Free Pressure Point (Point #2) by Olivia Luck

about tea? A cupcake?” Zoe shakes her head feebly.
    “I want to lie down,” she whispers.
    That’s not what I want. She needs to talk, tell me what happened. Every last detail of what went down in that school needs to come out. Now.
    “That’s good, honey, rest will make you feel better. I’ll get Mom to bring soup from the restaurant and some biscotti. That would be good, won’t it?” Stella’s sweet voice interrupts my impatient musing when she reaches out to stroke my sister’s cheek with the back of her hand and smile tenderly at her. I’m transfixed by the smile. Having Stella here is soothing the torrent of anxiety tearing through me.
    A small hand falls on my shoulder when I cross into Zoe’s room with my sister still clinging to me like she’s a small child again.
    “Let me help Zoe get changed,” Stella murmurs.
    I nod my head jerkily, the resolve I’m clutching to beginning to unravel. Once Zoe’s firmly on her feet, I shut the door behind me.
    God, I could have lost her today.
    I grip the back of my neck with one hand. Losing my sister is incomprehensible. I’m good at my job, I throw a decent football, contribute to various charitable organizations, but that’s not the way that I define my character. Who I am reflects on the character of my sister. By my mother’s will, I became her guardian. Since the day Mom died, though, I’ve carried the weight of Zoe’s life on my shoulders. She’s not my daughter by blood, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel like her father.
    “Okay.”
    I whirl around, surprised because I didn’t hear the bedroom door click open. It takes all the well-practiced restraint I have not to let my jaw drop open. Stella took off the tight skirt and blouse she wore this morning and replaced them with Zoe’s clothes. Little does Stella know, she’s wearing one of my old football shirts. Damn if it doesn’t look better on her than it ever did me.
    Fuck.
    If I’m so concerned with my sister, why do I notice Stella’s wearing cotton shorts, high-cut, and revealing firm, tanned legs? With a frustrated scowl, I step toward the bedroom, forcing Stella to shrink back.
    Now I’m not only a horny bastard, I’m an asshole, too. Whatever. Zoe’s my first priority.
    My sister is curled on her side in the middle of the queen-size bed we bought when she turned sixteen. After she had finished graduate school, she rented a place closer to Clarkes Elementary. I wonder when she’ll want to go back there.
    Without hesitation, I strip off my jacket, tie, and dress shirt. My shoes follow and then I position myself next to my sister, not paying attention to where Stella stands uncertainly near the door. I collect my sister against my chest again, feeling her shudder against me.
    “He wanted to die. He wanted to take the kids with him. He wanted to take me with him,” she mumbles. I push her face forward into the crook of my neck, torn between wanting to hear what happened and not wanting to hear because I’m certain the details will haunt me.
    A small whimper turns into deeper, body-wracking sobs. I shut my eyes, letting out a helpless sigh.
    The weight of the bed dips then that same gentle touch I felt earlier is back as a tender hand on my cheek. Is Stella soothing me? No one except my mother has ever touched me with this much care.
    I open my eyes to find Stella on the other side of my sister’s trembling body. Her hand falls from the gentle reassurance on my cheek to drift away, settling around my sister’s waist.
    “Breathe, Zo. You’re safe and we won’t let anything happen to you.”
    We . The word has a nice ring to it. Stella and I, a unit. Somewhere in my mind that fits. What’s left of my restraint drops away, and I use my top hand to wrap around Stella’s waist and haul both my girls tight against me.
    I don’t bother to analyze the repercussions of imagining Stella as my girl and holding her this way. Holding them both this way is the only thing that