Page 39 of Stepbrothers

“And all sexy as fuck.” Sharon nodded.

Clarice remembered the night well. The three Geordies were footballers, had sank enough beer to be fun but still able to get it up, and the two adjoining hotel rooms the three girls had booked became one heck of an orgy. They hadn’t been able to believe their luck. The guys had stamina, were open-minded, and very obliging.

They’d talked about the weekend fondly for months. But now, for the first time, Clarice looked at it with different eyes—through Parker’s and Hugh’s eyes. If they knew about it they’d be horrified, she knew that instinctually. There was no way they’d consider it liberating, fun, high-jinx. Likely she’d be over one of their knees with her ass being tanned just to make sure she never did it again.

Her buttocks tingled. The recollection of the spanking Parker had given her heating her flesh. It reminded her that she had to send off her PGCE form and speak to her landlord before she saw them at the weekend. Failure to do so would likely get her tipped over his lap again. Or Hugh’s.

“You’re quiet,” Wendy said when their pizzas arrived.

“Am I? Sorry.”

“Got something on your mind?” Sharon asked.

“No…well, yes.” She picked up a slice of margherita. “I’ve decided to apply for my teacher training. It’s time to adult.”

“Wow, that’s great news.” Sharon grinned.

“You’ve been talking about it for long enough,” Wendy added. “Will you be able to start this academic year?”

“Yes, if I get the form in soon.”

“That would be great.” Wendy smiled. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

“Yep, it will do you good to get away from the café, no, not the café, Derek. He’s a jobsworth knobend.” Sharon flicked at an olive; she didn’t like them. “In fact, you should get your new stepbrothers to go and sort him out. Use their muscle for something.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” She sighed. “Although with a bit of luck, I won’t be there for much longer.”

The conversation went back to Brighton and the potential trip away. As she ate, Clarice wondered what Parker and Hugh would think of the plan. No doubt they’d forbid her from going. Tell her it wasn’t appropriate now she was part oftheirfamily. Well, it was tough shit. They couldn’t stop her spending time with her friends and enjoying a one-night stand here and there.

Could they?

Chapter Nine

Sunday morning dawned bright with a luminous clear sky. Clarice shoved open her window—out of habit to try and counter the mold—and watched a flight of pigeons twirling over the rooftops. There was a single white one. It stood out from the crowd, and she wondered if it knew it was unique compared to those around. Had it any idea how different it was? How different its life was?

After a few moments of contemplation, she headed into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. It was nice to wake on a Sunday at home and without a hangover. She’d cancelled going out the night before. She’d been exhausted, her bones weary, and just hadn’t had the energy. She was also strangely happy to leave Sharon and Wendy to their weekly fuck-hunting. Parker and Hugh had filled her mind so much she didn’t have room for another man, not even a quick wham-bam hookup.

The clock read ten, so she flipped herself some pancakes then showered. Summer heat called for a pretty dress, so, from the wardrobe, she plucked a pink A-line one covered in tiny red butterflies. The thin straps sat neatly on her tan shoulders, and she added a delicate daisy necklace that rested just above her dainty cleavage.

Anticipation swirled as she curled her hair and applied a light layer of makeup. But she couldn’t pinpoint the reason. Was it because she’d be seeing the Talbots’ fabulous Windsor house—her mother had told her it was extraordinarily fabulous—or was it because she’d be having lunch with Parker and Hugh? No, maybe it was none of the above. Perhaps she was simply eager to catch up with her mother after her trip to Barbados.

Either way, she rode the Uber west with plenty of time to spare in case they hit traffic. She curled her toes in her white sandals—the air-con in the cab was cool—and held her small pink bag on her lap.

The driver exited the M4 and headed toward Windsor Castle, Eton College, and Windsor Racecourse. He then took a right, and after bypassing the town, before them the emerald English countryside opened up. It was a treat after the concrete jungle of late, and with the hawthorn hedgerows bursting with small white flowers, a sight to behold.

“This is the street, love,” the driver said. “What number is it?”

“It’s a name, Harpingwell House.”

“Okay, I’ll go slow. Can you see the names on these gates?”

“Yep, I’ll keep a watch.”

“Shout when you see it.” He crawled along. A growling Range Rover overtook.

It was impossible to see the houses behind the big hedges and huge gates—wrought iron, wooden, metal—that sealed off long drives and residencies of excess from the road.

“There it is.” She spotted a slab of slate attached to a red-brick wall that read Harpingwell House.

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