Sinful Intentions

by Devon Hartford

  We were both blissed out.

  I was content to lie here forever, feeling her breathing.

  Neither of us spoke.

  A placid calm settled over us and we both drifted off to sleep. Some time later, the sound of rumbling woke us. It took a moment to realize I wasn’t in my own bedroom.

  I was in Brooke’s bedroom.

  We had just fucked.

  Hard.

  I tried not to laugh. A huge cinnamon-flavored pussy-eating grin would have to suffice. I could still smell her on my face. Let me tell you, Cinnabon had nothing on Brooke Hillstrom.

  “That’s my mom,” she whispered. “I recognize her car. You better get dressed. I don’t want her getting any ideas.”

  I frowned. What sort of ideas might Brooke’s mom have in mind? It didn’t matter. The only thing on my mind was when I’d get to fuck Brooke again.

  “You should go,” she said, sitting up and yawning, stretching her tan arms over her head. The motion lifted her breasts and they settled when she finished. I’d never get tired of watching that. “I think your clothes are in the bathroom.” She slid off the bed and stood up. Went to a dresser and pulled out clean clothes without acknowledging me.

  I guess sex was done?

  “Get dressed,” she hissed, not bothering to look at me as she tugged panties over her round ass and snapped the waistband, her boobs bouncing in response.

  Disappointed, I stood from the bed.

  Brooke whipped the covers over the substantial shame stain darkening the center of the mattress like she thought it was a crime scene. “Go get dressed already!” She was irritated.

  I went into the bathroom and picked up my clothes, not wanting to put them on.

  The sound of the bathroom door closing behind me came as a surprise. Brooke had shut it without a word.

  Like she didn’t want to see me.

  This was getting very awkward.

  Oh well.

  At least we’d fucked.

  I’d never forget it, but I already had a bad feeling nagging at my balls, like I would be going back to masturbating from here on out. What a disappointment. Was Brooke like this with every guy she fucked? One and done?

  I didn’t think so. I’d seen each jerk and jock come and go multiple times to her house before she switched to the next one. But I wasn’t one of those guys. I was her nerdy neighbor.

  And therein lay the answer.

  Nerd.

  Low body fat and moderate muscle mass didn’t make you cool.

  I should’ve known better.

  This would be a one-time thing, wouldn’t it?

  Brooke had only said she loved to fuck. She’d never said anything about loving me.

  What was that old saying?

  It’s better to have fucked and lost than to never have fucked at all.

  I nodded to myself.

  True words.

  I only had one notch on my proverbial bed post, but it was the most beautiful bed post in the history of humanity, and what a notch it was.

  I knew I was still riding the high of having ridden Brooke. Come morning, when I didn’t get to come inside her ever again, I knew I’d be crawling through the dumps of depression.

  Chapter 9

  When I was dressed in my shorts and shirt, I opened the bathroom door cautiously. Brooke’s bedroom was empty and the door was open.

  Where’d she go?

  Was I supposed to show myself out?

  This was getting more humiliating by the second.

  Now I finally understood why women always complained about men not staying the night. Until now, I could not relate. Who cared if they stayed the night?! You got laid! What’s to complain about?!

  Now I knew.

  I’d never been dumped by a girl, but I’d been friend-dumped plenty of times. Nick Warner was the worst offender who came to mind. He was my only semi-cool friend in eighth grade. He was a tennis prodigy (his semi-coolness aspect) who also excelled at chess (his not-so-cool aspect). One day for no reason, Nick decided I wasn’t cool enough for the unofficial lunch chess club in the school library. I shit you not. When he made the call to frump me, the rest of the chess club backed him.

  It was a group friend dump.

  A grump frump.

  I laugh now but I didn’t then. It was like having your arm cut off and cauterized with a branding iron.

  Brooke bouncing out on me now was a trillion times worse. It was like having your dick cut off, sans branding iron. I’d have to bleed out the pain until either I died of a dried up heart, or my emotional pain faded in a few decades. If those images disgusted you, they should. They captured perfectly how I felt, because at the moment, my dick was most definitely not sniffing around for the next woman to walk along, while avoiding every pair of dick-snipping scissors in the vicinity. Branding irons too.

  My dick sniffed for only one woman.

  Brooke Hillstrom.

  Millions if not billions of years of evolution told me it would start sniffing elsewhere soon enough. Except, the thought of hunting for another woman made me want to puke. Literally puke. It was a strange sensation for me because the only thing that made me actually want to vomit was stomach flu or getting punched in the gut very, very hard. I knew from experience. Thank you, Dad. He said it built character.

  So I put Brooke bailing on me to the #1 spot on my short list of puke-worthy events. As painful as it was, if someone were to tell me I could have Brooke back after a hundred gut punches from Mike Tyson, I’d say yes.

  When I walked out of the lonely bedroom and got to the top of the stairs, I heard a woman talking downstairs. Not Brooke. Probably her mom.

  “Have they made an offer yet? That seems low. Maybe not to you, but it will to the seller.” Mrs. Hillstrom was a real estate agent. I always saw her loading and unloading those agency yard signs from her car. “Is that their final offer? Or do we have wiggle room?”

  With her busy, I decided to sneak out. Crept down the stairs in my bare feet until I saw Mrs. Hillstrom wearing a sexy and revealing business suit, standing in the kitchen. No doubt, Brooke had her mother’s cleavage. Mrs. Hillstrom looked right at me but continued her call like me being here was completely normal. It probably helped that Brooke was beside her by the refrigerator drinking a bottle of kombucha and not reacting to my appearance. Brooke wore yoga pants and a sleeveless V-neck T-shirt.

  Where was my bottle of kombucha?

  Nowhere to be seen.

  That was a clear enough signal.

  I guess this was the part where I let myself out?

  I made for the door.

  “Who’s your new friend, Brooke?” Mrs. Hillstrom called out loud enough to make it obvious she was summoning me as she set her phone on the counter, finished with her call.

  My dad had taught me that you disobeyed a summons at your own peril. Truth be told, I was happy for an excuse to talk more with Brooke. We had just had sex. The least she could do was say goodbye instead of making me sneak out when I didn’t want to.

  “Here. For you,” Brooke said, sliding a chilled bottle of kombucha across the center island from behind Mrs. Hillstrom’s bulky purse. It had been hiding there all along.

  “Thanks.” I took it, twisted the cap and downed it in several swallows.

  “Don’t drown in it,” Mrs. Hillstrom laughed.

  Chuckling, I choked and sputtered gingery kombucha out the sides of the bottle, painting my cheeks. “Sorry!” I coughed.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Mrs. Hillstrom chortled, grabbing paper towels and wetting them under the sink. “Let me clean you up. You’re a sticky mess.”

  I felt like a fussy toddler with her scrubbing my face. Flicking a glance at Brooke where she stood behind her mom revealed Brooke pouting and rolling her eyes. What was that about?

  “Much better,” Mrs. Hillstrom said and dropped the soiled towels in the trash. She laughed, “No more kombucha for you, young man. The way you drink, you better stay away from
the hard stuff.”

  Brooke sneered, “Good thing I didn’t give him your bottle. Mom.”

  Did Mrs. Hillstrom make a habit of spiking her own kombucha with hard liquor? From the sound of Brooke, yes.

  Mrs. Hillstrom shot a frown at her daughter. It bounced off Brooke like a cork bullet. They clearly weren’t the best of friends, but they really did look a helluva lot alike. In dim lighting, they could probably pass for twin sisters. Don’t get any ideas.

  “Ignore her,” Mrs. Hillstrom muttered to me loud enough that Brooke easily heard. “She’s just mad because she keeps flunking her classes.”

  “Retaking is not flunking,” Brooke barked.

  “It’s flunking.”

  “At least I earn my grades instead of fucking a teacher for them.” Brooke lobbed the comment like a friendly grenade, her face quirked with casual hatred.

  Mrs. Hillstrom’s blue eyes burst into flames and her beautiful face ratcheted into a horrific approximation of a Cheshire smile. She turned robotically to her daughter and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. You must’ve forgotten I pay your bills.”

  “I work,” Brooke smirked.

  “You call that a job? It barely pays. One less O in your name and it’s Broke.”

  “One more in yours and it’s Whore,” Brooke breathed her echoey words into her bottle of kombucha while she tipped it back for a drink.

  “What did you say?” Mrs. H spat venomously.

  “Nothing,” Brooke lowered her bottle and smirked a challenge at her mom.

  While they were facing off like spitting cobras, I was busy wondering if Mrs. H’s name was spelled Whre. Was that her first name? I didn’t think so. I thought it was Diane.

  Mrs. H tsked an unloving sigh. “Brooke, Brooke, Brooke.”

  “That’s what you named me,” Brooke grinned proudly.

  “I didn’t. Your father did. It was his idea, not mine.” She said it with disgust. “I told him we should name you something sensible. But no. He insisted on broke Brooke.”

  “Fuck. You.” For a tense moment, Brooke’s cheeks ticked and she looked ready to splash kombucha in her mom’s face.

  I was appalled by what Mrs. H had said. My dad may have been an overly demanding disciplinarian who never let up, but he never insulted me, never called me names, and never ever blamed Mom for some problem I was having. He always and invariably blamed me. Brooke’s “fuck you” seemed completely justified.

  Mrs. Hillstrom stared her daughter down with authority. “We’re not doing this now.” She shook her head and her blonde hair waved. It was the same length as Brooke’s, but it was bigger. You could tell she put a lot of work into it that Brooke didn’t bother with. Not that it made Mrs. H any less beautiful. It made her more regal. “You and I will have a talk later, young lady.” She forced a smile at me and narrowed her eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m—”

  “Mike’s boy!” Recognition lit her eyes, any irritation at her daughter wiped away.

  “Yeah.” I grinned momentarily before remembering what Brooke had said about my dad wanting to bang Mrs. H, or that she had ways of getting what she wanted. Did Mrs. H’s excitement now mean she knew my dad better than I realized? And what about Brooke, who looked like a pressure cooker ready to pop?

  “How is big Mike?” Mrs. H asked, referring to my dad.

  “Big Mike.” Brooke snorted another sip of kombucha.

  Mrs. H glanced at her mysteriously then focused on me. “Ignore her.”

  Behind her, Brooke mouthed silently, “What’d I tell you?”

  I was guessing she was referring to her telling me earlier that her parents ignored her. Maybe she hadn’t been exaggerating. It was reasonable to assume that if there were overly controlling parents like my dad, there was also the opposite type of parent who didn’t give a shit, living somewhere in the world, next door even.

  “What brought you over, Little Mike?” Mrs. H smiled.

  “He’s not that little,” Brooke snorted.

  “I can see that,” Mrs. H laughed, looking me over while trying to maintain her temper. What she couldn’t see was the sex tape of me fucking her daughter under her own roof an hour ago. Question was, would she even care? It wasn’t like Brooke had been sneaking her previous boyfriends into the house. Mrs. H had to have known. Had to. She glanced down at my bare feet then pinned my eyes with hers and said, “Did you come over for Brooke?” It was almost an innocent question, but the shard of sarcasm cutting the word “come” meant she knew exactly what she’d just said. Yup, she knew.

  Good thing I’d already spilled my kombucha, otherwise I’d be choking again.

  Brooke’s jaw dropped in disgust and she sneered, “I thought we weren’t doing this now.”

  “Doing what, dearest?” Mrs. H smiled venom at her.

  “Not this,” Brooke snipped. She spun on her heel and walked out of the room.

  My eyes followed her ass while I wondered if the rest of me was supposed to follow too?

  Mrs. H smiled at me strangely. Was that hunger in her eyes? It couldn’t be.

  Behind her at the foot of the stairs, Brooke stopped, glared at me, and threw her arms out, fingers splayed. Irritated, she circled her head and mouthed silently, “Well?!”

  That was one summons I would gladly obey.

  “I should go,” I muttered and walked past Mrs. H.

  “Do come again,” she snickered, her back to me and Brooke. “If you make another sticky mess, I’ll be happy to clean it up for you.”

  That made me stumble and it made Brooke’s face rot with hatred. She practically dragged me stumbling up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Chapter 10

  “What a fucking cunt!” Brooke hissed.

  “Try saying my name ten times fast,” I quipped.

  “What?!”

  “Nothing.” I was trying to cut the tension for her sake, but I hadn’t brought a chainsaw.

  Brooke obviously needed a release. Probably not the sexual kind. More like the murder kind. Her hands fisted at her sides and she marched back and forth while I sat on the edge of her bed.

  “Did you ever notice your eyebrows V when you’re angry?” I asked.

  “Huh?” She stopped her march and glared. Even angry, she was overwhelmingly appealing.

  I positioned my index fingers over my eyebrows and made a V. “They V.”

  “Not helping.” She resumed marching.

  “Speaking of V’s, mine’s gone.”

  “Your what’s gone?” she asked absently.

  “My V-card,” I grinned proudly.

  “It already was.” she tossed a hand.

  “No it wasn’t,” I chuckled.

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “I’m not.”

  She stopped and cocked her hip. “Please. You go down on me and give me the best O I’ve ever had, then you fuck me and it’s better than drugs? Uh uh.” She shook her hair. “You definitely weren’t a virgin when you came over here earlier.”

  “I was.”

  “Was not.” Her frown deepened. “Don’t lie to me, Mike. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s liars. Please promise me you won’t ever do it again. This is your one and only do-over.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Disgust stomped her face. “Last chance.”

  “What?”

  “This is your last chance to stop lying, Mike, or I swear to God I will never ever talk to you again and you can leave for good. Right now.” She pointed her finger at the door like a sword.

  I didn’t know what to do. When it came to human lie detecting, my dad would give Robert de Niro in Meet The Parents a run for his money. Dad didn’t even do that hand holding schtick. He just looked through your skin with his X-ray eyes and saw your lies. Sherlock Holmes was amateur hour compared to my dad. Consequently, I always told the truth, especially when it counted. I didn’t count omitting to Brooke that I had fantasized about her mom. That little whit
e lie would soon be buried under a mountain of respectful forgetfulness, for Brooke’s sake. I wasn’t interested in her mom. I only had eyes for Brooke.

  She glared, “Don’t ever lie to me again, Mike. I swear. Or we’re done. Permanently done. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”

  I was elated she considered us something worth holding onto, and I knew just enough not to remind her I wasn’t lying. I simply nodded solemnly.

  She resumed marching. “I can’t believe my mom did that. Total. Fucking. Bitch.”

  “Is she always like that?” I asked.

  “Only when I’m in her way.”

  “In the way of what?”

  “You,” she mooed.

  “Me?” I snorted. “Why would she want me?”

  “Because I want you,” Brooke growled. “She’s done this before.”

  “Done what?”

  Brooke skidded to a stop. “Are you that dense?”

  “Humor me.” Little known fact, when I wasn’t getting caught jacking off or losing my virginity to my real life wet dream, I was generally level-headed and rock solid under pressure. When your dad was the devil, you learned to keep it together living under coal-into-diamond levels of pressure. In my house, it was constant. Come to think, I don’t know why Dad hadn’t stocked up on coal years ago. We could’ve opened our own jewelry store by now.

  Despite my normally solid nerves, this situation was completely outside of any wheelhouse I’d ever visited. Mothers stealing boyfriends from their daughters? I’d never heard of it. Not from anyone I knew personally. Then again, I hadn’t heard of the Holocaust until my friend Sam Katz told me about it in fourth grade. People did fucked up shit.

  Brooke said, “The disgusting thing is, I don’t think she does it to spite me. I think she does it because she can’t help herself.”

  “Does what?”

  “Flirts with every fucking guy who ever comes along. Including you.”

  “Your mom was flirting with me?” Saying it out loud made it sound ridiculous.

  “You were there.”

  “Yeah, but, was it really flirting? I thought she was just yanking your chain.”