Sinful Intentions

by Devon Hartford

“She was trying to yank yours!”

  “Really?” I frowned. “I wasn’t getting that from her.”

  Brooke slapped a palm over her face and shook her head, sighing. “Maybe you are a virgin.”

  “Until an hour ago,” I grinned.

  “Right. So you said.”

  I was about to race to an apology for revisiting the virgin argument when she blushed behind her hand and smiled. “Oh, Mike. You have done things to me that I can’t explain. Good things. The best things.”

  “You too.”

  Still blushing, she lowered her hand and said, “Care to try again? See if you can take it to the next level?”

  “There’s a next level?” I laughed, mystified. “I had no idea there was this level.”

  “Me neither,” she giggled. Then she walked over to me and straddled my knees, looping her arms loosely around my neck. “Oh, Mike. You are a very pleasant surprise in my very unpleasant life.”

  Her saying that made me want to comfort her, but my dick was ordering me to kiss her while he kissed the inside of her pussy and the four of us jackhammered our way to the next level. Whether that was up, down, sideways, or into another dimension was anybody’s guess.

  When I leaned forward to kiss Brooke, I heard the rumble.

  The.

  During the summer, my dad rode a motorcycle to work. A loud-as-fuck Harley. He got off on triggering car alarms and uptight people, which was ironic considering he was the king of uptight.

  “Oh shit!” I jumped up from Brooke’s bed and nearly threw her on the floor, catching her at the last second in the air and holding her aloft with two hands under her ass, her legs kicking up at the ceiling like one of those flashy moves they did on Dancing With The Stars. I assure you, this was purely accident.

  “What is it?!” Brooke gasped, a feather in my arms.

  “My dad!” I set her on her feet.

  “Drill Sergeant Dickweed?” she tittered.

  “I never locked the front door! He’s going to kill me! I have to go!”

  I raced downstairs.

  “Is that Big Mike?” Mrs. H called out, standing in the kitchen preparing dinner as I passed.

  I didn’t stop to ask if she was sprinkling poison into her daughter’s portion, or why Mrs. H was as intimately acquainted with the sound of my dad’s motorcycle as I was, and the time he came home from work. Made you wonder.

  Honestly, I didn’t want to know. Not for today at least.

  For the next twenty-four hours, when it came to the issue of my dad and Brooke’s Mom, denial would be my copilot. I had to deal with the issue of me and Dad and our unlocked front door first. Against him, sadly, denial wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I was about to get my ass kicked from here to Mars.

  Elon Musk, eat your heart out.

  I’ll be landing there in about five minutes.

  Chapter 11

  I burst out of Brooke’s house at a dead run.

  My only chance was to get to my front door before Dad did.

  One fact turned in my favor. Dad always parked his Harley in the garage. That meant he would have to walk into the house (which he always did) and go through it to the front door before I did. This fact gave me just enough time to beat him to the door.

  I tore across Brooke’s lawn, skipping the sidewalk, and vaulted bushes between her yard and mine. Landed on the grass and skidded on my bare feet when I saw Dad coming up the walk, his Harley leaning on its kickstand in the middle of the driveway.

  Why the fuck hadn’t he parked in the goddamn garage?!

  “Mike?” Dad slowed. “What’re you doing?”

  “Why the—!” I almost yelled my mental question at him. Bad idea.

  “What were you doing in the Hillstrom’s yard just now?” His expression cranked slowly into annoyance. Dad considered everyone’s yard sacrosanct. Whether it was his or yours or anybody else’s, you didn’t go running across it without explicit permission.

  “I was,” I stopped talking. I had no idea what to say that wasn’t a blatant lie. Lying to Dad was never wise.

  “Mike, how many times do I have to tell you not to trample on other people’s lawns? You know better. Use the sidewalk, for Chrissakes.”

  I glared at him, thinking, Good to see you to, Dad.

  He started toward the front door.

  I shot forward to intercept. Managed to get there ahead of him. Huddled over the door knob, pretended to grab my non-existent key out of my pocket and insert it into the bottom lock. I twisted the unlocked knob and opened it, holding the door for Dad.

  “Thanks,” he said as he stepped over the threshold, his left boot creaking ever so slightly on the floorboards as it touched down. Dad was an aviation mechanic who specialized in jumbo jets. He was the reason your last minute flight to Las Vegas didn’t fall out of the sky. In contrast to his upstanding job, where he dressed in regulation union coveralls, when he dressed for riding to and from the airport, he was the spitting image of a burly biker gang president. Now, as his body traveled forward and he was on the verge of lifting his right leg to let it swing forward with him, he slowed. Equally slowly, his head swiveled to face me. “You didn’t unlock the deadbolt.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “The deadbolt. You only unlocked the bottom lock.”

  Shit. When the house was empty, I was supposed to lock both locks. Those were the rules.

  “Mike?” He glared at me. Even though I was confident he wasn’t a biker gang member of any kind, my dad was very imposing, a large man with broad shoulders, thick arms, and granite features carved into his face.

  I stared back deer-eyed.

  He asked, “Why didn’t you lock the deadbolt?”

  “I forgot.” What else was I going to say? Not that I hadn’t locked either lock. Thank fuck he hadn’t figured that out, or that I didn’t have my key.

  He groaned, “Mike, how many times do I have to tell you to lock the damn deadbolt when you go out? You’re eighteen years old as of today. You shouldn’t be forgetting things.”

  Happy fucking birthday, I wanted to say.

  “Now that you’re a legal adult, don’t you think it’s time you started acting like one?”

  I wanted to ask if it was time he stopped acting like an asshole. He’d had several decades to overcome that impediment, but somehow, he just couldn’t manage the simplest of things.

  In a calmly bemused voice, he said, “Where were you just now?” His X-ray Lie Detecting Eyes started their scan.

  “Out for a walk.”

  “A walk? When do you go for walks?”

  “All the time.”

  “In this heat?”

  “The house was too hot.”

  “Did the A/C stop working?”

  I wasn’t going to remind him the thermostat was password protected and the house was never truly cool during summer. Nor would I tell him I had my window open letting the heat in earlier while watching Brooke. Thankfully I’d had the sense to shut it before going to her house. If we could just get past this unlocked front door issue, I was in the clear. “No, the A/C is on. It was still too hot. I went for a walk because there was a breeze.” That was a lie I hoped he wouldn’t catch. “It was cooler than the A/C.” I added a slight smirk to give it the veneer of truth.

  “Where’d you go on this walk of yours?”

  “Around.”

  “The neighborhood?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you go in circles?” he smirked sarcastically.

  “No,” I snorted. “I wandered.”

  “Wandered where? Can you recount your route?”

  “I was wandering!” I barked. “That’s the whole point! No route!”

  “Temper.”

  I heaved an annoyed sigh.

  “Where did you go, Mike? Were you out buying drugs?”

  “No!”

  “Then tell me where you went.”

  “I went for a walk, okay? The house is hot! You know that! I’m alwa
ys complaining about it!” That much was the God’s honest truth.

  “Something isn’t adding up.” He looked at the door locks. Looked at me.

  “Would you stop staring at me?”

  “Is it a crime to look at my own son?”

  I wanted to tell him to fuck off and turn my back on him, but that would not end well. It was best to get through things with Dad the first time rather than drag them out, especially when the front door was open and he was standing half in the house, half out, letting the summer heat boil us both. Then I remembered something he loved to harp on and smirked, “It’s a crime if you leave the door standing wide open with the A/C running in the middle of summer. Or don’t you follow your own rules?”

  Dad allowed a small smile and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Now tell me where you really were.”

  At least we’d gotten past the unlocked door. No sense in delaying. If there was any chance Mrs. Hillstrom mentioned to Dad that I was at her house, which was entirely possible because he was always asking everyone questions as head of neighborhood watch, I was screwed. Or should I say nailed, because Dad would crucify me, and knowing him, he’d expect me to hammer the nails myself as an object lesson.

  I sighed, “I was at the Hillstrom’s house.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was, I was helping Mrs. H load up some real estate signs. Into her car.”

  “I didn’t see you helping. Her Beemer was in the driveway by itself when I rode up.”

  I should’ve gone on the offensive and asked Dad why he paid so much attention to Mrs. H’s car. They say in football, the best offense is a good defense. If you asked Dad, the best offense is a better offense. That meant, if I started attacking, he’d attack harder. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of that. So I mumbled, “We were, Mrs. H was, we finished and she gave me a bottle of kombucha to drink after. Inside. In the kitchen.”

  “Uh huh,” Dad nodded, considering it. “If I go ask her right now, is that what she’ll say?”

  It was impossible not to grimace because I knew he would. Dad was viciously persistent. I blurted the truth. Well, half of it. “I was talking to Brooke, okay?!”

  “Brooke? Brooke Hillstrom?” Dad sounded amused. Whether that was good or bad was impossible to decipher. Dad knew I didn’t have any girlfriends.

  “Yes!”

  “What were you doing talking to her?” he asked with a sour tinge.

  “Gee, Dad,” I snarled. “Why do you think?” If I said any more than that, if I said anything that allowed Dad to badger out the truth (that I’d been spying on my naked sunbathing neighbor, gender irrelevant), he would drive me down to Home Depot to buy beams. Two 4” x 4”s, a bracket with bolts, and a box of nails. We already had a post hole digger in the garage left over from when Dad and I redid the fence. Then we’d have a backyard crucifixion party. Mom could grill burgers and hot dogs for Dad while he cracked the whip.

  Dad smirked, “Is that where your long wandering walk took you? All the way to Brooke’s house?”

  “Eventually,” I snorted. “I didn’t start there. I ended there.”

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” he said cryptically.

  “What was?”

  “I knew you weren’t gay.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Have you been seeing Brooke all summer? When your mother and I are at work?”

  “No! Today was the first time I talked to her.”

  “What was the occasion?”

  I would absolutely not tell him the truth about the spying. “Occasion?”

  “Why were you over there in the first place?”

  “She, I, uh, I was coming back from my walk and she asked me to, she needed help opening a jar.” I was getting frazzled. Being questioned by Dad was like being cornered by a bear. You try doing it.

  “A jar? What jar?”

  “Ketchup.” It was the first condiment that came to mind.

  “Ketchup comes in a bottle. You said jar.”

  I groaned. “Whatever! I opened it!”

  “Did you come in her bottle too? Or just open it?”

  “What?!” Gape-mouthed, I glared at Dad.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “No! I opened a bottle for her! That’s it!”

  Dad folded his muscled arms across his immense chest. “I hope you wore a condom.”

  I was ready to shit my pants. “I didn’t have sex with her!”

  Dad tilted his head slightly. Paused. “That I believe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?!”

  “It means you dodged a bullet.”

  “How can, why, you,” I sighed.

  “Let me give you a word of fatherly advice, son.” Dad unfolded his big arms and put a big hand on my shoulder. “Do not get involved with Brooke Hillstrom. She’s trouble. I’ve seen the young bucks she has over. I expect you have too. Christ knows there’s been enough of them. Her parents haven’t exactly been a good influence, if you know what I mean.”

  I was staring at my bare feet on the hardwood floor because looking Dad in the eye would only make things worse. I was scowling with rage. I was not allowed to rage at him, but I was, privately. What he’d just said about Brooke’s parents sounded true enough, based on what I’d witnessed at her house only minutes ago. What he’d just said about her was absolute bullshit. Brooke Hillstrom was an angel.

  “Stay away from her, son. Find yourself a good girl. Someone to make me and your mother proud.”

  Volcanic fury erupted in my chest. I yanked my shoulder out from under his hand and jumped back. “You know what, Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Fuck—”

  The front door suddenly opened and Mom stumbled inside laughing to herself, “Why is the door unlocked?” When she saw me and Dad, she gasped. “Oh! What’re you two doing standing here? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

  Dad’s eyes were locked on mine in a death glare. In a friendly voice, he said out the side of his mouth, “Kath, you’ll never believe what your son just said.” Mom’s name was Kathleen, most people called her Kathy, except Dad who always called her Kath.

  “What, hun?” She always called him hun. If you ask me, Attila was more fitting.

  “Why don’t you tell her,” Dad said, smiling at me with grizzly bear teeth.

  I grumbled but said nothing. Under the circumstances, it was probably for the best. Nobody dropped the F-bomb in our house, least of all me, and most definitely never dropping one on Dad’s head, which I had been in the process of doing when Mom saved my ass from execution.

  Mom said, “Aren’t you going to tell me, Mike?” She meant me.

  “I went for a walk without locking the deadbolt,” I said, glaring at Dad.

  “Is that all?” Mom said, sensing the tension. “Did you at least lock the bottom?”

  “I did.” I was lying, but now was not the time for truth.

  “Did anyone rob us? Hun? Is the house secure?” Mom had mixed feelings about Dad’s rules. Sometimes she was his cheerleader, sometimes she barely tolerated it. It depended on the day.

  “I haven’t checked,” Dad said.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Mom said. “We can worry about it later. After Mike’s birthday dinner. I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. I worked straight through lunch and haven’t eaten since breakfast. We’re still going out, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” Dad asked pointedly, still staring at me.

  I snipped, “I don’t know, are we?”

  “What’s going on?” Mom demanded, her eyes volleying between me and Dad. “Hun? Care to fill me in? Or do I have to play twenty questions?”

  I wanted to say that was Dad’s job.

  Dad said, “You’ll never guess what Junior was doing while we were at work.”

  I fucking hated it when he called me Junior. He only did it when he was pissed at me, which was every other day.

  “What?�
� Mom asked, slightly amused and slightly annoyed. She knew the whys and wherefores of when Dad called me Junior as much as the rest of us.

  “He was over at Brooke Hillstrom’s house. Opening her bottle.”

  “And the problem with that is?” Mom set her purse down on the table by the door where she always set it when she walked inside, and dropped her keys next to it. She folded her arms across her blouse. Mom was a bank manager at the local branch of U.S. Capital Bank and always wore business attire to the office. “Well?”

  “He opened her ketchup bottle,” Dad said with an extra serving of innuendo.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Mom asked.

  “I’ll let Junior explain.”

  I suddenly got the symbolism. Brooke hadn’t been on her period, but now it made sense. Dad was a fucking pig for suggesting it. I scowled, “Dad told me I shouldn’t hang out with Brooke.” A nagging thought in the back of my mind was saying that Dad wanted to keep me away from her because he was cheating on Mom with Mrs. H. I didn’t want to believe it any more than I wanted to believe the trash Dad had talked about Brooke. Did that mean he was cheating on Mom?

  “Hang out?” Mom frowned. Then smiled. “You were hanging out with Brooke? Neighbor Brooke?”

  “Opening her ketchup bottle,” Dad grinned.

  Mom rolled her eyes, “You said that already, hun.” She smiled at me, “Mike, are you seeing Brooke Hillstrom?”

  Those words were magic in my ears. I couldn’t help but grin. “I don’t know. I talked to her today. It was the first time.”

  “Good for you, Mike! That Brooke is a doll. I really like her,” Mom beamed.

  Dad’s jaw was grinding his teeth down to powder while I smiled at him.

  Mom added, “Hun, we should invite her to Mike’s birthday dinner tonight, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dad grumbled.

  “Why not?” Mom said. “I’m sure Mike would love to have her.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Dad seethed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom frowned.

  “It’s not supposed to mean anything,” Dad dodged.

  “Then it’s settled. Should we ask Brad and Diane?” She meant Mr. and Mrs. Hillstrom.

  “We only made reservations for six,” Dad said.