

Somebody bought these by the dozen, I told myself.

Behind the door, something crashed to the floor.

A man swore, low and furious.

Then nothing.

"Hello?" I called. "Are you okay?"

No answer.

I pushed the door open.

The room was a studio, huge, with a wall of black windows over the lake.

Canvases had slid off a stack and fanned across the floorboards.

A man stood in the middle of them, barefoot, in paint-splattered jeans and nothing else.

He was tall, with black hair falling in his eyes and a streak of blue paint across his chest.

He looked at me.

"Who the hell are you? Some country hick who wandered in off the highway?"

"I heard a crash. I thought someone was hurt."

"Nobody's hurt."

He didn't move to cover up.

He just stood there and let me look.

"Seen enough?"

Heat climbed my neck.

"I wasn't looking."

"You were." He tilted his head. "What's so interesting about this?"

"Honestly? Nothing."

His eyes dropped to my hand.

To the blindfold.

Something changed in his face, fast, and then it was gone.

He crossed the room and took it from me.

His fingers didn't touch mine.

"That's mine," he said. "It's a prop. Don't touch my things."

"It was on the floor. You're welcome."

He studied my mouth for a second too long.

Then he stepped back.

"So you're the daughter Gary brought home."

"And you're Dorinda's playboy son. You're in every magazine in the downstairs bathroom."

"Did you read them?"

"I looked at the pictures. You had a different model on your arm in every one."

"Jealous?"

"Of the models? They looked tired."

That landed. I saw it.

He set the blindfold on a table covered in brushes.

"Let's be clear. This whole floor is mine. Stay out of my studio and stay out of my way."

"Don't worry. I couldn't care less about your floor."

"And don't expect me to treat you like a sister."

"Don't expect me to ever call you my brother."

"Good. Then we understand each other."

"Perfectly."

I turned and walked out.

I made it all the way to my room before my legs went weak.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms against my knees.

That voice.

Low, a little rough, every word placed.

Don't touch my things.

I'd heard that voice through my phone an hour ago, telling me to be quiet.

No.

Lots of men had deep voices.

Master was in some hotel in some city with a gold mask on a nightstand.

He was not barefoot at the other end of my hall, being a jerk about canvases.

I texted him anyway.

Can I hear your voice? Just for a minute.

The reply came fast.

Not tonight, pup. Sleep. You start school tomorrow.

I stared at it until the screen went dark.

At midnight I gave up on sleep and went down to the kitchen.

My dad was at the marble island in his socks, eating cereal out of a mixing bowl.

He looked up and his whole face cracked open.

"There's my girl."

I hugged him so hard the spoon clattered.

"You smell like a hardware store," I said into his flannel.

"I live in a castle, Laurie. I have to go somewhere I understand."

He pushed a second bowl at me.

"You meet Beckett?"

"Briefly."

"He's all right once you get past the..." He waved the spoon at his own face. "All of it."

"I didn't get past it."

"Give him time. Dorinda says he's had a rough year."

"Dorinda says he's had a different model every week."

Dad snorted milk and had to grab a paper towel.

The next morning I took the train into the city with charcoal under my nails and my portfolio on my knees.

The Academy was a tall brick building on Michigan Avenue with banners hanging off the front.

The figure drawing studio was on the fourth floor, all easels and skylights.

A girl with curly red hair in a claw clip dropped onto the stool next to mine.

Her overalls had more paint on them than my whole portfolio.

"Daisy Crane. You're the transfer. You've got the Ohio face."

"What's an Ohio face?"

"Polite. Doomed." She leaned closer. "Have you heard? We're screwed this semester."

"Why?"

"They fired the old guy. The new professor's a monster. He made a girl in his New York workshop cry in the first ten minutes."

"Really? Is that so?"

"And he's ridiculously hot, which is honestly worse, because now I have to be scared and distracted."

The door at the front of the studio opened.

The whole room went quiet.

He came in with a coffee in one hand and a leather folder under his arm.

Black hair pushed back now. White shirt, sleeves rolled. Wire-rim glasses.

He set the folder on the desk and looked at all of us.

"Starting this semester, I'll be taking over your figure drawing and life painting course."

His eyes moved along the row and stopped on me.

"I'm Beckett Lockwood. From now on, you'll address me as Professor Lockwood."

Daisy grabbed my wrist under the table.

"Look at him," she breathed. "God, he's so hot."

I couldn't answer her.

My stepbrother was my professor.

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