Page 23 of The Accident

He flicks a switch, and the lights in my cell get even brighter. I can see every flaw, every mark on my skin.

I reach for my dress, holding it to my chest, and back up with wobbly knees to the bench. I can’t stop shaking.

When I sit down, I can’t get my arms to work. I wrap the dress around me like a towel and wait, shivering. My hair falls over my face.

I dress again, piece by piece, hating the touch of fabric on my skin. What the hell just happened? Did I just strip for a guard, in the hopes of bribing myself out of this shitty situation? Except that it didn’t work? Oh my god, I’m a complete failure, and tears gather on my lashes.

But I won’t cry. I won’t let them have the satisfaction. I sit on the concrete bench until my legs go numb and my ass flattens out, and I wait for the sun to rise, or for someone to remember I exist.

All I can think about is what Trevor would say if he saw me now.

Probably nothing.

Probably just that little smirk, the same one that’s on the guard’s face, the same one that says: I always knew you’d end nothing but a loser.

9

THE RESCUE

Trevor

Idrive with both hands clamped hard on the wheel, pushing eighty through a Minneapolis still too stunned by dawn to fight back. The sky is the color of wet cement, the towers downtown rising out of the mist like a row of upended knives. Every few blocks, the traffic lights catch up and try to slow me, but I take the amber every time, not so much as tapping the brakes. The city looks deserted, slicked with last night’s rain and a thin haze of old exhaust.

The Mercedes eats up the miles, the dash a cold blue glow against the predawn. I adjust the seat, but the muscles in my back stay knotted, the adrenaline refusing to drain off. There’s a vibration running through my arms that isn’t from the car. It’s from the call. It’s from the photos. It’s from my stepsister.

My phone is face down on the passenger seat. I don’t dare flip it over. I know exactly what’s waiting there: not one, not two, but four text messages from Kayleigh McEnroe, each one a new punch to the sternum. I replay the sequence in my head as the city streaks past:

I was at Spoon and Stable, a dinner I did not want to be at, across from Kristen—she’s six feet in her heels, all limbs, a bottle-blonde Valkyrie with the kind of ass that’s the obvious work of a talented surgeon. She wore a backless dress, nothing underneath. She spent the first hour talking about Love Island and the second hour talking about her “crypto portfolio,” which is code for “I have two grand in Dogecoin and need a reason to bring it up on dates.”

The only thing that kept me present was the way Kristen looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention: up through her lashes, pupils dark and huge, like she wanted to start a fire right there at the white linen table. She’d have blown me in the men’s room if I so much as nodded. It’s not that I didn’t want to, but some primitive part of me was already elsewhere, pacing a cage, waiting for something better.

Then my phone buzzed. I figured it was work, my run group, or maybe even another woman that I’ve been dating. I keep a couple in rotation. It’s nothing personal, it’s just the way I operate.

But when I opened my phone, what I saw stunned me. It was a photo of my innocent little stepsister, standing in front of a mirror, just the edge of a towel at her hip, blonde hair loose and wild, her tits so big and perfect they seemed like a Photoshop prank. The areola was this sensual, dusky pink, the kind you only see in late-night Cinemax and never in real life. She held the phone in one hand, other hand just barely covering a nipple. I felt a rush of heat, unexpected, dizzying, as my cock instantly hardened.

Two seconds later, another one: Kayleigh, this time sitting on her bed, the towel gone, her thighs parted just enough to reveal the pink wetness of her pussy. She wasn’t even looking at the camera, just off to the side, lips parted, the tip of her tongue visible as she bit it. Her left hand was between her legs, spreading herself open, a perfect rose triangle glistening with female nectar. Her clit was enormous, almost swollen. She looked sensual, womanly, and like an absolute slut in control.

Then the third: this one a close-up, full spread. Not even a pretense of modesty. Her fingers pinched her labia apart, index and middle straining, the inner lips of her vag peeled back and dripping, her clit perched like a ripe berry above the slit. The focus was slightly off, but it made it look even dirtier—like a screenshot from a cam site, sent just for me. I wanted to fall to my knees. I wanted to press my mouth to that steaming snatch, worshipping it with my lips and tongue until Kayleigh came like a wild animal on my face. I wanted to see more.

Clearly, I lost the thread of Kristen’s conversation altogether. I could see the Amazon’s lips move, but I heard nothing. All I could think of was the color of Kayleigh’s nipples, the soft shadow under her breast, the slick shine of her cunt.

I locked the phone, turned it over, but I couldn’t stop.

When the buzz came, minutes later, I flipped my cell over again. This was the photo that broke me: Kayleigh, on her side, one leg pulled up and propped on the headboard, camera set up on a timer and aimed at her ass. She reached back and spread her cheeks, exposing her pink, perfectly puckered asshole, a glisten of lube or spit making it shine. Her foot was still in a high heel—trashy, dangerous, totally deliberate. She had her face turned toward the lens, just visible in the mirror, and the look was pure invitation. If she’d said “Daddy” I would have ejaculated on the spot but instead, I was at this fucking dinner. What I wouldn’t have given to press my mouth to that tight asshole, slipping my tongue into her rectum to hear her shriek. What I wouldn’t love to have Kayleigh experience an intense anal orgasm with my cock buried deep in her anal canal, stretched so hard she winced with discomfort.

I spent the rest of the dinner pretending to care about the menu, but every time I blinked, I saw Kayleigh. My stepsister. My stepsister’s asshole. Her breasts, her tight pink vag. I was hard for the rest of the night, half-hard even now, hours later, the memory churning in my bloodstream like fentanyl.

When I finally got home—Kristen left with a disappointed little “goodnight” and a kiss to my cheek—I jerked off in the shower three times, fists white-knuckled on the tile, every image in my head the forbidden, perfect thing I couldn’t have. Each time, the orgasm came on so fast and violent that I felt sick after, like I’d lost a liter of blood.

I was going to call Kayleigh. I was going to text her, maybe even drive over and drag her into my bed, consequences be damned. But I waited, because the only thing better than fucking is anticipation, and I wanted to let the urge simmer, see how far she’d take it.

Instead, at six in the morning, the phone rang. What the fuck? It better be a fucking emergency, and sure enough, it was.

“Trevor?” Kayleigh’s voice was a raw little mouse squeak, all the previous night’s bravado boiled out. “I’m—I’m in county lock-up. Can you… Can you come get me? Please?”

There was a long pause, and I could hear someone coughing in the background, the thick, echoing sound of a holding cell at shift change.

I said yes, because what else could I say? I may be a monster, and especially when it comes to my naughty stepsister. But I wasn’t going to leave her to rot.