sister in heat chapter 2
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By the time I got my Master's, I was already working for a major architectural firm in the city. They subsidized a few ancillary classes I would later take in LEED design, but for the most part I was out of school and in the career I'd always dreamed of. And because I was that lucky, I could afford a place downtown.
I asked Stephanie to move in with me, and she took her time giving me an answer. I understood the reluctance. It was a confusing step, given our arrangement.
The two of us had decided several months ago that we liked each other enough to pursue a semi-serious relationship. However, Stephanie did not believe in monogamy. To an outsider, this would seem strange, considering how we acted with each other. Ostensibly, Stephanie and I were a good couple - I would go so far as to say we were a great couple. We went out for romantic nights on the town, sometimes we stayed in to watch movies on the couch, our jobs were very different and thus very interesting to each other (she worked as a consultant for a few peacekeeping, politicking and fundraising organizations while zeroing in on an overseas position she'd been eyeing since graduation), and we hardly ever fought. Also, the sex was phenomenal.
Yet despite all this harmony, for the most part we lived separate lives. We shared a passionate dedication to our work, but that meant our relationship would always come second. Stephanie had been frustrated with boyfriends in her past who couldn't stand that, being relegated to second, third, tenth or eleventh on her list of things to do. That's why, by the time she reached graduate school, she'd given up on relationships. She'd also given up on hooking up, except when her stress level absolutely necessitated a thorough fucking (she was not impressed with the crop of studs she'd mowed down across our campus, and most of them, she said, were way too clingy). But then there was me. I, too, had little time to devote to a real relationship, but I could be flexible.
There is something to be said for having someone to rely on, for comfort, for sex, and for emotional release. But I had secrets, and Steph had secrets, and neither one of us was in a place to share them. There would always be a line we didn't cross; at the same time, she was able to rely on me and I, gratefully, could rely on her. So when we dated, it always felt fresh. Oftentimes that was because we wouldn't see each other for a week at a time. We didn't probe too deeply. But many nights, even if we'd spent the day apart, we did sleep in the same bed.
So Stephanie was torn when I asked her to move in. We had an open relationship, and she liked that freedom - needed it, in fact. But she also, begrudingly, was fond of me.
"It won't work," she said as she was toweling her hair that morning. The steam from the shower was still floating around the room and I, as always, was mesmerized by the muscles in her long, lithe legs. I traced a few water droplets that clung to her buttock. She swiped my hand away. "Listen, Johnny."
"I'm listening," I said.
"Well what do you think is going to happen?"
I couldn't really say. And what I haven't said, yet, is why I was the way I was, why I was fine with an open relationship, why I wasn't more possessive of Stephanie. It was because I still had deep feelings for Monica. Deep, uncomplicated feelings. I wanted her, and that was wrong.
What I thought, being with Stephanie, was that I could live a (somewhat) normal life. I didn't need her to love me, but I did need to try and move past this longing. It had been a year since I'd graduated, a handful of summers since that day in Venice when she asked me to take her, hundreds of nights since we'd first fucked, and a thousand kisses later.
I could be with Stephanie because Stephanie didn't need me to give her more of myself than I could. She didn't want me to. That's why our relationship, in a sense, worked.
"I think we're going to move in together," I said.
She finished drying her hair and blew her bangs out of her face. She looked at me in that shrewd, no-bullshit way. "We have to have rules."
"Of course."
"No fucking other people in the apartment."
"Right."
Her shrewd look grew even shrewder. She squinted at me. "Who else are you fucking right now?"
"No one," I said. It was the truth.
"I don't want to get married, John. Ever."
"I just said move in together."
"I know." She pulled her bra off the nightstand, started to put it on, and then stopped. "Does this still work for you?"
I grabbed her and threw her down on the bed. I watched her breasts bounce with a hungry smile. "Oh, it works."
"Uh-uh," she said. "I just showered." She tried to get up and I pushed her back down. She bounced, tried to get up. I jumped on her, loving the clean smell of her, loving the struggle. I buried my nose in her neck and forced myself between her legs. She grabbed me, stroked me, and dug her heels into my tailbone. "I can say no," she said.
"You won't," I said. I rubbed my shaft against her moistening pussy lips. Up and down. And then I guided the head against slit.
"How do you know?" she grunted as I pushed.
"It works for you too."
"Your cock works," she groaned, rolling her head against the mattress. The walls of her vagina closed around me.
"Do it for a year, see if you like it." I thrust, pinning her against the bed.
"I like it," she groaned. "I like it." She tried to push her way off the mattress and I pushed her down again, hard, the way she liked it. "Fuck," she gasped. "Harder."
I fucked her harder, tightening my fingers in her hair and driving myself all the way down to the hilt. She screamed and bucked against me, telling me a stream of dirty things. "I'll do it," she murmured into my ear as I came in her. "But you're going to be sorry," she said.
I squeezed her ass. An appreciative moan slipped from her lips. "Now get off," she said, "I have to clean up all over again..."
* * *
"So, two years after grad school, that's where we are, in an open relationship, living together downtown, with sworn promises to each other that we will always be clean and clear about our other affairs." I finished rinsing the dish and set it in my mother's drying rack. Sitting on the counter, my sister twirled her finger through her blonde curls and rolled her eyes. I tried my best not to stare at where her shorts rode up her meaty ass, or at her thighs (thicker than Steph's, but in the best, softest way) as she lifted herself up with just her arms and languidly crossed them at the knee. She caught me looking, and smirked.
"What does 'clean and clear' mean?"
"It means we regularly get ourselves checked out - inspected, as it were - and use protection if we have sex with someone else."
"Obviously," said Monica. "But the 'clear' part? You tell each other who else you're fucking?"
"No," I said. "I suppose what I mean is that we're clear on the rules. We don't talk about that."
Monica squinted at me. "Who else are you fucking?"
"No one," I said. It was the truth.
"And who's she fucking?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Don't care."
Monica leaned down (she knew I knew she wasn't wearing a bra, and the way her breasts rolled under her loose, gray top was a thing of beauty). "How can you not care?"
I sighed. "I just don't, Moni. That's how it works."
"You're lying," she said.
That was sort of true. I was a little possessive of Stephanie, who I still considered my girlfriend, in a macho, self-defeating way. "Well," I said, "I suppose I do care. But I don't care about that as much as I care about other things."
"What other things?"
I dried my hands on the dish towel. I avoided her bright, almost green eyes for as long as I could, until she touched my chin with her fingertips, and pulled me close, and kissed me softly on the mouth. We stayed like that longer than was prudent (my mother was in the next room on the phone with our uncle), but it was a sweet little kiss.
I watched her eyes open when I pulled away. The lashes caught the light; they fairly sparkled.
"How's Ralph?" I said.
She socked me in the shoulder. "Way to kill the mood. And his name is Ray."
"You still seeing him?"
"No," she said. "Not really." She hopped down from the counter and pulled me with her into the living room. "I'm not going to say what I'm thinking, but you already know what I'm thinking."
"'If you have permission to fuck who you want, why don't you fuck me?'"
Monica let go of my fingers and spun against the couch. She tucked her hands behind her back, dug her fingers into the armrest, and gave me a big, stupid wink as she hunched in her shoulders and treated me to a deep, delicious look down her ample cleavage. She wiggled her hips and grinned. "You're so smart, big b*o." Then she took a few quick steps forward and slapped me. "But I don't sound that bubbly."
"Sometimes when I fucked you in the ass your voice got pretty damn bubbly."
She turned a little red and quickly glanced down the hall. Our mother was still talking, oblivious. She sighed, and gave me a sidelong glare. "So?"
It was my turn to sigh, and I went back to the fridge for a beer. Since our father passed away the year before, my sister and I did our best to visit our mother on the weekends that we could spare. Sometimes it was just me, sometimes it was just her, but sometimes it was both of us. And, I'm sad to say, the times my mother was on the phone were those few occasions we had to both see and talk to each other freely. I tried not to see Monica outside the house if I could help it.
I had to. I couldn't help myself otherwise.
I handed Monica a beer and we sat on the couch together. "I'm trying to live a normal life," I said.
"I don't want a normal life," she said. "Or no. Forget that. Who said it can't be normal?"
"Just about everybody, Moni."
She made a rude noise and set her beer on the table. She took mine and set it next to hers. Then she grabbed the back of the couch and threw her leg over my hips. She straddled me. "Mon!" I started.
"Shut up," she said, her manicured finger against my lips. She pushed her chest against my face, rubbing her crotch into mine. "I want this, and I'm not afraid to tell you that. You haven't let me talk about this for a year, but I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
"It would break mom's heart," I said simply.
"So mom doesn't have to know," she said, still gently rubbing against me. "Stephanie doesn't have to know either."
Sure, she was right. But it wasn't how I wanted it. I wanted to live my life and have Monica, and not have to worry about keeping secrets. That's what I wanted.
And, somehow, Monica knew this, knew all of this without me saying it. Her face softened from its tranquil fury to gentle understanding. "We don't know anybody in the Valley," she said. "Not too many people, anyway. You wouldn't have to leave your job."
"You've really been thinking about this," I said.
She sighed, then she swung her leg away and sat down next to me. She gave a bigger, more dramatic sigh, and pushed her head into my shoulder. "I was really horny when this all started, and now? It's like I'm a nun. Except when I see you. When I see you, I remember everything we've done, everything you said to me, how you never judged me, how giving you were, what you let me do... I've tried, Johnny. I've really tried putting it behind me. Maybe I could if you really didn't want this. But I know you do."
I put my hand on her shoulder. She laid her hand over mine. There wasn't much more to say on the subject. I'd put off that conversation for a year, and nothing had changed.
Monica wasn't desperate. She never called me in the middle of the night to come over to her place across town (though often I dreamed she did). She'd given me my space ever since I told her I was dating Stephanie two years ago. We saw each other on those weekends, perhaps once in a while when Steph and I would meet up with whatever guy she was dating at the time. But she didn't push it. If I was going to try to live a non-i****tuous life, she would too.
But Monica knew what she wanted; she always had. And she was honest about it, which I couldn't really say of myself.
I did my best not to think about it, and had it been up to me, I probably would have spent the rest of my life "not thinking about it." But then I found myself hosting a dinner party at a very inconvenient time, and the life I knew went right out the window.
* * *
Brodie Nash was an old friend of mine from high school. He also happened to be filthy rich - by virtue of his father being exponentially richer - and as fate would have it, his father had entrusted him with "revitalizing" a historic building in downtown. It was the first real job Brodie was entrusted with after dropping out of school. Now that Brodie was married (to Elaine Bringham, also from money, also very Catholic), it was the opinion of his combined families that he should do something with his life. Thus far, the most Brodie had managed to do with his life was get Elaine pregnant and star in a very entertaining viral video about how not to drive while intoxicated. The downtown revitalization was an attempt to rebuild the Nash/Bringham image, and Brodie's father was very insistent it go off without a hitch.
I mention all of this because it was my personal connection to Brodie that may have influenced his decision to contract my firm for the project. I rarely worked the public relations side of things, but my firm was understandably adamant that I work this one to the hilt.
Which is why I shouldn't have been surprised when Brodie called me one afternoon to ask if I'd mind hosting a small dinner party for he and his wife and the project manager. But I was surprised, so I asked if this particular dinner hadn't already been planned by one of our PR people at the home of my company's CEO.
"Yeah," said Brodie, his voice trailing off the receiver. "But he's a tool. You're cool. So let's have a few drinks and get my wife off my back for a few hours."
To which I said, "Sure, Brodie. Anything for you."
Now I had a problem. I - as most of my friends and family will tell you - am a terrible cook. As far as take-out goes, I had that covered, but my boss (who called me into his office immediately after I hung up the phone) made me promise to treat Brodie to something home cooked. In other words, "make an effort, and make him see the effort."
Had Steph been with me, she might have known what to do. My ostensible girlfriend was not much of a cook either, but she at least knew how these things were supposed to go (she was very good at the whole networking game). But Steph was up in NorCal working with OxFam or the Red Cross and wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.
In his office, my boss gave me a helpless grimace. "You think you can get him to sign tonight?" All we needed was one final signature and we were set. I'd been working on the plans for the ground floor refurbishment for the past week, but I had no idea who on the Nash side had actually seen them. Moreover, that wasn't my job. Me and my department were the brains; the rest of the company was for greasing palms and signing papers.
"Absolutely," I said.
"I know Stephanie's out tonight. You know someone who can cook?"
"I...do," I said.
"What?" His forehead was actually wet with perspiration (Mr. Thompson was a nervous man in general, but this project was worth more money than a quarter of our projects last year). "Why you say it like that, Johnny? He a lousy cook?"
"No, she's..." Hoo boy. "She's really fucking good."
"Oh!" Mr. Thompson wiped his forehead. "Thank Christ for that. Little bit of the culinary spark in her?"
"She did a few years as a line supervisor and a caterer at the Hilton."
"Holy shit!" said Mr. Thompson. "Yeah! Grab 'er! Get 'er! That's perfect."
"Yeah, but-" I started.
"But nothing!"
"...'kay."
He gave me the rest of the day off to get ready. I had about four hours.
I took a deep breath in the parking lot, leaned against my car, and dialed Monica's number. "Hey," I said when she picked up.
"Hi," she said.
"I need to ask you...for a favor."
I heard movement, shuffling, and then tried not to imagine her grinning into the receiver. "Oh really..."
"Yeah," I said. "I have about three hours to make dinner for a client. It's not really something I do, but-"
"Is it for Brodie?"
"Yeah," I said.
She laughed.
"Don't laugh."
She laughed some more. It was like tinkling bells being blown up her nose. I loved that laugh.
"It's not funny," I said.
"He's such a prick. He probably thinks you guys are gonna hang out and talk about old times."
"Yeah, well, if I'm lucky. Look, I just need to make something for him and his wife and maybe one or two other people-"
"And you-"
"And me, I guess. I wouldn't have bothered you but you actually know how to do this."
"I do," she said, as if realizing this for the first time. "What about your happy little homemaker?"
"Steph's busy."
"Uh-huh," she said. "So you need your amazing little sister to swoop in and save the day."
"Yes, Mon. But look, no funny business."
"Oh no," she said. "Certainly not." I heard her moving around and then the sound of her writing. "I remember what Brodie likes. I can make a fancy stir fry with some wine and some other appetizer things. Oh, and the favor you owe me is in addition to what this is going to cost."
"I'll reimburse you," I said.
"Yep," she said. "No sweat. I'll pick this stuff up and be at your place in an hour. That's two hours to cook...should be fine. Don't worry, Johnny."
"Thanks, s*s."
She hung up, and for almost an hour I was sure everything would be fine.
* * *
As soon as I opened the door, I realized everything would not be fine. Monica had all of the ingredients ready and waiting in several grocery bags that lined the hallway behind her, and she was standing amidst them with a sweet and very helpful smile on her face. That, of course, was not the problem. The problem was that my sister was wearing an outfit that did not so much suggest French Maid as scream it in the dirtiest French possible.
My sister, all five foot nothing of her, was propped up in shiny black stiletto heels that made her well-proportioned legs look like two sticks of edible dynamite. Those legs were encased in sheer black stockings that led up to a black and white skirt that might have been classy if it was several (and then several more) inches longer. Her ample chest was pushed together and nearly bursting out of the tight, buttoned top (her cleavage could have swallowed the Spanish Armada), and her lips were a brighter shade of blood. She batted her big, beautiful eyes at me and affixed her little maid's cap. She pushed it to a rakish angle and swept back one leg. "Well? What do you think?"
I asked Stephanie to move in with me, and she took her time giving me an answer. I understood the reluctance. It was a confusing step, given our arrangement.
The two of us had decided several months ago that we liked each other enough to pursue a semi-serious relationship. However, Stephanie did not believe in monogamy. To an outsider, this would seem strange, considering how we acted with each other. Ostensibly, Stephanie and I were a good couple - I would go so far as to say we were a great couple. We went out for romantic nights on the town, sometimes we stayed in to watch movies on the couch, our jobs were very different and thus very interesting to each other (she worked as a consultant for a few peacekeeping, politicking and fundraising organizations while zeroing in on an overseas position she'd been eyeing since graduation), and we hardly ever fought. Also, the sex was phenomenal.
Yet despite all this harmony, for the most part we lived separate lives. We shared a passionate dedication to our work, but that meant our relationship would always come second. Stephanie had been frustrated with boyfriends in her past who couldn't stand that, being relegated to second, third, tenth or eleventh on her list of things to do. That's why, by the time she reached graduate school, she'd given up on relationships. She'd also given up on hooking up, except when her stress level absolutely necessitated a thorough fucking (she was not impressed with the crop of studs she'd mowed down across our campus, and most of them, she said, were way too clingy). But then there was me. I, too, had little time to devote to a real relationship, but I could be flexible.
There is something to be said for having someone to rely on, for comfort, for sex, and for emotional release. But I had secrets, and Steph had secrets, and neither one of us was in a place to share them. There would always be a line we didn't cross; at the same time, she was able to rely on me and I, gratefully, could rely on her. So when we dated, it always felt fresh. Oftentimes that was because we wouldn't see each other for a week at a time. We didn't probe too deeply. But many nights, even if we'd spent the day apart, we did sleep in the same bed.
So Stephanie was torn when I asked her to move in. We had an open relationship, and she liked that freedom - needed it, in fact. But she also, begrudingly, was fond of me.
"It won't work," she said as she was toweling her hair that morning. The steam from the shower was still floating around the room and I, as always, was mesmerized by the muscles in her long, lithe legs. I traced a few water droplets that clung to her buttock. She swiped my hand away. "Listen, Johnny."
"I'm listening," I said.
"Well what do you think is going to happen?"
I couldn't really say. And what I haven't said, yet, is why I was the way I was, why I was fine with an open relationship, why I wasn't more possessive of Stephanie. It was because I still had deep feelings for Monica. Deep, uncomplicated feelings. I wanted her, and that was wrong.
What I thought, being with Stephanie, was that I could live a (somewhat) normal life. I didn't need her to love me, but I did need to try and move past this longing. It had been a year since I'd graduated, a handful of summers since that day in Venice when she asked me to take her, hundreds of nights since we'd first fucked, and a thousand kisses later.
I could be with Stephanie because Stephanie didn't need me to give her more of myself than I could. She didn't want me to. That's why our relationship, in a sense, worked.
"I think we're going to move in together," I said.
She finished drying her hair and blew her bangs out of her face. She looked at me in that shrewd, no-bullshit way. "We have to have rules."
"Of course."
"No fucking other people in the apartment."
"Right."
Her shrewd look grew even shrewder. She squinted at me. "Who else are you fucking right now?"
"No one," I said. It was the truth.
"I don't want to get married, John. Ever."
"I just said move in together."
"I know." She pulled her bra off the nightstand, started to put it on, and then stopped. "Does this still work for you?"
I grabbed her and threw her down on the bed. I watched her breasts bounce with a hungry smile. "Oh, it works."
"Uh-uh," she said. "I just showered." She tried to get up and I pushed her back down. She bounced, tried to get up. I jumped on her, loving the clean smell of her, loving the struggle. I buried my nose in her neck and forced myself between her legs. She grabbed me, stroked me, and dug her heels into my tailbone. "I can say no," she said.
"You won't," I said. I rubbed my shaft against her moistening pussy lips. Up and down. And then I guided the head against slit.
"How do you know?" she grunted as I pushed.
"It works for you too."
"Your cock works," she groaned, rolling her head against the mattress. The walls of her vagina closed around me.
"Do it for a year, see if you like it." I thrust, pinning her against the bed.
"I like it," she groaned. "I like it." She tried to push her way off the mattress and I pushed her down again, hard, the way she liked it. "Fuck," she gasped. "Harder."
I fucked her harder, tightening my fingers in her hair and driving myself all the way down to the hilt. She screamed and bucked against me, telling me a stream of dirty things. "I'll do it," she murmured into my ear as I came in her. "But you're going to be sorry," she said.
I squeezed her ass. An appreciative moan slipped from her lips. "Now get off," she said, "I have to clean up all over again..."
* * *
"So, two years after grad school, that's where we are, in an open relationship, living together downtown, with sworn promises to each other that we will always be clean and clear about our other affairs." I finished rinsing the dish and set it in my mother's drying rack. Sitting on the counter, my sister twirled her finger through her blonde curls and rolled her eyes. I tried my best not to stare at where her shorts rode up her meaty ass, or at her thighs (thicker than Steph's, but in the best, softest way) as she lifted herself up with just her arms and languidly crossed them at the knee. She caught me looking, and smirked.
"What does 'clean and clear' mean?"
"It means we regularly get ourselves checked out - inspected, as it were - and use protection if we have sex with someone else."
"Obviously," said Monica. "But the 'clear' part? You tell each other who else you're fucking?"
"No," I said. "I suppose what I mean is that we're clear on the rules. We don't talk about that."
Monica squinted at me. "Who else are you fucking?"
"No one," I said. It was the truth.
"And who's she fucking?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Don't care."
Monica leaned down (she knew I knew she wasn't wearing a bra, and the way her breasts rolled under her loose, gray top was a thing of beauty). "How can you not care?"
I sighed. "I just don't, Moni. That's how it works."
"You're lying," she said.
That was sort of true. I was a little possessive of Stephanie, who I still considered my girlfriend, in a macho, self-defeating way. "Well," I said, "I suppose I do care. But I don't care about that as much as I care about other things."
"What other things?"
I dried my hands on the dish towel. I avoided her bright, almost green eyes for as long as I could, until she touched my chin with her fingertips, and pulled me close, and kissed me softly on the mouth. We stayed like that longer than was prudent (my mother was in the next room on the phone with our uncle), but it was a sweet little kiss.
I watched her eyes open when I pulled away. The lashes caught the light; they fairly sparkled.
"How's Ralph?" I said.
She socked me in the shoulder. "Way to kill the mood. And his name is Ray."
"You still seeing him?"
"No," she said. "Not really." She hopped down from the counter and pulled me with her into the living room. "I'm not going to say what I'm thinking, but you already know what I'm thinking."
"'If you have permission to fuck who you want, why don't you fuck me?'"
Monica let go of my fingers and spun against the couch. She tucked her hands behind her back, dug her fingers into the armrest, and gave me a big, stupid wink as she hunched in her shoulders and treated me to a deep, delicious look down her ample cleavage. She wiggled her hips and grinned. "You're so smart, big b*o." Then she took a few quick steps forward and slapped me. "But I don't sound that bubbly."
"Sometimes when I fucked you in the ass your voice got pretty damn bubbly."
She turned a little red and quickly glanced down the hall. Our mother was still talking, oblivious. She sighed, and gave me a sidelong glare. "So?"
It was my turn to sigh, and I went back to the fridge for a beer. Since our father passed away the year before, my sister and I did our best to visit our mother on the weekends that we could spare. Sometimes it was just me, sometimes it was just her, but sometimes it was both of us. And, I'm sad to say, the times my mother was on the phone were those few occasions we had to both see and talk to each other freely. I tried not to see Monica outside the house if I could help it.
I had to. I couldn't help myself otherwise.
I handed Monica a beer and we sat on the couch together. "I'm trying to live a normal life," I said.
"I don't want a normal life," she said. "Or no. Forget that. Who said it can't be normal?"
"Just about everybody, Moni."
She made a rude noise and set her beer on the table. She took mine and set it next to hers. Then she grabbed the back of the couch and threw her leg over my hips. She straddled me. "Mon!" I started.
"Shut up," she said, her manicured finger against my lips. She pushed her chest against my face, rubbing her crotch into mine. "I want this, and I'm not afraid to tell you that. You haven't let me talk about this for a year, but I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
"It would break mom's heart," I said simply.
"So mom doesn't have to know," she said, still gently rubbing against me. "Stephanie doesn't have to know either."
Sure, she was right. But it wasn't how I wanted it. I wanted to live my life and have Monica, and not have to worry about keeping secrets. That's what I wanted.
And, somehow, Monica knew this, knew all of this without me saying it. Her face softened from its tranquil fury to gentle understanding. "We don't know anybody in the Valley," she said. "Not too many people, anyway. You wouldn't have to leave your job."
"You've really been thinking about this," I said.
She sighed, then she swung her leg away and sat down next to me. She gave a bigger, more dramatic sigh, and pushed her head into my shoulder. "I was really horny when this all started, and now? It's like I'm a nun. Except when I see you. When I see you, I remember everything we've done, everything you said to me, how you never judged me, how giving you were, what you let me do... I've tried, Johnny. I've really tried putting it behind me. Maybe I could if you really didn't want this. But I know you do."
I put my hand on her shoulder. She laid her hand over mine. There wasn't much more to say on the subject. I'd put off that conversation for a year, and nothing had changed.
Monica wasn't desperate. She never called me in the middle of the night to come over to her place across town (though often I dreamed she did). She'd given me my space ever since I told her I was dating Stephanie two years ago. We saw each other on those weekends, perhaps once in a while when Steph and I would meet up with whatever guy she was dating at the time. But she didn't push it. If I was going to try to live a non-i****tuous life, she would too.
But Monica knew what she wanted; she always had. And she was honest about it, which I couldn't really say of myself.
I did my best not to think about it, and had it been up to me, I probably would have spent the rest of my life "not thinking about it." But then I found myself hosting a dinner party at a very inconvenient time, and the life I knew went right out the window.
* * *
Brodie Nash was an old friend of mine from high school. He also happened to be filthy rich - by virtue of his father being exponentially richer - and as fate would have it, his father had entrusted him with "revitalizing" a historic building in downtown. It was the first real job Brodie was entrusted with after dropping out of school. Now that Brodie was married (to Elaine Bringham, also from money, also very Catholic), it was the opinion of his combined families that he should do something with his life. Thus far, the most Brodie had managed to do with his life was get Elaine pregnant and star in a very entertaining viral video about how not to drive while intoxicated. The downtown revitalization was an attempt to rebuild the Nash/Bringham image, and Brodie's father was very insistent it go off without a hitch.
I mention all of this because it was my personal connection to Brodie that may have influenced his decision to contract my firm for the project. I rarely worked the public relations side of things, but my firm was understandably adamant that I work this one to the hilt.
Which is why I shouldn't have been surprised when Brodie called me one afternoon to ask if I'd mind hosting a small dinner party for he and his wife and the project manager. But I was surprised, so I asked if this particular dinner hadn't already been planned by one of our PR people at the home of my company's CEO.
"Yeah," said Brodie, his voice trailing off the receiver. "But he's a tool. You're cool. So let's have a few drinks and get my wife off my back for a few hours."
To which I said, "Sure, Brodie. Anything for you."
Now I had a problem. I - as most of my friends and family will tell you - am a terrible cook. As far as take-out goes, I had that covered, but my boss (who called me into his office immediately after I hung up the phone) made me promise to treat Brodie to something home cooked. In other words, "make an effort, and make him see the effort."
Had Steph been with me, she might have known what to do. My ostensible girlfriend was not much of a cook either, but she at least knew how these things were supposed to go (she was very good at the whole networking game). But Steph was up in NorCal working with OxFam or the Red Cross and wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.
In his office, my boss gave me a helpless grimace. "You think you can get him to sign tonight?" All we needed was one final signature and we were set. I'd been working on the plans for the ground floor refurbishment for the past week, but I had no idea who on the Nash side had actually seen them. Moreover, that wasn't my job. Me and my department were the brains; the rest of the company was for greasing palms and signing papers.
"Absolutely," I said.
"I know Stephanie's out tonight. You know someone who can cook?"
"I...do," I said.
"What?" His forehead was actually wet with perspiration (Mr. Thompson was a nervous man in general, but this project was worth more money than a quarter of our projects last year). "Why you say it like that, Johnny? He a lousy cook?"
"No, she's..." Hoo boy. "She's really fucking good."
"Oh!" Mr. Thompson wiped his forehead. "Thank Christ for that. Little bit of the culinary spark in her?"
"She did a few years as a line supervisor and a caterer at the Hilton."
"Holy shit!" said Mr. Thompson. "Yeah! Grab 'er! Get 'er! That's perfect."
"Yeah, but-" I started.
"But nothing!"
"...'kay."
He gave me the rest of the day off to get ready. I had about four hours.
I took a deep breath in the parking lot, leaned against my car, and dialed Monica's number. "Hey," I said when she picked up.
"Hi," she said.
"I need to ask you...for a favor."
I heard movement, shuffling, and then tried not to imagine her grinning into the receiver. "Oh really..."
"Yeah," I said. "I have about three hours to make dinner for a client. It's not really something I do, but-"
"Is it for Brodie?"
"Yeah," I said.
She laughed.
"Don't laugh."
She laughed some more. It was like tinkling bells being blown up her nose. I loved that laugh.
"It's not funny," I said.
"He's such a prick. He probably thinks you guys are gonna hang out and talk about old times."
"Yeah, well, if I'm lucky. Look, I just need to make something for him and his wife and maybe one or two other people-"
"And you-"
"And me, I guess. I wouldn't have bothered you but you actually know how to do this."
"I do," she said, as if realizing this for the first time. "What about your happy little homemaker?"
"Steph's busy."
"Uh-huh," she said. "So you need your amazing little sister to swoop in and save the day."
"Yes, Mon. But look, no funny business."
"Oh no," she said. "Certainly not." I heard her moving around and then the sound of her writing. "I remember what Brodie likes. I can make a fancy stir fry with some wine and some other appetizer things. Oh, and the favor you owe me is in addition to what this is going to cost."
"I'll reimburse you," I said.
"Yep," she said. "No sweat. I'll pick this stuff up and be at your place in an hour. That's two hours to cook...should be fine. Don't worry, Johnny."
"Thanks, s*s."
She hung up, and for almost an hour I was sure everything would be fine.
* * *
As soon as I opened the door, I realized everything would not be fine. Monica had all of the ingredients ready and waiting in several grocery bags that lined the hallway behind her, and she was standing amidst them with a sweet and very helpful smile on her face. That, of course, was not the problem. The problem was that my sister was wearing an outfit that did not so much suggest French Maid as scream it in the dirtiest French possible.
My sister, all five foot nothing of her, was propped up in shiny black stiletto heels that made her well-proportioned legs look like two sticks of edible dynamite. Those legs were encased in sheer black stockings that led up to a black and white skirt that might have been classy if it was several (and then several more) inches longer. Her ample chest was pushed together and nearly bursting out of the tight, buttoned top (her cleavage could have swallowed the Spanish Armada), and her lips were a brighter shade of blood. She batted her big, beautiful eyes at me and affixed her little maid's cap. She pushed it to a rakish angle and swept back one leg. "Well? What do you think?"
Lizbeth
- 01.01.2023
- 8
- 0
