Stepbrother Obsessed(7)

By: Devon Hartford

“Come on, Skye. We can’t hang around after that. We look like idiots.”

Roxanne isn’t normally this anxious about guys. We’ve made fools of ourselves in front of guys plenty of times. We have a blast at the mall stalking cute older guys from store to store. Then again, the guys at the mall are never this hot. And we never look this foolish.

“Skye! Let’s go!!”

My mind is still too jumbled to make a coherent argument about why we should stay. All I can manage to mumble is, “But…”


I glance back at the doors of the 7-Eleven. With all the bright sunlight reflecting off the glass, I can’t see inside. For whatever reason, every fiber of my being is telling me I have to have one last look at Mr. Miracle before we go. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, something deep in my body is pulling me toward him. I can’t help myself.

“Get in the car already!” Roxanne barks. She leans over in her seat and flicks the passenger door open. “Skye!”

Her anger is making me angry. I almost blurt, “What’s your deal, dude?” But instead I whine, “I can’t!”

I don’t know why seeing Mr. Miracle one last time is such a big deal, but it is. I turn and take a step toward 7-Eleven. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know if I’m going to do anything. Maybe I’ll just stare openly at him when he walks outside and hope he stops to talk. Or not. Maybe he’ll ignore me and climb on his black motorcycle and ride off into the sunset. Either way, I can’t leave without finding out. If Rox and I go now, I’ll never forgive myself.

“Skye! I’m going!” Rox closes the driver door and starts the Toyota’s engine. She wouldn’t leave me here, would she?

Panic sets in.

At the same moment, the 7-Eleven door chimes for the third time this morning.

I whip around to face the double doors.

Mr. Miracle walks out and straight over to his motorcycle.

Damn. He didn’t even notice me. He probably thought Rox and I were a bunch of clumsy kids. Not the women he’s used to. The Perfect Elevens, which I’m totally not.


Wait a second.

He isn’t riding off into the sunset.

Hope soothes my sense of defeat.

There’s a backpack tied down to the back of his bike with a little red net. The backpack looks like the traveling kind, not a school knapsack.

Mr. Miracle busies himself unstrapping the net and the backpack. Then he starts stuffing cans of Heineken into the pack. The first four cans go in easy. The last two won’t fit. It’s obvious there’s no more room in the already bulging backpack. Frustrated, he glances around, noticing me and Roxanne. He considers us for a moment.

Heat waves shimmer up from the asphalt between us. Or maybe they’re coming off my body. I can’t tell for sure. But it sure is hot. I mean, I went past simmering and came to a boil the moment I laid eyes on Mr. Miracle inside the store. Now it’s worse. I’m dying in my T-shirt and shorts. Something inside me tells me this would be a good time for me to strip down to my pink bikini. No reason. Just cause it’s hot.

It would also be a good time for Mr. Miracle to pull off his leather jacket. And everything else.

No reason. Just cause he’s hot.

None of that happens.

Instead, Mr. Miracle heaves a sigh and looks at the two extra beer cans he’s holding. He looks up and grins at me, flashing the most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. His wide mouth is sumptuous and delectably—two more of my SAT vocab words—kissable.

He holds up a can of beer and says, “Want one?”

Is he talking to me? He can’t be talking to me.

He arches an eyebrow over the frames of his black shades. It’s the most perfect sculpted eyebrow I’ve ever seen, and it doesn’t even look tweezed. Just ruggedly perfect and swoon-worthy in every way possible.

He motions with the beer can.

I still can’t see his eyes through his shades, but my heart is hammering. I choke out the words, “Um… I’m only 18.”

He grins, “So?”

“You know the legal drinking age is twenty-one, right?” I hate to be the adult here, but I should at least point it out.

“In the Netherlands the legal drinking age is zero.”

“No it’s not,” I blurt.

“Have you ever been there?” he smirks confidently.


“Then how do you know?”

I don’t know one way or the other. I hate to look ignorant, so I smirk, “Last time I checked, this is the U.S. Won’t you get in trouble for giving alcohol to a minor?”

“Do you want the beer or not?”

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