Page 8 of Step Brother Bear

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Darrell says, stiffening, clenching the back of the barstool.

“He can’t do it himself. He already made his injuries worse the other night from over-exerting.”

Yeah, he was over-exerting, alright. I shake away the steamy images fogging up my mind.

“Isabella shouldn’t have to take care of him. He’s a grown man. He can care for himself.”

For all my stepfather's faults, one thing I’ve always appreciated him for is his attempts to keep Derek away. Growing up, it was like he was the only one who realized Derek’s hatred toward me, and although I never liked how he treated his own son, I appreciated someone looking out for me. Although sometimes, like right now, when he’s barely tried to talk to me since I’ve returned home, it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like he cares for me, but instead worries about the repercussions his son may bring him. I should side with Darrell, but a small part of me—the one that always wanted to prove to my parents that I’m capable—shuts up and lets my mother and him hash this out on their own.

“Darrell, honey, even grown men need assistance when they’re injured.” She smiles as she walks past him, patting his arm, a signal that the conversation is over.

Darrell gives me a haunting look. I’d assume it’s something like a nonverbal apology, but there’s a hint more warning behind it.

“If you need anything, just give us a call!” Mom shouts as she struggles with rolling her suitcase out the door. “I’ll be right back. I just need to put this in the car and arrange things a bit.”

“Derek!” Darrell yells.

I flip to the fridge, my whole body heating despite the cool air wafting around me as I try to insert myself as much as possible. I haven’t seen Derek since that night, and as his pounding footsteps make their way toward the kitchen, I’m determined to do my best to keep up my avoidance streak.

“What?” Derek says once he reaches the last step.

I clutch a carton of milk, steadying my nerves as I listen to the scene.

“Come here,” Darrell seethes.

Their footsteps indicate them heading toward the dining room next to the living room, and I pull myself out of the fridge. I fumble in the cabinet for a box of cereal, turning my attention to their heated conversation. I carefully place the white ceramic bowl on the counter at the corner closest to the dining room. Yes, I’m trying to avoid Derek, but I can’t help but listen as Darrell speaks to him in a hushed and harsh tone.

“You better behave yourself…” I barely make the words out. “If anything happens, I’ll fucking end you myself.” Something slams against the wall, and I jump, my bowl clattering. The conversation stops, and it sounds like one of them pushes the other away. Derek storms back into the kitchen, righting his tight-fitted t-shirt. His eyes catch mine, and I curse myself for listening instead of making it out of here as fast as possible.

He smirks, wiping his lips and scanning me from head to toe before ascending the stairs. The heated look infuriates me, but I’m too focused on what I caught before—the real expression he attempted to hide. He held fear in his eyes, and I hate that I’m curious to find out what could possibly frighten the beast who haunts my dreams.

Chapter 6

I’m contemplating painting the walls of my room. I read an article about Baker-Miller Pink. I don’t remember all of it, but basically it was about this scientist who found that a certain shade of pink reduced strength and aggression, so Asylums started painting their walls the shade. It turned out that, over time, patients surrounded by the color actually became more aggressive. My walls are a lilac purple, chosen during eighth-grade summer vacation when I was determined to elevate the ambiance of my surroundings. I’m almost certain that I’ve discovered a new scientific phenomenon because the shade is making me crazy. It could be the constant of my four childhood walls, but I've decided to blame the color. If I have to sit another second in this damned purple room, I’m going to end up shaving my head and becoming a SoundCloud rapper.

My phone dings. I’ve ceased being hopeful whenever I receive a notification. It’s never a job opportunity, just scams and junk. Surprisingly, it’s a text. I don’t receive many of those these days. It’s from Chrishell.

Hey, girl! Wanted to see if you were up to joining Rachel and me for a costume party at Zinc this weekend!?

I’m shocked people still go to that nightclub. It’s an hour outside of town, but the only place for a night out nearby. Chrishell and I went once in high school after scoring shitty fake IDs. The bouncer didn’t care much that I clearly wasn’t Rebecca Evans, like my ID suggested, but he barely looked up from my chest, so it was easy to sneak in.

A night out with alcohol running through my system is the perfect solution to a shitty few weeks, but after seeing her, I’m wary of accepting the invite. Chrishell is nice—nicer than me, and even if she seems superficial and betrayed me in high school, she doesn’t deserve my avoidance. It’s just that my insides feel heavy from all the new info about Derek she gave me last week. And after what happened the other night, I don’t need him on my mind any more than he already is.

As if summoned by Satan himself, a moan sounds from the other side of my apparently paper-thin walls. Yeah, I need to get out of this fucking house. I type a reply, Count me in! I’ll just have to come up with something to wear.

I reach for my headphones, ready to block out another jerk session, but he moans again. This time, I can tell it’s not from pleasure but from pain. I stand, creeping toward the wall and pressing my ear against the cool purple. Derek breathes heavily, suppressing cries. I shouldn’t care, but my feet walk toward my door, leading me to Derek’s. I knock, my knuckles barely grazing the wood. Silence follows, and I cringe at my stupid decision. Right before I’m about to retreat, Derek’s door swings open. He stands before me, shirtless, with a bloodied bandage over his shoulder. His hair is even more unruly than usual, and his dark eyes are shaded with gray.

“You look like shit.”

He tenses and attempts to shut the door.

“Wait!” I say before I’m blocked from his view, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

He grimaces. “Why do you care?”

I eye his bandage. “Whatever you’re doing, you’re making it worse.”

“Again, why do you care?”