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She’s trouble. Women are trouble. More trouble than they’re worth. Why am I having to consciously remind myself of that fact when it comes to her?
She follows my direction, leaning toward me to find the end of the seat belt which is pressing into her right butt cheek, then she tugs it across her thick center, clicking it into place on a long exhale.
If temptation had a scent, it would be Kitty Tennant. She’s sweet like lilacs but with a tang of something savory that’s making my mouth water.
She’s heating up the back seat the way the sunrise does when it spreads across my bed in the mornings. Feeling her up left me wrecked. All the prayers in the world can’t wash away the softness of her melon-sized tit I my hand.
The pebble of her nipple against the pads of my fingers.
Was it an accident I groped my stepsister?
Maybe.
At first.
After that?
No. I mad-ass violated her like a drooling old man in a strip club before I managed a fingerhold of restraint and asked God for strength.
And forgiveness.
I haven’t touched anyone like that in a decade. Or been touched. Even now, I feel the pressure of her hands on my chest as the scent of her breath, a mixture of spearmint gum and a hint of last night’s tequila, fills the back of the car.
Kitty.
What a fucking name. I close my eyes, staring at the tips of my black, patent leather shoes, and pray for guidance as she crosses and uncrosses her legs on the seat next to me.
See? That right there. Trouble, thy name is Kitty.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask, reaching into the console on the floor in front of us and pulling out a bottle of water.
I know she’s hungover and I’m no stranger to the discomfort of that particular sort of dehydration.
“Yeah, thanks.” She offers me a gracious smile as she takes the bottle, cracking open the screw top and tipping it back.
She engulfs the water, her throat moving up and down with each swallow, before she takes a break on a long exhale, dragging the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her plump lips.
The back of the limo feels fucking small. It’s never felt this way when I picked up my other charges from the airport or wherever they came from. Her breathing is soft and steady next to me as the vehicle rumbles down the freeway, the driver accelerating as much as this car is capable of. The ten-year-old Lincoln limo is a throwback from some low budget ‘80’s mafia film, complete with tears in the vinyl seats and A/C that sputters and blows out musty lukewarm air.
“My mom and her new husband think I’m on a bad road,” she starts, shocking me back into the moment as I remember that I asked her a question.
“How did you end up on thisbad road?”
She shrugs. “When you transfer schools in your senior year, nobody’s looking to create new bonds. Only the party group, they’ll take anyone, especially if you’ll write their term papers or help them get a passing grade.”
“You don’t think that’s cheating?”
“Doesn’t much matter if it is now. I’m out. Arrested at a house party, underage, drunk and with a pocketful of yummy gummies. Bye bye scholarship. Bye bye to my pet cat.”
My throat strangles around a shaking breath as the desperation in her answer pins my heart in my chest.
I note the different shades of pink on her fingernails as her hands clench the half empty water bottle in her lap.
“I guess Mom and Hoover think my life needs direction and fewer distractions.”
I want to ask her about the cat. I want to find out what’s happened to her and make it all better. But that’s not my job. It’s not. I have to remind myself that I’m here to help her turn her life around, not fix the cruelties already thrown her way.
So why does it feel so wrong to go on with my usual line of questioning? Why am I hesitating before asking the obvious?
