Excerpt for Not Quite Family by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

23

Not Quite Family

By Cindy Larie


License Notes


Thank you for purchasing this e-book. This work is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. All characters are adults, 18+ in this story and no one is blood related.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy and discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.



Copyright © 2017 C Cowles

All rights reserved.


One



I wasn’t too thrilled to be going to my step father Robert’s family reunion. After all, he’d only been part of my family for a couple of years, and we’d never met any of his family before now—plus there was the issue of him insisting we call him Dad. Um, nope. I have a dad, and I even get to see him once in a blue moon, when Mom has been taking her meds like she’s supposed to and remembers he has rights.

I was hoping, since I recently turned eighteen, to get to stay home while they went to the reunion. No dice. Mom had a cow, ranting about wild parties, drugs and alcohol, and sex orgies in her bed. Excuse me? I’m a bookworm, I’ve never even smoked a cigarette, and I still have my v-card. I’m not the one who got knocked up and became a mother at seventeen, Mommy. I’m a good girl—or I was, up until I saw him.

The reunion was held in one of the bigger city parks—and the only one with the shelters over the picnic tables. Good thing, too. One of those freakish summer storms popped up out of nowhere. One moment the sun was shining and a cooling breeze was blowing—then we blinked and grey clouds filled the sky, hanging low with an abundance of raindrops. We went from spread out, basking in the warm rays to all crowded beneath a shingled, wooden gazebo, surrounded by six strategically placed picnic tables, to keep from getting soaked.

In the flurry of introductions, our eyes met. He was standing off to the side, behind their dad’s wheelchair. He blushed. I blushed. We stammered our hellos. His name is Russell, but he told me his friends call him Rusty. I called him dreamy…and lover…and mine—not to his face, though. Not yet.

I found out from a younger sister, they live just outside of town in a compound run by their father. At eighteen, each child gets a cabin and a few acres to do with as they choose, as long as they stay. A bit weird, but okay. Different strokes for different folks. I wasn’t going to judge.

Rusty’s is the first cabin on the left after the cattle guard. She explained how it used to be Robert’s before he chose to risk getting disowned by following his own path after college graduation.

“That was about sixteen years ago, I guess,” Rikki mused. “I was around two, so I don’t remember much, other than Robbie not being around anymore. I used to cry for him, asking when he was coming back, and Daddy would say never, if the little fucker knows what’s good for him—Rusty is my oldest son, now.” She grinned. “Momma would get her panties in a wad—not just because he was making me cry and saying Robbie wasn’t his son, but also because I was a bit of a parrot, back then.”

“So, Rusty is next to the oldest?” I tried so hard to keep my voice casual. “How old is everyone? I know Robert is forty, and you’re eighteen. That’s a huge difference.”

“Yeah, I’m the baby. Everyone used to tease me and say it was a good thing I got Daddy’s red hair or he might have thought the mailman brought me. I was a late life surprise—totally ruined their plans of having an empty house while young enough to enjoy it. I moved into my cabin earlier this year, but even though Mom’s fifty-eight and Dad’s sixty-three, he insists he’s still gonna chase her around the kitchen in their birthday suits.”

“Rikki Louise, you aren’t so grown that I can’t turn you over my knee,” her mother, a short, round woman with salt and pepper hair, threatened, shaking an admonishing finger in her face. “Your daddy would die of embarrassment if he knew you told her that.”

“She ain’t gonna tell him—are you?” I shook my head, and she continued, “Anyway, I’m eighteen. The twins, Rose and Ruby, are ten years older, so they’re twenty-eight. Randal is thirty-two, Rusty is thirty-six—and you already knew Robbie is forty.”


Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-3 show above.)