Anchor
Kiara
Fire-red lipstick traces my mouth, and I hold my breath like I’m underwater—because if one corner smudges, my step-brother will dive at me, twist it into one of his lazy jabs, or toss it across the dinner table like a bucket of chum.
He’s cruel like that.
And I hate him like a surfer loathes a shark bite—always a row of massive, serrated teeth sliding under my skin.
However, the thing about hate is that it binds you to someone just as securely as love does. But what differentiates them is that one feels like security, and the other feels like an anchor, dragging you into the depths until bubbles stop rising from your pale lips.
And my anchor has a name: Johnny Monroe.
I carefully finish swiping my lipstick over my mouth, the smooth texture gliding over my skin like a flaming promise—a signal that I’m not someone to underestimate.
Exactly what I’m going for.
Fire-red.
Always fire-red.
It’s the one color that makes me feel unsinkable, and it’s more than just a shade; it’s the equivalent of a hot lifeguard watching over me at the beach.
When I wear it, I’m not the girl Johnny can mess with, nor am I the one who gets sunk by his sneers or his offhand comments. When I wear fire-red, I can pretend I’m surfing, even if deep down I’m drowning.
I stare at myself, smoothing my hands down the sharp lines of my little black cocktail dress. The fabric clings to my hourglass frame, tight, sleek… and so not me.
My wavy brown hair falls past my waist, freshly curled, every strand in place because it has to be. There’s no room for error tonight.
I study my reflection—polished, poised, ready to play my part as the dutiful stepdaughter.
My stepfather’s brothers and sisters are downstairs, arriving one by one. Their laughter and chatter float up through the floorboards, alongside clinking glassware and scraping chairs—the steady ambiance of a gathering I have no desire to be at.
But unfortunately, skipping out isn’t an option because my mother wouldn’t have wanted me to.
A knock abruptly reverberates through my door—three short taps, none of which ripple patience.
“Kiara,” Johnny’s voice calls, deep and easy. “You planning to stare at yourself all night, or are you coming down?”
I roll my eyes at my own reflection as if it’s him instead.
God, I hate him.
I quickly double-check my lipstick, take a deep breath, and square my shoulders.
Showtime.
I stride over to the door, brace myself, and yank it open.
Johnny leans against the doorframe, smug as ever. His medium brown locks are swooshed to the side like a wave, like he doesn’t even try, but still manages to have the perfect hair day. His light gray suit fits him snugly, hugging his broad shoulders like it was tailored just for him. Hell, it probably was.
“Wow,” I deadpan, letting my eyes drift down him with mock appreciation. “Didn’t realize the dress code was ‘wannabe Wall Street’ tonight.”
“Damn…” His eyes, lazy and bold, slide down my body, like he’s checking every inch for flaws, before floating back to mine with a smirk. “And I thought you were a try-hard before…”
I cross my arms and raise my chin. “Better to give a damn than give nothing at all.”
He shoots me an unbothered shrug and changes the subject. “You really think red’s a good choice?” His gaze dips to my mouth. “All those lip prints on your wine glass might look… sloppy.”
“Mm.” I give him a tight-lipped smile. “I’d be less worried about my lipstick and more about keeping your daddy happy.”
A tiny tick of irritation flashes in his jaw and washes over his obsidian irises, instantly making me feel victorious.
He’s been in my life since I was sixteen, and we spent years circling each other like rival predators, unwilling to share the ocean. He teased, pushed, and poked at every sore spot I had.
I told myself it was normal—that we were just stupid kids forced to share a roof. However, after my mom died two years ago, things… shifted. Our barbs got sharper, and the air bubbles we were forced to share dwindled.
I don’t know if it was grief, resentment, or what. But whatever it was, it settled between us like debris on a sea floor and made a home there.
His father’s been riding his ass lately, harder than ever—to get serious, buckle down, and step into the family wine business like a real Monroe.
But Johnny? He’s allergic to responsibility, coasting on charm and a trust fund as if they’re oxygen.
Only now, his dad is throwing down ultimatums: get your act together or stop drawing from the bank.
I know it’s eating at him. And maybe that’s why he’s always floating around my doorway and picking fights—to distract himself and feel like he’s still in control of something.
“Let’s go, minnow,” he says, pushing off the frame with his signature shit-eating grin. “Wouldn’t want the family to think you’re rude on top of desperate…”
I hate that God-forsaken nickname.
It only reminds me of what he thinks of me—that I’m a small fish in the giant pond that is his life.
That I don’t belong here.
And that if I stop swimming long enough, he’d eat me alive, the fucking asshole...
I roll my eyes and step past him, holding my head high. I don’t dare breathe—not because I despise the scent of his cedar cologne—but because I don’t. “The only thing I’m desperate for is to be there the day you’re knocked down a peg, pool boy.”
He ignores my snide comment, following close behind as we head downstairs to greet our guests.
Even though I tell myself I hate him, I can’t deny how my pulse jumps when he insults me, as if his opinions matter.
We’re not kids anymore. I’m attending college and living my own life, so I should be past needing Johnny’s approval or validation.
I’m not the girl I used to be. The one who tried to earn his affection with every glance, every smile.
And then there’s the fact that I’m still living in this house with him and his father, like nothing has changed since my mother died two years ago. I couldn’t leave because this house felt like the last piece of her. So I stay, pretending things are fine. But the truth is, I never left because I’m unsure how to.
At dinner, the long mahogany table stretches out, polished to a perfect shine, with heavy crystal wine glasses, silver candlesticks flickering between overflowing platters of meats, greens, and fresh bread. Two kitchen staff hover at the room’s edges, refilling glasses and replacing dishes without a word.
It’s all too formal and stiff—the pressure of it is like lying at the bottom of an eight-foot pool.
I swirl the wine in my glass, eyes catching on the bold, red lip-print I left behind—that stupid stain, reminding me of Johnny’s "sloppy" comment.
The conversation drones on, full of forced laughter and fake compliments, everyone trying to outdo each other with stories of success and wealth. But underneath it all, there’s this sharp edge—Johnny’s father, taking shot after shot at his own son like it’s a water sport.
“—unlike my son,” his father says with a bitter laugh. “It’ll be an act of God if he ever does something constructive with his time.”
The words hang heavy in the air like rain, and I glance at Johnny in time to catch his jaw flexing. He doesn’t fire back, doesn’t even look at anyone. He simply pushes his chair back, the scrape loud and jarring, and walks out of the room, vanishing into the kitchen.
“And there he goes…” his father snickered.
For a second, I sit as if I’m caught in a net, my fingers tight around the stem of my glass.
Part of me wants to smirk and tell myself Johnny deserves it, but something else twists in my stomach instead.
Something nurturing and good.
I don’t know why—he’s never shown me an ounce of pity, or spared me from his cruelty.
However, I can’t shake it, and before I can second-guess it, I set my glass down, excuse myself, and push back from the table, my heels clicking across the hardwood as I follow in Johnny’s footsteps.
I step into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind me.
Johnny is leaning over the counter, his palms braced against the marble like it’s the only thing holding him up. His shoulders are tight, his head bowed, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to wrestle himself into a calm state.
His voice cuts through the quiet, “What do you want?”
The sound of my heels must’ve given me away.
I hesitate, my instincts telling me to turn and leave, but against my better judgment, I ask, “Are you okay?”
He scoffs, “Like you care.”
That’s it.
Just like that, my last nerve snaps clean. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t care.”
He turns toward me, eyes blazing like two bits of charcoal. “Then why are you here? Huh?”
“Maybe I just felt like witnessing the effects of your daddy’s insults firsthand,” I sneer, crossing my arms over my chest.
His laugh lacks amusement, only pure in unchecked anger. “I’d rather be disliked by ‘daddy’ than pretend to be some perfect little college girl.”
“I don’t pretend to be perfect, Johnny.”
“Please...” He rolls his eyes, a familiar frustration crawling onto his face.
I tossed my arms up, my tone rising like a tide. “What did I do that made you hate me so much?”
“You just—” His jaw clenches as his eyes flash for an answer—a lighthouse beacon calling for something in the dark. “—you’re annoying. You always have been. Ever since you moved into this house. You ruined everything.”
That’s it?
I scowl at him, shaking my head. “So, that’s why you hate me? Simply because I disrupted your life?”
“Yes!” he spits, like it’s obvious.
Suffocating silence falls between us as we stare at each other like two people trapped on a deserted island, and didn’t know how the hell they ended up there.
“Well, that’s fucking great,” I finally say, my voice cracking like a bottled up message. “In that case, I hope it feels good, Johnny…”
He furrows his brows. “Hope what feels good?”
“Tearing someone down who’s never done anything to you except want you to love her.”
Something in Johnny’s eyes softens just for a moment, like my words cut deeper than I even meant them to. His gaze drops toward my chin, and without words, he lifts his hand between us.
I freeze, my breath catching, every nerve on high alert.
His fist hovers between us for a second. But as he uncurls it, his thumb branches out and brushes across my lower lip. The gentle, deliberate press glides over each ridge and curve, and it’s unlike any tenderness he’s ever shown me.
What is he doing?
And why the hell was he touching me?
I remain frozen in shock, as if I’m stuck out in the water up to my neck and forced to stand in place until the waves carry me to shore.
He’s never touched me before.
Never even come close.
It’s always been words—sharp, cruel, cutting.
But never this.
And never on the lips.
My heart skips, and I hold my breath, unsure if I should step back or remain still.
However, what wrecks me more is how his touch makes my stomach dip, my knees quiver, and the softest parts of me ache.
It’s not the reaction I ever thought I’d have to him.
Not in a million years.
Getting turned on right now feels… wrong.
So damn wrong.
Suddenly, his expression twists into something spiteful as if I’m an irritating barnacle stuck to his precious surfboard, and his black eyes revert to their usual cruelness.
The pressure of Johnny’s thumb increases, and as its harsh drag reaches my lip line, I could feel my fire-red lipstick smear beyond it, and my lower lip snap back into place.
He finally snarls, his thumb pressing deep into the divot of my chin, “I could never love you.”
Johnny’s fire-stained thumb slides from my chin, and his footsteps thunder away as he storms out of the kitchen. The door swings back on its hinges with a hollow thud, leaving me in heavy silence.
Despite his absence, my heart still pounds, and my thoughts are crashing down like waves on rocks.
Whatever just happened? It’s all too much to comprehend.
My body’s still humming, shaken and raw, as I stare at my reflection in the dark sheen of the microwave across the room, my smeared lipstick standing out like a wound.
Why did his touch feel like that?
This is Johnny. The same Johnny who’s spent years making my life miserable. The Johnny who’s never missed a chance to tear me down.
I should hate him.
God, I do hate him.
But no matter how hard I try to remind myself that he’s my stepbrother, a deeper truth echoes through me like a warning bell in a dense fog.
It isn’t just my lipstick he’s smudging. It’s the sandy line representing our complex hatred for one another.
Only, he didn’t just cross it.
He came like a merciless riptide, washing that line away.
And maybe what really scares me is how his thumb felt against my mouth.
It was intimate yet dangerous, and I should’ve hated it—slapped his hand away.
Instead, my body froze, and I allowed it as if I craved it.
What does that say about me?
All I know for sure is that my line in the sand was now missing.
And that only leads to trouble…
