Step F*#K: Part Four (Stepbrother #4) (6 page)

Four months back in London and things haven’t exactly gotten easier, as I assumed they would.
 

On the plane ride back across the pond after leaving L.A., I gave myself a stern pep talk. It went along the lines of:
Jai, you’re fine, you’ll get over this. You had some really great sex and got a little caught up, but you just need to get out L.A., you need to get back home, stop thinking about her, go out with the boys, go on a few dates, get laid. Forget about her and you’ll be back to your old self, pronto.
 

To prove this point, I even wound up shagging the girl I sat next to on the plane ride home. After we collected our luggage, she invited me back to her flat, where we spent the several hours going through many of the positions in the
kama sutra
. This girl (I don’t believe ever actually formally introduced herself to me) was hot—tall, slender, thick blond hair, full lips and fuller tits—but the sex was nothing compared to what it would’ve been like if she’d been Emma.
 

And then, wouldn’t you know, right when I’m about to come, this girl asks me to pull out and come all over her tits, which I do, all the while trying not to laugh.
 

There have been a few other girls these past couple of months. My mates are perplexed, they don’t like seeing me like this, and they’ve set me up on various dates, some of which have ended with shagging, some which have not. But how exactly do I explain it to them? I can’t, so I don’t. I find myself working from home more often than not; we’ve got an office with a great view that overlooks the River Thames, but interacting with my colleagues—despite the fact that many of these people are my good friends—is more tiresome than enjoyable. Because I can’t stop thinking about her, and time is not making it any easier.
 

In fact, right now I’m sitting on my couch, laptop next to me. I should be working on updating our company’s site (my mate William and I launched WorkIt two and a half years ago, which is a site for globe trotters and other travelers to find short- and long-term work wherever they happen to be in the world) or answering emails, but I’ve been holding Megan’s business card in my hand for the past five minutes, telling myself that I will call just one last time.
 

Because I’m sure, at this point, that Megan thinks I’m a straight up psycho, but I don’t know what else to do. I may have called her a handful of times, but only because Internet searches have yielded nothing. While Emma does, in fact, have a couple of social media profiles, it would appear that she hasn’t visited any of them recently, and any attempts on my part to contact her through these sites have proved unsuccessful. I even went so far as to consider creating a fake Facebook page and messaging her from that, on the off chance that she was still using Facebook and just ignoring me, but then I realized how shitty it would make me feel if she were to actually respond to my fake profile.
 

And I was holding out a shred of hope that she’d be there at Christmas, and hell yes I would fly back to L.A. for that, but I spoke to Dad on the phone earlier and he informed me that only Jessica and her fiancée would be in attendance for Christmas that year, and that Stephanie was rather upset about it.
 

“So, where is Emma, anyway?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
 

Dad coughed before responding, instantly making me suspect he knew exactly where Emma was but wasn’t about to tell me.

“You know, she’s doing pretty well,” he said, and I didn’t point out that he was answering a question I hadn’t asked.
 

So now, really, my only hope is Megan. She answers on the fourth ring, sounding rightfully wary.
 

“It’s Jai,” I say in a rush. “And I’m sure you’re sick of me calling. I know
I
would be sick of me calling.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she says. “Because you wouldn’t be calling yourself.”

“You’re right.” I take a deep breath, and, not for the first time, wonder if I sound as psychotic as I feel at the moment. Have I somehow turned into one of those stalker ex-boyfriends? The sort of guy simply incapable of accepting the fact that someone doesn’t want to deal with you anymore?
 

“You really fucked her up, you know,” Megan says. “When she saw you with that other girl at the wedding? I mean, I know you guys weren’t technically boyfriend or girlfriend then, but she was actually coming to tell you that she wanted to be with you and then she walks in on you having sex with someone else. That really—”

“Wait, wait,” I say. “She told you that?”
“Yes.”

“She told you she saw me having sex with someone else?”
“Well, maybe she didn’t say those exact words, but she said that had she walked into that room any later then that’s exactly what would’ve been happening.”

“But that’s not true at all. And I would’ve explained that to her if she hadn’t run off the way she did. That girl she saw me with is a friend of the family, someone I’ve known for a while, and she’s a lesbian! She had a little too much to drink and she wanted to lie down.”

“In your bed.”

“In my bed. So what! I didn’t realize there were rules against that. And if Emma had just waited a second I would’ve been able to explain that all to her and she wouldn’t have had to disappear.”

“Is that really the truth?”
“Yes—it really is the truth.”

Megan sighs. “Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll tell you where she is. I’m partially doing this because I feel responsible, because I was the one who set up that stupid dating profile for her in the first place. I kind of wonder how things might’ve been different it I hadn’t done that.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t have been different at all. Whether or not you set that profile up for her, our parents were still going to get married, we’d have still met.”

“I know, but if you met first
knowing
that you were going to be stepsiblings, maybe you wouldn’t have started sleeping together in the first place.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not.” I could just imagine the two of us meeting, the ridiculous amount of sexual tension that would be there, constantly. How long until we finally caved? It would’ve happened eventually, I’m sure of it.
 

“She’s in Paris,” Megan says. “She’s gone to Paris, and she’s focusing on her painting, which is something that she’s wanted to do for a long time now.”

“Have you talked to her recently?”

“Last week. And she sounds like she’s having a really good time. So please don’t go over there and fuck everything up for her, okay?”

“I promise.”

Megan gives me the address. I’ve been to Paris a handful of times, and I know exactly where Emma’s staying.
 

“Thank you, Megan,” I say before we get off the phone. “I really appreciate you helping me out.”

“It’s not just you I’m helping out,” she says, and then she hangs up.
 

*

While I do appreciate his concern, my mate William has gone a bit too far this time, setting me up on a blind date.
 

“Just ring her up and tell her no,” I said to him, after he’d announced that I had plans on Friday night, courtesy of him.

“Can’t do that,” he said, refusing to elaborate any further. “Besides—you need to get out and be reminded that there are plenty of other women out there. And that life is far too short to waste it pining over one specific person. It’s bad for the morale, Jai. No one wants to see their boss moping around, going through life in a perpetual funk. A couple weeks, maybe a month even—sure, we’ve all been there, but it’s been getting worse, if anything. So you’re going on this date. I’ve set the whole thing up.”

“Have you even
seen
this girl before? Do you have any clue what she looks like?”
He looks at me as though he can’t believe I would actually ask such a question. “Of
course
I saw her. I wouldn’t just send you off with any old person. Christ, that would probably set you back another six months. And this has already gone on long enough. So you’re meeting your date—Anabel—at Segue at eight o’clock. You better be there.”

“Or what?” I said. “You’re going to fire me?”

But, here it is, Friday night, a little after eight, and here I am, sitting at a table at this ridiculously posh restaurant, wondering what I’m doing. No, actually, I’m wondering about Emma. Now that I’ve got the information, now that I know where she is, I feel hesitant, I feel as though hopping on a plane and flying to Paris and showing up on her doorstep will be more a proclamation of my certifiable insanity as opposed to my true feelings for her. In other words, what I can’t help but wonder now if what I think of as a really romantic gesture is just going to convince her that I am no one she wants to be around.
 

Because before I actually knew where she was, it was easy enough to be certain about my actions,
were
I to ever get her address. Before I knew the address, it was absolute fact that I would be going to see her—all I needed was to know her location. Now I’ve got it though. Now I’ve got it and suddenly things don’t seem so certain. In fact they—

“Excuse me, are you Jai?”

I jerk my head up—I’d been staring at the white tablecloth, transfixed with my own thoughts. A woman is standing there, a beautiful woman, wearing a tight red dress. She’s got black hair, pale skin, and the bluest eyes I have ever seen.
 

“Yes,” I say, standing up so quickly that my chair almost topples over. “Yes, I’m Jai. You’re . . .” I struggle to remember the name William told me.
 

“Anabel,” she says finally, smiling.
 

“Yes, Anabel. I’m sorry—I’m terrible with names. Here, have a seat.” I go around the table and pull out the chair so she can sit down. Vaguely, I’m aware that everyone in the restaurant is watching us, some more conspicuously than others.
 

“William said I wouldn’t be disappointed, and he was right,” she says when I take my seat again across from her. Her arms are slender, her wrists delicate. She’s got a thin gold ring on her right ring finger.
 

“He told me the same,” I say.
 

“And . . .?” One finely sculpted eyebrow shoots up half an inch.

“And . . . much as I hate to admit it, he was right again.”

She laughs, and her teeth are perfectly straight, perfectly sized, they look like they could be jewels in their own right.
 

We get wine, and then we get appetizers, and then entrees. We talk and laugh, and when we’re done with our entrees, we order dessert—chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream. The cake is in the shape of a flower.
 

And when we’ve finished, and the bill’s been paid, and we’re outside, I don’t even have to think about whether or not I should ask her back to my flat, because she invites herself.
 

“Why don’t you show me where you live,” she says. “The night is still young.”

Actually, it’s not, but I take her to my flat anyway. She stands in the living room, after inspecting my bookshelf.
 

“William told me I was to give you some special attention.” She slides her shoulders out of her dress and wriggles out of it. Her bra is black lace, with a red bow. The dress lies there like a puddle, and she steps out of it, still with her high heels on. Her legs appear to go on forever, thighs not even close to touching. “William told me to make this a night that you wouldn’t forget.”

She reaches around and unhooks the bra, lets it fall to the floor. Her breasts are round and firm, her nipples pale pink.
 

Now, up until this point, I hadn’t actually been thinking about Emma. Anabel and I had had a rather pleasant dinner, which I hadn’t expected on a blind date, regardless of how hot the date was. She could hold up her end of a discussion, and that felt good. For the first time in quite a while I was able to get Emma off my mind. And
that
felt good, too.

But here we are, and my cock is stirring, pushing against my pants, and Anabel’s stepping out of her g-string to reveal the skimpiest of landing strips. She’s standing here in front of me on those beautiful gazelle legs, calves marvelously accentuated by those high heels, those legs that run straight up to the curve of her arse, which looks almost delectable as her tits, even her collarbone is sexy, the resting point for the slender, delicate neck.
 

She holds my gaze and brings her fingers to her mouth, licks them, and then puts them between her legs. She rubs herself and pinches her left nipple with her other hands. She begins to moan, just a little.
 

All this is happening, and yes, my cock is getting harder by the second, trying valiantly to work its way out of my pants, but the most peculiar of things happens: I can only see Emma. I know it’s not Emma here in front of me, but that’s who I see, one hand rubbing herself, the other playing with her tits. It’s Emma voice I hear, biting back the little whimpers of pleasure. And it’s so strange because I’ve spent the better part of the night
not
thinking about her.