Road Trip with My Hot Stepbrother – Becca “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fucking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables.
“This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true.
I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been.
He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That’s why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fuck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my ass cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his hip and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right ass cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it.
I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Asshole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap.
The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Goddamnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough shit,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your damn huffing and puffing.
Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time.