"I don't need you anymore."

  The cold in my own voice almost impresses me. Hawk flinches, more now than he did when I hit him. Both times. He moves closer.

  "You don't?"

  I take a step back. "No, I don't."

  "I need you."

  "That's great, Hawk. Maybe you should have needed me for the last-"

  "Did you miss the part where I joined the military? We don't get vacation."

  "Sure you do. They call it leave, or something."

  He's moving closer. I'm back up. There's a wall behind me.

  "Besides," I go on, "Even if you couldn't come home, you could’ve looked me up. I'm not hard to find. Sent me an email, something, anything. A text message. Wrote a note and stuck it in a bottle."

  "No, I couldn't."

  "Well why the fuck not, Hawk? Don't feed me some bullshit about being a CIA assassin or something, I swear-"

  He surges forward and grabs me by the arms. He's so strong. As soon as he touches me, I'm completely in his power. It feels like he could lift me off my feet and it would be as effortless as lifting a feather. I freeze, and stare at him. That intensity is there, stronger than ever. He moves forward, pulls me towards him, and I push on him to stop him.

  "You're covered in goop."

  He looks down at his chest, lets go of me, and whips off his shirt in a single smooth motion. I gasp in spite of myself, my mouth falling open. Okay, he's big, and he's ripped. I swear his veins have veins, and there's more tattoos than I thought. He's covered in them, intricate patterns that wrap around his whole torso and disappear into the waistband of his jeans. Before I realize what I'm doing, I drag my fingernails over his skin, tracing the patters and outlines in the ink, my heart pounding in my chest. I look up at him and swallow, and tuck my lip under my teeth.

  Hawk pushes forward and pulls me against him.

  "We can't do this."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm your stepsister."

  "Like I care."

  "Tell me why you left?"

  He kisses me. Hard.

  It's good. I slip my arms around him.

  Holy shit, if somebody looks down this alley -say, somebody that saw us chase each other through the crowd- they're going to see Hawk's back and my arms wrapped around him.

  Also, my legs wrapped around him. Because I'm up against a brick wall and I just lifted my legs and hooked them around his hips. He bears the weight like nothing and his arms crush me against him. I squeeze back, digging my knees into his sides. I can feel his ribs expanding against me as he breathes. It's like being held by a castle. Slowly, I lower my legs and set my feet on the ground- barely. When he holds me around the waist and stands up straight, my toes barely scape the ground.

  "I had to go. I had to."

  "You could’ve said something."

  "There was so much I wanted to say."

  His fingers tickle my side, but more than that, they bunch up the cloth of my top, tugging the hem loose from my jeans. His fingers are warm on my skin as he pulls my shirt loose, and yanks at my belt so hard, it shakes my whole body. I breathe faster, heat spreading through my body as I glance towards the end of the alley and he pops the top button on my jeans and draws the zipper down. I'm not wearing hip huggers, or anything like that. A simple jerk and they slide down to my knees with a soft metallic sound from my belt buckle and the air is hot on my legs, but gooseflesh rises anyway.

  His hand moves over my thigh. His palm is rough, calloused from hard work, his touch harder than I remember. His hand touches inside my thigh and I go very quiet as his palm slides up, his fingers moving towards me. He kisses me again as his fingertips trace over my lower lips, heat in my mouth as he presses the fabric against my slit and the wetness soaks through. For a moment I just drink in his scent and his warmth and the soft touch of his lips on mine and then his hand dives into my panties and slips under me, first his fingers and then his palm sliding over my mound, wetting themselves from my arousal. He holds his hand there and presses a little and I feel myself throbbing.

  Hawk pulls back and looks me in the face. I'm angry with him, but I give him a tiny nod, a little whisper of permission, and his finger slips inside me slowly, bigger than I thought it would feel, and my hands clench on his shoulders. I want to make a sound, but someone will hear. With all the chatter and carnival noises and shouting and revelry outside the alley someone will still hear my cry of pleasure.

  "Fuck that's tight," he growls in my ear, and I feel a weird flutter of pride and smile, and my smile melts into a slack expression of pleasure.

  His other hand starts roaming. Through my shirt he cups my breast and squeezes, and his mouth moves to my throat. His lips and tongue are hot and wet and his breath cools the heat on my skin and heats it again and all of a sudden he kneels and tugs my underwear down, keeps his finger inside me and brings his mouth to my pussy, looking up at me as he buries his face in my mound. When he takes a long, dragging lick, I stifle my cry by covering my mouth with my hand and my eyes dart back and forth from Hawk to the end of the alley and back again as he tastes me.

  I can't look anymore. I close my eyes and shudder, my hips rolling in slow, involuntarily motions, riding him. Hawk keeps his eyes on me, staring back at me every time I look down at him. I rub my hand over his head. He cut his hair. He always had such beautiful hair, a lovely sandy blond. Everybody used to joke that he had a girl's hair. They must have made him cut it, that's what they do. I have to cover my mouth again as the movement of his finger inside me sends a spiraling twist of pleasure riding up through my body as cold shocks fall down my legs and curl my toes in my sneakers. I buck against him.

  He could fuck me right now. Spin me around, pin me against the wall and just hammer me. I want it so bad, and he knows I want it. I can't take much more. I want him, I want him, I want him. I've wanted this for so long I can't remember a time when I didn't.

  "S-s-somebody might see us," I choke out, struggling as every word wants to become a moan.

  "I don't care," he growls, and a second finger slips inside me.

  At first it's almost too much. I can't tell him that…

  What, you're still a virgin? You waited for him, you dumb girl?

  I don't even know if it counts anymore. His fingers drive me insane and his mouth on my clit is too much to take. I squeal through my teeth and my legs shake as a climax uncoils through my body, floods in a white-hot wave until it soaks through my skin, like there's a fire inside me and I'm glowing from within. It gets more and more intense, ebbs and grows again as I groan and my legs buckle. Finally Hawk stands up and slips his fingers out of me and kisses me hard again, and I can taste myself in his mouth, feel the heat on my chin.

  There's nothing between me and him but his jeans. My hands slide up his legs and he shudders when I touch his balls, and gaps when I run my hand up the underside of his shaft, hard under his clothes.

  "We can't do this," I whisper.

  "Why not?"

  I wriggle out from under him, stumble, and yank my pants up, frantically buckling them.

  Hawk moves closer and I think he's going to grab me but instead he helps me tuck my shirt back in and smooths the sides, turns me around and pulls me against him.

  "Come with me, right now."

  "What? Where?"

  "Anywhere but here."

  "I can't. I can't leave my sister."

  "We'll take her. Go get her."

  "I can't, Hawk."

  "Why?"

  I push back and slip out of his arms. "Your father."

  His eyes flash and rage twists his face. A quiver of fear bolts through me. He's scary. Then he softens.

  "What about my father?" he says, his voice low like a suppressed growl.

  "It's complicated. I can't… I can't leave."

  "Because you're working for him?"

  "Because no matter where I go, I can't get away from him. I shouldn't even be here talking to you. You don't know what you've done. He'll know you came up to me at the hot dog cart. He knows everything. If I try to run, he'll use May against me. She's a minor. He'll have the police hunt us down and drag us back here and put me back in…"

  I trail off.

  No, no I can't tell him that. I can't. I can't. I can't.

  "Put you back in where?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Alex-"

  "No, Hawk. I needed you and you weren't there. We had a chance and the chance passed. This was all you're going to get."

  "I'm not going to abandon you again."

  "Again," I say, bitterly. "Don't follow me."

  "What happens if I do?"

  I've already started to leave, but I round on him.

  "What do you think you can do, Hawk? Fight the whole town? Your dad’s going to be the mayor of this shithole. The cops already do everything he says. He owns half the town. I don't care how big you are, you can't do anything about him. If you pull some bullshit, you have no idea what’ll happen."

  "Yes, I do. I left because he threatened you."

  I freeze. "What?"

  "He-"

  "He threatened me and your answer was to leave me here?"

  "I thought you'd be gone, the scholarship-"

  "He married my mother a month after you left. I lasted until fall break and then they…" I trail off, unable to finish.

  No, no, no, no, never talk about that never ever.

  "They what?"

  "It doesn't matter," I spit at him. "I don't need you anymore. When I needed you, you weren't there."

  "Alex, let me explain. You don't know what happened-"

  "I don't care what happened, Hawk. It was nice when we were younger. I wish it was more than it was, but it's not. It's over and it needs to be over. Go back where you came from before you make my life worse."

  I turn and storm out of the alley, blinking away tears in the hot sun. Every atom of my body is screaming at me to turn around and rush back to him and just run and run until we both drop, until there's half a planet between us and this hell. He came back, he came back.

  The other part of me clings to the truth: It's too late, and I have work to do.

  There's only one person who's going to stop Tom Richardson.

  Me.

  Continue reading Hawk

  Return to Contents

  Blackbird: A Stepbrother Romance

  Chapter One

  Victor

  I live in a studio apartment over a massage parlor in the Old City. It’s a six block walk to the liberty bell. It’s two flights of wrought iron stairs down to the parlor on the first floor. The scents of Korean cooking waft up to my apartment, a two hundred square foot studio with one tall narrow window that looks out over the alleyway. If I stand there I can watch a steady stream of men walk in and out of the parlor. Young and old, plump and thin, chubby boys and stooped graybeards, they all have one thing in common. Slumped shoulders and a faraway look. They know what they’re about to do and when they come out they know what they’ve done. I drink whiskey from a chipped coffee mug and watch. I don’t know how the mug came to be in my box of personal effects, the one they gave back when I was paroled. It was my father’s, though. It’s all that I have of him. For now.

  I have a business meeting this afternoon in New York. I’ll be catching a private jet in a few hours. I’m not sure if I’ll be violating my parole or not. I’m allowed to travel for business.

  First, I need to steal my car back.

  This ‘apartment’ is about the size of my closet in the suite of rooms where I grew up.

  Suits hanging on a rack, a cart like the use at a dry cleaner’s, socks and underwear in a rubber tub, and a mattress covered in a plain white sheet. A refrigerator rattling away as it cools a block of Velveeta, a pack of imported ham, eight beers and a jar of peanut butter.

  I don’t even know why I keep the peanut butter in the fridge.

  This is my life.

  For now.

  As I descend the rickety cast iron staircase I check my watch. It’s a Timex I picked up at K-Mart after I stepped off the bus. I have to be on the flight in eight hours. It’s now two thirty-three in the morning. The parlor closes at three, I think. That’s when the in-and-out stream stops, or maybe the patrons are too scared to brave the mean streets at four in the morning. I don’t know or care.

  A stoop-shouldered man emerges and doesn’t look at me and I don’t look at him. I check my watch again and walk in the rain. It’s a light drizzle that covers everything, makes the world glow. Water slides down my face and clings to my eyebrows. I glance at a shop window. The lights are shut off inside, and I see myself in a glass darkly. For a startling moment I’m walking side by side with my father’s ghost, but I see the tattoos running down both arms to stop just above the wrist and it’s just me. Dad never wore his hair this long and he never visited a tattoo parlor.

  He had one tattoo, a crudely incised PETER in blue ink on his right shoulder. When he was a kid he and some boys he knew gave themselves tattoos with pins and a ballpoint pen. His was buried so deep in the flesh that all his attempts to remove it failed, and so he had his own name tattooed on his meaty shoulder until he died.

  I should probably be wearing a jacket. November, and rain, but it’s unseasonably warm, almost fifty. I’ve had enough of being confined. I want to swing my arms.

  The car is parked in a lot. I stop to pay a bleary-eyed attendant and walk over. It’s an unremarkable Toyota. I’ve been ordered to keep a low profile.

  I hate driving this thing. The old city is dead at night. Last call was over an hour ago and the tourists get scared of the dark. It’s one of the safer areas but all cities are the same. I fucking hate cities. Too much chain link and concrete and neon, not enough trees. I don’t belong here.

  Turn on 3rd onto Market, catch I-95. It’s a straight run now. I obey all posted limits and traffic signals.

  Have to. I’m on parole, after all. I wouldn’t want to get pulled over on my way to steal a car.

  Driving gives me a lot of time to think. My knuckles go white. The wheel creaks in protest.

  I’ve had plenty of time to think.

  That’s what prison is. The punishment isn’t confinement. They put a roof over your head. It’s not isolation, either, unless you get sent to solitary. I never did. It’s not following orders, it’s not the shitty therapy groups, either. (Evidently, I have an anger management problem.) No, the punishment is time. Time to think, time to brood, time to plan. When you’re out in the world all you want is time. People say “there aren’t enough hours in the day” and try to stretch them out.

  In prison, the bars just keep you in. It’s the time that punishes you.

  Time has come today.

  The drive takes almost an hour, out to Lancaster County, the very eastern edge. This is an old place. Everything around here is old. Old for the United States, anyway. I went to Europe once, went on a tour. Saw lots of history. Thousand year old buildings that just go about their business like buildings do. They’re just there. Around here anything older than a century or two always goes behind velvet ropes. We think it’s so special.

  Europe. I was sixteen. There was good coffee and better company, but I can’t think about that. If I try to hard I can’t remember half the girls’ names. I was never good at that to begin with. There was a time in my life when there were so many girls I’d have to take notes to remember who I fucked when. Then one day there were two girls. The one, and all the rest just kind of lumped together.

  The windshield wipers tick away the seconds, minutes, an hour and a half or so. Take it easy in the rain.

  From the mist, the high chimneys and glowing lights fold into existence, vague shapes growing more solid as I approach. It catches in my chest.

  This is my home. I am going home.

  Except I’m not. Now the high walls with their jagged glass tops and wrought iron spear points are there to keep me out, not in. My home no longer.

  One of the oldest continuously occupied homes in the entire state, the Amsel estate is sprawling expanse of almost three hundred acres. Kolonie, my great-great-insert-more-greats grandfather named it. It’s the German word for rookery. The family name, Amsel, means Blackbird. The house sits far back from the road, so far back, in fact, that in the deep gloom of a cloudy moonless night the only thing visible is the windows, like the distant lights of Xanadu or that green light in The Great Gatsby.

  I didn’t pay any attention in high school English, but I used to know somebody who cared a lot about that shit, and it meant I started caring about it, too.

  If I keep driving half a mile there will be a break in the ancient brick wall that surrounds the wilds of the estate. The trees peel away and there’s a huge wrought iron gate, almost fifteen feet tall, overtopping the wall itself by five feet. I’ve been casing the place for a while now. The new owners patched some broken places in the wall.

  My ancestors coated the very top with broken glass, and the wall is also adorned with six inch long wrought iron spikes, each wickedly sharp. When they built the walls there was a real possibility the house might actually be attacked.

  On top of the old school security system, there’s all the modern conveniences. Motion sensors, cameras, and a pack of dobermans running on the property. Silent sentinels. I’ve always liked dobermans. They don’t fuck around with barking, they just rip out your throat. If you toss them some sausage they’ll eat it after they finish with you. Good, loyal, no nonsense dogs.

  The place is a fortress, and with good reason.

  It’s old, though, and old houses have secrets. They start to love their families.

  I could go on and on about my family. It used to be a huge extended network, all over the East coast. Distant relatives of mine fought on both sides of the Civil War, and both sides of the Revolutionary War, but only on one side of the French and Indian War. I can trace my ancestry back to a Hessian mercenary who switched sides and married into the family and took the Amsel name for himself, as the current patriarch at the time had only daughters. They did things like that back then.