Dirty Disaster

by Addison Moore

  “I can’t believe you live at home.” Poppy’s perfect bowtie lips contort into all sorts of delicious shapes I’d like to dive my mouth over.

  I realize that Poppy just said something to me, that the words were most likely an insult, but I’m too mesmerized watching her cherry red lips and the magnificent way they move. Hell, everything about Poppy is magnificent tonight in that short white dress, the black leather boots that come clear to her thighs.

  Crap. I am in trouble. I’ve never been around a gorgeous woman who looked like a stick of dynamite going off in your face and not gotten laid.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers as she gives a quick glance around. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” I offer a lazy smile. “She’s in the living room. Why don’t we say hello before I have you cook me a meal?”

  “You’re such a sexist pig.” She strides right past me, and the scent of her perfume pulls me with her like a leash. Sweet. Poppy holds the scent of a flower just like her name suggests. And damn, she looks good from behind. “Aunt Deb?” she calls as she heads straight for ground zero. I haven’t heard her call my mother that in eons. It makes me long for those olden, golden days of our fantastic youth.

  “Oh!” Mom jumps at the sight of us from the couch. Her hair is wrapped in a towel, and she cradles a pint of ice cream on her lap with a spoon spiked through it. “Goodness! I was just about to indulge. You two want to take a seat? It’s quarterfinals night!” She claws at the television just as the intro comes on.

  “No thanks.” Poppy wraps a slender arm around my waist, and my dick startles to life. “Jax here was just about to fix us dinner. Would you like something to eat?”

  Mom’s brows jump with amusement, and she gets that look in her eyes that spells out danger ahead. “I’m betting this is a private menu he’s concocting just for the two of you.” She says concocting as if it were a sexual term, and my appetite takes a nosedive.

  “It’s pizza,” I flatline. “We’re making our own. You’re welcome to join us.” I lay the invite out like a threat, and she smirks my way.

  “Heavens no. You two have fun. I’ll be right here if you need anything. Bon appétit!” She lifts her spoon into the air before taking a bite.

  “Pizza?” Poppy practically skips to the kitchen. “God, I’ve forgotten what a palace you live in. Are you sure we need to make our own dinner? That’s something only peasants do.” She gives my ear a quick tug, and a jolt runs clear down my right side from her touch.

  “What a coincidence?” It takes great restraint not to take her in my arms. “Tonight we dine like peasants. Besides, you love pizza.”

  “Only if you’ve got anchovies.”

  “We’re going old school because I have more salted greasy fish than you’ll know what to do with.”

  I pull out the spread I had my mother’s personal chef put together. Yes, we might be eating like peasants, but the food was prepared for us as if we were kings. I lay out over twenty potential toppings and roll out six balls of dough onto the marble counter.

  “Wow, this is amazing,” Poppy marvels as I sprinkle the counter with flour and hand her a rolling pin. “You do realize this is the only house with a built-in pizza oven in all of Oak Grove.”

  “I bet you every house in L.A. has two—one in the kitchen and one in the bathroom.”

  A laugh belts from her, and it warms me right down to my feet. “And why pray tell would they have a pizza oven in the bathroom?”

  “Because they’re weird like you.” I brush my finger over her nose, but those eyes. When we were kids, I’d openly stare at her neon green eyes, and she wouldn’t mind. I’m still not sure that hue is found anywhere else in nature. “And I bet they sandwich pray tell in between every sentence.” I pick up a ball of dough and pretend to fling it at her.

  A sharp laugh pumps from her. “Don’t you dare turn this into a food fight.”

  I spot my mother watching us from the reflection in the wall mirror hanging before her.

  “I’ll turn it into whatever I like.” I pull Poppy into my arms, and we do a little twirl right here in the kitchen. “A pair of sixty-year-old eyes is watching from the living room,” I practically mouth.

  “Almost sixty,” Poppy corrects because she’s a smartass that way, and she knows I secretly love it. Her arms find their way around my back as she looks up at me from under her lashes. “By all means, let’s put on a show worth watching.”

  “I don’t know, Pops. Ice Skating with the Stars is pretty heavy competition.” I press my lips close to her temple, and I can feel her body quiver beneath me. I may not know how Poppy feels about me, but I know the female body. I can read its every quiver, its every shiver like sheet music, and hers just gave me the green light. I’d love to act on it. I’d love to land a kiss to that perfect mouth of hers, take her upstairs and love her the way I’ve wanted to for so long.

  She pulls back, her hands pressed to my chest as if holding me at bay, and she might have to. Her body might be sending me signals, but mine is programmed to receive.

  Her breathing grows erratic as her tits dance up and down. Look up, look up, I repeat over and over to myself. Nothing ruins the intensity of a moment more than a quick glance to the girls. And this is Poppy. As far as she goes, I shouldn’t even be aware of the fact she has them, let alone have thoughts of landing my mouth over each one. I could map out nine different ways I’d love to devour them.

  She clears her throat. “I think we’d better make some pizza before that oven burns the entire house down. It’s getting pretty hot in here.”

  “Sure thing, Eight Ball. I’ll turn on the pizza oven.” I give a little wink, and she swats me. Poppy pulls her phone out and puts on some music, a playlist she calls Sedated, and we get down to the very serious business of building our own pizzas. I’m just about to put all six into the oven, and Poppy comes at me with a handful of purple onions.

  “Wait! One more dash for good luck.”

  “Good luck for what? You keeping the vampires at bay tonight?”

  “That’s garlic, you moron, not onions—onions make them cry. Which reminds me.” She tosses on a few cloves of the demon-warding root, and I dive the pies into the fire before she decides to toss on a watermelon. “And I’m not trying to ward off any vampires.” She glances to the living room, and I do the same. Sure enough, we’ve sidelined my mother’s icescapes for the evening because her attention is zeroed in on us.

  Poppy doesn’t miss a beat. She lands her fingers in my hair, raking her nails gently over my scalp over and over again, and I’d be a liar in the pit of hell if I didn’t say it feels damn good. Poppy looks me right in the eye with those lawn green lenses, her lips form into the perfect little pout, and it’s taking superhuman strength not to kiss them. “I have a feeling it’s you I need to keep at bay.” Her finger touches my nose when she says it, and her hips swivel against mine as we start slow dancing to the music. “I saw the way you were looking at my boobs.” She makes a face, and I cringe.

  “I didn’t look at your boobs,” I whisper, tossing a quick glance over my shoulder. “And would you keep it down?” A laugh strums from me because we happen to be off to a great start on our pizza adventure. Slow dancing with Poppy? Six pizzas in the oven? Who knew one of the best dates of the year would take place in my mother’s kitchen of all places?

  “You wanted to sneak a peek.” She gives a conniving grin. “I can tell. I can read your mind, remember?”

  A warm smile comes to me. When we were kids, Poppy would swear up and down she knew what I was thinking, and eerily no matter how hard I tested her telepathic abilities, nine times out of ten she was right.

  “Busted.” I close my eyes a moment. “But in my defense, the girls are right there.” My voice breaks as a sad laugh emits from me. “You’ve donned a rather eye-popping dress—pun intended.” The music picks up, and I press my hips closer to hers as we keep time
to the rhythm.

  “Oh—ho!” She belts out a laugh. “So, you’re blaming me for the fact you can’t keep your eyeballs in their sockets? I bet you have at least a dozen sexual harassment suits filed against you. And now it all makes total sense why you have Conner on your payroll.”

  Now it’s me belting out a laugh.

  “You kids smell something burning?” Mom shouts from the living room.

  “Shit.” I work to get the pizzas out and land four nearly charred messes onto the counter. Two come out unscathed. “We’ve got it under control,” I shout back before glancing to Poppy. “One for each of us. I hope you’re not too hungry.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m starved. You’re lucky my anchovies made it out unsinged, Gordo, or you’d have to call whoever chopped up all those veggies to get right back to the drawing board.”

  “Ah, busted again.” I laugh, landing her salty catch of the day pizza onto a plate and do the same for mine. “Follow me, Eight Ball. It’s time for the grand finale.”

  Not only is the dining room perfectly parallel to the couch that my mother is firmly seated on while feasting on Ben and Jerry’s, but I know for a fact Sixteen Candles happens to be Poppy Montgomery’s favorite movie, and I’m about to kill two birds with one pizza-sized stone.

  I set the plates onto the center of the dining room table and hop up on the lengthy mahogany monstrosity that can easily sit fifty and help Poppy climb onboard as well.

  “What in the H-E-double-hockey sticks are you up to?” Her hair flashes around as she gets herself settled. I’ve always been fascinated by her long glossy hair. Once in that tired tree house of mine she set it out the window like Rapunzel. The light hit her just right, and it was the first time I thought that my best friend was beautiful. I guess it’s fair to say that Poppy’s hair started it all.

  A warm laugh tumbles from me at the fact she ditched the hardcore language. “You remember the no expletives rule.”

  “Are you kidding? I once accused Conner of farting in here, and I was banished from video games for a week.”

  “Well, technically, that is an F word, and if you use it again I might have to implement my own form of punishment.”

  She makes a face as she sits with her legs crossed, and I do the same. “I’d say it again, but personally it would ruin my Jake Ryan moment. Why must you invoke the seductive powers of a John Hughes movie on me, Gordo? You know I’m a sucker for a good romantic scene recreation. What’s next? Are you taking me shopping on Rodeo Drive so I can be your call girl for the weekend?”

  “You are a pretty woman.” I tick my head to the side, proud of the fact I got that reference. “Now kiss me.” I lean in and pucker my lips. From the periphery, I see my mother bring her phone up, just waiting for the perfect moment to snap that picture. I have no doubt I know where she’ll be sending it. And I’m sure it’ll make the blog come morning, too.

  “A kiss, huh? Just give me a sec.” She picks up a giant hunk of garlic off her pizza and chews the shit out of it before fanning herself as she forces it down her throat. “’Kay, I’m ready.”

  The olfactory assault hits me before she ever leans in, and yet even that doesn’t scare me away. “I hope you realize I can see the fumes pluming from your breath.”

  “You like?” She pops another one into her mouth and moans as she leans in hard. “So good. I bet all the girls wish they could sanitize their mouths with vampire repellant once you come in for the kill. You do know that garlic is a natural disinfectant. I bet it can kill all that fungi you have lingering around in that mouth of yours.” She gives a cheeky grin, clearly proud of her knowledge of mythological blood-sucking creatures. “How many Whoppers are your boxers serving now, anyway? A million? I guess it’s lucky for me that you prefer hamburgers over hot dogs.”

  “You’re not funny.” A short-lived laugh trembles through me regardless. “And is that the kind of talk you seduce those L.A. boys with?”

  “Are you kidding? L.A. is a vegan town. Even the cheese on this pizza would be considered sacrilegious.” Her tongue glosses the rim of her lips as the moment grows serious. “You’re a real breath of fresh air, Jaxson.”

  “Wish I could say the same for you.” Truth is, Poppy is more than a breath of fresh air. She has my heart pumping once again after all these years. “Now, get over here and disinfect my mouth, would you?”

  “As you wish.”

  “Wrong movie,” I moan as our lips touch down over one another, careful and lingering. Her soft moans, those hardly audible whimpers of hers burn a hole right through me. I’d give all the pizza in the world to be alone with her right now.

  A heavy flash comes from the living room, and both Poppy and I share a small vibration of a laugh, but our lips remain conjoined, the two of us kissing like a couple of thirteen-year-olds who have no clue what to do.

  Poppy and I haven’t set any limits on what happens between the two of us with our proper audience in tow, and yet neither of us seems able to cross this line. But I want to.

  Everything in me demands to cross the line with Poppy.

  The end of the week shows up way too fast. Each moment I spend with Poppy seems like a flash in the pan. Soon, our mothers’ big birthday bash will be here, and Poppy will be boarding another flight back to L.A.

  But tonight, the only place Poppy is headed to is the gala at the Grand Lodge Hotel where the dignified ladies of POTS celebrate a year of weight loss and charitable giving by way of a decent steak and chicken dinner. Poppy headed over with her parents, so I offer my mother a lift and we arrive at the event a solid twenty minutes late. In my defense, my mother had me run by the florist and pick up a corsage. All the way to the hotel, she lamented on the principles of how to treat a lady.

  “Relax,” I say to her as we enter the noble looking establishment decked out in enough twinkle lights to outshine the sun. “I’m sure we didn’t miss dinner.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t miss dinner. We never have dinner at these kinds of events.”

  “What? Why the heck am I here? I thought there’d be steak and potatoes. Should I be backtracking to the Burger Barn? Because you’re not going to like me hungry.”

  “Hush, would you? I know all about how cranky you can get when denied a good meal. Trust me, I stayed up at all hours breastfeeding you for the first two years of your life just to keep you satiated.”

  “And just like that, I’ve lost my appetite.” Being breastfed by my mother. Fuck.

  “It’s a grazing event.” She claps her hands as if this were the best news in the world. “Lots of appetizers, all the spaghetti you can fit in that belly of yours, and a spare protein here and there.” A spare protein? Yes, the Burger Barn will very much be needed later this evening. “And be sure to open your wallet, would you? All proceeds benefit the local women’s shelter.” She straightens my tie just before we enter the facility. The ballroom is bustling with bodies, mostly polished women—all of which are my mother’s contemporaries—a few dapper, rather unhappy looking men.

  “Grazing, huh?” Poppy comes to mind. Those long luscious legs, those sweet tits that have been playing peek-a-boo with me all week make my mouth water.

  “Do you see her?” Mom sounds as anxious to spot Pops as I am.

  “Nope.”

  She cranes her neck into a sea of women all dressed in pastel. Soft music drifts through the speakers, and a few couples bravely dance away while the rest of the crowd hangs on the periphery with a drink in hand.

  Mom swats me with her tiny sequined clutch. “Why in God’s name didn’t you pick her up? A true gentleman always goes out of his way for a lady.”

  “She insisted we meet here.” For the life of me, I have no idea why, but I’m assuming it has something to do with the two we’re attempting to bamboozle.

  And just like that, the sea of pastel parts down the middle, and a vision in red captivates me from afar.

  “Holy hell,” I whisper.

  “Mary, Joseph, and Peter,” Mom w
hispers, just as taken by the beauty smiling back at us as I am. She hands me the sickly carnation pinned to a giant spray of baby’s breath, and I head over in Poppy’s direction.

  My feet glide across the dance floor, my eyes never leaving hers. Poppy’s smile expands ear-to-ear as we come in close, and I can’t seem to catch my breath at the glorious sight before me. Her hair is curled in long smooth waves, her lips a perfect shade of ruby that matches her dress, and her tits—do not get me started on her tits. I let my eyes dip down for a moment, and my boxers tick to life.

  “You are beautiful.” The words puff from me.

  “My boobs say thanks. Is that for me?” She snatches the flower, and I playfully snatch it right back, placing it on her hand like the prince my mother has warned me to be.

  “You’re my date, Pops. I get to be the man tonight.”

  “Are you implying I’m anything but a lady?”

  “I’m implying that you’ve probably scared off your fair share of men by plucking the flowers right out of their hands.”

  She belts out a laugh right in my face. “And you would be right.” Her lips quiver as her expression turns to stone. “You look perfect tonight.” Her lashes lower as if my perfection managed to bring down her mood.

  “I did it for you. Shaved, too.” I touch my hand over my face. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

  She bites down over her lip while carefully placing her palm over my cheek. “You did that for me?”

  “Damn right. Did you shave anything for me?” I dip my gaze south for a moment, teasing. God, I pray she knows I’m teasing.

  “Yeah, right. Any man who’s with me needs to be appreciative of a good old-fashioned corn maze en route to my vagina. Think Playboy circa 1970.”

  I inch back, swallowing down a laugh. “Did you just liken your bush to a corn maze?”

  “Did you just say the word bush?”

  “I believe you said vagina, which totally trumps bush in just about any vulgar category.”