Stepbrother Bastard Read online

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  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

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  STEPBROTHER BASTARD

  A Hawthorne Brothers Novel

  Book One

  * * *

  by Colleen Masters

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Sneak Peak – Book Two

  Prologue

  Just Outside of Spokane, WA

  The cool light of morning has barely begun to filter through the flimsy motel curtains, but my looming headache still throbs at this slightest hint of day. I can sense the impending hangover circling overhead like a sinister bird of prey, ready to dive down and ruin the rest of my day. It’s not a sensation I’m accustomed to: I haven’t had this much to drink since graduating college a few years ago. And now, I’m starting to remember why.

  I pry open my eyes by a hair’s breadth and groggily appraise my surroundings. The grubby motel room looks even bleaker in the cold light of day. But you get what you pay for, I guess—and this was the cheapest place I could find en route to my destination. Besides, I didn’t need anything fancy last night. Just a place to crash before the second leg of my long drive from downtown Seattle to middle-of-nowhere Montana.

  The former has been my home since finishing undergrad, the latter was my mother’s, when she was a girl. My mom, Robin, has returned to her hometown of old for the summer, and summoned me and my two younger sisters to join her. She says she wants to get some painting done, fill her lungs with fresh air…but I can’t help but wonder what else has motivated this return to her roots. Then again, I’ve never been able to suss out the rationale behind my mother’s flights of fancy. Why should this time be any different?

  Throwing off the scratchy, questionably clean comforter, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, gritting my teeth as the contents of my head throb painfully against my skull. Brushing my dark blonde, shoulder-skimming, and very disheveled hair out of my face, I scan the room for a coffee machine—caffeine is always my first order of any given day. My bleary eyes rove over my unopened suitcase, the singularly bad hotel art on the walls, and the trail of discarded clothing leading from the front door to the narrow bed I’m perched upon now…

  All at once, the pounding in my head evaporates as my heart takes up the frenzied beat. The last twelve hours swim up in my boozy memory, walloping me with a series of realizations. First of all, for all the clothing scattered around the room, not a stitch of it happens to be on my body. Secondly, it isn’t just my clothing that’s strewn every which way—half of the items very clearly belong to a man. And as I whip around to peer over my shoulder in the dim half-light, I’m reminded of which man, in particular.

  “Good lord…” I whisper, springing gingerly out of the motel bed. I clutch a sheet to my naked body, staring at the man I’ve been bunking with all night. His face is turned away from me, but there’s still plenty of him to see all the same.

  Surprise gives way to amazement as I take in his broad shoulders, muscled arms, and heavily inked back. Faint red lines stand out among the numerous black tattoos—those are nail marks. My nail marks. I swallow a gasp as he rolls over to face me. He drapes one of those thickly corded arms across my side of the bed, as if reaching out for me. A tight twang of sensation pulses between my legs, and I become aware of the telltale, satisfied soreness there. While I rest my eyes on my bedmate’s sculpted, slumbering face, the events of last night come back to me in a rush. As I recall the cause of that delicious soreness I’m feeling, my knees begin to quiver so hard that I can barely stand.

  Pulling the sheet tightly around me, I dash into the motel bathroom and sink down heavily on the edge of the tub. I clasp my hand tightly over my mouth, trying to keep my jaw from smacking against the tile as it drops to the floor. But even so, a laugh of disbelief escapes from my throat. I know this was supposed to be a layover and all, but I didn’t expect quite so much emphasis on the laid part.

  Well, Maddie… I think to myself, letting out a deep sigh, you’ve got a nasty hangover, a day-long drive, and a sexy stranger sleeping in your bed. What happens now?

  “Hell if I know,” I mutter out loud, my baffled voice echoing off the grimy tiles of the motel bathroom. I’ve never been very good at embracing the unexpected. And waking up still-drunk next to a tatted-up bad boy on the way to a quiet family vacation is about the last thing I’d ever expect from myself.

  What can I say? I’ve never been very good at half-measures, either.

  Chapter One

  The previous night

  Seattle, WA

  My best friend Alison McCain cocks her head at me, watching from the couch as I overstuff my suitcase for the coming two weeks. I’ve been multitasking—packing for my vacation while filling her in on the details of my latest breakup. Allie, on the other hand, is entirely single-minded, here.

  “So wait,” she says, gesticulating with her wine glass, “Did you break up with him, or did he break up with you?”

  “It was mutual, Allie,” I mutter, straining to zip up the seriously overpacked bag. This is a laughably typical predicament for me—I’m constantly over-planning, over-thinking, over-preparing. I’ve never managed to take even the shortest of trips without dragging half my earthly possessions along. On the one hand, this compulsive trouble-shooting makes me excellent at my job in event marketing, where something is always on the verge of going seriously wrong. On the other hand, it’s obnoxious as hell, even to me.

  “Maddie, Maddie…” my redheaded best friend sighs, taking a healthy swig of her Pinot Grigio, “It’s never mutual. Ever. You were with this guy for six months. It couldn’t have just evaporated like—”

  “Fine,” I sigh, leaning back on my heels. Allie is relentless in her dirt-digging. I may as well just hand over the buried treasure of my latest failed relationship and let her have at. “I was the one who wanted out, but I let Paul think it was a mutual decision.”

  “That sounds like the Madeleine Porter I know,” Allie nods, sending her halo of short red curls bouncing, “I’m glad you finally pulled the plug. You guys have b
een on the fritz for…well…most of the time you’ve been together, actually.”

  “In more ways than you know,” I reply, pulling myself up to fetch a glass of wine. If we’re going to get into the nitty gritty of my love life, I’m going to need a drink.

  “Do tell…?” Allie prods, swiveling around as I walk into the kitchen…or rather, the corner of my one-room studio apartment that’s posing as the kitchen. I was lucky enough to get a job after graduating; plenty of my classmates didn’t weather the post-recession market half as well. But at 24, I’m still not raking in enough dough to rent more than a couple hundred square feet. I tell myself it’s romantic. Bohemian, even. But really…it’s just my only option.

  “Let’s just say that things in the bedroom were…less than electric, there at the end,” I tell Allie, pouring myself a deep glass of white wine.

  “Really?” she asks, genuinely surprised. “But Paul is gorgeous. What I wouldn’t do for cheekbones like his.”

  “One, your cheekbones are excellent,” I inform her, flopping down on the couch beside her, “And two, he was gorgeous, and he’d be the first one to tell you.”

  “Ugh,” Allie says, wrinkling her nose. “One of those.”

  “One of those, indeed,” I reply, taking a sip of wine, “It’s like, he expected me to get off on his well-manicured chest hair alone. I honestly think he could. And he certainly wasn’t very forthcoming with any other methods of getting the job done…”

  “Wait-wait-wait,” Allie says, eyes widening into saucers, “Are you telling me he didn’t take care of you? He seriously didn’t even make you come?!”

  “He almost did. Once…” I sigh, averting my eyes.

  “But you were with him for a six months,” Allie exclaims, “How in the name of all that is good have you survived without—?”

  “I’ve been taking care of myself in that department, don’t you worry,” I assure her, “I mean, someone has to.”

  “Damn right,” she says firmly, distress fading from her eyes. “Well, I’m proud of you for ending things with him, then. You deserve more than some rich, handsome, lawyer anyway.”

  “Isn’t that the trifecta of excellence, where men are concerned?” I ask sarcastically, taking another long sip.

  “For some women, maybe,” Allie shrugs, “But not for you, Miss Porter. Not for you.”

  “Ugh. I know,” I moan, letting my head fall back against the couch, “What is the matter with me? I tell myself that I should find a stable relationship, with a respectable, mature guy…”

  “But then you get bored stiff by each and every one of them,” Allie completes my thought, her vibrant green eyes sparking with insight. “Did it ever occur to you that you may be going after the wrong sort of guy?”

  I cock an eyebrow at my best friend. Alison and I were roommates in college, long before we were both recruited by the same creative agency. And while I was holding down two uneventful long-term relationships over those four years, her dorm bed was a veritable revolving door for men of all stripes. And a few women, too.

  “I’m just not as adventurous as you are, in that department,” I tell her, “Not that I don’t admire your inclusive attitude, but—”

  “No one’s saying you should go sow your wild oats all along the West Coast,” she laughs, “But Christ, Maddie. You’re in your twenties! If ever there’s a time to be adventurous, it's now. You know what you are, my friend? You’re a serial monogamist. And that wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t also depressing the shit out of you.”

  I avert my eyes, a bit stung by her choice of words. The truth is, I have been depressed these past few years, but not because of my love life. I try not to dwell too much on the darker aspects of my life, but remaining positive takes constant effort. My struggle with depression began just as I was starting my last year of college, when my father was killed in a car accident. Collision with a drunk driver, who of course walked away unscathed. My dad, Archie Porter, wasn’t just a father to me—he was my idol. My role model. Losing him was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll be carrying the weight of it my entire life. Next to that pain, a breakup is nothing but a toothache. After all these years, I can usually make it through the day without getting mired down in that pain. But now that it’s come to mind…

  “I’m sorry, Maddie…” Allie says, her tone softening at once. “That was super insensitive of me. I know how much you’ve been through… But, isn’t that all the more reason to look for what makes you happy, rather than playing it safe?”

  “Sure. In theory…” I allow, shaking off the shadows in my mind.

  “Maybe in practice, too,” she smiles, draining her glass. “I know a really easy way you can start looking, too.”

  “Oh yeah?” I reply, “What’s that? Pottery class? Meditation? Tinder?”

  “Not quite,” she begins, grinning conspiratorially, “These next couple of weeks, while you’re on vacation, I want you to grant yourself one random hookup with a hot stranger.”

  I immediately choke on my wine, I’m laughing so hard. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” I splutter, “Your best friend, Maddie Better-Safe-Than-Sorry Porter.”

  “Really?” Allie replies, “I thought I was talking to Maddie Always-Up-For-A-Challenge Porter. What, do you need me to make this into a bet or something? Get that competitive streak of yours all fired up?”

  “…No. You can’t sway me that easily,” I say, lying badly.

  “Aha!” Allie crows, leaping to her feet and pointing a victorious finger at me, “Madeleine Abigail Porter, I bet that you can’t bring yourself to have one random hookup by the time you come back from vacation. Are you gonna prove me wrong or what?”

  “Dammit, Allie!” I groan, burying my face in my hands.

  “I got you now!” she cackles, going to grab the bottle again. “Now you’ll do it for sure.”

  “We’ll see,” I laugh, letting her pour me a second glass, “Which will win out, my hate of losing, or my hate of spontaneity?”

  “The game is afoot,” Allie grins.

  I raise the replenished wine glass to my lips. What are the chances that I could actually throw caution to the wind and have some fun while visiting my family for two weeks? Breaking up with Paul sucked, to be sure, but we were hardly in love. My heart didn’t take too much of a beating this time around. Probably, that’s because I never really opened up to him. In the wake of Dad’s death, I haven’t really been able to feel much of anything—least of all passion. Maybe a little rebound would do me some good. But who the hell am I going to meet in the middle of the woods? I don’t really dig the grizzled lumberjack type, myself. You never can tell what’s hiding in those big, bushy beards…

  “I’m gonna miss you at work while you’re away,” Allie goes on, tugging my train of thought onto another track. “It’ll just be me, the Dragon Lady, and Mr. Intriguing finishing up the campaign while you’re gone.”

  I chuckle at her cheeky descriptions of our agency’s co-founders, Carol (the so-called Dragon Lady) and Brian (who insists on using the word “intriguing” at least twenty times a day, usually to describe the most mundane things imaginable).

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not expecting the trip to be a laugh riot,” I reply. “The Porter women don’t do particularly well in enclosed spaces.”

  “Oof. I hadn’t thought about that…” Allie says, “Which one are you worried about butting heads with this time?”

  “Oh, just all of them. As usual,” I reply with a wry laugh. While the shared grief of our father’s passing brought us closer in some ways, the long-standing differences between me, my two sisters, and our mother have never ceased to cause trouble.

  As long as I can remember, each of us Porter women has marched to her own distinctive beat. I was always the bookworm of the family, hoping to follow in my father’s footsteps as an English professor. My middle sister, Sophia, always skewed a bit darker and more rebellious. Our baby sister, An
nabel, is in some ways the most stable one of us all, though that makes her pragmatic and blunt, sometimes to a fault. But above all, it’s our mother, Robin, who’s always keeping us on our toes.

  When my sisters and I were little, we fancied our mom to be some kind of fairy queen. We grew up in an old farmhouse in Vermont, just far enough away from Dad’s university town to feel like another world; a world spun magic into magic by Mom’s presence. She’s always been stunning, with vibrant blonde hair and blue eyes with specks of gold—eyes my sisters and I all inherited from her. But while she was beautiful and imaginative, it always felt as though she was floating just out of our reach. And whenever one of us tried to pull her down from the clouds, she’d snap from good fairy to bad fairy in an instant. She’d become impatient and dismissive, as if she resented us for the responsibility we came along with.

  Mom’s a wonderful visual artist, a true maker, and her mind is always on the next inspiration, the next piece. She loved me and my little sisters dearly, but she preferred to nurture her works of art, rather than us. It was always our sturdy father we turned to for stability. He kept us all rooted to the ground while my mother drifted up, up and away; shoring up the moon and stars as we looked on with wonder. But since Dad has been gone, the rest of us have scattered to the wind.

  And the thing is, I’m starting to think that we’re actually better off that way.

  “At least you have a new mission to distract you from all the family drama,” Allie points out, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Yeah,” I laugh, “Maybe I’ll be thanking you for this little dare by the time I get back.”

  “We shall see,” Allie says smugly, “We shall see. Hey, when are you shoving off?”

  “As soon as this little wine buzz wears off,” I tell her, “I really should have left right after work, but I wanted a little hang session with my best friend first.”