Siblings with Benefits Pt. 02: Sins of the Past Ch. 01

Author's Note: This week marks the fifth anniversary of the debut of Siblings with Benefits Ch 1. So what better way to mark the occasion than to start a sequel? So for my long time readers I hope you're as thrilled to see the return of Mark and Megan as I am to return to them and for newer readers welcome aboard! A disclaimer. SWB the original made a name for itself as an atypical incest series. It is not fun and fluffy but on the darker side and may not be for everyone. I also want to give thanks to author Carnal Flower (check her out!) for being a second pair of eyes on this chapter.

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Megan leaned back in the office chair and rubbed her stinging eyes. Blinking rapidly, she fought to clear them and giving her head a shake took a deep breath and tried to refocus on the computer.

After staring at the rows of images, she glanced down at the catalog on her desk and tried to find the names of the paintings to enter onto the gallery's website. After only a few minutes of adding the titles as well as the name of the artist, her vision blurred again.

She needed a nap, just a half hour would help, but the website needed to be updated by Friday night and somehow it was already Thursday. The task at hand was more tedious than difficult and shouldn't be this draining, but she'd been working on late into the night and early morning on two of her own paintings.

Megan hoped to have them ready for the Black Flame's "To Hell and Back" exhibit next weekend, while trying to organize the entire thing during the day. She flinched when the phone buzzed next to her and seeing that it was the extension for the bar downstairs, she thumbed speaker.

"The poster art here for approval?"

"Hello to you too, Megan," Nicole's voice chirped through the phone, "No art, but a couple of new girls looking to work the floor just showed up. Personally I approve, but I could use a second opinion."

"Sorry, I only play for the other team these days," Megan replied, noticing her voice sounded as scratchy as her eyes felt.

"Just because you're on a diet doesn't mean you can't look at the menu." Nicole laughed.

"Then find Abigail, she's the reigning expert on fine dining."

"Abigail? Megan, it's only one thirty, she won't open her eyes for two more hours, let alone make an appearance."

"So, what's up, Nikki, I'm in the middle of something."

"I love when you call me that."

"Really?" A deep voice spoke in the background, "Well hello, Nikki!"

"I like when she says it, Seth. You, I'll gut like a fish."

"Touchy." She heard him mutter.

"I'm heading out to Starbucks before we have to get ready for tonight, do you want anything?"

"Damn, straight," Megan replied, "I don't care what, just make it dark and strong."

"I'll be up in a minute." Seth called out.

"Last about a minute too, I'll bet." Nicole cracked, "Okay, I'll bring it up to you when I get back."

"Thanks..." She paused and added loudly, "Nikki!"

She laughed when she heard Seth imitating her in the background followed by the distinct sound of a slap.

Tapping the speaker button, she pushed the chair away from her desk and standing, stretched her arms over her head and arched her back until it cracked. Walking around the desk Megan opened the closet and looked into the full length mirror on the inside of the door.

Her eyes, an eerie shade of ice blue, were rimmed in red and appeared dull and lifeless. Megan stared into her burnt out gaze and noted even with her eyes stinging she could go an abnormally long time without blinking.

That trait, in addition to the odd color of her eyes, enabled her to win every stare down she could remember and when she was young and into mythology had compared her cold gaze to that of Medusa.

In honor of that, one of Megan's first paintings was the famous Greek gorgon and when she had turned eighteen she'd had it tattooed on her arm. The sleeveless black sundress she wore showed off the tattoo which she'd had re-colored a few months back.

The evil snake-adorned face of Medusa stared balefully from her shoulder as her long grey green serpentine body coiled around her arm, where it ended in a bloody talon just over her elbow. Medusa's bow was half-drawn and Megan could still remember drawing each line of the black ichor dripping from it.

The Gorgon's eyes were the same color as hers, but trimmed in red so right now... exactly like hers. Looking back at her reflection Megan recalled stretches of months her eyes looked like this and far worse, and for reasons she would never allow herself to forget.

Right now life was good, no better than good, life was fucking fantastic. Sober, madly in love with a man who despite the trivial detail of being her younger brother, had become her husband last year, and she was now a successful artist running a gallery.

Granted that gallery was housed in a club owned by a witch and specialized in outré art, but that was what she'd been painting since she first picked up a brush at thirteen and after years of struggling to overcome her addiction Megan was now making money with that talent, and plenty of it.

Feeling much better than before, she smiled, noting the large slightly crooked smile that seemed incongruous when coupled with the dark gothic persona she displayed at the club. But her smile, along with her laugh, was infectious and now that she did both a lot more over the last year Megan had been told she was making the club look bad.

She pulled the clip from her hair and shook it out. Her long, lustrous black hair looked good on her fair, well to be honest, borderline ghostly skin and the feel of it on her bare shoulders sent a pleasant shiver through her.

For whatever reason being this tired made her horny, but then again when wasn't she always horny these days? Another sign life was good. For a good part of Megan's life sex was everything but enjoyable, from being molested by a sadistic foster father to fifteen years of using her body to feed her addictions, sex was nothing more than an act, just another form of pain and humiliation, another piece of her soul being sliced off every time she swung from a pole or got on her knees for a john or dealer.

"Stop that," Megan said aloud and in her mind could hear Mark saying clear as day, "Shit, Meg, you could fuck up a wet dream sometimes."

"Not anymore." She whispered, "Our life is our dream, no more nightmares for us, baby."

She was speaking to herself, but to Mark as well. It was as close as she would come to addressing whatever he was going through right now. For the last month he hadn't been sleeping well and she knew he was having nightmares, but wouldn't tell her about them.

For now Megan wouldn't push him. Next Friday marked the one year anniversary of the night they had promised never to discuss-well more accurately the night Mark told her they would never talk about again-and she was sure that was part of it.

Mark had almost died that night, and according to everyone involved he should have. Megan's mother swore it was a miracle from God; Abigail insisted her brother had been saved by whatever it was that occupied the dark places of his mind because he was a servant to a greater power.

Two opposite sides of the coin, but in the end all that mattered was that Mark cheated death and for that matter so had she, and more than once, having spent the majority of fifteen years drinking and using.

Risking disease from used needles and death from overdoses or bad horse, Megan had worked for brutal sadistic pimps and rolled the dice every time she turned a trick. She'd come within seconds of being gang raped by bikers at the Wolf's Den and in front of Mark who they had beaten badly before being stopped by their leader who had showed up just in time.

As close as that call was, it paled in comparison to the day in Hell's Kitchen when Megan had vowed to end her pitiful existence once and for all. She'd succeeded, or thought she had, in making the few people who cared about her hate her and whored herself one last time for enough pure China White to send her off on one last high.

The needle was in her hand when Mark had kicked the door in and wrestled it away from her. That was the last time she'd ever had one in her hand and God willing, she never would again. Megan gave her mirror image a slight smile.

Thinking of God in the Black Flame and amongst the company she kept, including her satanic brother and his best friend and Megan's backer, Abigail Lefay, leader of one of the most powerful coven of witches in the world.

Megan had shared their beliefs for a long time. How could she not? When you were being raped on a nightly basis as a child and plagued by the demons of addiction and witness to the constant cruelty people inflicted upon each other it was a lot easier to believe in the Devil and his darkness than it was to believe in a divine loving father.

But lately she'd begun thinking of it differently, that there had to be someone or something with good intentions looking after her. Mark would say if there was a God they would never have been through what they had, but on the other hand many of their troubles, especially as adults were their own choices and how else could they explain how many close calls they'd had and both survived?

Megan wasn't exactly ready to start going to church and yelling Hallelujah, but was coming around to the idea there was something out there that cared about them. If nothing else it was better than Mark's bleak outlook on things that all suffering was allowed and you had to fight every battle alone because you were on your own. Mark believed we had only this life to live, that when we died; we simply ceased to exist, an eternal sleep.

"Wow, that's deep." She nodded sagely to her reflection, and then laughed when she again heard Mark, "Sis, I swear you're not happy unless you're not happy."

Mark wasn't wrong; even when she had gotten her addiction in check Megan was still plagued by guilt and melancholy. Any stress would bring back painful memories of things she'd done and who she'd hurt. But since they had finally put an end to their close to twenty years of being siblings with benefits and sharing their life together, things had been so much better for both of them

.

Whether it was God or the Devil calling the shots one thing was for sure, Mark and Megan were each other's salvation. Sometimes each other's curse in the past with the things they put each other through, but in the end they belonged together. In their teens Mark had said they were like two halves of a broken plate, useless on their own, but when together everything was right.

Megan took a deep breath and gave her head a shake, putting a physical action to the mental image of shaking herself free of any old memories or negative thoughts, hell even any serious musings on the meaning of it all. Today was a damn good day.

Ten years ago to this date, August first, Megan had walked into the rehab Mark had gotten her into after he had saved her in New York. Although she had been clean for two weeks before that while he nursed her back to health she had taken that day as her first truly drug free.

Mark wouldn't let her out of his sight and she was struggling to do it just for him, but checking into the rehab was about doing it for her.

Megan raised her left wrist, looking at the silver bracelet she wore. Dangling from it was a small silver replica of her one-year AA medallion Mark had made for her on the day she received it. As a tradition she only wore it on her anniversary and looked forward to showing it off at the meeting tonight where she would receive her tenth year medal.

Megan felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. Despite Mark's mocking of her she practiced daily affirmations and today's was gratitude. She was grateful for all she had; her success, her somewhat unconventional marriage to her brother, her parents who still loved her despite the hell she had put them through and all the other good in life.

Even her looks; so many people who had been hardcore users for as long as Megan had bore the results of that hard lifestyle even when clean. But she had returned from being what could best be described as a walking corpse to a beautiful woman.

It sounded conceited and Megan would be the first to admit to being somewhat vain, but in her heart she appreciated it for just the fact she was now the woman Mark insisted she'd always been meant to be. Letting her eyes wander down the mirror, she looked herself over.

Megan was tall and on the slender side and although small on top, made up for it with a pair of long legs well shaped by years of dancing, even though stripping wasn't most instructors' idea of modern dance, it was still a form of entertainment she now employed on occasions for fun at the club. Her ass, like her tits, was small, but firm and well shaped and received a lot of stares as she walked down the street.

Her long straight black hair and fair skin gave Megan the goth appearance that fit perfectly with her choice of material for her paintings and she played it up whenever she appeared as Megan Decosta, her "professional" name. Looking at her chest she rolled her eyes at how often she'd been described as Elvira without the tits.

Decosta was her birth name and although Megan wanted nothing to do with her sorry excuse for a mother who had given her children away like unwanted pets, or her abusive psychotic father who had died in an asylum, the name was fitting. She painted hellish visions and those two pieces of shit had put her on the path to hell.

The name on her license, Megan Hanson-Phillips was who she was; the daughter of Doug and Denise, her true parents who had raised her and of course the last name of her husband slash brother. As Mark always said, "Jerry Springer here we come."

She jumped at the sound of a knock, and closing the closet door called out, "Come on in."

Megan had been expecting to see Nicole with her much needed coffee, but instead the door opened and a large crate appeared in the doorway, with a pair of huge arms wrapped around it.

"This just came for you," Seth spoke from behind the wood.

"Another one?" Megan glanced through the doorway into the room off her office where she received and cataloged new paintings, and saw yesterday's delivery leaning against the wall.

It was still in the crate, with just the front removed to view the painting within it. She couldn't see it, but didn't need to, it was pretty memorable.

"I guess." Seth grunted as he leaned the crate against the wall next to the door and wiped at his forehead, "I think they used fucking oak to make this damn box."

"Most people would have used a hand truck."

"Most people aren't me." He flexed his right arm.

"Can't argue with that, you're a big boy," Megan agreed and wasn't just stroking his ego.

Well over six feet tall and at least two hundred and fifty pounds, not an ounce of it fat, Seth was one of the biggest men she'd ever encountered. Standing there in the doorway his shoulders damn near touched the frame on both sides.

Seth was dressed in his customary black vest with no shirt beneath and she let her gaze wander over his powerful chest and rock hard stomach. As he balanced the crate against the wall, Megan was amazed at how large his hands were, she swore when he made a fist it was almost the size of her head.

Seeing her looking, he made a show of stretching, the muscles rippling beneath his dark skin. She noted the several thin white scars on his torso as well as a couple of small puckered areas of skin. Seth had earned the knife and gunshot wounds while spending years as a paid mercenary before being hired by Abigail Lefay as her head of security for the club.

Not that being in her employ was much different as Megan had learned last year. The long jagged scar near the top of Seth's right arm was the result of that horrific night her and Mark had been attacked. Abigail had demanded Nicole, Seth and Oscar, another of her top people, go after the remaining Ruine brother, Houdon, and kill him in retaliation. Seth had been cut with a machete, Nicole shot and Oscar had been decapitated.

"In every way." He flashed her a nasty smile, his white teeth a sharp contrast to his dark skin. "Care to find out?"

"Keep it in your pants, smooth talker." Megan rolled her eyes, but was glad his comment had steered me from unwanted memories. "Married woman, remember?"

She held up her hand showing off her onyx wedding band and the beautiful bloodstone engagement ring that had once belonged to Abigail's adopted mother, Lorena.

"They always are." He winked as he lifted the crate once more and walked it into the next room.

Megan followed him, admiring his impressive physique. Seth was an odd sort, a former, and as she had learned still occasional, killer for hire, yet he was one of the most laid back people she knew, was quick with a joke and a smile that gave him the appearance of being a gentle giant.

His long braids were pulled back in a clip and she frowned when she noticed that it was made of bleached bone. So much for the illusion of gentle.

Seth set the crate down next to the first one and sliding out the crowbar he had tucked into his belt, "Shall I pop it open for you?"

"Please."

"I wasn't talking about the crate." He gave her another nasty grin and she knew he wasn't kidding, if she said "let's go," Seth would be all over her.

"My husband's a jealous man you know."

"I can tell he's jealous." He laughed as he jammed the flat end of the bar into the crate. "I see it in the way he lets you dance topless in the club."

"Jeez," Megan sighed, "Get a little carried away once. It was a party and I ..."

"Don't even drink." He grunted as he leaned back on the bar, pulling the front of the crate off a couple of inches amidst the squealing of the protesting nails. "You just like flaunting those pretty tits of yours."

"Fine, then let's stick with mean." She told him.

"I could take him," Seth informed her, pulling the lid of the crate further back one handed, showing off his impressive strength,

"Like you took Nicole?" She had to bite her lip to hold back a smile.

The smile left his face, "She got lucky."

"I guess so, and more than once." Megan nodded, "That must have sucked, having your hand in a cast for..."

She stopped when he gave her a hard stare. Megan returned it calmly, locking her gaze onto his dark eyes. Seth continued to stare and they stood there silently until he finally grunted and looked away.

"Wouldn't want your scrawny ass anyway," he told her, "Christ, girl, eat a cheeseburger once in awhile."

"I'll eat some meat tonight, promise." She winked at him.

"That's different from any night how?" He grunted and now using both arms gave the bar a vicious yank and ripped the front of the crate away.

The painting within the crate was covered in brown paper with a white envelope affixed to it marked "Miss Decosta".

Seth passed her the envelope then sliding a wicked looking dagger from within his vest carefully slit the paper along the edges of the crate. Megan opened the envelope and unfolded the paper within it. The note was written in the same flawless calligraphy as yesterday's.

"Miss Decosta, I hope you enjoyed my gift to you yesterday and don't mind another. I have no desire to profit from my talents as you do, but simply seek to express both my personal experiences as well as the visions of my dreams."

"You, my dark and talented beauty, haunt those dreams. Your paintings are vivid and powerful and the work of a true visitor to the darkest place of all, the human soul. I have long wanted to reach out to you, but rather than just appear on your doorstep I wish for you to want to meet me, to invite me into your life. I wish to do so by sharing these paintings with you in hopes you would like to meet the person behind the art."