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The first time my dad called and asked me to let her stay with me, I was furious. I didn’t want her, or anything associated with her, near me. But the more I said no, the more persistent he became.
In the end, I agreed that she could stay with me simply to stop him from calling me on a daily basis. When I received a text message from her very politely telling me she didn’t want to stay here, I was so pissed that I threw my cell across the room, smashing it into a dozen pieces. Suddenly, all the anger and frustration and lack of control I felt as a kid surged from my memories and into my present, and I felt like that kid again, filled with a rage that I couldn’t direct.
The rational, mature adult part of my brain knows that she gave me a lifeline with that text. She gave me an escape hatch that meant I didn’t need to deal with a past I’d done my best to forget. But somehow, I still found myself readying a bedroom for her, getting into my truck, and driving down the mountain to be there when her bus arrived tonight.
I’m not sure what my plan was. I don’t think I really had one. Maybe a part of me was curious to see her, to see if I’d demonized her in my memory or if she really was as toxic as I remembered her being. I think I wanted to see if she still provoked such a strong reaction in me all these years later.
I don’t know how I knew, but the moment I saw her stepping off that fucking bus, I knew it was her. It only took a moment—just a brief glance at her—for me to decide to bring her home, and then before I had a chance to really consider my actions, I was putting her into the passenger seat of my truck, locking the door, and driving away.
I still hate her, but I feel so much more than simply hate when I look at her. I’m angry at her, and me, and this fucking messed-up situation because she’s making me feel things that I don’t understand, and now she’s here, and I feel…something that I absolutely should not be feeling because I can’t fuck my stepsister, can I?
“I really can’t eat another bite.”
Her voice pulls me out of my head and back to the present. While I was lost in my fucked-up internal diatribe, Henrietta has done exactly what I asked. There’s still too much food left on her plate, but she’s clearly followed my orders and eaten more simply because I told her to.
Something heats up inside of me, and it’s not arousal, at least not in a sexual way. It’s something more complicated but equally satisfying. Before I can stop myself, I reach over and hook her under the chin with my finger, forcing her to look at me.
“Good girl,” I praise.
The moment the words fall from my lips, I wish I could take them back, even as my dick swells and pulses excitedly in my pants. Dropping my finger from her chin, I stand from my seat, pick up our plates, and carry them into the kitchen. Rinsing the dishes and silverware, I stack them in the dishwasher, then set it to run.
“Osc—Oz,” she corrects herself, her tiny voice still small even in the silence.
Turning slowly to face her, I keep the counter between us, hiding my inconveniently visible arousal.
“Why…” she starts. “Why…err…why am I here?” she finally asks, her teeth nibbling anxiously at her lower lip.
“Because you’re staying here.”
“But I.” She swallows visibly, and my fingers tingle with the desire to wrap my hand around her throat and feel her nervousness.
“I sent you a text message,” she says, her voice trailing off, getting smaller and smaller with each word until I have to strain to hear her.
“I know,” I answer simply.
“I told you I was going to stay with my roommate, she’ll be here in a couple of days.”
As I stare at her, she fidgets, balling her hands together in her lap, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she gnaws on her lip. There’s something about watching her squirm that makes me want to demand she come to me so I can soothe all of her anxiety. But why do I want that? She’s not my stepsister, or my friend, or my current fuck. She’s nothing to me, so why the fuck do I care? Why do I want to push her to see what happens?
When her mouth opens, I speak first, cutting her off. “I’m on shift in the morning, I won’t be back until Wednesday. When I’m done with work, I’ll take you into town if your roommate is here by then,” I inform her, not leaving any room for argument.
“Wednesday?” she gasps. “But that’s days from now.”
“I finish at seven a.m. on Wednesday morning, when the other team relieves us,” I say, not offering her any other information.
“But I don’t have a car. I don’t drive, what am I supposed to do for four days?” she gasps again, panic pulsing from her in palpable waves.
“Behave,” I say simply.
Her mouth falls open, but no words come out.
“You must be tired. You should go to bed.”
Not giving her a chance to speak, I start to close down the house for the night, grabbing two bottles of water from the refrigerator as I turn off first the kitchen lights, then the lamp in the living room, before I make my way to the stairs, pausing at the bottom and looking at her pointedly.
“Henrietta,” I snap. “Bed.”
Scurrying off the chair, she darts over to me, then reluctantly starts up the stairs when I motion for her to go ahead of me. Checking that the front door is locked, I turn off the outside light, then follow her upstairs.
