Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
They no longer deliver a buzz, but the scent is still oddly comforting.
Seems my newest sibling has upended my father’s calm, orderly life and he’s at the age where putting up with another stepchild’s bullshit is not in his wheelhouse.
Why my newest stepmother, number six to be exact, agreed to this, I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t to go to the wedding and had no intentions of meeting my stepsister, figuring the divorce would be filed within a year and outside of an occasional phone call or a lunch when he’s passing through town, my father and I have an unspoken agreement to stay out of each other’s lives.
I hold up the poster board, the flavor of the whiskey coffee still on my tongue as a throng of hurried and annoyed passengers flood off the elevator and down the stairs toward baggage claim number twenty-six, where a flight from Orlando is barfing its baggage guts down the stainless-steel slide onto the rotating black rubber track.
I make a punching move with my fist, turning the back of my hand toward my face, checking the time. The ink that covers my arms, chest and back peeks out from under the white cuff of my shirt, but my black suit, white shirt and clerical collar are drawing looks from pretty much everyone that walks by.
The minute hand points toward the nine. Her flight landed twenty minutes ago. Surely she’s with this gaggle that’s jostling for position to snatch up their luggage at carousel twenty-six.
Then, I get my first look at Katherine ‘Kitty’ Tennant.
She’ll be wearing a hoodie and black shorts. Black boots. She looks like a hooker, you can’t miss her.
There have been many turning points in my life.
My mother’s death: Big one.
Getting kicked out of my post grad studies when I was wrongly accused of sexual misconduct with some undergrads: Ugly one.
The deal I made with my grandmother that saw me becoming a priest: Calculated one.
A few more, none of them pleasant.
But, as I stand here, I know I’m in the middle of another one, because the luscious young woman with caramel colored hair and a wobbly roller bag just locked eyes with me.
And I’m spinning. My personal commitment has boarded a flight for Vegas and is downing a double shot of Stoli while tapping out a line of coke with a maxed-out credit card.
This turning point has me in its sights like a heat seeking missile and with one look, I already know my world is about to be upended.
I come alive. Not the baseline vital signs that show I’m breathing and my heart is pumping, but alive in that way you know what hope means.
I raise the posterboard to shoulder height and she nods, points to her face then offers a half-hearted wave and my heart rate skyrockets.
It’s her. My stepsister. Only, I’m not going to tell her that. To her, I’m Father Martin. That was the agreement I made with my father and even if I didn’t, I don’t want to be her fucking brother.
Her candy-coated lips twist into a frown. She doesn’t want to be here. I see it in the slump of her shoulders, the hard set of her jaw under cherub cheeks where a set of dimples are making me question every choice I’ve ever made in my sorry fucking life.
I don’t blame her for the frown.
From the bit my good ole dad told me, she’s gone from textbook good girl to Bahd Barbie-wild child since her mother married my father.
Don’t tell her who you are. You’re just the headmaster. Be ruthless with her. She’s a pain in my ass.
My father’s voice rattles around in my head, but telling her I’m her stepbrother is the last thing on my mind.
It’s like all the lights in a dark stadium have been turned on at once as I stand in the middle of the field, blinded and helpless to move a muscle.
My extremities may be paralyzed, but my dick isn’t. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m having that reaction.
She’s wearing a cropped little hoodie paired with the smallest black yoga shorts. They show off her voluptuous ass and thick thighs, and I want to destroy the flock of men waiting for their golf bags and suitcases, panting and smiling and fucking her with every sidelong glance.
I feel my demise approaching. The missile is getting closer, aiming directly at my aching balls and thickening cock.
How long has it been since I grew hard at the sight or thought of a woman?
Ten years? More?
I am not physically unable, I have disciplined myself in ways most would find horrifying. But, the horror of lust and wanting far outweighs the alternative.
My substantial hard-on is hidden under the length of my black blazer as a riot of depraved thoughts burst alive inside me like a grenade.