June First

Brant, age 23

I burned myself today.

I was rushing out a table order, picking up the slack from a fellow coworker, and I grabbed the handle of a cast iron skillet after it’d just come out of the oven.

Amateur move.

An angry, blistered burn mark has since decorated the underside of my palm, right above the heel where a jagged scar still lingers from when I took baby June on a late-night adventure to my old house of horrors.

After wrapping my hand in a few layers of gauze, I worked hard despite the pain for the next couple of hours, hissing through my teeth the whole time, right up until my lunch break.

Pauly nearly crashes into me as I push through the kitchen doors, pulling off my chef hat. He snatches my injured hand by the wrist, holding it up for inspection. “What do we have here, Mr. Elliott? Workman’s compensation?”

I wince, the pain still fresh. “I’m good. Burned myself on a skillet like an idiot, but it’s only a first degree burn. I’ll be fine.”

“Sometimes you do too much. You are too eager to please. That will be your downfall if you are not careful.”

He drops my hand, and I lift the opposite to scratch the back of my neck. I smile thinly. “Thanks. I’ll work on that.”

“I have no doubt you will, Mr. Elliott.” Pauly gives my shoulder a pat as he moves past me into the kitchen, repeating effectively, “Eager to please.”

In my year of working under the watchful eye of Pauly Marino, I’ve learned a lot—I’ve learned that he never abbreviates anything he says, only speaking in full, articulate sentences, and that he has never once called me by my first name. It’s always “Mr. Elliott.”

I’ve learned that when someone is on his good side, he’s a wealth of knowledge and inspiration.

And when someone is on his bad side, they don’t get a second chance at ever experiencing being on his good side.

I’ve also learned that Pauly Marino has more talent in his pinky finger than every chef I’ve ever worked with combined, including myself, and watching him hone his craft has only made me hungrier to be better. Pauly struck me as the corporate type at first, nothing but a suit who drank overpriced scotch in a stuffy office, while his employees sweat buckets in the kitchen.

But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Pauly busts his ass, just like the rest of us, working long hours, staying late to clean and prep for the following day, and masterfully overseeing his kitchen with a strange mix of brash authority and imagination.

Staring at my hand and splaying my fingers, the flesh beneath the bandage still tingles, and I glare at the bumbling mistake. I’m about to step out of the kitchen when Pauly calls out to me once more.

“Mr. Elliott, I almost forgot. Your lovely sister is waiting for you up front.”

June is here?

She’s supposed to be teaching arabesques to nine-year-olds right now.

I smile my thanks and hurry out the doors, beelining toward the front of the building. As I weave through tables and waiters, Wendy comes into view first, perched at the hostess station, her thick mound of hair pinned back in a clip, recently colored from its natural auburn tone to a vibrant burgundy.

That’s right—Wendy works here, now.

She needed a job after getting laid off from her customer service position at a call center, so she texted me, asking if we were hiring. We were, and I felt like I kind of owed it to her—not that I had intentionally hurt her or anything, but I did break her heart, and I’m not an asshole; I was sympathetic. Pauly seemed to like her well enough, so she was officially hired on three months ago, and so far, things have been smooth sailing. We’ve kept our relationship cordial and professional.

Sweeping past her, Wendy lights up a little when I tap my knuckles on the wood station and shoot her a friendly smile. But my attention is quickly pulled to June, who sits in one of the waiting chairs near the doors, her knees bouncing in opposite time, still dressed in her leotard with a pair of leggings and an oversized gray cardigan dangling off one shoulder. She also brightens when she spots me, her chin popping up, eyes glinting with splashes of sapphire and silver.

Both girls react in a similar, wide-eyed way when they see me.

My heart only reacts to one.

“Junebug,” I say, my smile blooming as she stands. “I thought you were working this afternoon.”

“I was, but I got off a little early and thought I might catch you on your break.” June holds up a brown paper bag, crumpled tight at the top. Her high ponytail swings side to side as she steps toward me, tresses billowing like the spiraled ribbon of a kite. Free and effortless, akin to the smile she gifts right back to me. “I brought you something.”

My attention lands on the bag. “Please say it’s loaded with carbs, great with tea, and rhymes with clones—hint, please tell me there are two.”

“Eerily perceptive,” she winks, chuckling under her breath. “Two blueberry scones, made with love from yours truly.”

“Wait, you made them?” I take the bag from her outstretched hand, then peek inside. “You hate baking, Junebug.”

She shrugs. “Mom jumped in before I accidentally added bleaching powder instead of baking powder, but otherwise, I pretty much put Gordon Ramsay to shame.”

We stare at each other for a beat with identical grins, overly charmed, almost like we’re drunk on something, then I break the spell, moving toward the chair to set the bag down. When I spin back around, June’s eyes fall to my hand taped with gauze.

“Brant, your hand…” Her gasp spills out in a breath of tender turmoil, and she reaches for my clumsily wrapped palm, clasping it between both of her hands. Her touch is as delicate as her worry-filled features as she grazes an index finger over the bandaging. June doesn’t physically pull me closer, but I find myself moving into her anyway, and the longer she caresses my hand, the more the gap between us lessens. “What did you do?”

Her eyes are trained on my injury, while my eyes are trained on the way her brows furrow tight. The way she lightly nicks her bottom lip with her teeth. “Touched something I shouldn’t have, and got burned.”

There’s a strange huskiness to my voice that has her gaze drifting upward. “You should be more careful,” she replies softly, slicking her tongue over her lips. “I hate to see you hurt. What if it gets infected?”

“You worry too much, Junebug.” Instinct has my own index finger lifting, skimming the curve of her cheekbone, a token of affection. I almost want to linger, to connect the dotting of dark freckles scattered across her skin, curious as to what kind of art I could create. But I shake the bizarre thought away, dropping my hand as June’s cheeks appear to flush a little pinker. “I promise I’ll survive.”

She laughs lightly, tucking an invisible piece of hair behind her ear. “I suppose it’s only a little burn. Sorry. I’m too softhearted.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing when it’s the thing I love most about you.”

There’s a subtle shift in her expression, something I can’t quite translate, but it makes me wonder if I said something I shouldn’t have. I’m about to backtrack when someone bumps into me, and I jolt, pivoting in place to see that a line of customers has formed, and here we are, obstructing the entrance, totally oblivious.

“I, uh… should probably eat something and get back on the clock,” I say, ruffling my hair, then pointing to the little bag of scones abandoned on the chair. “I really appreciate you stopping by. I’ll see you when I get home?”

June bobs her head, stretching a smile. She adjusts the sleeve of her cardigan, pulling it up over her shoulder. “Of course,” she murmurs, clearing her throat. “See you there.”

She turns to leave, sweeping past me like a seaborn breeze infused with lilacs and sunshine. I stare after her through the glass door as she traipses through the parking lot, ponytail bouncing side to side, arms crossed over her chest. Then I force my attention away and snatch up the paper bag, moving to head toward the kitchen.

Wendy catches my gaze the moment I’m facing her. She bores holes into me, tapping her pen along her notepad as she multitasks with a customer. There’s something dark brimming just beneath the happy copper color of her eyes, like a storm brewing while the sun still shines.

It unnerves me.

I scratch at my cheek, duck my head, then make my way to the break room to eat my scones.

“Brant, hold up.”

Wendy’s voice floats over to me across the parking lot as I stride toward my new Highlander. I purchased it just a few months ago. Used, of course, but in great condition. I’m eager to see how it handles the ugly winters ahead.

I slow to a stop, turning in place to find her jogging over to me in high heels. They click along the concrete, her legs hindered by the black pencil skirt that falls at her knees. “Yeah?”

I’m not sure what she could possibly want. She hasn’t broached any relationship discussion since she started working here, and I wouldn’t exactly call us friends.

A piece of hair falls loose from her clip. She pushes it aside when she reaches me, her eyes darting every which way until she finally pins them on me. Wendy sighs as she says, “That was weird earlier. With June.”

“What?” I’m immediately lost, a little defensive, my arms folding across my chest. “What was weird?”

Another sigh, and then, “The way you look at each other. The way you touch each other. It’s almost like…”

What the hell?

“Like what?”

She swallows. “It’s almost like you’re… involved. Intimately.”

My eyebrows lift to my hairline. My stomach swirls with nausea. “Whoa.” I stare at her, incredulous, my arms falling to my sides. Words are elusive as her bomb thunders through me, blasting me with buckshot and bewilderment. Throat tight, heart clenched, I mutter through gritted teeth, “Not only are you wrong, but you’re completely out of line.”

“Am I?”

“I’m telling you that you are.”

“And I’m telling you what I saw.”

I search her face, looking for an angle. Desperate to uncover some kind of manipulation tactic or wicked intent, but all I see is… concern. A sense of alarm.

And I think that shakes me up even more.

“Wendy, listen to me,” I say, my voice low. Hoarse, cracking. “I understand you’re hurting. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, what happened between us, and I’m sorry for that. I truly never meant to cause you harm.”

“That’s not what this is—”

“But to imply there’s something inappropriate going on between me and my teenaged sister is going too far. You’re crossing a line.”

Wendy pulls her lip between her teeth, worrying it, thinking on her next words. Her head shakes back and forth, just slightly, another piece of hair falling loose. “I promise that’s not what this is about, Brant,” she says, and there’s earnestness laced into her tone. Blunt honesty that cuts me deep. “I’m telling you this because I’m worried. If I noticed it, then someone else will, too.” I’m about to counter her claim again, but she cuts me off. “Your sister, huh?”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. I just frown, waiting for what she’ll say next.

“That’s interesting,” she continues, glancing down at the pavement, twisting the toe of her stiletto into a crack. “You never call her your sister. You’ve always hated that word. Until right now.”

Traffic rumbles from the highway behind us, and a sharp breeze blows through, kissing my skin. It feels colder than it really is on this muggy August night. “It’s not like that.”

“She’s gorgeous, Brant. She’s stunning and loyal, and she absolutely adores you.”

“Stop it.”

“This isn’t coming from a place of resentment,” Wendy tells me, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. I glance down at the contact, but don’t pull back. I’m numb. “This is coming from a place of love. I love you, Brant, and I always will. And I’d hate to see you crash and burn.”

My eyes trail up to hers, slow and lazy, my defensiveness dwindling to defeat. “June and I are close. Closer than most. We always have been,” I explain, hating that I have to explain it at all. This is madness. “Nothing is going on between us.”

Wendy squeezes my hand one more time, the smallest of smiles hinting on her face, then lets me go. “Good,” she whispers. She steps away, another prickly draft carrying her final words over to me. “I hope, for both of your sakes, you keep it that way.”

I’m not sure why she comes to me.

Tonight, of all goddamn nights, when I’m lying here, restless and tormented, replaying Wendy’s words over and over again inside my mind. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

She comes to me.

“Brant?”

I lift up on my elbows, squinting my eyes through the dark, dragging my gaze over her outline. She’s standing right at the edge of my bed, dressed in what looks to be a tank top and shorts. “June,” I murmur, already suffocating on her scent. Already twisted up inside because Wendy put dirty, untrue claims into my head, and now I can’t shake them. “What are you doing in here?”

“I had a nightmare.” She fidgets beside me, waiting for an invitation she won’t receive. “Can I lie with you?” she wonders softly.

“No. You should go back to sleep.” I shut her down quickly, probably more harshly than she deserves, and flop back down to the bed, rolling away from her.

The mattress shifts.

A subdued sigh leaves me, and I close my eyes for a moment before twisting back around to find June sitting next to me, her eyes glistening in the dark. “You’re still here.”

“Why do I feel like you’re angry with me?”

“I’m not, I just…” Grumbling with a tinge of frustration, I pull myself up, until my back is flush with the headboard. “I’m not angry with you. I’m just tired, and you shouldn’t be in here.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s late, you’re seventeen years old, and you’re hardly dressed.”

Moonlight leaks in through the window, partially illuminating her white tank, her cleavage spilling out the top.

She bites at her lip. “I’m wearing what I always wear to bed.”

“You can wear whatever you want,” I say, my tone clipped. “In your own bed.”

Silence settles in.

June glances away, her dark hair curtaining her profile as her chin dips to her chest. “What did I do?”

Guilt blankets me, and I sit up straight. I gaze at her for a moment, reeling in my strange emotions, sorting through my addled thoughts. Rubbing both hands up and down my face, I finally lean forward and reach for her, curling my fingers around her wrist. “Hey. I’m sorry,” I say, watching as her head slowly lifts, her eyes finding me through the dark. For a blinding, beautiful second, I see her as she is—my beautiful Junebug, the girl who makes me homemade scones, who lies with me and dreams with me, who protects my heart at all costs. Nothing has changed.

Nothing has changed.

I trace the underside of her wrist with my thumb, inching closer. “You didn’t do anything. I just… I had a bad day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

June nods, twisting herself in my grip until our hands are clasped, fingers interlocked. It’s my injured hand. Scratchy gauze still winds around my palm in layers. “Do you think you’ll have two scars, now? One from that piece of glass, and the other from the burn?”

“No,” I whisper. “The burn isn’t serious.”

I never told June the whole truth about the scar on my hand. All I told her was that I cut myself on a broken window when I was six; she doesn’t know I was breaking into my old house where my parents were killed, hoping to find my lost stuffed elephant and officially move back in.

She doesn’t know she was there with me.

I tug her a little closer to me, our hands still intertwined. It’s instinct, I think. I don’t even mean to. June scoots over on the bed, until she’s resting beside my hip, close enough that I can make out her chaste features. Pale white skin. Crystalline eyes. A handful of freckles aimlessly sprinkled along her button nose and high cheekbones, like someone tripped with a paintbrush.

A pouty, heart-shaped mouth.

I glance at it.

No. Stop it. This is insanity.

My jaw clenches, Wendy’s words fighting their way back inside my psyche. Infiltrating me. Poisoning everything good and pure between us.

I let go of June’s hand, dropping my chin to my chest. “I took you that night,” I confess.

She’s silent for a moment, but I don’t look up.

I just wait.

“What do you mean?”

Eyes closing tight, heart humming with wayward memories, I tell her, “The night I cut my hand. You were there. I took you with me.”

She moves in closer, somehow. “I’m confused, Brant. Where did you take me?”

“To my house. My real house—the house I lived in until I was six years old, until my father decided to slip off his work tie, and instead of going upstairs and placing it into his dresser drawer with all of his other work ties, he wrapped it around my mother’s neck, strangling the life out of her until she stopped breathing. Until she choked. Until she died on our living room floor with a purple tie around her throat, and a little boy upstairs in bed, dreaming about fucking rainbows.”

The words tumble from my mouth, angry memories and bitter breaths, as June presses into me, her forehead to mine. My eyes are still closed, and it’s for the best because I can’t look at her right now. I can’t see whatever tortured look is shining out through her eyes, or the tear tracks staining her porcelain skin.

I keep going.

I have to keep going.

“You fell asleep in your little bouncer seat that night, decorated with lambs and elephants. I unstrapped you. I picked you up with all my strength, and I carried you down the hallway to put my shoes on, then I stepped outside and walked next door, two houses over.” Her forehead is still smooshed against mine, and I hear her sniffle. I hear her breaths catching and hitching in the back of her throat. “I set you down in the grass, and you were so good, June. It was cold that night, October, I think, but you were so, so good. I realized I couldn’t get inside, so I took one of the rocks that lined our mailbox, and I threw it at the window until it smashed into a million fractured bits. And then I climbed through, slicing my hand on the glass.” I swallow down the lump in my throat, my molars grinding together. “But I still came back out for you. My hand was bleeding all over your blanket, and I was so worried you’d be scared, but you just laid there with me on my living room floor. You laid there with me when I needed you the most, just like you’re doing right now.”

She sniffs again, her hands cradling my neck, thumbs dusting over my bristled jawline. “You brought me with you,” she rasps out, an air of incredulity in her tone. “I’ve always been with you, Brant.”

I finally open my eyes, lashes fluttering, my heart jackhammering in my chest. June is so close. She’s so close. “Always.”

Inching myself down the headboard, we both move into a sleeping position, and I tug the blanket up over our bodies until we’re cocooned in the downy quilt.

We shouldn’t be this close; I know it’s not right, but I don’t fucking care right now, and I don’t care about what Wendy might think, or what she thinks she saw—all I care about is June.

June, June, June.

My eyelids feel heavy as we lie there, chest to chest, noses gently grazing. Her warm breath kisses my lips with every fervent heartbeat.

I’m content. I’m at peace. She’s here, in my arms.

She’s always been here.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but I’m roused awake by the feel of more than just her breath upon my lips. There’s something else. A tickle, at first. Just an erotic tickle.

“Brant…”

She breathes my name against my mouth.

Her mouth is on mine.

June’s mouth is on mine.

And I don’t push her away. I should, but I don’t, I can’t, I just can’t…

“Junebug, what—”

“Shh. You want this,” she whispers, the tip of her tongue brushing along my upper lip. Her pelvis is flush against mine, arousal pulsing through my blood. “You want me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

I don’t hesitate.

Why don’t I hesitate?

“Take me, Brant. Touch me.” June pulls her cotton tank top up over her head, her locks fused with static splaying out over my pillow, her bare breasts highlighted with moonglow as she tugs at my hair, yanking my face down until I’m level with her chest.

No, no, no.

This is wrong. This is so wrong.

A groan spills out of me when I flick her nipple with my tongue, then do it again, and again, until my mouth is wrapped around her breast, my hand palming the other, and she’s writhing against me, gasping for more.

I’m hard.

I’m so goddamn hard.

I want her. I need her.

You can’t have her. She’s seventeen. She’s your fucking adopted sister, you fucking freak.

My mind is shrieking with madness, but my mouth is still moving. Still tasting. Still sucking her tits as she digs her nails into my scalp, my name spilling from her lips.

“Brant… yes, please…” she begs. “Please, wake up.”

Her voice sounds far away as I drag my tongue up her body, to the curve of her neck. “What?” I grit out.

“I said, wake up.”

I inhale a sharp breath.

My eyes ping open.

It’s silent in the room, save for my ragged breaths muffled by lilacky threads of chestnut hair. My face is buried in her tresses, her back to me on the bed, while she’s sound asleep.

The room is dark.

It’s still nighttime.

I was dreaming.

Holy shit, it was just a dream.

Only, the horror doesn’t wane when I realize that I’m spooning her, my hand cupping her breast, my groin pressed into her bottom, jabbing her with a rock-hard erection.

I fly backward, letting her go as if she morphed into brushfire.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Sliding to the foot of the bed as quietly as possible, I manage not to wake June as I pull myself to shaky legs, then throw on a t-shirt. She lies there, perfectly still, her breathing languid and steady, the epitome of angelic.

And I dreamed of defiling her.

Sullying her sweetness.

God… what the hell is wrong with me?

What did Wendy do to me?

I have to get out of here. I feel like I’m choking on a cloud of filth, desperate for clean air. Racing from the bedroom, I snatch up my cell phone, then pop my shoes on and stalk outside into the humid, late summer night.

I get into my car.

I drive.

And fifteen minutes later, I’m rapping my knuckles against Wendy’s front door.

She peeks through the curtain after a minute passes, inspecting who the hell would be knocking on her door at one in the morning. I’m not sure if she’s more stunned or relieved to see that it’s me.

The door cracks open. She’s clad in a white robe, her hair in disarray. “Brant?”

“You’re wrong,” I tell her, pushing my way through the threshold. Wendy paces back, her eyes wide. I sound menacing. Ready to pounce. “I’ll show you how wrong you are.”

Closing the gap between us, I tug her robe apart until she’s bare before me, clad only in her underwear. Wendy gasps, and we’re both breathing heavy, both confused, both rattled to the bone.

I kiss her.

I kiss her hard, crushing her mouth to mine, and erasing June for good.

I burned myself today.

And while I know my hand will heal, some burns are destined to leave a permanent scar.