Saturday, January 18, 2014

Summer Heat/Weekend Getaway Short Story

Excerpt from $0.99 story Good Brothers, the doorbell rings interrupting Richie's little sister's pool party:

Must be Clarita, I thought, as I headed to the front door to let her in.
A tiny dark-haired girl stood sandaled on the porch step, frog beach bag dangling off her shoulder. Cracking open the door, I smiled, then stopped.
Beyond her, swinging out of the car, was the brother. He rested his forearm on the car door, ginger skin, shiny like it was sun-polished, and tight over a smooth bicep and rounded shoulder. Slim and toned, he wore a white tank shirt with thin blue stripes. A breeze ruffled it over his lean chest, and it gaped beneath the shadowed clavicle.
“Hey, they’re out back,” I said absently as Clarita squeezed past me in the doorway. Kicking off her sandals, she padded through the kitchen. The backdoor protested on rusty springs and clicked closed. The brother stood, his eyes concealed by dark glasses. Black hair shone straight across his forehead. His plush lips tipped to a grin.
Jesus. Collecting myself, I stepped barefoot to the hot porch. “Hi. Thanks for driving her over.” The guy didn’t move to get back in the car. We stood staring. The sun fell like a concrete block. Then he slammed the car door and started over.
Animal, I thought. Each step was territory marked. I thought of that dancer at college, the one who’d leap the stairs, skirt down railings. There was something naturally fluid in this guy’s step. I backed up and realized I had nowhere to go. The door had closed behind me.
At the bottom of the step, he put out his hand. Shit, I was sure my hand would be sweaty. My lungs were tight. “Hi,” he said. “I was just wondering if there was a coffee shop or something nearby where I could wait.” The full lips spread with a flashing white smile. Then, slowly, he raised his sunglasses.
“Richie?” My dad’s voice startled me out of stupidity. The door cracked open, bumping my leg. “Oh,” Dad said then. Fuckin’ right, Oh.
Clarita’s brother.
He smiled again. Shit, those eyes. They were gold-brown, but more than that, gold-flecked, like the sun sparked through them. And this summer heat was framed by plush lashes and black brows arced in perfect midnight. A mere blink would stop the world.
“Hi,” he said, “I’m just waiting for Clarita. Thought there might be—”
The door urged me forward, opening wide. “Come in. Come in,” Dad said. “You can wait here. Have a margarita!”

Read more for $0.99 on Amazon: Good Brothers.


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