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I wonder what it’s like, being high.
I wonder if it would take away the pain I feel inside almost all the time.
I stroke the edge of the envelope, thinking about it. I’m twenty-two and all I’ve ever done is weed. Too scared to do more, really. My mom told me too much about my father and how drugs messed him up, and hell, I can see the same story with my own eyes, with Dane right in front of me. But still—in this moment, I wonder whether being high some of the time is better than feeling miserable all of the time.
And plus, think about how pissed off Matthew would be if he knew. That alone makes it worth doing.
“Cut me a line,” I tell Dane.
2
I WORK AT a restaurant, it’s called Hole. Pretty ugly name for a place to eat, if you ask me. Apparently it’s some private joke with the people who started the place. But I’m not complaining, it’s a popular spot and the owners are okay to work for. I’m a line cook, which means I chop the fuck out of a lot of vegetables, basically. I’ve got some cooking skills but I don’t get to use them much here. Stocking the pantry, keeping my station neat, and chopping a mountain of onions and celery, that’s pretty much what I do day in and day out. What I like about it is that I start off with twenty pounds of onions, and when I’m done, there’s this big pile and the pieces are all the same size and I know I’ve done it right.
And I like the smell of onions, so there’s that. I get into a kind of rhythm, it’s like meditating or something, you know? At least until the busboys come in and start joking around and playing pranks. But most of the time, everything that sucks sorta fades into the distance, and my hands and my head are occupied with making food for people, which feels useful and makes me happy.
So, uh, I’m not proud of this and don’t want to tell you…but the other night, I did that line Dane scraped out for me. It was like I had this aching inside me and it wasn’t going away and I got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore, and thought, maybe just maybe, doing a line would give me some relief. Yeah, I know all about how bad it is and everything, but in the moment for some reason I just brushed all that aside.
And it was good. I felt…not happy, exactly, but lively. Interested in stuff. And chatty, yeah, very chatty. So that’s the upside, right there.
The downside? Oh boy. After one line, I wanted another. And another. Then it took forever to get to sleep, finally had to smoke some weed to calm down. And I slept through my alarm and was late to work. Like I said, the owners are okay to work for, and they’re fair and all, but they do not put up with lateness. Not that I blame them. So now I’m hanging on to my job with my fingernails, and I will tell you right now that my fingernails are stubby and chipped and not much good for holding on to anything.
And plus, my mood’s way worse ever since. So all in all, that’s the last time I partake, I promise you that.
“Nic! I need ten pounds of apples, quarter-inch cubes!”
“On it,” I say, heading to the cooler to get them. I like how people here call me Nic. I even like getting instructions, because now I know what my next hour is going to look like.
The not knowing, that’s part of what gets me, makes me scared. It’s like I’m wondering where the next bolt of ugly is going to come from and steeling myself for it all the damn time. So cutting up a big bag of apples is a freaking relief. If I lost this job, I don’t know what I would do.
It’s my day off. Dane has totally disappeared and I’m feeling lonely, even though yeah, I still feel lonely even when he’s here. I get up and take a long bath—kitchen work is hard on the body and I’m feeling sore. I lie in the hottest water I can stand, blowing out air and letting my face submerge, trying not to think about anything. I’m horny as fuck to be honest. So I let my fingers do some walking. I trail them along my sides—my ribs for some reason are a hot spot, and if I touch them just right, I get a little explosion in my pussy. I keep stroking my ribs and then move on to my breasts, which are too big and heavy for my liking, and super sensitive.
You know how it is, just touching yourself but not thinking of anybody—sure, you might cross the finish line someday, but it’s not like having a super hot fantasy, am I right? I start out thinking about Dane, trying to remember what it feels like when he kisses me, but I can’t hold on to the picture in my head. I pinch both nipples at once and gasp at how good it feels, and then gasp again, because it’s my stepbrother Matthew I’m thinking about, Matthew whose lips are closing around my nipple, Matthew whose tongue is flicking me so deliciously that I arch my back and want him never, ever to stop.
I try to push his face out of my head, but oh Jesus, he feels so good. I imagine him telling me he’s always wanted me, always. “You make me so hard,” Matthew whispers, cupping a breast in one hand. “And your body makes me so happy.” He bends down and sucks my nipple and slips a hand up my skirt and strokes me over my panties. I don’t feel embarrassed about my size or my belly or anything, because he is making me feel without a doubt how much he wants me. How much he loves me.
I’m getting breathless, there in the tub, my fantasy’s so fucking real. I know it’s going to be a monster orgasm and I’m smiling as I tug on my labia and finally allow my fingers to rub my clit. My pussy is streaming with juice and I think about Matthew leaning down and licking me, telling me how much he loves eating me out.
Usually I wait to come until he’s entering me with his huge prick, but this time I get so excited I lose it thinking about his tongue on my clit, and boom, I can’t hold back and I’m bucking up against my hand and sloshing in the tub and moaning Matthew’s name, the spasms rocking my body I’m coming so hard.
So, yeah.
Matthew is a goody-two-shoes, like my granny used to say. And bossy and interfering and overall a gigantic pain in the ass. But god help me, he’s also hot as fuck. He’s got a chest you would not believe, so defined and broad. Works out like a maniac and he’s strong as an ox. Could probably pick me up like I weighed no more than Tinkerbell. Back when I still lived at home, I used to hang around in the hallway when he was showering, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in a towel on the way back to his room. The bulge in his pants hinted at some monster meat in there, and I really wanted a peek. Pathetic, I know.
And the most pathetic part is being so attracted to a guy who’s supposed to be your family, and who you don’t even get along with. I mean, he makes my blood boil with all his Mr. Nice Guy advice he’s always trying to ram down my throat.
When actually, it’s his cock I’d like rammed down my throat, lol.
No, but seriously. What do you do when the guy who takes over your fantasies is a person you can’t stand? Not to mention, he has zero interest in me that way. Hardly anyone does, so no big shocker there.
I climb out of the tub now that the water’s cold. I towel off, planning for about the fiftieth time to give Dane the boot once he finally shows up again. And he will, once he runs out of money and other people to use. He’ll be right on back. And I’ll be telling him to get lost, once and for all.
You’re gonna think this is the dumbest thing you ever heard, but it’s almost like the Matthew of my fantasy is what gives me the strength to think about breaking up with Dane. Even though I know it’s made up, this person who says he loves me and wants me—it has an effect anyway. It gives me a little courage I didn’t have before.
I’ve just gotten my clothes on when the buzzer buzzes. This is no fancy building, no surprise, so I have no way of knowing who it is. But since Dane’s the only one who’s pushed that button in the last couple of months, Dane is who I’m expecting.
Only it’s not Dane.
It’s Matthew.
3
“HEY LITTLE SIS,” says Matthew, leaning up against the doorsill and smiling at me.
My face is burning, like he could guess what was just going on in the tub. Obviously I know he can’t, but I feel embarrassed anyway. I’d like to shut the door in his face, to be honest. Just being near him gets me stirred up and it’s upsetting.
“What’s up?” I ask, not inviting him in.
“Got any coffee?” he says, still smiling.
I sigh. Why did my mother have to harp on politeness so much? I let him in even though I mostly don’t want to. “What’s up?” I ask again, pulling my bathrobe tighter around me. My hair is wet and dripping, and being this close to Matthew and his rockin’ bod is just not good for me. Even though I just had a huge orgasm, he’s making me hot all over again.
