by L.J. Shen
Vaughn is a spitting image of his dad. So much so, that sometimes it scares me.
At sixteen, he has the walk, talk, and air of Vicious when the latter was a senior in high school. Rangy, strong body, thick-fringed blue eyes, skin so fair he looks like he defies the sun, and cheekbones you could use as a sharp weapon. More than anything, he has that uniquely-pissed facial expression that tells you that he just doesn’t care.
Not about your problems.
Not about your feelings.
And certainly not about what you think about him.
“Are you actively trying to be gross?” Vaughn mutters under his breath, throwing his phone on the silk ottoman by the entrance and kicking his shoes off at the same time. His black, holed shirt strains around the muscles of his back as he tears the gray beanie off his head and shoves it into his holed back pocket. His black skinny jeans are ripped not only at the knees, but also below the ass, hanging loosely by a belt made of tied-up shoelaces. Yes. My son is a millionaire who dressed like he should be begging for his next meal.
Because he simply. Doesn’t. Care.
Vaughn ambles past us, toward the kitchen, his eyes hooded with an impending storm.
“Are you actively trying to get your ass grounded and your credit card sent back to where all Black American Express cards go to die?” Vicious raises a sardonic eyebrow, smoothing his suit with his palm and taking a sidestep so my body fully covers his erection. I bite down a giggle. Vaughn throws the fridge door open, takes out leftover roasted sprouts and steak, and gets right to business. He places enough food to choke an elephant on a fork and shoves it into his mouth while the food is still cold, leaning one hip against the dark green granite counter.
Vaughn’s eyes are hard on the food as he says, “You’re supposed to hate each other or get a divorce like most of the other parents at my school. Get the memo, guys.”
“Well, we did that in high school. We did everything backwards. Now is our honeymoon phase.” I offer him a breezy smile, hoping I can melt his inhibitions and anger as I do with his dad.
Vaughn swallows the steak without even chewing. “Still. Nothing like a parental PDA to kill a guy’s appetite. Get a room.”
“We have a room.” I knot my arms around my husband’s neck and plant a tender kiss on his cheek. Secretly, I enjoy seeing my son like this. Defiant, strong, outspoken. Everything Vaughn says is in block letters. Important and not to be ignored. His voice is low and looming, only a few tons lighter than his dad’s.
“We have fifteen of them, to be exact, and a snotty-ass son who is more than welcome to migrate out of our house in favor of military school.” Vicious is clearly joking, but there is a serious edge to his tone. “Apologize to your mother.”
Vaughn carries the empty plastic container, now devoid of food, to the stainless steel trash bin and kicks it open with his foot. He dumps it inside and shuts the door with his hip. He turns around, and I realize that his dark expression makes me wince, and I’m his mom. I dread to think how other people feel about him at school.
“So terribly sorry, Mother.” He does a little bow, his movements drip sarcasm and disdain.
“Would you like to share what got your panties in such a twist, they now need to be surgically removed from your ass?” Vicious flicks his cold eyes from my breasts to his son, finally stepping from behind me. He is no longer suffering from a steel-hard erection. Despite the unfortunate current situation, my husband and my son are close. In fact, they can sit in the media room for hours, talking, playing God of War, and drinking root beer. They share not only blood and family, but also several interests and a weird, tongue-in-cheek sense of humor only they understand. They also share the same scorn toward life and people. They both love the Raiders, and pissing people off, and me.
Vaughn swivels on his heel, stalking toward the stairs. Vicious clasps his arm on instinct, pulling him toward us. Their gazes lock and something clicks in the air. Whatever passes between them makes goosebumps chase each other up my arms. I’ve seen Vaughn’s expression on Vicious’ face before. He gave it to Dean, one of his best friends, shortly before we started dating as teenagers.
“What’s wrong?” my husband presses.
Vaughn shakes his touch off, taking a step toward the spiral bare concrete staircase, complete with glass bannisters that give our entire house a modern, raw look. “Nothing.”
Vicious captures his arm again, this time tugging him into a fatherly half-hug.
“We don’t keep shit from each other in this family, V.”
“Yup.” Vaughn’s head hangs down as a bitter chuckle leaves his lips, so lively red in contrast to his pale skin. He takes a step back from Vicious, and this is strange, because usually, he is defiant and cold, but not with us. “That, I know. We’re all just a big, fucking happy family, aren’t we, Dad? We. The Coles. The Followhills. The Rexroths. I mean, you and uncle Dean even dated Mom almost at the same time, didn’t you? That’s some modern shit right there. I guess I’m an old-school kind of guy. Sharing is not my jam.”
My eyelid ticks with anger as I finally catch up with what my son is saying. I snap, “Language!” at the same time that Vicious corners Vaughn near the glass behind the staircase. He is not touching him, but he is still making sure our son knows he overstepped, and now he needs to listen to what we have to say. My head is reeling. I can’t figure out where all of this is coming from. My son is a lot of things, but he is not prone to dramatics. Something happened.
Vicious chuckles, shaking his head before plastering his palm next to Vaughn’s face and getting in his personal space. I feel the urge to break them apart, but I also know that Vaughn is the kind of kid that needs to be reminded what boundaries are. Vicious lifts a warning finger to Vaughn’s face. “I love you. You’re my son. It’s in my blood to demolish anything that remotely endangers your wellbeing. But I will be clear on this, and only say it once—next time you talk about your mother like that, you and I are going to have a serious problem. A problem which will not limit itself to money, something I know you don’t care about. I assure you that you will regret disrespecting her, or me, and just to set the record straight, Emilia never dated Dean and me at the same time. She dated Dean, and I was the asshole who tried to steal her away from him. Nod once if you understand this, twice if you still want me to confiscate anything that’s not water or oxygen from your life for the next two months.”
Vaughn nods once, his eyes narrowing into slits as he scans his dad. My heart is in my throat. Vicious take a step back and irons Vaughn’s tattered collar with his hand.
“Relationships are complex, son. So are people. What’s bothering you?”
“Knight’s existence is fucking bothering me.”
I’m about to call him out on his language again, but then Vicious shoots me a not-now look. He has a point. I love my husband, but he cusses like a drunken sailor in an Irish bar. I promised myself I would not be a hypocritical parent before I had Vaughn, and so far, I have kept my promise.
I take a step toward them, placing a reassuring hand over my son’s shoulder. I don’t recall the exact moment when he stopped feeling soft under my touch, with chunky Pillsbury’s baby arms and cheeks that seemed to have swallowed the rest of his features, to this young man, sinewy and resilient, all sharp edges and aristocratic features.
“What are you two up to now?” Vicious thrusts his chin toward our son. Knight and Vaughn grew up practically as brothers. They were born in the same month, for God’s sake. But you couldn’t find two people more different in personality and style. My child is cold, aloof, frivolous, and cruel at times, while Knight, like his dad, Dean, is open, candid, friendly, and was blessed with enough charm to enchant the entire nation with his cocky grin alone.
“It’s not what he is doing; it’s who he is doing.”
“You’re sixteen. You should not be doing anyone other than yourselves,” Vicious quips. I laugh, and Vaughn rolls his eyes, something he is trying to refrain from do
ing, so I know he is really pissed.
“May I be ex-fucking-cused? And please, no more ‘language’ BS, Mom. We both know I learned it somewhere.”
“Is this about Luna?” I probe, forever in Mama Bear mode.
Vaughn huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and swiveling toward the edge of the stairway again. “Yeah. Right. Like Luna would put out to Knight.”
“Daria, then?”
I know my son has a secret he shares with Daria Followhill. Despite her being a senior and him a sophomore, there is a bond that connects them. But Daria is homecoming queen. Prom queen. Head cheerleader and the most popular girl in school. Coming at second place is not really an option for her, and so sometimes she tries to push Luna around, simply because she steals so much of the boys’ attention without even trying.
But I also know my son’s personality, and he is not easily affected by his gorgeous, senior friend. At first, I thought Vaughn and Daria were having sex, but when I confronted him about it, he just laughed and said, “I love you, Mom. I do. But if you really must know, I’d rather mess around with our neighbors’ dog before I touch a bitch like Daria.”
Did he get grounded for that kind of language? Yes.
Did he care? No.
“Asking me again and again will not make me open up, Dad. It will just make me want to punch more walls, and Ralph is already on my case.” Ralph is our interior designer. He pops in every year or whenever Vaughn is having one of his angry phases. “The Devil Wears Walmart,” he tells me every time he drops in for his usual let’s-remodel-your-kitchen visit and sees my son. I don’t think Vaughn is wearing Walmart, but I’m not quite sure what he is wearing. I just know he looks grunge and hard-edged, like his dad was, but in less a preppy way. I palm Vaughn’s cheek, and he kisses the base of my palm before swatting my hand away.
“I just need to be alone for a few hours to get my shit together. Can I have that?” he asks.
“Of course.” But what my mama didn’t tell me is that we say of course, and we might even think it, when in reality, all we want to do is wrap our arms around our kids and take the pain away.
Later that night, I know Vaughn is out of the house because his car is not parked next to Vicious’. I slip into my shimmering pink nightgown, squirt hand cream on my hands and rub it nice and good all over my arms and neck. I walk over to the extra-large king-sized bed I share with Vicious. Our room is uniquely-designed, with dry-packed stone for walls and Egyptian cotton linen smoothed over a low, contemporary bed. Candle lights drop from the ceiling, and every wall is adorned with a different painting by me.
Painting one: A portrait of Vicious looking at an invisible camera.
Painting two: A portrait of me staring at a portrait of him with cherry blossoms in my hair.
Painting three: A glass frame containing all the notes we sent one another in high school. Before we found out we were in love with each other. When we simply hated how trapped we felt inside our own feelings.
Painting four: black canvas with drops of pink splashed onto it. Abstract. Wild. Intangible. Much like our feelings toward each another.
I notice the light pouring like a sunray from the slit under Vicious’ office door and sigh. I turn off the lights and tuck myself into bed, staring up at the ceiling.
I read somewhere that once you become a mother, you stop being your own story’s protagonist, and that changes the fabric of who you are, of how you perceive life. My son is far from perfect. He does, in fact, carry the same savagery of his father and a similar obsessive need to defy cultural expectations, like me. But I know deep down that his soul is gentle, just like his father’s. Just like mine.
I drift off to sleep, knowing Vicious will stay awake until Vaughn is home, before I’m awakened by a weird sensation. Actually, weird may not be the right word for what I’m feeling. It is delightful, hot, and it makes my core tighten and quiver with desperate need.
Vicious’ hot, wet tongue drags from the base of my sex up to my clit, where he halts, sucks it in with a groan, then bites softly before he releases it. I spread my legs wider on an instinct, a moan tumbling from my lips.
“Vaughn?” I ask in a haze, the fog of a building orgasm and sleep making me groggy and frantic at the same time. His hands dip and graze every curve of my body, and I writhe and arch underneath him, a willing subject to the king who owns my body.
“Still out. I called him earlier and he’s on his way. We got ten minutes before the little devil comes back.”
“And what are you planning to do in those ten minutes, Mr. Spencer?” I grin, dipping my fingers in his onyx-black hair, still thick and shiny. He looks up from between my legs and smirks, his lips wet and glossy with my need for him.
“Finish what we started this afternoon. On your knees for me, Mrs. Spencer.”
I’m about to stand up and do as I’m told when he pins me back to the bed with a light shove, flicking my clit with his thumb and using his other hand to prop my butt up.
“I think I’d like to torture you a little first.”
“We don’t have much time,” I say, but my heart is not in it. I’m giggling like a schoolgirl.
Vicious gives me one last don’t-mess-with-me look. “I’m not getting cockblocked by a sixteen-year-old emo kid, even if we share the same genetic code. Now, relax for me, Em.”
He eats me up like I’m a French dessert, and my body is sizzling, blooming, coming alive, each sensitive nerve a red, shiny button he pushes. I’m shaking all over and my knees turn to jelly when he stops his licking, sucking, and tongue-thrusting abruptly, looming over me now, his arms boxing me just above my shoulders. He stares down at me, and all I can see in his eyes is the man I was born to love.
There was a lost boy who used to live there, too. And I love him just as much.
I think Vicious is going to say something, after depriving me of a forceful orgasm, but all he does is smash his lips against mine. Our teeth clash and I let out a drunken laugh while he fumbles with his black sweatpants, pushing them down and entering me missionary style. He hoists one of my legs over his shoulder and sinks into me all at once.
“Ohhh…” I moan. I can taste myself on my lips, a weird thing I’ve learned to like and even crave. He rides me slowly, pinning my hands up against our headboard and bringing his free hand down, dipping two fingers inside me, so that I’m deliciously stretched and begging for my release. He rides me with quiet intensity, taking his time, even though he knows that Vaughn will be here any minute. He likes to see me squirm and worry. Watch the anxiousness in my eyes. Even after all these years, it still turns him on, but the truth is, it turns me on, too.
“Hurry up,” I groan.
“Sweetheart, don’t forget who bosses whom around here.” He goes even slower, and I’m panting, and wriggling, fighting him for more friction. I want to come. I need to come.
“Vaughn will be here any minute.”
“He knows his parents have sex. Unless he still thinks we found him under a gooseberry bush.”
I snort out a nervous laugh, and he takes my hands, which he pinned to the board, and plants them on his butt and back. “Shut up and let me fuck you, Emilia.”
“Make me come, then,” I order, my voice quivering. And it’s a mistake, I know it before I’m even done uttering the words, because he pulls out halfway, his tip and some of his shaft still inside me, and begins to move in delicious circles, prolonging my orgasm even more. His fingers that were shoved inside my pussy a moment ago are now in my mouth. He is stuffing me with them so I won’t be able to moan loudly.
“See? Problem solved. Now I can fuck you well into next week and our kid wouldn’t even notice, because you won’t make a sound.”
Vicious has always been good and proper. He possesses the manners of the old-moneyed, but at the same time, he loves to watch me widen my eyes in horror with some of the things he says. Sometimes I do it just to get his rocks off. Then I remind him with a biting tongue that I’m not some damsel in
distress.
The sound of the entry door opening and closing makes my eyes broaden. I stare at my husband with the horror of a woman who knows her son well enough to predict he will stop by our room to tell us goodnight so that we know he is here, because he knows we stay awake until he gets back home.
The smirk on Vicious’ lips alone makes my core clench around him involuntarily, and he withdraws his fingers from between my lips, cups my mouth with his hand, and begins to ride me so hard and so fast, I’m worried he will tear me apart.
“Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord,” I chant, my voice muffled by his palm. The spasm is violent, ripping at my insides like a tempest. It feels like an electric shock as he rides me into a place it will take me hours to recover from. The heat swirls in my stomach and the wetness pulling underneath us in bed. I tear my eyes away from Vicious’, knowing that I could scream even through his hand if I see what’s inside them, the tortured boy I fantasized about every night in my bed as a teenager. I come in his arms, wave after wave of pleasure slamming into me from within.
“Mom? Dad?” I hear Vaughn coming up the stairs, eating something crunchy. The click of a spoon against fine china. Cocoa Pops is my bet. The room reeks of sex and we are both sweating. The heady, sweet scent of my lust, combined with the saltiness of Vicious’ cum dripping between us, is a dead giveaway to what we’ve been doing. And I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I am. Vicious rolls off of me and chuckles, covering his face with his forearm so that all I can see are his pearly-whites.
“Yes, honey,” I yell back to Vaughn, clearing my throat when I realize how guilty and embarrassed I sound. “I’m just getting dressed for bed. Everything okay?”
“Can you stop by my room before you go to sleep?”
Vicious and I exchange looks. This is unlike Vaughn, but at least he passed by our door without knocking on it or pushing it open. Vicious gives me half a shrug, his eyebrows crinkling with amusement.