“What?! You…! You can’t! I’ll be the laughing stock of the whole school! I’ll lose my swimming scholarship!”
He smirked, pocketing the phone. (It had never been recording, but she didn’t need to know that.) “Sounds like you’ve made your choice then.”
As she went back outside, he opened a window just a crack to hear it transpire. Brittney knelt beside him, grinning conspiratorially. “Where the fuck did you go?” he heard Lauren’s voice demand.
“Yeah, we thought you fell in or something—what gives?” asked Jody.
“I was, um, talking to that girl, Brittney, and your brother,” Brianne admitted hesitantly, voice quavering.
“Step-brother,” Lauren corrected sternly.
“Brittney? So what’s she like? What’d you guys talk about? How the hell did she wind up with a loser like DJ?” Jody asked, eager as ever for gossip.
“DJ’s not a loser,” Brianne said defensively. “I mean, he was awkward in high school, but he’s grown out of it. He’s kind of cute, really.”
“You have got to be fucking joking.” Lauren’s voice.
“Oh come on, Lauren, he’s not so bad. He has no clue how to dress himself and he’s socially hopeless, but he’s not bad.” DJ was surprised to hear Jody coming to his defense. Maybe she would be easier to bag than Brianne had been. Not that easy was always fun—after all, he had Brittney when he wanted it easy.
He could hear Lauren glaring. “You guys are fucking gross. God I can’t believe the shit I’m hearing.”
But Jody just pressed Brianne. “Whatever. C’mon, tell us what you found out. Is he paying her? Blackmailing her? Hypnotizing her?” she laughed.
“Well, we, um, didn’t really, like, talk that much. If you know what I mean.” The embarrassment in Brianne’s voice was plain.
Lauren and Jody talked over one another, demanding explanations angrily and curiously, respectively, Brianne stammering and stuttering too much to complete a sentence before she was cut off again. DJ risked a peek, and saw Lauren standing over her and demanding, “spit it the fuck out you bitch!” Jody was sitting next to Brianne and leaning in intrusively; Brianne, however, locked eyes with DJ through the narrow gap in the curtains.
“We fucked, okay?!” Brianne shouted. “I ate out Brittney while he fucked her and then he fucked me in the ass while she at me out. I begged him to, and it was amazing! It was the best sex in my life!”
The other two girls fell silent a moment. It was shattered a moment later as Lauren began shrieking that she was the most disgusting whore she’d ever met and telling her to get the fuck out of her house and never come back. Jody was taken aback as much by Lauren’s furious reaction as by Brianne’s admission, but as she had driven herself and Brianne, she made to leave with her. In moments, the two were gone.
Lauren stormed into the master bedroom before the sound of Jody’s car had even gone quiet, only to find DJ and Brittney in Morgan’s bed, both naked, Brittney’s long leg lovingly over his mid-section and her head resting peacefully on his chest. She didn’t look up when Lauren came in, but DJ smirked enough for both.
“What in the holy fuck did you do to Brianne? And why is all Morgan’s shit thrown all over the hallway? And what the hell is up with this stupid fucking slut?” she raged at him.
“Brianne told you what happened. Morgan’s shit was in our way. And Brittney’s not stupid. She’s in college, after all.” Brittney kissed his chest to say thanks, wriggling against him and gently stroking his cock. Her leg concealed it from Lauren, but it was still obvious what was happening.
She was nonetheless too livid to back down over it. “Whatever. I am calling Morgan, and when she gets here, she is going to fucking KILL you. You’re gonna be out on your ass living in that shitbox car of yours for this. You raped Brianne! I should be calling the cops!”
DJ frowned, puzzled. “I did? Brittney, don’t you remember hearing her ask for it? Beg for it, really.” Brittney nodded. “Wasn’t she just out there bragging about it? And I got a new car, by the way. You should check it out.”
“You’ll pay for this, DJ! This is not over!” She screamed so loudly and shrilly that both DJ and Brittney winced, then stomped out and slammed the door behind her.
“Damn right,” he said after he heard the door to her room slam. “Jody’s still out there, after all…”
Chapter Eight
Morgan came home two hours later, and Lauren was right about one thing—she was livid. DJ was laying in the master bed with Brittney binging Netflix, both dressed again. Brittney had picked the show; DJ was idly daydreaming of what all he hoped to accomplish during the week. His college life had been dull, certainly, but he had been relatively content. The tolerance had been fun. Back here at home, he was surrounded by unhappy memories, and the tolerance was soon to become a weapon of balancing the scales.
From the way Morgan threw open the door and immediately laid into him, she unwittingly offered herself as the next casualty of war.
She was so loud and shrill and incoherent he could barely follow what was upsetting her. His decision to move into her room, his dumping her clothes on the floor, coming home early unannounced, bringing over a hooker, whatever he’d done to upset Lauren so much, blah blah blah.
As she yammered on, he squeezed Brittney’s shoulders reassuringly to keep her from breaking into tears, and took stock of his step-mother. Even now on the eve of her forties, she was a beautiful woman. When people mistook her and Lauren for sisters, Lauren usually got credit for being a few years older while Morgan was deducted more than a decade. Part of it was raw good genes; the same naturally curly black hair that favored her daughter, a wide smile flanked by prominent cheekbones, light olive skin that seemed to belie her Irish-German heritage. Still, DJ knew it was partially from Botox and a boob job she’d gifted herself for a recent birthday (from his trust fund), but the effect worked. Her breasts, which she was now as usual show-casing with a plunging neckline, were the sort that were unmistakably fake not because they were misshapen but because they were simply too perfect, the sort usually only seen on soft core porn.
Or at least, that was DJ’s impression from having to see her prancing around the house half-dressed or lounging around in bikinis for years. Perhaps it was time he confirmed it. This bitch had been riding on his free ticket for decades now; payback was at hand.
She was still going on about something-or-other when he calmly stood up, walking over to her, and ripped her blouse off. Buttons flew everywhere. Beneath it was a disappointing boring beige mom bra, all function and no art. He looked at it, annoyed, a feeling which intensified when she covered her chest with her arms.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, young man?!” she screeched.
Instead of answering, he took her wrists and lowered them to her sides. She glared, but offered no more resistance than a posable doll. He walked around behind her, untucked the shredded blouse and stripped it off of her. After fumbling at the heavy duty clasps, her bra followed it. (Brittney politely kept her eyes on the TV.)
As she repeated her question, he walked back to the front to admire the contribution he’d unwillingly made to advance the cause of great boobs. Her hands were firmly on her hips, which was fine with him. This was better if she was angry. As for her tits… they were much as he’d imagined them. Big, fake titties, hanging unnaturally close even without a bra to hold them that way, perfectly circular nipples almost three inches across but still rightly sized for her. He lifted them and looked underneath, noting the two miniscule surgical scars; he doubted he’d have noticed them if he hadn’t been looking for them.