The End Zone

“See? Problem solved. Now I can fuck you well into next week and our kid wouldn’t even notice, because you won’t make a sound.”

Vicious has always been good and proper. He possesses the manners of the old-moneyed, but at the same time, he loves to watch me widen my eyes in horror with some of the things he says. Sometimes I do it just to get his rocks off. Then I remind him with a biting tongue that I’m not some damsel in distress.

The sound of the entry door opening and closing makes my eyes broaden. I stare at my husband with the horror of a woman who knows her son well enough to predict he will stop by our room to tell us goodnight so that we know he is here, because he knows we stay awake until he gets back home.

The smirk on Vicious’ lips alone makes my core clench around him involuntarily, and he withdraws his fingers from between my lips, cups my mouth with his hand, and begins to ride me so hard and so fast, I’m worried he will tear me apart.

“Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord,” I chant, my voice muffled by his palm. The spasm is violent, ripping at my insides like a tempest. It feels like an electric shock as he rides me into a place it will take me hours to recover from. The heat swirls in my stomach and the wetness pulling underneath us in bed. I tear my eyes away from Vicious’, knowing that I could scream even through his hand if I see what’s inside them, the tortured boy I fantasized about every night in my bed as a teenager. I come in his arms, wave after wave of pleasure slamming into me from within.

“Mom? Dad?” I hear Vaughn coming up the stairs, eating something crunchy. The click of a spoon against fine china. Cocoa Pops is my bet. The room reeks of sex and we are both sweating. The heady, sweet scent of my lust, combined with the saltiness of Vicious’ cum dripping between us, is a dead giveaway to what we’ve been doing. And I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I am. Vicious rolls off of me and chuckles, covering his face with his forearm so that all I can see are his pearly-whites.

“Yes, honey,” I yell back to Vaughn, clearing my throat when I realize how guilty and embarrassed I sound. “I’m just getting dressed for bed. Everything okay?”

“Can you stop by my room before you go to sleep?”

Vicious and I exchange looks. This is unlike Vaughn, but at least he passed by our door without knocking on it or pushing it open. Vicious gives me half a shrug, his eyebrows crinkling with amusement.

“I think we still have kiddie books in the attic if he needs a goodnight story.”

I elbow his ribs lightly and roll my eyes. “I hate you.”

“Your pussy didn’t seem to get the memo.” He moves over to his side of the bed and pushes his nightstand drawer open to produce a joint. I motion him with my hand to go outside to the patio, and he nods solemnly. I don’t need Vaughn to see it and get any ideas. The women of the HotHole crew have successfully managed to shelter the kids from the fact that their fathers are perpetual stoners thus far. As far as my knowledge goes, none of them are smokers, thank God.

I pad barefoot to Vaughn’s room down the hall in my fresh nightgown—a modest one at that—and knock before I open the door.

“Come in.”

He sits on his bed, his back against the bedpost, worrying his lip and shooting a dart straight to the center of the board in front of his bed. He is wearing his usual outfit of a holey shirt—white, this time—and black skinny jeans that are at least two years old and have somehow become both tight and loose. Even I, as his mom, have to admit that he’s got the rebellious edge down to an art. He dresses simply, but his look has character, personality, and flavor. Like a del Toro movie. You can recognize Vaughn without knowing that it’s him, even from a few dozen yards.

I take a seat at the edge of his bed, cupping his bent knee. He focuses his gaze on me, a frown crossing his face.

“Where were you? It’s two a.m.,” I say. I can’t really fault him for going out on a Friday night. He is a teenager, after all. But I sure as hell can fault him for coming back an hour later than he should have.

“Just a party.” He shrugs.

“Daria’s?” Daria Followhill throws a party every other weekend, something my sister, Rosie, and I give Mel—Daria’s mother—a lot of crap about. Daria is notoriously snotty, something Jaime and Mel have a hard time coming to terms with. I honestly feel that at this point, my good friends have lost control of their daughter and their only expectation of her is to not fall pregnant or get addicted to meth before the school year ends. Daria is busier strategizing ruining other attractive girls’ lives than college admissions. In fact, she made it clear to Mel and Jaime that college was not on her agenda.

“Yup,” Vaughn says, popping the P with another unintentional eye roll.

“Who were you planning to see there?” It wasn’t Daria, that’s for sure. And Daria would die before voluntarily inviting Luna anywhere. Daria grew up thinking Luna stole some of her precious limelight, especially since the boys have always been fond of her. So that is odd, considering Vaughn and Knight’s crew take Luna with them everywhere.

Vaughn straightens his legs and leans forward, giving me rare eye contact. He licks his lips, which tells me that he is nervous, and that makes me nervous.

“Daria’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the hit. Daria has always had her father’s rebellious streak and determination. Combined with her mother’s sarcasm and dancer genes, she quickly became an unstoppable force.