Page 11 of Hotwife
“It’s either come out with me for a while or grippy socks and a white padded room. What kind of man would I be if I let you go, and you jumped off a dock or some other crazy shit like that? I’m keeping an eye on you for the afternoon.” He finished lacing his boots and stood, towering and cocky. “I’ll drive.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already out the door without waiting for my reply. Following him outside like a puppy in navy fleece, I gave him an exasperated look, though my heart was beating out of my chest at the sight of his ride. “No way. In Seattle? Are you insane?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not into this,” he said, swinging his leg over and extending helmet in my direction.
He was right. I was into it. All of it, and that was concerning and thrilling at the same time.
I should have hesitated. Anyone would. Any normal, stable person would.
But I didn’t.
five
FIVE YEARS PRIOR
Sweat dripped down my bare midriff as I leaned against the freezer. I hoped to catch some residual cold from the metal because the shop’s window air-conditioning unit was buzzing like a hive of bees and barely sputtering out a chill. “I want to crawl into the ice cream buckets right now,” I whined.
“That breaks like one hundred health code violations. And your outfit breaks like five hundred of Dad’s rules,” my sister grinned, fanning herself with a magazine.
“Yeah, that’s why I change when I get here. Don’t act like you don’t go through my wardrobe when you work a shift alone. I’ve seen you wearing these exact booty-shorts.” I gazed out the glass door into the vacant cobblestone streets. It was too hot for tourists. Southern heat differs from any other. It’s a sticky kind of feeling. Like sitting in a steamer-pan above a pot of boiling water. Drinking ice water doesn’t help. Air conditioning could help for a while, but we didn’t have one at home and the ice cream parlor’s barely functioned.
“It was ninety-five degrees, and you weren’t here, so your booty-shorts were fair game,” She flicked a plastic straw at me and I rolled my eyes. Odette would forever tease me for defying my parents’ wardrobe rules, all while stealing every cute spaghetti strap tank top at the same time. “You can go home if you can get a ride,” my sister shrugged. “We haven’t had a customer in forever.”
“I can’t. I need the hours or Ariel will never be ready,” I sighed, grabbing a cone and opening the freezer to a welcomed blast of cold. Ariel was currently a dilapidated piece of metal in our run-down shed. Every cent I made went towards her repairs. Well, a little went towards clothes and handbags, too. And maybe earrings. And maybe the belly-button piercing I snuck out to get on my eighteenth birthday…
At that moment, both of our phones pinged. “See? They know. They have a psychic sense for when you’re being a heathen.” Odette pulled out her phone from her back jean pocket. “Yep, group text.”
Groaning, I leaned into the case with a scoop, rolling a ball of strawberry ice cream and plopping it into my waffle cone. “What’s the good word today? Let me guess, we’re both working at nursery this Sunday? No, wait, five-year-old’s Sunday school?”
Odette gave a dramatic shudder. “Don’t even joke about that. The five-year-old’s class is the worst. No wonder they can’t keep a teacher. A few weeks ago, John-Mark literally glued his hands together. His mom had such a fit.”
Laughing between licks of my treat, I pulled out my phone from my tiny-shorts and scanned the message from my mom. “Hell no. We’re working late.”
“Dolly, they’re going to catch us one of these days.”
“Odie, I am not playing the part of meek-and-mild eldest daughter while Dad Bible-speaks some old dude throughout dinner. I’m nineteen and you’re seventeen for god’s sake. We’re too old to be ordered around by our parents.” Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I let the sweet taste of sugared strawberry drown out my anger.
Odette read the text aloud, mocking our mother’s too-soft southern tone. “BE HOME BY FIVE. DAD HAS AN IMPORTANT GUEST COMING FOR SUPPER. WE EXPECT MODEST OUTFITS! Well, that last bit counts you out, that’s for sure.”
I laughed. “Angel’s picking us up at four. We can tell Mom we’re working late and hang out until whatever crusty old bastard friend of dad’s leaves. They’ll never know.”
Odette pursed her lips, raising an eyebrow. “Fine, but I’m texting Steven to meet us too.”
I puckered and made kissy sounds, floating over to my sister and tussling her french-braided pig-tails. “Steven, you’re just so hot when you play the piano at church on Sunday mornings. I wish I were the keys and your fingers were all over my-”
My sister spun, grabbing my wrist and pushing my ice cream towards my face, smushing it on my chin while we both cackled like idiots.
* * *
The tart and too-sweet aroma from a perfume bottle named Wild Pop-My-Cherry, mixed with breath mints, permeated the air of the Honda Civic as hip-hop rumbled through the shaky speakers. Odie leaned forward and turned the music down. “Thanks for the ride, Angel, but if my Dad hears me listening to anything other than southern gospel, I’ll be on pew-cleaning duty for a month.”
Angel giggled, tapping her joint out of her window. “You two are hilarious. I don’t think I have any Amish clothes you can change into. You gonna be okay, Dolly?”
“It’s eight. Mom and Dad eat at five every night, like clockwork, then are in bed for Bible devotions and nightly prayers by seven. I’ll change in my room. But thanks for looking out. I’m bringing you back a souvenir from every stop on my road trip,” I grinned, rubbing her shoulder before climbing out into the night air.
“Hey our road trip,” Odie corrected, joining me. “Are you sure we don’t smell like smoke?”
“We smell like candle-shop hookers, Odie. They won’t smell anything over all that body spray and peppermint.”