We could do it, I’d thought at one point, squirming with the anticipation of our late-night meetings. We could really do it!
But as the days passed and reality sunk in, I realized that washing machine fuck fests and shower blow jobs were just a horny fantasy.
What if Mom caught us? I’d wonder, imagining the look of horror on her face as she walked into the laundry room to check if her sheets were dry. Or Professor Robinson? I’d imagined as well, the thought of him seeing me down on my knees between his son’s legs as the shower water pelted my shoulders was too gross to even contemplate.
As each day passed, I realized I’d never feel at ease being with Craig once we were officially related and worse, he would. For whatever reason, be it his cocky macho jock bravado or just his insatiable sexual appetite, I firmly believed Craig would be just fine with fucking me in the laundry room in the middle of the night and after all, what stepbrother would turn down a random hot BJ in the shower from his wet, willing stepsister?
I had to admit, the appeal was mutual. I’d never been a bad girl and had never understood girls who were. I’d never stole some girl’s boyfriend, or got tattoos, or picked up random guys and I’d never got turned on by any of those, but the thought of doing dirty things to Craig while our parents slept only feet away made me more excited than it probably should have.
Maybe it was Craig’s inherent sexiness—or the thought of me being a bad girl for once in my life. All I knew, the combination was powerful. I was addicted to him, and the only way to quiet my deep, dark fantasies was to burn them off with my friggin’ fingers and thousands of steps per day!
But having had Craig to myself these past few months and getting used to his companionship, I wanted more than just illicit sex. I wanted Craig, as a lover and a boyfriend. Free and clear and without apologies. I wanted to go on dates, hold hands, sit in quiet restaurants and noisy movie theaters, cuddling, schmoozing and canoodling out in the open. I’d never fallen so deeply for someone so quickly, and it killed me that I’d been robbed of my first serious boyfriend by my own mother! Now, to save myself—to save him—I had to be strong for the both of us.
What good would it do us, I wondered as I walked the familiar pathway behind my apartment complex, to spend another few months—or even years— skulking around like common criminals just because we were in love?
I didn’t want to hide my love for Craig. I wanted to wear it like a badge, shout it to the world and enjoy it any hour of the day. Not hiding away in the dark, mouth clamped against my screaming orgasms in the middle of the night.
That wasn’t fair to me and it wasn’t fair to Craig, either. He’d given up a lot to be exclusive to me and while I’d tried hard to satisfy his every need, no doubt it had been a shocking reversal of fortune to go from big man on campus to sharing a tiny double bed with me for nearly three months.
If I was going to make peace with the idea of being a platonic stepsister to Craig Robinson—the Craig Robinson, the hot-as-fuck quarterback who could have any girl he wanted—then it was only fair that I let him do it. And knowing Craig’s insatiable sexual appetite and irresistible appeal to hot chicks, I knew the best medicine for him getting over me would be getting right back on somebody else.
As the dry, dead leaves crackled underfoot while I began another loop around the old, familiar pathway, I imagined Craig thinking the very same thing. What guy could resist returning to his old life when it was so carefree, attractive and without strings? Who could pass up free sex from an unlimited number of hot, random chicks?
No man that I knew.
At that moment, I realized I’d been stupid and naïve to think Craig wouldn’t return to his old ways as soon as he got the message that I wasn’t going to bend or break on my commitment to keep him at arm’s length. And of course, that’s what I’d wanted. If I was going to go back to my old life, pre-Craig, it was only fair that he went to his old life, pre-Avery.
For me that meant Ramen noodles, cheap wine and long, lonely nights binge-watching cheesy vampire movies on HitFlix. But for Craig, it meant banging hot chicks on the regular. I’d known when I kicked him out of bed that day that’s what I wanted for him, but I didn’t realize how hard it would hurt—or how badly I’d want him back!
Twenty-Six
Craig
“Come on, baby…”
The voice was frantic. “Just stay with me, baby”
I blinked my eyes open to blurry shapes and squiggly lines in my eyes. “Wha… what’s…”
I couldn’t say any more than that. My tongue was too thick, my head swimming while the room throbbed and spun around me. I blinked my eyes again as everything slowly came into focus. Clothes on the floor, a candle flickering on the coffee table, and a girl in front of me.
Scratch that—a naked girl.
“Who… what?”
She was beautiful, with perky tits and a flat stomach, her blonde hair splayed across her bare shoulders. Her bra was above her breasts, her blouse undone and fallen halfway down her arms as she fervently stroked my cock.
My limp, flaccid cock. I stared at it for a moment, thick and soft, her warm fingers trying to bring it to life.
“Come on, Craig,” she said, wide-eyed and eager as she gently tugged my balls with the other. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I shook my head, “Who are you?”
Her face looked slightly shocked, lips gently parted as her eyes narrowed and her hands, so recently busy, went straight to either side of her bony, narrow hips. Spotting my jeans on the floor in a heap, I grabbed them to cover myself.
“Wendy, remember?” When I shook my head, stumbling back onto a nearby barstool and gracelessly tugging them back on, she added, “From the party, remember?”
“I… I’m sorry,” I said, my speech slow and slurred. “I don’t.”
“Jesus,” she huffed, watching me struggle to button my jeans. “How?”
I shook my head, suddenly pounding. “I dunno,” I said, peering around the apartment at the dozens of beer cans littering the coffee table and kitchen counter. “I mean, Hard-on and I partied here a little bit before the Winter Whoopass party, then…”
She sneered, yanking down her bra but not buttoning her blouse. Maybe she thought something more might happen if only we could talk through the problems surrounding my limp dick.
“Then?” she prompted impatiently. “Then?”
“Then,” I said, head as fuzzy as my tongue, “then we walked out in the hall and …”
“And what, Craig?”
I peered back at her, wanting to shake my head but fearing it would pound even more if I did so. “How… how do you know my name?”
“Jesus, dude,” she huffed, finally tugging her blouse around her chest and buttoning it crookedly. “We talked for almost an hour back at the frat house. You… you’re telling me you were too drunk to remember any of that?”
I nodded emphatically. “Wanda I don’t remember—”
“Wendy!” she shouted, waving her hands as she stood, grabbing her skirt off the floor and yanking it up her long, legs. “It’s Wendy, not Wanda! You said it, like, fifty fucking times walking back to your stupid apartment!”
“I did?”
“Jesus!” She paced, stomping the floor. “Are you…” She put her hands on her hips again as she stood in front of me. Her face was a mask of surprise and disgust, making me sicker even more. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Wow. I’m sorry,” I sputtered, shaking my head despite my hangover. “I don’t know. I must’ve blacked out.”
“For a whole hour?” she accused.
“I guess,” I reasoned, trying to piece together the long, drunken night and how Wendy fit into everything—and where the hell Hard-on went! “I mean, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that. I honestly don’t remember… meeting you.”
“You seriously don’t remember your giant friend introducing us at the party?” she said, peppering me with more and more questions—although
they sounded more like accusations to me. “The shots we took together in the kitchen? The time we spent in the corner, flirting mercilessly? Until I dragged you out of the party and all the way back here?”
“I’m sorry, Wendy. I wish I did. You seem… really nice… but I don’t remember any of that.”
As we stood there, face to face, my mind reeled with flashes of mostly fuzzy memories, but growing clearer by the moment. I vaguely remembered stumbling to the Winter Whoopass party, Hard-on and I stopping along the way to buy another six pack of cheap beer, which we promptly downed before walking into the frat house.
There were more blank spots, like scenes of a film that had been edited out, and then Wendy’s face, ambiguously visible amongst a crowd. But what we talked about, where we went and how we got back to this apartment—let alone undressed enough to find out I had whiskey dick—was all a surreal blur.
“Likely story,” she murmured, shaking her head—either in disgust—or disbelief. Either way I felt terrible. Not only that I didn’t remember this chick—at all—but that in my drunken stupor I’d started something with her I never would have finished, drunk or sober! Oh God, Avery! I felt bad for Avery as well. Though nothing had happened, thanks to my limp dick, it still felt like cheating. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t perform? If so, it would be a fitting revenge, even if she never found out.
Thinking of her made me snap to attention, suddenly soberer than I’d been in hours. I peered around the room, dirty and sullied by whatever had happened while I’d been blackout drunk. “You should…” I began, not sure how to say this other than to just say it. “You should probably go.”
“No shit, whiskey dick!” Wendy huffed, reaching for her purse.
I laughed, making things even worse as her nostrils flared and her cold blue eyes narrowed. I knew it was the wrong—the completely wrong—response, but I couldn’t help it. And the harder I laughed—the more she hated it. Which made me laugh even more.
She turned defiantly, giving me the finger over her shoulder as she opened the door with her free hand and without ever looking back, ran off into the night.
Or so I thought.
Twenty-Seven
Avery
“Oh!”
The tall, leggy blonde looked at me, wide-eyed, her nostrils flaring, hastily-dressed as she stomped out of Craig’s dorm room. Her hair was disheveled, her lipstick smeared, her cheeks flushed and her blouse was dragging so far down on her shoulder, I could see the pale of her left breast just above the nipple. Even in the gray, stinky hallway just outside Craig’s door which she’d slammed behind her, I could smell the aroma of cheap beer and even cheaper perfume.
She looked at me, then at my hand that was still outstretched and reaching for Craig’s doorknob when she’d stormed out.
“Good luck, sister,” she huffed, venom in her voice as she stood in front of the door defiantly, barring my entrance. “If you’re here to hook up with Craig, I hope you brought a few of your favorite toys because his world-famous Johnson isn’t working at the moment!”
“Oh!” I said again, no doubt making it seem like I only knew one word. “Oh?”
I was confused, and even tempted to say something snippy like, “Well, he never had a problem in my bed!” But I wasn’t that type of chick, and clearly this girl was. What’s more, I didn’t want to think of her anywhere near Craig’s world famous Johnson, working or not!
“Oh, is right,” she huffed, tossing her blonde mane back and daring me not to say something about the way the motion nearly made her pointy little breast poke out at me. “I’ve seen harder wood on stuffed animals!”
I laughed then, the moment so ridiculous it almost—almost—made me forget I was talking to someone who had clearly just fucked—or at least tried to fuck—my ex-boyfriend. Nervous laughter trilled from my body and the blonde sneered at me once more. This is exactly what I want for him. New girl, new life. So why am I so fucking hurt?
“Besides,” she said, hitching a small strap purse over her shoulder. “Maybe blondes aren’t his thing. Anyway, good luck and again, I hope that purse is packing a giant dildo or you’re going to have one frustrating night!”
Her sneakers squeaked around the corner, covering the sound of a door opening, and when I turned from admiring the stiff firmness of her tight ass in black yoga pants, I found Craig standing with a perplexed look in his doorway.
“Avery!” he yelled, tugging me inside. I clung to the straps of my overnight bag as if they were part of a life vest and Craig was dragging me further out to sea. “I thought I heard your voice out here!”
I was lost. Betrayed. Hurt. Like I was falling down a hole I hadn’t seen and had no idea how to climb out of—or even if I wanted to. I’d finally succumbed to the realization that I couldn’t stay away from Craig, any more than he could stay away from me.
It was probably his absence of text messages that made me do it. For three days straight he’d done nothing but blow up my phone and suddenly, after my mid-afternoon walk earlier that day… nothing. I’d come in expecting another dozen or more messages, per usual, to find my phone dark and silent, and not a single new text from Craig.
I’d showered and dressed casually—then not so casually—knowing I would at least have to talk to Craig one last time before Christmas Eve. Yes, I’d sold out. Yes, I’d weakened, given in, gone off the Craig wagon! But even though I’d packed an extra pair of panties in my backpack purse, just in case, I’d felt the thrill of a choc-o-holic’s last trip to the corner bodega for one last handful of candy bars.
Sure, I might sleep with Craig one last time, but as long as it really was the last time, right? And then Blondie appeared, storming out of his dorm room.
“Who was that?” I asked, my purse still strapped to my shoulders. My heart pounded in my ears as I white-knuckled the straps to stave off an approaching panic attack.
Craig waved dismissively, his normally handsome face contorting as he blurted, “Some random chick from the Winter Whoopass party—”
“You went to a frat party?” I asked, realizing Craig hadn’t just decided to go out and score—he went to score in the biggest, baddest, most epically bro-tastic way.
“Sure,” he said, almost defensively. I realized for a second something was off about him. His clothes were wrinkled and askew, his hair looked slept on, his cheeks pink and flushed and his voice thick. Slurring, he stood defiantly, but not on steady feet. As I waited for more from him, he wobbled slightly as if he was having a hard time keeping his balance.
“Why not?” he huffed, his breath reeking of cheap, stale beer.
Drunk! He’s fricking drunk!
I ignored his question. “So, what?” I pressed, even though I didn’t really want to know the answer. “You ran into Blondie there?”
“I guess,” he said.
“You guess?” Sure, he was drunk, but how do you get so drunk you don’t even remember meeting someone?
“It all just kind of… happened,” he said, as if that was some excuse. “I didn’t want it to.”
“And yet, you let it happen anyway?” I huffed, waving a hand around the messy apartment as my eyes fell on the couch, recently pushed back an inch or two, and a pair of crumpled pink panties lying on the dusty floor in front of it. Nearby, Craig’s wadded up underwear lay like a damn baseball that had been knocked over the fence.
Bile rose in my throat as I imagined them together, then dressing so hastily after knocking boots that they’d forgotten their underwear in the process. I wanted to throw up. Craig’s face went red with embarrassment as he saw them seconds after I did.
“It wasn’t like that, Avery,” he huffed, reaching for them quickly and reminding me of his athletic ability—even drunk—as he scooped them up in a single motion. “And what do you care if it was?” he huffed, standing with them both in one hand glaring back at me like I was the one who’d just boffed some random blonde and then sent her packing without her underwear!
“I do
n’t,” I snapped, inching back toward the door. “I just came… came…”
“Came for what?” he shouted, stumbling as he followed me back down the hallway toward his front door. “Came to see if I’d disappoint you? Came to see if I’d return to form if you ignored me for three days? Came to see if I’d get weak and show my true colors?”
I stood there, trembling at his indignation, wondering how the night had gone so terribly wrong—
“Is that it?” he added after I hadn’t answered for a moment, my trembling hand still fumbling for the doorknob as I struggled to respond. He stood on wobbly legs, looking like he might pass out at any moment.
Is this really how he feels? I wondered, standing there in his quivering rage. Or am I like the blonde out in the hallway and he won’t even remember this in the morning?
I had to admit, neither thought brought me much comfort.
“I… I guess so,” I finally admitted, grabbing the handle and yanking it open.
“What’d you think would happen?” he bellowed as I literally stumbled out into the hall. “What’d you think I’d do when you gave up on me, Avery? Gave up on us?”
I shook my head, the tears falling despite how hard I wanted them not to. I couldn’t answer—didn’t answer. Instead I turned, running down the hall and following the blonde’s trail around the corner as we both took the same escape route, albeit minutes apart.
I thought I might still find her downstairs, packing and smoking a cigarette and texting her friends about Craig’s big disappointment. Instead I found the courtyard empty and the night chilly as I stood alone by the double doors in front of the Athletic Dorm. The cool air swept across my face, washing away the scent of Craig’s cheap beer.
I paused, waiting, for… what? The blonde to return? Or Craig to stumble down the stairs after me and explain everything, then apologize and wrap me in his arms which, if I was being honest with myself, was what I really wanted.
Time Out: A Holiday Sports Romance Page 14