The Wrong Fix

CHASE

I didn’t wait until we were deep inside the house.

The second we cleared the French doors and hit the kitchen—cool tile under my bare feet, music still thumping through the walls—I rounded on him.

“Bro, are you trying to fuck my stepsister?”

Marcus stopped short. Beer halfway to his mouth. “Chase, what the—”

“You saw her, decided you wanted in, and I *told* you she’s violent. Yet here you are, cozying up when there are puck bunnies literally throwing themselves at you everywhere else.”

Marcus lowered the bottle slowly. “I was being friendly.”

“She’s not the friendly type. Avoid her.”

“She seems plenty friendly to me.”

“Don’t let that fool you. I’ve known her longer.”

Marcus crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Maybe I should find out for myself.”

Something hot and ugly twisted in my gut.

Why the fuck did I care?

I shouldn’t.

But I did.

Way too much.

“At least ask permission if you’re gonna try to fuck my stepsister.”

Marcus’s brows shot up. “Okay, what the hell is going on? First you warn me she’s dangerous and I should steer clear. Now you’re doing the protective big-brother routine? Pick a lane, man.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Because he was right.

I was contradicting myself in real time.

And I had zero explanation that didn’t make me sound completely unhinged.

Marcus studied me for a long beat—then sighed. “So which is it? Dangerous and stay away? Or someone who needs protecting and requires your blessing to even talk to her?”

“Both. Neither. Fuck—I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Look—” I dragged a hand through my damp hair. “I said that shit earlier for your benefit. So you’d at least know what you’re dealing with. And yeah, she’s my stepsister now, so I’m gonna act like it. Protective. Whatever.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “You’re being weird as hell, Hartley.”

He turned and walked out—back through the doors, back toward the patio.

Back toward *her*.

I stood there alone—hands braced on the counter so hard my knuckles bleached white.

*Weirdo.*

Yeah.

That tracked.

Through the window I watched him cross the deck. Sloane was still in the lounge chair—legs tucked under her, water bottle dangling from her fingers. Marcus said something when he reached her. She looked up—smiled—that same real, unguarded smile she’d given him earlier—and patted the empty seat beside her.

He sat.

They started talking again.

Like I hadn’t just dragged him away like a jealous asshole.

Like I didn’t exist.

My jaw locked so tight I tasted metal.

*This is insane.*

I turned away from the glass—palms pressed to my eyes until spots danced behind my lids.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Hey.”

The voice was soft, syrupy—too sweet.

I looked up.

Blonde. Red bikini top barely containing anything. Cutoff denim shorts. Lipstick the color of fresh blood. Eyes already glassy from whatever she’d been drinking.

She stepped closer—close enough I could smell coconut sunscreen and vodka.

“What are you doing all alone in here?” she purred.

I glanced back out the window.

Sloane laughed—head tipped back, throat exposed, the sound carrying even over the music. Marcus grinned—wide, easy—said something that made her shove his shoulder playfully.

That laugh.

That fucking laugh.

Something inside me snapped—clean through.

I turned fully to the blonde.

“Upstairs,” I said. Voice flat. “Now.”

Her smile turned victorious—hungry.

She didn’t ask questions.

We moved fast—through the kitchen, up the back stairs, down the hall to my room. Door shut. Locked.

I pushed her onto the bed—rougher than necessary. Grabbed a condom from the nightstand drawer. She was already shimmying out of her shorts, spreading her thighs like an invitation.

I rolled the condom on—mechanical—lined up—and thrust in hard.

She gasped—then moaned—high and needy.

I fucked her like I was trying to erase something.

Hard. Fast. Relentless.

Every snap of my hips was a hammer strike—trying to pound Sloane’s laugh out of my skull. The blonde wrapped her legs around my waist—heels digging into my lower back—urging me deeper. Nails raked down my shoulders. She cried my name again and again—performative, desperate—like she was starring in her own highlight reel.

“Chase—fuck—yes—just like that—harder—”

I barely registered the words.

My eyes kept drifting to the half-open blinds.

Through the slats: pool lights flickering. Marcus still beside Sloane—closer now, knee brushing hers. She hadn’t moved away. She leaned in—said something close to his ear. He threw his head back and laughed. Then she laughed too—real, bright, unguarded.

That laugh sliced deeper than any blade.

I slammed into the blonde harder—once, twice—hips snapping forward like I could fuck the image away. She arched—back bowing, pussy clenching around me—came with a shuddering cry, walls pulsing, nails drawing blood.

I didn’t stop.

Kept going—chasing something I couldn’t name—anger, want, jealousy, all knotted together.

Flipped her onto her stomach—rough. She gasped—then moaned eagerly—pushing her ass up, spreading wider. I gripped her hips—hard enough to bruise—lined up—and drove back in.

Doggy.

Deep.

Brutal.

The bedframe slammed against the wall. Headboard thumped in rhythm with every thrust.

She buried her face in the pillow—muffling her screams—as I pounded into her from behind.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

When I finally came—short, sharp, empty—I buried deep one last time, groaned low, and spilled into the condom.

I pulled out—rolled off—collapsed onto my back.

Stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles.

The blonde rolled onto her side—propped on one elbow—smiling lazy and smug.

“Jesus, Hartley,” she breathed. “That was… intense.”

I didn’t answer.

Just stared upward.

She reached over—traced a finger down my abs.

“Wanna go again?”

“No.”

She paused.

Then laughed—soft, a little hurt.

“Your loss.”

She sat up—retied her bikini top with quick fingers. Slipped her shorts back on. Fixed her hair in my mirror. Wiped smudged lipstick.

“See you downstairs,” she said.

Door opened.

Door closed.

Silence.

I ripped the condom off—tied it—threw it in the trash like it was evidence I needed to dispose of.

Sat up.

Head in my hands.

Sweat cooling on my skin.

What the fuck was I doing?

I’d just fucked a random girl—hard, angry, mechanical—to try to burn Sloane out of my system.

And it hadn’t worked.

Not even close.

All it did was make the ache sharper.

The want louder.

The jealousy blacker.

I stood—walked to the bathroom—cranked the shower to ice-cold.

Water hit like needles.

Didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

Because the truth was clawing its way up my throat whether I wanted to admit it or not.

I didn’t just want Sloane to stop talking to Marcus.

I wanted her to stop talking to anyone who wasn’t me.

I wanted that laugh—real, unguarded—to be aimed at me.

I wanted her eyes on me when she smiled like that.

I wanted her.

And the realization hit harder than any hit I’d taken on the ice.

I pressed my forehead to the cold tile—let the water pound my back—and tried to breathe through it.

But the only thing I could see behind my closed eyes was Sloane—leaning toward Marcus—smiling—laughing—alive in a way she never was with me.

And the only thing I could feel was possession.

Raw.

Ugly.

Undeniable.

I was fucked.

Completely, irreversibly fucked.

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t going away.

And I had no idea how to stop it.