Page 7 of The Stepbrother 2: Noah

Creed threw her head back and laughed again, the sound reckless. And all I could do was sit there, pulse hammering, wondering how far she was planning to push me—and how much longer I’d be able to resist pushing right back.

Creed-

With my head resting against the shower wall, I let the hot water run down my hair in an attempt to wash away the remnants of last night's debauchery. Each drop of water, pelting against my skin, eased the dull throb of my hangover headache, but my stomach wouldn’t stop constricting like it wanted to rid itself of everything I'd ever drunk. My momma would whoop my ass if she knew how fucked up I got. She had already been nagging me.

I could still hear her words from earlier in the week: “What do you want to be, Creed?” It sounded like an innocent question, but asked by my momma, it wasn’t. She didn’t think I was dedicated enough to any one thing. “At eighteen, I was heading to Paris to study opera,” she would brag, as if she hadn’t already told us that it was Granny's idea for her to do that.

I remembered how my throat had constricted, words refusing to form when I realized she wanted me to really answer. The only answer my lips could manage was a forced smile. How the hell was I supposed to know? The fact that I didn’t have an answer annoyed me though. I was about to be twenty and had very little knowledge of self, outside of knowing what I wanted to do at the very moment I was about to do it. I had never thought of the future. My major was still undeclared. I sighed, reaching down to turn off the water. I grabbed my towel, dried my face, and headed to my temporary room to get dressed. Maine wanted me to cook, and I couldn’t say no after I drunkenly made out with two random middle-aged men and dry-humped Noah in front of her friends. She was pissed—more so about the middle-aged men than Noah. She thought he needed to have a little fun. He was always so uptight.

Putting on a white T-shirt and cut-off jeans, I made my way barefoot through the Airbnb, heading to the kitchen. It was only nine, but I needed to prepare if I was going to make enough of my momma's famous shrimp and grits for a noon brunch for six of my sister's friends who were driving from all over the state to visit. She was really doing too much for graduation. Did she really need a whole month to celebrate? I didn’t think so, but Momma and Daddy had financed it because Maine was their good girl.

In the kitchen, the smell of grilled meats had me heading outside instead of the fridge. When I reached the door, I could hear someone singing—soft, low, almost like a confession. Coldplay. "Fix You." I paused, barely cracked the door, and listened. Without even seeing the person, I somehow knew it was Noah. I didn’t know he could sing. His voice was sad but really damn good. I quietly stepped out into the backyard. For some reason, I needed to see him actually singing the words. He was standing with his back towards me, in front of the big built-in grill, in jeans and a white T-shirt, like me. The smell of sausage and bacon scented the air. I guessed Maine was making him work too.

I took a step toward him, but my toe hit a rock, and I hissed out a curse, "Fuck." His voice cut off immediately. The last notes of the song floated away. I looked up to find Noah's gaze on me. The look of surprise in his eyes made me feel a small stab of guilt for intruding. I had intruded on his private moment and didn’t have enough sense to walk away.

"Your singing voice is as sad as your eyes," I blurted out. I saw him stiffen at my words. It felt like I had hit a nerve, but I continued, my curiosity was getting the better of me. "Who are you singing about fixing?" I asked.

His gaze met mine, his eyes full of emotions I couldn’t quite read. Silence stretched between us, thick and tense, and I thought he might just leave it there. But finally, he broke it, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No one in particular," he said, glancing up at the sky like he was searching for answers somewhere beyond. Then he let out a chuckle, hollow and unconvincing.

I knew I was about to put my nose where it didn’t belong, but I couldn’t help myself. "Maybe it’s you you’re singing about fixing?"

He looked back at me, his voice steady but his eyes not quite sure. "Why would I need fixing, Creed?"

I hesitated, knowing I was treading on thin ice. Everyone talked about Noah’s issues in whispers, but no one ever brought them up to his face. Tiffany was a wound everyone tiptoed around. But I kept going. "Because when you're abandoned by someone who’s supposed to love you unconditionally, I imagine you spend a lot of time questioning what you did wrong. Was it something you said? Something you did? Or are you just… intrinsically flawed?"

He raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “Intrinsically flawed… You might be on to something. Scarlett said you have no idea what you want to be. I’m thinking a psychiatrist might be a good fit. You read people.”

"Wait, what?" I blinked, thrown off. "My mother talks to you about me?"

He chuckled and nodded. “Every Sunday, she calls me to check in on how my week went and to vent about how her other kids are driving her crazy. You, in particular, with your indecisiveness and stubbornness.”

I rolled my eyes. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Momma treated him like one of her own, calling him weekly to check in. She reveled in parenthood—probably the only thing she’d ever trade music for. Thank goodness four kids were enough for her, though.

"Why did you always bite me?" he asked, catching me off guard before I could reply.

I laughed. "Because you always looked sad, and I liked making you laugh. I like your laugh. Plus, you never stopped me, so I liked that too. You let me do whatever I wanted. Now I figure maybe you were the one getting a kick out of it. Got a lil’ odaxelagnia fetish?" I teased, bucking my hips in his direction. "You into biting? Want to bite me back as payback. What's your safe word?"

He shook his head, trying not to smile. "I thought we’d make it through one conversation without you sexually harassing me. You better get inside and start cooking. Maine woke up in a mood." He turned back to the grill, effectively dismissing me.

Honestly, I was just surprised we’d made it through a conversation at all.

I decided to let him be, for now. As I turned to head back inside, I paused at the door and glanced back at him. “You know, Maine and Momma aren’t going to let you pull away just because Maine’s not living at home anymore. You’ve been part of this family too long to get away that easily. Stop running," I said, and then slipped inside, leaving him to his thoughts.

Noah-

I knew Lil Compton was Creed's godfather. Troy hated that fact, so he brought it up often. But I never realized how close they were until now. Creed had called him, saying she was bored and sad. Sad because Ebony—aka Jason—had decided to join his mother on a short tour in the Caribbean to "learn the business" instead of spending his summer messing around with Creed and Maine. And bored, claiming she couldn’t spend another day at the lagoon or in the Airbnb. He’d left L.A. on his private jet, within hours of her call to come entertain his "evil diva," as he called her.

No wonder she was spoiled.

Now, Creed, Maine, me, and a few of Maine's friends are in a strip club in Miami. "Back That Ass Up" was blaring through the club speakers. I was tucked into the plush VIP section with a fresh gin in my glass, tipsy—almost drunk. I don’t usually do strip clubs. They were like dangling meat in front of a hungry man, and I didn’t like being teased. This place was next level though. The dancers here were acrobats in string bikinis, climbing and spinning down from the ceiling, shaking perfectly round asses. But my eyes were on Creed.

Dressed all in black, she wore a mini skirt, a crop top, fishnet stockings, and combat boots. Her hair was a wild halo of curls. From where I sat, I could see the "Love Me" tattoo on her inner thigh, and I found myself staring at it, dick already half-hard, thinking about what she’d said to me about being "intrinsically flawed." Maybe she was right. My mother was a selfish narcissist, and my father killed himself because he couldn’t handle fame. I’d been diagnosed with a few things. I was a part ofthem, so of course there’d be something wrong with me. I’d tried to put words to it for years, but it took Creed to put a label on it. I still couldn’t believe I’d agreed with her, out loud. I wished I could take it back. She was snooping now, trying to learn more about me, which could only lead to trouble. I'd overheard her asking Maine about why I never brought anyone around. I didn’t stick around to hear the answer—or to find out if she asked anything else.

I watched her get up and walk to the bar, then suddenly she was having a heated conversation with a man who looked twice her age. A rapper or a bodyguard, maybe, since he’d come in with Lil Compton. He was dark-skinned, with locs braided down his back, heavy-set, dressed in skinny tailored chinos and a button-up. I knew something shady was going on because he’d waited until Lil Compton said he was turning in for the night before approaching Creed. Whatever it was, I was sure Ivory was aware of it. But I couldn’t ask her. She was down on the dance floor, dancing with her friends and minding her own business, leaving me to play guardian and wonder who this guy was. With Creed, it could be anyone.

I took my eyes off her for a second to check on Maine down on the dance floor. When I turned back, I saw Creed’s hand connect with the guy’s cheek. What the hell? Anger twisted his face. His hand was balled into a fist. He yelled something at her. Before I knew what I was doing, I was up and shoving the guy. The impact sent us both sprawling to the floor. We grappled for a few seconds before we were pulled apart. We both scrambled to our feet. He swung first and missed. I landed a solid punch on his jaw. Troy had me in the boxing gym with him since I was ten, until a couple of years ago. I knew how to crack a jaw when needed. He crumpled, out cold.

---