Stepbrother Obsessed(5)

By: Devon Hartford

“I run cool,” she says seriously.

We both have flip-flops on our feet and are wearing bikinis under our T-shirts and shorts. She doesn’t look cold to me.

“It’s not like you’re a reptile,” I say sarcastically. “And it’s already like eighty five degrees outside and it’s not even nine a.m.” Me and Rox live in The Valley, as in, The San Fernando Valley, and it’s summer and it’s going to be super hot today. It was 95 yesterday and it’s supposed to be hotter today. I smirk, “Do you realize you’re perspiring?” I reach out to touch the beads of sweat on her forehead.

She waves my hand away and backs up. “I want coffee. Shut it.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting an iced coffee or something?”

“An iced coffee would totally give me hypothermia,” she growls impatiently.

“You might get heat stroke drinking all that hot coffee,” I joke.

She glares at me, “I am not hot, okay?”

“How about coffee ice cream?” Now I’m just pestering her for fun. We’ve known each other since second grade, so this is usual for us. “Or a coffee Slurpee?”

She rolls her eyes, “They don’t even make coffee Slurpees. And coffee ice cream has like zero caffeine.”

“You need to seriously consider a twelve-step program. Caffeine is highly addictive.”

“I’m not addicted to caffeine, Skye.”

I snicker, “That’s what addicts always say. You know the community center across from the library hosts twelve step meetings all the time. You should totally check them out.”

She glares at me, “They don’t have twelve steps for caffeine addicts.”

“I’m pretty sure they do,” I tease.

She opens her mouth to respond but shuts it just as quick. Her eyes flash and she whispers, “Hottie alert!”

I hear the door chime as someone comes into the 7-Eleven. At the moment, my back is to the door. Rox and I are both totally boy crazy, so I turn to look.

She yanks my wrist and hisses, “Don’t look! He’ll see!”

I hiss back, “Then why did you call hottie alert if you don’t want me to look?”

“Wait till he’s not looking right at you.” Her eyes follow the mystery man behind me. “God damn it, he’s hot,” she moans.

Now I really want to look.

Rox yanks my arm again. A few seconds later, she mutters, “Okay, it’s safe to look.”

I turn slightly and glance over my shoulder. The first thing I see are the aisles bristling with candy, potato chips, pretzels, and sundry junk food. Past all of that, standing in front of the wall of refrigerators, I spot the towering broad shoulders and shaggy hair of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.

I am not exaggerating.


It’s like this guy sucked all the beauty out of the room when he walked in. He inhaled all of it in a three mile radius. Wherever he goes, he is the hottest thing there. The sun doesn’t stand a chance against this guy.

In other words, he is miraculously hot. It’s the only way I can describe him. Yes, I notice specific details like his perfect nose, lush lips, perfectly manly beard stubble, and his longish surf-blond hair. I have a thing for surfers, it’s one of the reasons I’m applying to San Diego University, a.k.a SDU, which is walking distance from the beach. SDU isn’t my dad’s first choice, but he can suck it. Luckily, there’s no way I’ll get into USC or UCLA like he hopes.

Back to Mr. Miracle.

I can’t see Mr. Miracle’s eyes because they’re hidden by black wraparound shades, but the shape of his cheek bones and his jaw are just… perfect.

To make matters worse, or should I say more perfect, Mr. Miracle is wearing a worn out leather motorcycle jacket. Wanna bet he has tattoos under that jacket? And, did you know it’s a federal law that a guy as hot as him has to ride a motorcycle? I have no doubt he has his federally mandated motorcycle parked outside. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an entire gang of bikers waiting for him, like he’s their king or leader or whatever.

With chins hanging against our chests, Roxanne and I gawk in awe as Mr. Miracle opens one of the fridge doors and pulls out a sixer of Heineken. Rox and I both openly stare, but the second he turns toward the register, we spin our backs to him. Not that I want to. Somehow, it makes me anxious to not look at him. Not because I’m afraid or anything, but because I just have to look at him.

Boots clack the linoleum behind us as Mr. Miracle gets in line. I literally feel his presence wash over me as he closes the distance. It’s that sixth sense thing where you know someone is behind you, but in a good way and on steroids. My entire back vibrates. My body screams at me to turn around and throw myself at Mr. Miracle.

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