But something was wrong.
Kelly had worn sneakers, and unless her foot could do a total 360°, no way could her toes be so close against my leg. So it had to be Amy.
Just like old times, Amy and I squeezed inside a booth at the Jaybird playing footsie under the table, gobbling down slices of Uncle Dan’s finest. But when I peeked under the table I found otherwise—it wasn’t Amy, it was Jill who was playing footsie with me, Amy’s sixteen-year-old daughter smiling across the table sucking Diet Coke through a bent straw, her pink toes stroking my overheated skin.
I looked up, and Jill winked at me, her eyes—Amy’s eyes—drawing me in, like they always had, and all I could think was, this is bad.
“What’s going on down there?” Amy asked, looking at Kelly and me. “Are Mr. and Mrs. California getting frisky?”
“It’s nothing,” Jill said. “It’s just me. I had an itch.”
“I told you to use moisturizer,” Amy said. “Why do I buy that twenty-dollar lotion if you never use it?”
She grabbed the wine and emptied the bottle as Kelly slid closer, her hip nudging my side while Jill slurped the rest of her soda, the bent straw encircled by her plush, puckered lips.
Yes, I thought, this is bad.
. . . . .
“Move over, Donnie. It’s my turn now.”
Kelly pulled back the curtain and stepped into the shower with her strong, slinky legs, the hot water pinging my skin as she joined me under the spray, her lips tracing a lingering trail from my shoulder to my ear.
I breathed in her scent, lavender and honey. “Maybe we shouldn’t …”
“Why? Because we might get caught?” She held her face in exaggerated horror, Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower. “Oh no, they’re naked! They might have sex! What if Amy finds out? Will she spank us?”
She slapped my butt, then bit my shoulder before turning her face toward the water. Downstairs Amy and Jill were watching TV, but the house was small, a Cape Cod on a corner lot with thin, Home Depot walls.
“Did you lock the door?”
“No, I kept it open and scattered breadcrumbs so your girlfriend can find us.”
“Stop calling her that, please.”
“Really, Donnie? We’re in the shower, naked, inches apart, and you want to discuss terminology?”
The water sluiced over our skin, her purple toenails sparkling over the tub’s white surface. “As least part of you is glad I’m here,” she said, grabbing my already-hard cock and stroking it roughly as she nibbled my chest. I kissed her neck but, sensing my hesitation, she butted my chest with her forehead and stepped on my foot.
“Hey, this is my vacation, remember? I’m unemployed and depressed, and my partner would rather worry about his ex-girlfriend than be with me.”
“You’re depressed?”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “If I wasn’t, would I be here? I rarely cast myself as the third wheel.”
“You don’t act depressed.”
“Military brats wear a brave face, no matter what.”
She kissed my stomach, her teeth leaving little bite marks up and down my skin, her hand sliding between my legs, caressing my thigh.
“You’re not a third wheel.”
“Spare tire?” She squeezed the extra flesh around my sides. “Stop talking, please.”
She opened her legs and pulled me toward her as my body tensed. All those years growing up, not having sex with Amy, had left me permanently doubtful about my sexual abilities, something, as a man, you never wanted to admit to anyone, especially yourself.
“I want you inside me,” Kelly said, and I kissed her wet mouth, closing my eyes as I entered her, letting my body take over even as my thoughts, in some dumb corner office of my brain, calculated the odds of Amy knocking on the door, the house having only one bathroom, and to whom exactly was I being unfaithful?
We moved against each other in sweet friction; I slipped out, slipped back in, shower sex, as always, a mechanical challenge, everything so slippery and wet.
“Slow,” Kelly whispered, her face on the cusp of letting go, and I pushed deeper, my hands braced against the shower wall, Kelly’s hips rocking in a sweet back and forth, her breaths growing shorter while my own breaths held back, wanting to last forever even as every nerve cell turned hair trigger. I lost balance and slipped out, but Kelly pulled me back; she began to tremble, her thighs squeezing together as she made her sexy little Kelly noises, our hearts pounding, our hips locked in this up and down rhythm, everything perfect—until we heard Amy scream.
And scream again—this time louder and more frantic, the sound cutting through the ceiling, through the hiss of the shower—and then the crack of a single gunshot ripped through the house.
We pulled apart and my body let go, ejaculating onto Kelly’s thighs in a hopeless spasm as I stumbled back, my ass crashing into the faucet.
Semen dribbled down her leg as we froze, waiting for another shot. I pictured all kinds of horror, Amy dead on the floor, a bullet through her head, a wild-eyed gunman heading up the stairs to murder us next.
Breathing hard, I leaned against the shower wall, Kelly nestled beside me.
“Call the police,” she whispered. “My cell is on the bed. Don’t go downstairs.”
“Stay here.” I pulled back the shower curtain and reached for my clothes, my eyes wet and blurry as Kelly grabbed her towel.
“Donnie, be careful.”
“Just stay here until I’m back, okay?”
I was too shocked to be frightened, but I knew scared shitless would soon arrive; I threw on my clothes and ran
