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Cooper:You drunk, Carys?
Carys:Maybe a little.
Cooper:You shouldn’t say things like that to me.
Carys:Why not?
Cooper:Because I’m your brother.
Carys:Stepbrother.
Carys:Ask me what I’m thinking about, Coop.
I’m not ready to ask the question sitting on the tip of my tongue, let alone know the answer. Fuck me, I’m even less ready to figure out why I’m thinking about my stepsister this way.
Cooper:Maybe when you’re sober. Night, Carys.
Carys:Chicken
I toss and turn, trying to get to sleep, but thoughts of what Carys Murphy looks like when she comes haunt me.
I try thinking about someone else. Hell, anyone other than her. It’s not like I’ve been celibate out here for years, but after an hour of this shit, I get up to take a cold shower. Apparently, some things—more specifically,someone—can still keep me awake.
Standing under the cold spray of water, I give in and stroke my cock, thinking about the last girl I was with during our deployment. Her pale skin under my fingers. Her pink lips stretched around my dick. It doesn’t take long to come. And when I do, I drop my head against the cool tile. Water pelting my shoulders and my eyes closed.
“Fuck,” I groan.
Because when I come, the face I see isn’t the girl from deployment.
It’s Carys Murphy, my best friend’s little sister.
My fucking stepsister.
Nothing can happen with her.
Nothing is going to happen with her.
Nothing.
And maybe if I tell myself that enough times, I can shut down all thoughts of what she looks like when she comes.
I’ve never beenwhat I would consider anathlete. My brother is an all-American football player at Kroydon University. As if that wasn’t enough, when Mom married Coach, we became one big happy family full of athletes. One of my stepbrothers is a pro quarterback, and my stepfather is a former all-pro football player turned professional football coach. Hell, my stepsister-in-law is a former professional ballerina. Even my little brother, Callen, who’s just shy of two years old, throws a football better than I can during our family’s Thanksgiving Day games. Those genes didn’t just skip me. They ran away screaming.
But I love to run.
The solitude of distance running has become an escape for me over the past few years.
It helps me de-stress, whatever the stress is. School. Family. Expectations.
After working up to it, I ran my first marathon a year ago, and I was hooked. So, I guess I’m officially an athlete now. But truthfully, I just like the way it makes me feel. The endorphins are addictive, and I always feel better about myself afterward.
As I stretch after today’s seven miles, the song playing in my earbuds switches over to the ringtone of my cell phone and alerts me that my bestie, Daphne, is calling.
“Hey, D. What’s up?” I ask as I cross the courtyard behind my dorm and sit down on the soft grass under my favorite tree. Yes, I have a favorite tree. Outside is my happy place.
“Hey, Carys. Just checking in. I wanted to see how your rockstar debut went last night. Am I dropping out of school to follow you around the world on tour yet? Gotta make sure you don’t forget the little people when you’re playing the stadium crowds.”
Daphne and I have been best friends since elementary school. She and our other friend, Chloe, were a year ahead of me in school, and both stayed in Philly for college.
