Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here. 

You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape." 

You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall. 

Ay Caramba.  

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

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