Page 59 of Aftertaste

“What do you think he’s like?” I asked Dad thoughtfully.

“Probably the same, only more of an adult,” he replied dismissively.

I stole a glance at him and stifled a giggle when I saw the apprehension written all over his normally confident face.

Dad and Rogan ended up on worse terms after he got arrested if that’s even possible. They never really did get along, though. Both considered themselves to be the man of the house and constantly butted heads over who’s dick was bigger, so to speak.

Chapter Two

"We’re back!”

I did my best not to shudder at the forced cheerfulness in Mom’s tone. It was obvious by the way she sounded they may have had some differences on the way back to the family home. Of course, knowing Mom, she’d be more worried about someone seeing her ex-con son strolling through the front door.

Appearances are very important to her and Rogan lost points with Mom when he got arrested.Honor thy mother and father, but fuck the kids,seems to be her way of thinking these days.

I rarely come over anymore.

Phone calls or emails are just fine by me, and while I know Rogan and I rarely got along, I thought if he saw at least one semi-cheerful Winstead to see him, he’d be okay. Even though I’ve been dreading this moment, it’s us against them and I have to stand by his side.

I sat in the living room with Dad, hands firmly clasped in my lap to keep them from shaking and waited as patiently as I could. Mom walked in first looking frazzled and it took everything inside of me not to smile. Greta Winstead never looks anything less than perfect, which means Rogan did a number on her on the way back.

His way of getting to Mom and Dad has always been simple.

Stone cold silence.

Nothing makes anyone feel more irrelevant than being ignored, Hunter.

It stuck with me ever since he explained his way of dealing with our parents; every now and again, I find myself doing the same thing.

I kept my eyes on Mom as she walked over to where Dad sat, gave him a look more frazzled than her appearance and then took her seat next to him on their fancy leather couch.

Then I heard the confident sound of footsteps—the same ones that haunted my nightmares for most of my youth, followed by the clearing of a throat, and I took a deep breath. Getting to my feet, I brushed the sweat from my palms off on the hem of my skirt and turned my eyes toward my brother.

Holy shit.

Rogan looked nothing like the almost seventeen-year-old boy that I remembered. He seemed taller for some reason, much more defined and muscular, and almost completely covered in tattoos. He still had the same messy, black hair that I used to ruffle whenever I won a fight between us, which made me feel a little better. Still, I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat and walked over to him, wrapping my arms awkwardly around his shoulders and giving him the best hug I could muster against his stiff frame.

With a chuckle, he leaned down and relented, patted my back a couple of times, then pulled my arms away. I took a step back and looked up into his narrow, dark blue eyes. I wanted to see if I could find my brother in the man standing before me, but he seemed to be lost and I found myself hoping for that to be a good thing.

“All grown up,” he remarked with a grin as he took my hands and held them over my head. I rolled my eyes and tried to pull out of his grip, but he only let one go, slid his hand down to my wrist and I watched as his grin turned into a smirk. He spun me around quickly, laughing when I stumbled on my feet and almost fell. Then when he was done with his little game, he let go of my wrist. “Good to see you, kid,” he said, his eyes softening slightly.

I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and nodded. “Same, big brother. It’s been years.”

Rogan chuckled at my lame joke.

I don’t know why I said it; it’s obvious it had been years since I’ve seen him last, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“Charles.”

I look up at him in confusion until I see his eyes trained over my head. I can tell by the way he’s tensed up and the subtle grinding of his jaw, that him and Dad must be locked in a staring war against one another.

“Dad is just fine with me, young man,” he replies testily.

“I prefer Charles,” Rogan spits back at him, and I sigh heavily.

Dad was the one who gave him up to the cops. He told them exactly where to find his son, who by that point, he considered a disgrace to the Winstead name.

“Let’s play nice, children,” I say loudly, clapping my hands together. Rogan turned his eyes down toward me and shook his head as he dropped his duffle bag on Mom’s shiny, white floor then crossed his arms over his chest.

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