Darkroom Fuck With Stepmom

The champagne flutes clinked like distant bells under the crystal chandeliers of the old estate ballroom, light fracturing across marble floors polished to a wet sheen. I adjusted the strap of my camera bag and watched my stepsister twirl in her white silk gown, laughing into her new husband's neck. The whole place smelled of gardenias, melted candle wax, and the faint metallic tang of money that had soaked into these walls for generations. I was twenty-eight, the hired family photographer for the night even though blood—or the lack of it—made me family enough. My real job was capturing the smiles. My real distraction was standing three tables away in a dress the color of wet midnight.

Vanessa.

Forty-two and somehow more dangerous than she had been the day my father married her twelve years ago. The years had only sharpened her. Blonde hair twisted up with loose strands kissing the nape of her neck, lips painted a soft berry that made me think of biting. The dress clung to the full curve of her hips and the heavy sway of her breasts every time she turned to accept another congratulation. I had spent half the reception framing shots that somehow always included the line of her spine or the way her thigh flashed when she crossed her legs. Stolen glances. Years of them. She knew. I knew she knew.

Ryan appeared at my elbow like a bad habit, two fingers of scotch already sweating in his glass. Twenty-six, cocky grin, the same sharp jaw our shared father had given both of us even if only one of us carried the blood. “Little brother still playing peeping Tom with the long lens?” He clapped my shoulder hard enough to jostle the camera. “Mom looks fucking edible tonight, doesn’t she? Dad’s already half in the bag. Somebody’s getting lucky later.”