Page 2 of Trick of the Flesh
“Mmm, I don’t like it. We’ll talk about this more tomorrow morning. You’ll help me hang the cobwebs in the dining room,” she says, not even phrasing it as a question. “Miggy was supposed to do it, but he’s useless with decorations.”
I swallow, throat dry. “Yeah, I can do that.”
She smiles brightly and flutters back to her chili.
Dad claps me on the back. “See? You’re already useful.”
I force another smile, but inside I’m screaming.
Because of course, Miguel was supposed to help. Of course he pawned it off on me. That’s how it always is. He never liftsa finger unless it’s something he wants to do. And no one makes him.
Why would they?
He’s magnetic. Everyone is drawn to him.
Except me. I try not to be.
The dining room is half-dark, lit by a single lamp with a red bulb that makes the walls look like they’re bleeding. I tug at the stretchy cobwebs, trying to spread them across the corners without tangling them into useless knots.
Behind me, the floor creaks.
My skin goes tight.
“Thought you could sneak past me, little brat?”
His voice is smoke and gravel. I freeze, heart kicking hard against my ribs.
“I’m not sneaking,” I say, too quickly. Too defensive.
Miguel steps into the room. The red light paints shadows across his face, making his eyes gleam darker. He moves closer, each step more calculated. The smell of marijuana smoke clings to him, sharp and intoxicating.
I could get high off him being this close.
I look away, focusing hard on the cobweb in my hands. “Shouldn’t you be helping in the kitchen or something?”
He chuckles, low. “I am helping. Keeping you company.”
“I don’t need company.”
“Yeah, you do.” He’s closer now. I can feel him behind me, the heat of his body radiating across the small distance. His voice dips lower, rougher. “You better run tonight, pretty boy. Because if I catch you, your big brother’s gonna wreck that sweet little hole you’ve got. ”
The words hit me like a slap. My body reacts before my brain does—heat flooding my cheeks, my chest, and my groin.
I spin around, heart pounding. “You—” My voice cracks. “You can’t say shit like that, Miggy.”
Miguel smirks, slow and wolfish, tilting his head. “Can’t? I just did.”
I back up until the wall presses against my shoulder blades. “We’re—we’re brothers.” The word tastes sour and flimsy in my mouth.
“Stepbrothers,” he corrects, his grin widening. “Don’t get it twisted, Caleb. I’m not blood. I’m not family. Not in the ways that matter to the rest of the world.”
My pulse hammers. My skin feels too tight. I can’t breathe.
“You think I don’t see it?” Miguel asks, voice soft now, deadly. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention? You think I don’t know how bad you want it?”
“I don’t.” The denial comes too fast. Too desperate.
He laughs, dark and low, stepping back finally, giving me room to breathe. But his eyes stay locked on mine, pinning me in place even from a distance.
