by Abbey Foxx
“Less time than for them to find out what it is they are running tests for.”
Rachel agrees it’s the best thing to do and I call my insurance company to arrange it. If the vacation is over, that’s fine by me. I can head back home and forget all about that sexual tension I can’t avoid with Tilly. If Tilly decides otherwise, however, I may have a complication on my hands. Two crises in one week, may be more than I can handle. And here I am trying to stay out of the newspapers.
The ambulance arrives within an hour of calling it, much quicker than either of us expect. The doctors are neither surprised, nor terribly bothered to see their recently arrived patient disappear, perhaps even relieved that they no longer have to perform their pantheon of random tests.
Dad is sort of semi-lucid as they load him in, conscious of what’s going on, but unable to respond to it. Rachel gets up alongside him, ready with a barrage of questions to fire at the new medical staff.
They take his pulse, check his vital signs, change his drip and tell us both not to worry. Already I feel a thousand times more reassured.
“You can call me when you know. I’ll drive out to get a signal, and check the cell every few hours or so.”
“Tell Tilly not to worry. Hopefully we’ll be back soon.”
“I’m sure you will.”
I watch the ambulance disappear out of the car park before it melts into the landscape of forest and hills that occupies the space between the hospital and the highway beyond.
I did not expect that at all, four days into our vacation. Arguments? Yes. Boredom? Check. Driving your dad to a hospital in the middle of nowhere and then watching him get taken away in a private ambulance to another? Definitely not.
When I get back to my car, my mind wanders back to Tilly. We are going to be alone, just her and me, for at least a day, maybe more. In the middle of nowhere, no cameras, no paparazzi, just Tilly, myself, the jacuzzi, sexual tension, sexy red panties and a huge dick that gets hard when I do little more than just stand next to her.
This is going to be interesting. Fuck, it could even be defining.
Landon
I can’t think of anything else at all on the drive back up to the house. I’m back in the dream and then I’m adding to it with what I want to do to her when I get back, and then I interrupt myself with thoughts of the possible consequences, coach stormy faced with that morning’s newspaper in front of him, the headline in bold print: The Donkey and his stepsister.
I imagine a career of watching other, less impressive players from the sidelines, well known sports personalities lamenting a wasted gift for a senseless act of passion, the inevitable downward spiral afterwards, and then I’m back again in that dream, in the fantasy that it becomes, Tilly and I wrapped in each other’s arms, that butt working hard to please me, her perfection driving me absolutely insane.
I’ve never found temptation easy to resist, and anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a sucker for a good looking girl. If such a thing existed, I’d tell you I had an addictive personality. I wonder if it’s because I’ve just spent my life searching for the right thing.
It’s not normal for me to be indecisive either, but obviously there is a lot at stake. My fucking career for one, my family for two. Both of those things are the most important things in my life. There is also one other major problem I’m overlooking somewhat, and that’s the fact that Tilly is my step-sister. I know enough about her already to know she wants it - I knew that from day one - I just don’t know enough about her to tell whether she’s got the balls to let it happen or not. Or whether I’ve got the balls to make it.
It has to be the lack of sleep, because there is no way I’d be over thinking something like this unless it really was serious, or I just wasn’t in the right frame of mind. Maybe Dad getting ill has bugged me out more than I thought it had. Maybe one month without getting laid is making my senses all wonky. What I really should do is drive back to the cottage, pack my bag, get Tilly in the car and take her home, but I know I’m not going to do that, and the reason I’m not going to do that is because I like taking risks and I just can’t help wanting to see where this goes. I can’t not look into Pandora’s box. Fuck, it’s going to be the death of me, I know it. It’s going to end my fucking career and I’m driving straight for it like the arrogant prick I’ve always been, always thinking with the wrong head.
I should just masturbate and get it over with. I should find a high class escort and pay for her silence. I should forget all about Tilly and what she’s doing to me, but I can’t. I feel like an addict in need of a fix, and the more I think about the possibility of what could happen, the more excited I get about it too.
I’m nervous, like I got before my first big game, the first time something mattered to me. I step out on that field now with chills down my spine, but I’m calm inside because I know I own it, right now, I’m not convinced of anything, and it’s making me feel uneasy.
It’s just coming up to nine when I pull up at the house. Tilly might already be awake, she might already be sunning herself on the decking, tanning those perfect legs of hers, or even better, braving a morning jacuzzi bath expecting to spend the day alone.
My heart is beating much faster than it should be, and before I head inside, I take a deep breath to calm myself, trying my best to focus on what is likely to be the biggest challenge so far of my career, resisting the flesh of my step-sister.
When I see her bed has been cleared up from the lounge, I automatically expect to find her either on the decking already or down at the bottom of the garden with her book.
She’s not in either of those two places, and disappointingly, she’s not in the jacuzzi either. I’m about to call her name, when I decide to get changed first, catch up on my own sleep and try and see if a) I can return to that dream world Tilly in absence of the real thing and b) work out if lack of sleep is fucking with my perspective, because considering ruining a whole career over one girl is definitely not something I should even be entertaining right now.
I don’t see her right away. The light is off and the drapes are pulled across so the only light seeping in I’ve brought with me from the living room. I don’t expect to see her either, so I’m not exactly looking, but there she is, as clear as day, my step-sister, semi-naked, fast asleep, in my bed.
Her sweatpants are bunched up and on the floor below, but I would have known she wasn’t wearing them anyway because of the posture she likes to sleep in. It’s the same as that very first night, only the panties are different this time. One leg outside the duvet curled across it, one hand tucked up underneath her cheek, the rest of her tucked up inside.
I can’t believe it. I’m out for less than half a day and Tilly’s not only commandeered my bed, she’s lying it it like she owns it. I have to smile, not only because the picture I’m presented with is incredible, even in the milky half light’s grainy resolution, but mostly because the last thing I need is it presented to me on a plate.
This is like putting a chocolate cake in front of someone with a weight problem, or leaving a gambling addict in the middle of a casino. Or worst still, breaking into the house of someone with an addiction problem, going to their bedroom, their own personal, private space, and leaving exactly what they can’t have there for them to try and build up the courage to leave alone.
Believe me, I’m trying to build up the courage, but this is doubly hard because Tilly’s somehow still asleep. I should do the decent thing and leave her be, but to be honest, I should have done that the moment I opened the door and realized she was lying there. I’m still here, looking at the curve of her back, that perfect ass that shines like a moon caught behind a muggy filter of cloud on a dark night, the way her hair falls across the pillow, and I’m thinking not about leaving her alone, I’m thinking about getting into bed next to her and giving her exactly what she wants but is too afraid to ask for.
I’ve got to do something soon because my dick is getting hard imagining it. If she s
uddenly wakes up, and I’m stood here erect, standing over her like a pervert, it’s not going to go down too well.
I decide to wake her up. Fuck it. That’s reasonable isn’t it? I’ve had about an hour’s sleep all night, and it isn’t unreasonable to imagine I might need more. Tilly must have passed the ten hour mark. It might not be the reason I want to do it, but it’s the reason I’ll give her when it’s done.
I’m not going to wake her up like any normal person would either. I’m going to give her some payback for thinking she can sneak in here, sleep in my bed and not give a damn if I catch her. Maybe she planned on bumming back to the living room before morning, or that I wasn’t going to come back at all, or maybe I’m reading the whole thing wrong and she’s done this because she wants me to find her here.
I have a sudden feeling that she might not even be asleep at all, and have to get close to her just to make sure she still is. I round the bed, taking in the fullness of her body as I do so, unable to avoid it actually, because the light that comes off her I use to guide my path, put my face close to hers and make sure she’s not awake and about to punk me. It would be a hell of a set-up and I’d give it up to her hands down, but that’s not what’s about to happen. I can’t help but think that Tilly’s missed a trick. She could have got her own back for the way I woke her up the other morning, and I would have hated it but respected her for it too. Maybe she does want the Landon Maddox alarm bell after all. The wake me up slow and sweet method, and don’t stop going until I’ve come all the way up.
I used to date a chick who liked me to do that, and the way she screamed in the morning because of it made the whole house shake.
I’m not going to do that with Tilly, even though I reckon she’d appreciate it. Despite what all the newspapers say, I may be an ass, but I’m a gentleman first and foremost. I like to pull a chair out for a girl before she sits down, and I like to get consent before I make an assumption.
The last thing I need is a headline of that story. Maybe I can do that tomorrow depending on how she reacts to what I’m about to do to her now. Maybe she’ll just agree that the best thing for everyone is to head back to New York and I can forget all about the good and disastrous things that could happen if not, like getting my dick wet, falling for my sexy-assed step sister, and being sold to a basement club and frozen out of the league. Damn, temptation is a bitch, and making the right decisions, always a burden.
I wouldn’t be in this situation if every one of those girls was as honest as I am. I’ve never sold a story, cheated on someone, gone behind their back or ratted them out in my life. It’s not like my performance off the field has an effect on it either. If anything it’s the other way round. I’m tempted to let the coach see that without sex I just don’t perform as well. If I wasn’t throwing the yardage he’s come to expect from me he’d soon come back round to my way of thinking. Bad headlines don’t sink a club, but everyone knows that bad results do.
It’s a simple equation as well. You get laid, you feel happy, you throw well. I went seven games without being touched by an opposition player last season. I’m not talking sacks, I’m talking being touched in live play by a member of the opposite team. They don’t record stats like that because they don’t know how to measure them, but I know. Seven whole games without being touched, and it wasn’t because of the offensive line either, it’s because I do two things better than anyone else on this planet. I play ball and I please women, and one helps the other exponentially. That seven game run? One girl that ended up dropping me when it began to get serious, and selling her story for half a million dollars on how I was a kinky pervert in the bedroom. Me. Half of the shit we did because she asked for it. I’m not going to say I didn’t enjoy it, but none of the stuff she attributed to me was even my idea. Her lies yet everyone believed it. You see the kind of thing I have to contend with on a daily basis? If you’re in the spotlight, and you get with the wrong girl, your personal life and your private life can’t help but get crossed over. Looking at this fine sliver of perfection in front of me now, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to fall into the same trap.
“Tilly.”
My voice is nothing but a whisper.
“Tilly”, I say again, this time sweeping her hair away from her face.
Nothing. She doesn’t even stir. Careful not to nudge her, or inadvertently step on her arm or leg, or chest, I mount the bed, my legs either side of hers, my crotch rested against the turn of her hip.
“Tilly.”
I start rolling my knees forwards into the softness of the mattress, gentle enough not to disturb her, but strong enough to create a kind of wave across the bed that lifts the pillow slightly and her head with it. She sighs, or breathes heavily, I can’t work out which, but it’s the first indication she’s coming to.
“Landon.”
I swear she says it without thinking, like it’s coming from her subconscious, because when she says it, it’s not a question, or even a recognition of me being there, it’s just a word, like it would have come out of her anyway, whether I was here or not. Landon. My name, hot on her lips, too fucking hot to stay inside her.
It doesn’t last long because a moment later she really is awake and she’s fighting to push me off her.
“What the fuck?”
I resist for a moment, and then I dismount, both my step-sister and the bed, to stand alongside it.
“What the fuck, Landon, are you fucking kidding me? What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Chill out, Tilly, this is my room remember. What are you doing in here, in my bed, naked?”
“I’m not naked.”
It amuses me that she feels the need to cover herself up now that I’ve mentioned it. She’s not naked - it would have been interesting if she was - but I say it like that because I know the exaggeration will cheese her off.
“And I was sleeping. What the fuck were you doing?”
“In my bed?”
“Yes, in your bed.” There is a pause before she qualifies it. “I was tired.”
I don’t mention there is a perfectly good bed with her name on in right next to this one, but I don’t need to either. If she hadn’t given me her reason, I would have been able to see it now anyway, written all over her face. She’s been rumbled, and she knows it too. Tilly’s in my bed because she wants to be. It’s as simple as that.
“It’s time to get up”, I say. “Don’t feel like you have to get dressed though, I like that T-shirt on you.”
Tilly’s eyes dip to her chest, which she covers immediately with the duvet when she notices her nipples pushing bobbles into the fabric. It makes me chuckle seeing how prudish she is with her body.
“Good dream?”
“Fucking hell, Landon.”
I know she would prefer me to leave to make this less awkward for her, but I’m not going anywhere. For a moment we just eyeball each other, while we wait for the other person to make a move. Tilly finally gives in with a grunted exclamation of frustrated anger.
“You didn’t have to wake me up.”
I watch her gather the duvet up so it covers her body, pick her sweatpants up off the floor as gracefully as she can without revealing herself, and barge past me into the living room, her back exposed and the blanket cinched around her like the thing was a modern dress and this was her attempt at some kind of weird new fashion trend. I lean against the door frame casually, happy to observe her.
In her haste, it takes a moment for her to realize there are a couple of us missing. She gives a kind of token look around for them, before something dawns on her. I can’t tell whether it’s concern for my father’s health, or concern that we are now alone, for an as yet indiscernible period of time. She pauses her one handed search for clothes and stands up, urgently.
“Where are Mom and Marvin?”
“Hospital.”
“What do you mean hospital. Why aren’t they here?”
“They don’t know what’s wrong with Dad.”
Tilly pauses for a beat. She’s mad, but this supersedes that, and I know she doesn’t want to be impolite.
“Fuck, is he ok?”
“They don’t know. We took him to some weird place in the middle of nowhere that didn’t even have vending machines in the corridor. I mean, what kind of hospital doesn’t have vending machines in the corridor? Anyway, they didn’t know what was wrong with him. They wanted to do tests, but they didn’t know what they were looking for, so I got a private ambulance to take him to New York.”
“New York?”
“You should have seen them in this place, Tilly. They didn’t even know what they were supposed to be doing with him.”
“So where’s Mom?”
I think Tilly already knows the answer to that question, but she’s being coy.
“Rachel refused to leave his side, so she’s gone with him.”
“Mom’s gone to New York?”
I nod.
“Is your dad ok?”
“He’s fine. It’s probably just heat stroke or dehydration or food poisoning or something that’s going to make him feel stupid for being weak.”
“Right.” There is a slight hesitation before she continues, perhaps as the reality of the situation begins to drip into her. “So what are we supposed to do?”
There are several ways I can think of answering that question, none of which would be immediately appropriate.
“Wait here for news.”
“Alone?”
“Together.”
“Without them though?”
“Yes.”
“Until when?”
“Until we hear.”
“You and me.”
“In the middle of nowhere.”
“In the middle of nowhere.”
I nod.
“Fuck.”
I can’t tell you how much I wish that was a question, nor how much Tilly probably does either.
Tilly
We can’t stay here. Not alone or together or whatever it is, we just can’t. It’s not that I don’t trust him either, it’s that I don’t trust myself. We are literally in the middle of nowhere and we are alone. Nobody can see us. Nobody can hear us. There’s probably not even a single thing alive in a half mile radius. The dead bird at the bottom of the garden is about as close as we’ll get. It’s a recipe for disaster, the perfect setting for something to happen. Something that I am bound to regret.