I open the door and am immediately met with a dirty look. Apparently, Grandma is really a thirtysomething businessman in a suit.
“Who the hell are you? Where’s Carly?” the man asks.
“Well, hello there, pops. I’m Royce,” I say, attempting to be respectful, but I can already feel this conversation spiraling downward. “Carly’s not here right now. Can I help you with something?”
His lips purse at my last comment. “Who are you?” he coldly asks again. “And where is my fat bitch of a wife?”
My face heats up and my fingers ball into fists. How fucking dare Jack show up on this doorstep, and not only talk to me this way, but to be so disrespectful toward Carly. He has some fucking nerve.
I take a deep breath to calm my temper. A brawl on the front porch will definitely get the cops called, and would only hurt Carly’s divorce case. So instead of my hands, I opt for my words. I am a songwriter/poet after all.
“Like I said,” I say casually. “Carly’s not here. But as the current guy fucking your wife, I’d be happy to let her know you stopped by,” I add with a sly grin. His eyes widen, but before he can respond, I slam the door in his face. It was a lie, but it feels like a really good lie. That guy’s a douche and it serves him right to think his wife isn’t pining away for him, but instead is getting railed by some hot piece like me.
There is a brief moment of silence before an eruption…the calm before the storm. “How fucking dare you?” he roars. “You’ll pay for that. She hasn’t heard the end of this. Let her know I’ll be back.”
I glance out the front windows to see him race down the driveway to his car. He slams his car door and peels out into the street. I wave politely, but am met with a not so polite hand gesture.
“Asshole,” I mutter as I turn and head back into the kitchen to finish dinner preparations. I barely get the candy arranged before I hear the front door open and Carly’s tread through the living room. I lean against the counter, plaster a smile on my face, and wait for her to enter the kitchen, except she doesn’t come into the kitchen. I wait and wait, but nothing.
I push off of the counter and follow her path of stripped off shoes, jacket, and purse down the hallway to her bedroom. Music is filtering through the house, not my music, but I’ll let that slide.
When I finally reach her bedroom, I stand briefly in the open entrance and view the bundle of energetic movements before me. She has stripped down to her bra and panties and is dancing all over the room like some sort of teen dance party.
I cover my mouth to hide my smile. She is so free and happy; I don’t want to interrupt. I sure as hell know I shouldn’t be watching, but I can’t pull myself away to walk back down the hall to where I should be.
Reaching my hand up to knock on her bedroom door, she catches sight of me in her dresser mirror. My eyes must bulge out of my head, because Carly freaks out.
“Ahhh!” she screams. “What are you doing here?” Carly immediately reaches for a pillow on her bed to shield herself with.
“I was bringing dinner over, remember?” I offer, somewhat stammering at the fact I got caught peeping on her.
“I didn’t think you would already be here…in my house,” she persists. “Can you please at least turn around?” she begs.
“You know, I’ve seen you like this before, right? It’s not that big of a deal,” I say, trying to put her a little more at ease. Shit, I see tits on a daily basis when the band is performing. I’m continually offered a diversified portfolio of pussy; a little bra and panties action isn’t going to throw me into some tizzy.
She scowls at me and a little begging whimper escapes her lips.
Now, that does have me a little flustered. Damn, if it isn’t the sexiest fucking sound I’ve ever heard. Carly begging is a beautiful notion, and I let the scenarios play out in my head.
“Royce!” she finally hollers sternly, gaining my attention once again.
I roll my eyes and turn around so she can get dressed. “Don’t make such a big deal about this, Carly. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before. It’s just girl parts.”
Dresser drawers slam open and shut hastily. “Yes, but they are my girl parts.”
“Ah, and what beautiful girly parts they are,” I tease.
I’m met with silence as she finishes putting on her clothes, and I feel almost insecure about my comment. I’m not lying about my assessment of her body; she really is truly gorgeous, but I’ve discovered that Carly is the type of girl who doesn’t believe the good things about herself. Probably from too many years with that dickweed Jack. She’s doesn’t take a compliment well, and it’s not because she doesn’t appreciate them. It’s that she doesn’t know how to let them sink into her heart.
“Let’s go, peeping Tom,” she jokes as she smacks me in the chest with her pillow and steps into the hallway.
I grip onto the pillow and let out a small chuckle. I stand frozen in the doorway though. Feasting upon the delight of her ass in yoga pants as she trots down the hall to the kitchen, I just stand and enjoy the visual splendor.
Women always think smaller is better. I couldn’t disagree more. I don’t want to grab onto bones. I want meat, thick bubble butt muscle that can withstand a spanking now and again. Carly certainly has it, and now I find myself needing a minute to give my mini meat time to stand down.
“You coming?” she asks over her shoulder.
I snicker under my breath at her question and move the pillow to cover my lower half. “Um, be there in a minute,” I say, clearing my throat.
Grandmas waxing lady parts, grandmas waxing lady parts, I think to myself. Finally, I take a deep breath, chuck the pillow back onto her bed, and run to catch up to Carly.
“Can we turn the music back on and dance some more,” I say as I run past her and slap her delicious ass.
She startles and squeals. “You know that is sexual harassment, or something?”
“You bet your ass it is,” I slyly say with a wink as I backpedal into the kitchen.
She shakes her head at my childish behavior, and I can’t help but laugh. This woman is my friend, albeit a status I would love to elevate, but a friend at the moment nonetheless. I can only imagine the weight of the stress in her life right now; how she’s not cracking from the pressure is beyond me. So any little comic relief I can provide, I will gladly oblige.
“Holy crap, did you buy the entire restaurant?” she asks, looking around at the copious amounts of takeout boxes piled on top of her table. “As good as this smells, my hips will forever pay for it and they already can’t take another hit.”
I lightly grab her elbow and turn her toward me, pissed that she would insult herself the way she does. “First, I didn’t know what you liked and I didn’t want you to have to just settle on something. Second, if you wanted to eat every damn morsel in the restaurant, I would be absolutely okay with it. In fact, I would pass you the fucking fork. And third, your hips are perfect. You are perfect. So, please don’t insult yourself in front of me; it only pisses me off.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for any untruth in my speech. It’s like she’s daring me to take it all back and call her the horrible names she’s apparently been called in the past.
She backs away from my grasp, pulls out a chair, and sits down at the table. “Well then, let’s have dinner,” she finally announces.
“Well, all right then,” I say with a nod, following her lead and sitting next to her.
She opens the boxes and scoops out small portions of everything available. They are so small that there is more plate showing than not. I follow behind her and scoop out the same entrees and place bigger piles of what she’s chosen on her plate.