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Chandler, age fifteen
Some people went to church on Sundays. Some families sat around a pool while dads threw burgers on the grill. Some slept in after a late Saturday night.
I fucking hated Sundays.
Once a month, Mom hosted Sunday brunch, which was basically just a group of bored housewives sitting around drinking mimosas and talking about careless ways to spend their husbands’ money—hardships that came with being in the elite one percent. Three brunches in, and I was convinced I never wanted to get married.
Dad was smart. He spent Sundays on the golf course—or at least that was the story he told. In reality, he was most likely balls deep inside some twenty-year-old waitress he’d picked up at the deli across the street from his office.
Most of my friends were busy doing all the shit they blew off on Saturday but had to get done before Monday, so I hid out in my room watching football. Mimosas weren’t my thing. Neither were tipsy thirty-something housewives.
The game was almost over—a Seahawks/49ers match-up that I’d bet a hundred bucks on. I sat on my bed with my legs stretched out in front of me—a bag of Doritos in my lap and a joint between my fingers—while my back rested against the headboard.
The Seahawks had just gone for a two-point conversion with less than one minute left in the game when my phone rang.
“Pay up, dickbag,” my friend Wesley said after I answered on the third ring.
I blew out a cloud of smoke. “That’s not how sports betting works. You went with the plus and minus, asshole. They’ll only win by two points. You gave six.”
I started a gambling ring at our high school that ended up with me spending more time explaining the ins and outs of betting than actually watching the games. It was a good side hustle though, so I didn’t complain.
A soft feminine sound, like someone clearing their throat, made me jump.
Shit.
Who the hell opened the door?
One of my mom’s friends leaned a slender shoulder against the frame. Her dark brown hair was pulled up off her neck with loose tendrils falling around her face and the back of her neck. Her body was long and lean, like she spent her mornings face down, ass up doing yoga with some guy named Johan. For an older woman, she was hot. And she was staring right at me—well, at the joint in my hand.
Well, fuck.
She glanced at the framed football jerseys on the walls and the shelves with medals and championship rings from years of playing youth sports. Her gaze stopped on the Pac-Man arcade game and small refrigerator on the other side of the room. Real estate had made my dad a multi-millionaire, so it only made sense for us to live in a house built for a king. My bedroom was the size of most people’s living rooms.
“I’ll call you back,” I told Wesley. Then I stuffed the joint I’d been smoking inside a Coke can, hoping to hell her short-term memory would fade away with the mimosa she held in her hand. At my high school, they passed weed around like candy. A few of my friends smoked to help with their ADHD. I had insomnia, so I smoked to help me sleep. “Did you need something?” I asked her.
“All the other bathrooms are occupied, so your mom said I could use yours.”
Every bathroom? All five of them?What the fuck did they put in those drinks?
She pointed a finger at a stain on her silky white tank top. “I just need to clean up.” Her face was new to me and there was a hint of an accent in her words—British, maybe? “It’ll only take a second.”
“Yeah, sure.” I nodded at the door to my right. “It’s right there.”
“Thanks,” she said as she walked by.
Two minutes and a failed attempt to get rid of the pot-stench later, she came out of the bathroom—minus one white tank top. No bra. Her perfectly sculpted tits were on full display. I immediately wanted to call and thank her husband—whoever he was. The view was worth every penny he paid for them.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a shirt I could borrow, would you?” She painted a pout on her plump lips as she dangled her shirt from her fingers. “Mine’s ruined.”
Who the fuck did that? Just walked around in front of a dude they didn’t know with their tits out in the open?
I scooted off the bed and hurried to my dresser. “Here you go.” I turned around to toss the first shirt within reach at her, only to find she’d moved across the room like a fucking ninja and was standing right behind me.
She held her arms up above her head. “You can help if you’d like.”
Okay, lady. Game over. Whatever she was getting at, I wasn’t playing. “Yeah, that’s probably not a good idea.”
Her arms fell to her sides. “And you think smoking pot and betting on sportsisa good idea?” She arched a brow. “Do your parents know about that?”
