Knox
Why is she pointing her laptop out the window? Is she filming me? I fight the churning in my gut and don’t go pound on her door. As much as I want to barge into her house to demand answers and make it clear she’s never to video me again, I fight the urge.
Or whatever it is she’s doing.
She’s different, I’ll give her that much.
I work another hour, retesting and re-tweaking every last mechanical element of the ’71 Mustang before I drive it over to Marcus tomorrow. He’ll give the interior and exterior one final polish and shine before handing it over to the buyer.
He deals with most of the face-to-face client stuff, because he says I’m too rude. Whatever. I let him do it because then it’s one less thing for me to do. Though he always seems to need my ‘help’ when the client is a woman.
At six, I head inside.
“Supper!” I call to Piper.
I take two plates out of the cupboard and spoon on some chili from the simmering pot on the stove. It’s the best dish I make, and Piper’s favorite food.
After I set the dishes on the small kitchen table, I plop a microwaved bag of rice and a tub of sour cream in the middle of the table. I put a can of coke beside her plate, and a can of beer beside mine.
“What’s tonight?” Piper says as she bounds into the room. She walks to the fridge with the coke, puts it back, and grabs a glass of water instead.
“Chili night.”
“Cool.”
“Just cool? I thought it was your favorite.”
“It used to be. But not anymore,” she says and shovels a spoonful of sour cream onto her plate.
Is this another thirteen-year-old thing?
“What’s your new favorite?” I ask. I’ll make it for her tomorrow.
I tear open the bag of rice and shake some onto each of our plates.
“I don’t know. I can’t decide.”
“Oh well, you can have more than one food you like best.”
Piper’s bottom lip sticks out, the way it did when she was little and trying to figure out a problem. With her fork, she mixes her rice, chili and sour cream into an unappetizing mess.
“Dad.” The seriousness of her voice puts me on alert.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“I don’t have any favorite things.” Her shoulders slump.
“So? What does that matter?”
Piper drops her fork and looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot who ever lived. “I can’t decide on any favorite things!”
“That’s fine. I don’t have favorite things either.”
“You have a favorite band, it’s the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I don’t even have a favorite band.”
“But that’s no big deal. You like lots of songs.”
“It is a big deal, it makes me boring.”
“You’re not boring. It probably makes you more interesting.”
“It’s doesn’t. It makes me weird. How am I supposed to answer generic first-date questions? I’m doomed.”
My heart hammers against my ribs at the thought of her dating. I can barely bring myself to think about it.
“Boys don’t care about your favorite things,” I say, leaning over my plate and dangling my fork from my fingers.
“They don’t? What else would we talk about? And don’t say politics.”
The topic makes my shoulders tense.
“All sorts of thing. Movies, sports.”
“And kissing. Is it true they like to talk about s-e-x?”
My fork falls from my hand, and I clear my throat. My heart and brain nearly explode. I can’t believe she said that to me. Though part of me is glad she’ll talk about anything to me. I guess.
But the thought of some boy kissing Piper is too much.
“It depends on the guy. Only the jerks would talk about that, you can do better.”
“Maybe I should talk to Avery about it,” she says.
“Why? You can talk to me about it.”
“I don’t know. Because you’re a man.”
“Yeah, and I know how men think. It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re still young.” Too young to be hanging around with boys.
Fuck. I have to make sure she never goes to any classic car rides. Too much shit goes on at them. Shit she’s too good for.
“I’ll be in high school in a few months,” Piper whines.
“But for the next few weeks, you’re still in middle school.”
She grumbles and takes a big mouthful of the chili. We eat in silence for a few minutes. I’m hungry, and it’s enough time to finish my food. I stand and refill my plate from the pot on the stove.
“Want more?” I ask.
“No, thanks. We should have Avery over for dinner.”
“Where did that come from?”
“She’s soooo amazing. You would love her. Can she come over for dinner? Can she?” Her smile is ear to ear.
“No.” As if. I’m not inviting her into my home. That would just be asking her to stick her nose in more places. Avery would probably tell me my cooking isn’t good enough for my daughter, or that her bedroom isn’t nice enough.
“Why not? That’s not fair. She’s funny, I know you’d like her. Why can’t she come over?”
Why would I like someone who tells me I’m a bad father?
“Because I said so. Why should she?”
“Because she’s our neighbor, and she’s great. She’s way more fun than Mrs Coupland,” Piper says, her eyes wide.
“Mrs Coupland never came for supper either.”
“But, Dad.”
“No buts,” I say in my firmest voice.
Defeated, she sinks back into her chair and finishes her dinner.
We watch two episodes of Law & Order before she goes to bed. Like every night, I flop exhausted on the couch and wonder how I’m going to make it through the teenage years.
I churn it around in my brain until I get fed up with thinking about it.
After flicking through all the channels on TV, I give up on finding something to take my mind off things, and decide I’d better check Avery’s YouTube channel to make sure I’m not on it.
The video she posted today is called Hot and Bothered. It turns out to be her talking about a book. An instruction manual on how to have good sex. Avery talks about how wonderful and amazing the book is.
“Every single person is guaranteed to learn a new sex tip in this, I promise you,” Avery says in her sultry voice.
Don’t think so.
Something comes over me. Before I can stop myself, I’ve registered a YouTube account and type out a response on my iPad.
Ox Man: I promise you I can teach you more than what’s in that book, guaranteed. Anytime you want a lesson, baby.
I chuckle out loud as I read it back. What will she make of it?
Before I know it, I’ve watched five more of her videos, and I’m sitting on my bed with my rock hard cock in my hand. This is stupid, I know. I shouldn’t be associating the meddler with a reason to get a chubby.
But right now I can’t help myself.
I stare at her full lips as they move, her voice sending shivers down my back. Gripping my cock, I imagine running the tip along her lips. How soft they’d be against me, before silencing her sexy voice by ramming my full length over her tongue and down her throat.
My hand moves faster and faster over my shaft while the memory of her voice puts my body on higher and higher edge. I imagine undoing more of those buttons she had on today, and picture what her tits look like. What shape they take as they hang braless from her body.
Avery says, “When she’s good and wet, and I mean dripping wet, put your cock in her and…”
I don’t hear the and. The thought of my cock moving in her dripping wet pussy makes my cock erupt. My body shudders violently, and I flop back onto the bed to let the ecstasy wash over me.
After a few minutes, I curse myself for what I’ve done. I have to stop watching her videos. I have to stop thinking of her voice when I come. It pisses me off that I didn’t have more restraint.