* * *
“No, thank you.” Kylie’s lower lip drops when she declines my mom’s third offer for one of her famous red velvet cupcakes.
After placing them back on the tabletop, my mom’s confused gaze floats to me. I shrug, acting innocent. It isn’t an easy feat for me to pull off. We’re sitting at the wood table in my parents’ rustic kitchen. The cupcakes were the third home-baked goodie my mom tried to entice Kylie with. It was also the third time Kylie declined her offer.
“Are you celiac?” When my mom strolls toward the walk-in pantry to hunt for a gluten-free product, I lose the ability to hold in my laughter. The instant my chuckles boom around the kitchen, my mom realizes the ruse I’m playing. “What did you tell her?” She throws a packet of wheat-free biscuits at my head.A grin curls her lips when she hits her mark.
With her nervous eyes darting between me and my mom, Kylie says, “No eye contact, don’t mention the word ‘dog,’ and only eat packaged food.”
“Did you forget about not drinking the water?” My mom’s voice is so panicked, it steals the color from Kylie’s cheeks and forces her eyes back to the table she’s been staring at the past hour.
My mom and I laugh, loving that Kylie fell for the prank my sister and I pulled on our friends years ago. Most of my friends grew up convinced my mom was the worst cook in the world, which suited me just fine. That meant there were plenty of cupcakes and cookies left over for Serena and me when they returned home.
My mom looks like a hardcore biker chick. She has as many tattoos as I do. She wears fifties-style dresses, and her dirty blonde hair is always pulled up with a bandana. I call her a biker chick. She calls herself a rockabilly housewife with attitude. The funny thing about my mom is she looks hard-core, but her insides are as soft as they come. I always joke that Martha Stewart somehow got trapped inside her body. She loves to bake; she’s the best friend anyone could ever ask for, and she’s one kick ass mom.
But picture being in the sixth grade and your friend’s parents arriving to drop off their children for a sleepover. We had a few who left before they even walked in the front door. My mom says tattoos are a perfect way to remove judgmental people from your life. The older I’ve become, the more her statement rings true.
My laughter dies down when Kylie grabs a red velvet cupcake off the table and shoves it into my face. The white frosting smears all over my cheek, and some even lodges up my nose. With my mouth open wide, I glare at her. My cock stands to attention when she runs her index finger down my cheek, coating it in frosting before popping it into her mouth.
“Yummy.” Her reply is only for my ears.
I’m about to pull her sugary mouth to mine when my dad strolls into the kitchen. My dad is the very definition of a biker. His short dark hair is clipped close to the side, and the top is longer in length. I joke that he has Elvis Presley hair. He hates when I say that, but my mom loves it. He wears a black leather jacket and jeans every day, and rides a custom-made chopper. He also owns a tattoo parlor in town. Every tattoo that adorns my body was placed there by him. He’s a gifted artist who uses people’s bodies as canvases instead of paper.
“Kylie, this is my dad, Elvis. Elvis, this is Kylie,” I introduce while removing the frosting from my face with a tea towel.
My dad’s dark brows shoot up high into his hairline.“Ryder. Nice to meet you, Kylie.” He offers his hand to Kylie to shake.
I shrug. “Ryder, Elvis, same thing.”
Kylie giggles before accepting my dad’s handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Ryder.”
* * *
We spend the rest of the afternoon with my parents. Kylie soon learns she can be herself around them. They’re the most laidback parents you could ever meet. After dinner, my mom tells Kylie the story of how they met. Dad was the boy from the wrong side of the tracks; my mom was the preacher’s daughter. They met when my dad was doing community service at her family’s church. He was there to paint over the graffiti he placed on the side wall weeks earlier.
Most people expected him to paint it back to its original white coloring, but my dad upped the ante by doing a mural of Noah’s ark. The church officials were so impressed with his painting, it still adorns its wall today.
My mom got pregnant with me just shy of her eighteenth birthday. She was shunned by her parents and the church she spent her whole life growing up in. My dad knew there was nobody else for him but my mom, so he stopped his rebellious ways and got a job.
To start with, he was hired as a cleaner at the local tattoo parlor. Then, as the months went on, his artistic talent was unearthed. Now his client base is filled by elite members of the public privileged enough to be tattooed by him. He’s so popular, even I have to make an appointment.
* * *
With my parents going to bed hours ago, and my make-out session with Kylie on the sofa getting hot and heavy, I carry Kylie to my childhood bedroom. Her giggles echo around my room when she notices my Hello Kitty bedspread and lamp on my bedside table.
“Thanks, Mom,” I shout down the hallway, laughing.
My mom’s laughter overtakes mine. “You’re welcome, honey.”
I don’t know how many times I’ve come home to find a girly bedspread on my bed. My mom uses the excuse that she hasn’t done any laundry, but I’m reasonably sure she does it for a laugh. She is who I get my sense of humor from.
I lower Kylie onto my pretty pink bedspread so I can ravage her beautiful body. When I lay on top of her, preparing to start my feast at her sinful mouth, she grimaces. I’m holding my weight off her with my arms, so I’m a little perplexed as to why she’s hissing like she’s in pain.
When I glance into her pretty eyes to seek answers to my unasked questions, they dart away. I rock my hips forward, rubbing my erection along the seam of her jeans. Her eyes snap to mine in an instant, the delicious friction between us too hot to ignore. Now that I have her eye contact back, I cock my brow, demanding she tell me why she grimaced.
“Don’t get angry.”
My teeth grit. I don’t know what it is about that statement, but any time someone says it, I get angry.
