Page 12 of Hotwife
“If you say so…” my sister muttered, trailing behind me before tripping into my back. “Hey what the-”
“Shh!” I commanded, stopping in my tracks on the first step of our porch. “The lights are still on. Dad never forgets to turn them off…”
“They’re still up!” my sister whisper-yelled, tugging on my arm and pointing to the movement near the house’s front window. “What the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t walk in looking like this!”
“You’re in a tank top, Odie. I’m the one in short-shorts and a crop top. And I’m the oldest. Who do you think they’re going to yell at more?” I could handle the scolding. Odette though… She was slightly less tough than I was. She’d cry and apologize into a heap of King James Psalms laced lectures. I wanted to avoid that. And if they caught us dressed like this together, they may not let us work together at the ice cream parlor anymore.
And I needed that job if I were going to escape.
I also needed my sister to work with me if I was going to survive the place.
“Okay, listen. We’ll sneak around the back, through the kitchen.” Standing on my tiptoes, I snooped through the sheer curtains. “They’re still at the dinner table.” Weird.
My little sister nodded. “Let’s hurry.” Grabbing her hand in mine, we ducked around the side of the house and up the back steps. A Porsche sat waxed and glimmering at the back of the house. The dinner guest’s car, I presumed. It was a humorous contrast to the dandelion coated gravel and patches of dirt surrounding it.
Slowly turning the knob, I carefully creaked the splintered door open. “Coast is clear,” I whispered, ushering her in front of me. Once we were inside, I turned to carefully shut the creaky old door. “Go on, hurry,” I ordered. She knew as well as I did that old ass door would give us away if I didn’t take an extra moment to lift it while closing it softly. Odie scurried past the fridge and up the back staircase up to our room. When I turned, I froze in place. The refrigerator door was open and someone was leaning inside. I could only see shiny leather loafers and let out a short-lived exhale of relief, knowing those shoes were way-too-expensive to belong to my father. It must be dad’s dinner guest.
Some old pompous…
The refrigerator door closed, and a man stood holding a plastic pitcher.
Sexy as hell, man.
His blue eyes met mine and my breath froze in my rib cage. It was dim in our tiny linoleum kitchen, and the air was thick with steam from a cooling oven. I felt my cheeks warm and not from the heat. A smile danced across his smooth face after briefly taking me in. “You must be Dorthea,” he said, taking a step towards me and extending a hand.
Looking up into his eyes made me feel dizzy. Or maybe it was the blunt I’d just smoked with Angel. Or maybe he was an angel coming to gather me before my parents killed me for my decidedly immodest wardrobe. His hair was an icy, ash blonde with streaks of grey, but his face revealed only youth, with a chiseled jaw and a breathtaking smile. Taking his hand, I nodded. “That’s the unsweet tea. I don’t know why Mom makes it. No one likes it. Oh, and who are you?”
He ran a hand through his hair and I noted his button-up shirt and tie. So formal for supper with The Reverend and Mrs. Queen. “I thought all iced tea was the same?” he asked, standing close to where only I could hear him.
“You must not be from around here. The one with the blue lid is the one you want,” I breathed.
“I’m Cedric,” he replied, blue eyes not leaving mine. It’s like we were talking in code. Were we still talking about tea?
“I’m dead meat if my parents see me in this-” I began before a shrill southern accent wafted into the kitchen.
“Doctor Winslow?” Mom.
“Are you lost?” Dad.
It was too late. They were about two seconds from discovering me half naked in front of their guest. A doctor at that.
The man pulled the lid off the liquid and before I could ask what was happening; I felt the sting of cold slithering down my front.
“Wow, Miss, I’m so sorry about that!” Cedric boomed, reaching over to the small round breakfast table and pulling his sports coat off the back of a chair.
“What’s going on?” My father’s voice boomed from the doorway and I cringed before feeling heavy fabric being draped around my shoulders.
“Hands steady enough for surgery but apparently not steady enough to figure out this carafe,” Cedric turned, giving a charming chuckle. “Your daughter saw me struggling and came to my rescue,” he glanced over his shoulder at me with a wink. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotten her all wet.”
Oh my god.
“Oh, Doctor Winslow, I hope you didn’t get any on you. That lid has always been awful,” my mother said, fluttering over to me. “Honey, you’re dripping wet. Go on up and change while I clean this off the floor.”
“Let me help,” Dr. Winslow offered, and my poor mother looked like she’d had a stroke. Men didn’t do things like clean up spills around here. Just then, my father spoke up from the doorway.
“Thank you, Doctor, but Dorothy can handle it. I see you’ve met my eldest daughter, Dorthea. She was absent from dinner because she had to… work.” My dad said the word as if it were a strain. If he had his way, I’d stay home awaiting the moment he arranged my marriage with some bland missionary or youth group leader. My place was to marry and pop out kids. Yeah, no to both. At least not for a while.
“How does it go?” Dr. Winslow said, smiling warmly at me before meeting my father’s eyes. “‘Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men,’ I think that’s right.”