Burned: A Stepbrother Romance Read Free Page A

okay?”
    “He will be.”
    “You going back to work?”
    I notice I’m shaking a little. Brock sees my hand twitching, the keys rattling. “Why don’t you let me drive?”
    I don’t really know why, but I pass the keys over. “Why not?”
    The ride to work is quiet. I’ve got a headache now the truth is out, now the transferal of stress is complete. I had a feeling something was wrong. In a way I’m glad it’s just money, that Michelle and Dad are okay, but in another way it’s just as bad. If they lose the house, I lose the flat. We all lose.
    I can’t think about it anymore. I try to pull my concentration back to work, to the op.
    I turn to Brock. “Take me out tonight.”
    “What?” comes the startled reply.
    “With your car buddies. I want to see what it is you get up to. You said I owe you, so there you go. It can be my penance.”
    He looks perplexed. “Why?”
    I’ve got to be careful here. “Call it curiosity, call it I just need a break, a change of scenery.”
    He laughs. “I don’t think you can handle it.”
    “A couple of boys and their toys? Try me.”
    “Your funeral,” Brock snaps back, the air suddenly icy again at the word.
    *
    Work is an endless string of briefings. I get a wire, a rundown on who’s who in the club, but it’s sketchy at best. Even the police don’t have a lot to go on at this stage.
    Dad’s not home yet when I get back. They’re keeping him in for observation. It’s quiet without the lights on in the main house, without the sound of Jeopardy streaming out of the windows, a salty TV dinner spinning in the microwave.
    But the lights are on in the garage next to the granny flat. Brock’s wedged under the hood of his car, spannering on something, overalls caked in grease. He looks like he just stumbled out of Deliverance . I don’t even bother trying to say hi. I’m too exhausted.
    I make my way inside and blast last night’s pasta. I write Brock a note telling him to lock the doors, sorry that I can’t come out, and collapse under the covers wondering how the hell everything has managed to change so fast and become so damn complex. I don’t do complex. I like things simple and straightforward, organized. I’m not Brock. I cannot live in a world of chaos.
    Oddly, I’m still thinking about him as I fall asleep.
    *
    I wake sharply.
    I roll over in bed, a single limp hand searching for the clock.
    My eyes bug open. Two AM?
    Brock’s got music blaring from the room next door. It’s like I’ve suddenly been teleported back to 2010. Back then I didn’t mind, but now I just want to sleep.
    I tap the wall.
    No answer.
    “Knock it off. Now!” I add.
    My door suddenly kicks open and I scream, pulling the blankets tight to myself.
    Brock looks on fully dressed from the doorway. He’s wearing the same leather jacket he’s had all these years. I remember when he first bought it, before distressing was the cool thing. Now it’s looking suitably weathered. Oh what stories it could tell.
    I’m really having a hard time closing my mouth. I thought I’d covered myself, but it seems not.
    “Purple,” says Brock, noting the color of my bra. “Nice, but I had you pegged as a crimson kind of girl.”
    “What the fuck do you want, Brock?”
    He picks up a discarded pile of clothes in the corner and tosses them towards me. “You want to go out? You want to see what I get up to? Let’s go.”
    *
    I start to get a little alarmed when we begin to head out deeper and deeper into the satellite suburbs that ring the city center. This is where crime happens. This is real poverty. It’s Cops re-runs for days out here, 24/7, and we’re headed right into the thick of it.
    Brock pulls off the main road and heads around behind a large factory, pulling up into a parking lot filled with a group of maybe ten cars that look like they were pulled straight off a toy shelf. I’m terrible with car models, but I know there’s a mix of vintages here—sleek Japanese imports and