Chapter 1: Teasing the Grump – Lotion & Lust by the Pool
The sun was a fat, white coin in a bleached-out sky. It pressed down on the backyard with a physical weight, turning the air above the pool into a shimmering haze. Laughter, sharp and bright, bounced off the blue water. Dana was arranging a platter of burgers by the grill, her motions smooth and efficient. Gary hovered nearby, a cold beer sweating in his hand, arguing amiably about the perfect char.
On a lounge chair at the pool’s edge, Jen stretched.
It was a long, deliberate motion. She arched her back, the line of her spine a graceful curve against the striped towel, and pointed her toes until the muscles in her calves tightened. Her bikini was small, two triangles of electric blue fabric and some strings. Sunscreen gleamed on her dusky gold skin. She let out a contented sigh, perfectly aware of the eyes she collected.
"Jen, honey, could you pass the chips?" Dana called, not looking up from the condiments.
"Sure, Mom."
She rolled onto her side, reaching for the bowl on a low table. The movement made the strings of her top tighten.
"Indecent," a voice grumbled.Mr. Thompson stood at the gate to the backyard, holding a bag of store-bought potato salad like a shield. He was a wiry man in pressed khakis and a polo shirt, despite the heat. His face was a roadmap of displeasure, deeply tanned and permanently set in a scowl. He’d been invited, a peace offering from Gary after last weekend's barbecue had gone a little late, but he looked as comfortable as a cactus in a rainforest."Arthur! You made it," Gary boomed, wiping his hand on his shorts before offering it. "Glad you could join us."
"Wouldn't miss the… festivities," Mr. Thompson said, his eyes darting away from Jen as she sat up. He placed the potato salad on the picnic table with exaggerated care.
Jen smiled, a slow, easy curl of her lips. "Hi, Mr.Thompson. Hot enough for you?"
"Unbearable," he muttered, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "And loud."
"The kids down the street have a sprinkler," Dana said cheerfully, coming over to give his arm a brief squeeze. "It’s summer, Arthur. Noise happens.Beer?"
"Thank you, Dana."
He took the bottle, his fingers leaving damp prints on the glass. He stood rigidly, surveying the scene like a general inspecting a disappointing battlefield. His gaze kept snagging on Jen before flicking away, as if she were a bright light he shouldn’t stare at.
Jen watched him from behind her sunglasses. A lazy idea formed. She picked up a bottle of tanning oil, shook it, and made a show of trying to reach the middle of her own back. She twisted, her arm contorting.
"Oh, shoot. Can’t quite get it."
She let her arm fall. The bottle dangled from her fingertips. She looked right at Mr. Thompson.
"Mr.Thompson? Could you? Just for a sec? My dad’s hands are all greasy from the grill."
Silence. The sizzle of burgers seemed suddenly very loud. Gary paused, his spatula hovering. Dana’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
Mr. Thompson blinked."I… what?"
"Just a dab.On my shoulders. So I don’t burn." She held out the bottle. The plastic glinted in the sun.
His throat worked. He looked at Gary, then at Dana, a silent plea for intervention. Dana just smiled, a curious, unreadable tilt to her mouth. Gary shrugged, a ‘what-can-you-do’ gesture, and flipped a burger.
Trapped by Midwestern politeness and his own looming sense of propriety, Mr. Thompson stepped forward. He took the bottle. It was warm from her hand. He stared at it as if he’d never seen one before.
"Okay," Jen said softly. She turned, presenting her back to him. The strings of her bikini top were tied in a small, intricate knot at the nape of her neck. Below it, her skin was smooth, the shoulder blades delicate. A few freckles dotted the space between them.Mr. Thompson’s own hands, speckled with age, shook slightly. He fumbled with the cap. It took three tries. Finally, he squeezed a dollop of clear oil into his palm. The smell of coconut and chemicals bloomed in the hot air.
He hesitated, his hand hovering an inch from her skin.
"Go on," she said, not turning.
He placed his palm between her shoulder blades.
The contact was electric. Her skin was hot, almost unbearably so, and slick. He jerked his hand as if burned, but didn’t pull away. He began to spread the oil, his movements stiff and mechanical. The oil slid easily, catching the light. He focused on a single square inch, rubbing it in long after it had been absorbed.
"There," he said, his voice rough. He snatched his hand back.
Jen half-turned, looking over her shoulder. Her smile was different now. Not lazy, but sharp.Knowing. "You missed a spot.Lower."
The world narrowed to the line of her spine, disappearing beneath the knot of her bikini bottom. The hum of distant laughter seemed to fade. Gary’s voice, telling some story to Dana, became a distant buzz.Mr. Thompson’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. His face felt dangerously hot.
He squeezed out more oil. His fingers trembled as he touched her again, lower this time, tracing the dip of her spine. The skin was softer here. His touch, against his own will, gentled.
"You have very soft hands for a gardener, Mr. Thompson," Jen murmured, so quietly only he could hear.
He froze. His entire life—the retirement, the quiet complaints, the meticulous lawn, the bitter loneliness that tasted like cheap coffee—crystallized in that moment. He wasn’t a grumpy neighbor. He was an old fool, his shaking hands on a young girl's back, being played with in the broad daylight while her parents laughed ten feet away.
Shame, hot and corrosive, flooded him. It wasn’t about morals. It was about being seen. Understood. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she knew he knew.
He pulled his hand back as if from a live wire. The tanning oil bottle dropped from his other hand, hitting the patio stone with a plastic clatter, rolling towards the pool edge.
"I have to go," he said. The words burst from him, too loud.
Dana looked up, concerned. "Arthur? Is everything alright? You’ve barely touched your beer."
"Indigestion," he rasped, already backing toward the gate. "The heat. Thank you for the… invitation."
He didn’t look at Jen again. He turned and walked, not towards the side gate, but straight through the house, letting the screen door slam behind him with a final, hollow crack.
Silence settled for a beat.
"Well," Gary said, scratching his head. "Guess it was too loud."
Dana shook her head, a slight frown on her face. She looked at her daughter."Jen. Was that necessary?"
Jen had already laid back down on her stomach. She picked up her phone, the screen reflecting in her sunglasses. "He offered, Mom. I just needed help with my lotion."
She didn’t smile. The tease was over. A strange, flat hollowness had opened up in her chest where the thrill had been. She watched a ladybug crawl across the hot stone near the dropped bottle. It was just a stupid game. But his eyes, in that second before he fled… they hadn’t been angry. They’d been terrified.
She tapped open a text from her friend Chloe. Party at Micah’s later?
She typed back, Yeah. Definitely. Anything to shake off this weird, sticky feeling.
Across the fence, in his own impeccably quiet backyard, Mr. Thompson stood at his kitchen sink, running his hands under scalding water. He scrubbed and scrubbed, but the ghostly slick of coconut oil and the searing heat of young skin clung to his palms. He stared out the window at the shimmering blue water of his neighbors' pool, a cool, inviting jewel in the sun. He couldn't hear the laughter anymore, just the deafening roar of his own silence. He turned off the tap. His hands were clean. They were still shaking.
They were still shaking. He dried them on a dish towel, the rough cotton doing nothing to calm the tremor in his fingers. Through the window, he saw Dana shepherding the remaining guests—a couple from down the street—toward the white lattice gazebo tucked in the far corner of the yard, shaded by a sprawling oak. Their laughter was muffled by distance and the frantic buzz of cicadas. The pool area was now empty, save for Gary poking at the dying coals in the grill, and Jen, still a sun-drenched statue on her lounge chair.
Gary tossed his tongs onto the grill’s side shelf with a clatter. “Gonna check on the ice bucket,” he called out toward the gazebo, not waiting for a reply. He walked toward the house, but his path took him past Jen’s chair.
Jen watched him approach from under her lashes. The hollow feeling from Mr. Thompson’s retreat was still there, a little pit of cold in her stomach. She needed to fill it with something warm. With a reaction she could control.
“Dad.”
Gary stopped. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“I’m roasting. Can you grab my oil? It’s right there.” She pointed a lazy finger at the bottle near the pool edge.
He bent, picked it up, and handed it to her. His hand was broad, smudged with charcoal.
“My back’s gonna fry,” she said, not taking it. “Mom’s busy hosting. Can you? Just real quick.”
A beat of hesitation. It was a different hesitation than Mr. Thompson’s. This was practical, paternal. “Sure, honey. Roll over.”
She complied, settling onto her stomach and resting her cheek on her folded arms. She heard him squeeze lotion into his palm. The smell of coconut bloomed again.
His touch was different. Efficient. A father’s touch. He rubbed the oil into her shoulders, down the center of her back, his strokes firm and covering wide areas. Safe.
“Lower, Dad. I can feel the sun right on my lower back,” she murmured, her voice sleepier than she felt.
His hand stalled. Then it continued, dipping to the small of her back, just above the band of her bikini bottom. He was quick, thorough, already pulling away.
“You’re good,” he said, his voice slightly tight.
“Not everywhere.” Before he could step back, she shifted. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees on the towel, the lounge chair creaking softly under the new distribution of her weight. She arched her back slightly, a cat-like stretch. “The backs of my legs. My… everywhere. I don’t want to burn.”
From behind her, Gary’s breath hitched, just a tiny catch. The position was one of complete vulnerability, and utter exposure. The electric blue fabric of her bikini bottom was a mere whisper against her skin. The narrow string bisected the curve of her buttocks, and beyond the minimal coverage, he saw the dark, intimate shadow between her legs, the edge of her sex barely concealed. The sun was brutal, illuminating everything.
He stood frozen, the lotion slick on his one hand. The backyard was silent except for the cicadas’ scream.
“Dad?” she prompted, glancing over her shoulder. Her expression was pure, bland innocence. “The oil?”
She reached a hand back, not to take the bottle, but to guide his wrist. Her fingers were warm around his. She placed his oil-slick palm high on the back of her thigh. “Just rub it everywhere,” she said, her tone casual, instructive. A simple request. “You don’t want me to burn.”
His hand was a trapped animal on her skin. He was motionless for three heartbeats, five. The world narrowed to the heat under his palm, the shocking intimacy of the view, the coconut scent, and the distant, muffled chatter from the gazebo where his wife was pouring iced tea.
Then, with a stifled sound that was almost a gasp, he wrenched his hand back. The bottle, clutched too tightly, slipped from his other hand and thudded onto the towel between her knees.
“Do it yourself, Jen.”
The words were low, gravelly, scraped from some deep, dark place inside him. He didn’t shout. He didn’t look at her. He stared at a point on the fence, his jaw a hard line, his face flushed a deep, dangerous red.
He turned and walked swiftly, not toward the house, but across the grass, toward the gazebo and his wife. His steps were quick, almost staggering.
Jen slowly sank back onto her heels, sitting on her legs. She picked up the lotion bottle, her own hands now perfectly steady. She looked at the space where he had been, then toward the gazebo where her father was now accepting a glass of lemonade from Dana, his laugh too loud, his posture rigid. The cold pit in her stomach was gone, replaced by a different, hotter emptiness. A power, vast and terrible, hummed in the air between them, a live wire she had just grabbed with both hands.
She squeezed a dollop of lotion into her own palm and began calmly smoothing it over her legs. The laughter from the gazebo sounded thin and far away, like a radio playing in another room.
The laughter from the gazebo sounded thin and far away, like a radio playing in another room.
Dinner was a strained, cheerful pantomime. Dana had lit citronella candles that smoked and spiraled into the purple dusk. The plates were paper, the forks plastic. Jen, wrapped in a thin sarong, took the seat next to her father on the wrought-iron bench. Their thighs were inches apart on the slatted seat.
The conversation was light—talk of Dana’s hydrangeas, a neighbor’s new car, the unbearable heat wave. Jen picked at her potato salad, the creamy texture suddenly unappealing. She was hyper-aware of Gary’s presence beside her, a solid, tense mass. He drank his beer steadily, his laughter at Dana’s jokes a half-beat too slow.
While Dana recounted a story about a misdelivered package, Jen felt the weight of a glance. She didn’t look up from her plate. She let her shoulders slump forward a little as she reached for her glass of lemonade, the motion making the loose knot of her sarong gape. The fabric slid, just an inch, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone and the upper swell of her small breast.
She felt his eyes. A quick, hot dart of attention that lingered. She took a slow sip, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the flush creeping up her neck.
Putting the glass down, she rubbed her arm as if a mosquito had bitten her. Her hand drifted across her chest, the back of her knuckles brushing lightly over her nipple, which hardened instantly against the rough texture of the sarong fabric. She saw his fork pause in his peripheral vision. He was staring at his burger, but he wasn’t seeing it.
A reckless, cold calm settled over her. The emptiness inside needed to be filled, and his silent, guilty attention was the only thing within reach.
Under the table, concealed by the long drape of the tablecloth, she let her hand fall. It landed on his thigh, just above his knee. He froze mid-chew. The denim of his shorts was warm.
She kept her face tilted toward her mother, a placid smile on her lips as Dana debated the merits of marigolds. Her fingers began to move, a slow, casual stroking of the hard muscle of his leg. Up, then down. An innocent, affectionate gesture a daughter might make.
He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all. He just sat there, a statue with a mouthful of food, his breath held.
Jen let her fingers walk higher. The tension in his thigh was immense, a coiled spring. Her pinky brushed against the hard, hot ridge straining against the seam of his shorts. A jolt went through him, a full-body flinch he barely contained.
Her own breath hitched. The power was a live wire in her hand. It was terrifying. It was everything.
She let the tip of her index finger trace the length of his erection through the fabric, a feather-light, deliberate mapping. He made a small, choked sound, disguising it with a sudden cough into his fist. His other hand gripped the edge of the picnic table, his knuckles white.
“You okay, Gary?” Dana asked, pausing her story.
“Fine,” he rasped, not looking at her. “Just… went down the wrong pipe.”
He finally moved. Not to push her hand away, but to shift his weight, subtly granting her easier access. His submission was a physical, palpable thing. Jen’s heart hammered against her ribs. She continued her slow, secret tracing, each pass a silent claim. His head was bowed, his eyes shut for a long second. When he opened them, he stared straight ahead at the darkening trees, seeing nothing, lost in a private, shameful ecstasy.
The world narrowed to the space beneath that table. The taste of watermelon turned to ash in Jen’s mouth. The cicadas’ scream fused with the blood rushing in her ears. She owned this moment. She owned his secret.
She didn’t know what came next. She didn’t care. For now, the terrifying, hollow power was enough.
For now, the terrifying, hollow power was enough.
Dinner ended, the paper plates collapsing into greasy smears. The citronella smoke curled into the night air, failing to mask the scent of charcoal and something else, something electric and unspoken.
“You two go relax,” Dana said, beginning to gather the trash. “Maude and I will handle the battlefield.”
Maude, Dana’s best friend, clapped her hands together. “Absolutely. You men have suffered enough by the grill. Charles, go keep Gary company. I demand girl talk and dish duty.”
Charles, Maude’s husband, a balding man with a kind, open face, groaned good-naturedly. “Twist my arm. Lead me to the chaise lounge, Gary.”
Gary stood up, the movement stiff. He still couldn’t look directly at Jen. “Sure. Yeah. Pool’s probably nice now.”
Jen unwrapped her sarong, letting it puddle on the bench. The evening air was warm, clinging to her skin. “I’m coming too. I’m still baking.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, walking ahead of them toward the now-dark pool. The underwater lights had been switched on, casting a wavering blue glow that made the world feel submerged and silent. She picked her lounge chair, the same one. The towel was still there, rumpled from earlier.
Gary and Charles settled into the two heavy wooden chairs a few feet away. Charles sighed, stretching his legs. “Now this is the life. Thanks for having us, Gary.”
“Anytime,” Gary said, his voice tight. He picked up his abandoned beer from earlier, took a long swig. It was warm.
Jen lay back on the lounge chair, the plastic straps cool against her skin. She stared up at the first pinprick stars. The laughter from the kitchen window sounded distant, safe. A world away. Here, by the blue-lit pool, the rules were different. She could feel the weight of their attention—Charles’s benign, paternal; Gary’s a charged, humming thing.
She let the silence stretch, thick and heavy. Crickets had replaced the cicadas. Then, without ceremony, she reached behind her back. The ties of her bikini top were simple. A single pull on the knot, and another on the clasp between her shoulders. She slipped the electric blue triangles out from under her, and tossed the top onto the concrete beside the chair.
The air on her bare skin was a shock. A liberation. From the corner of her eye, she saw Charles quickly avert his gaze, coughing softly into his fist. Gary became utterly still, a silhouette frozen against the house lights.
Jen sat up slowly, the blue light painting her torso in milk and shadow. She reached for the bottle of tanning oil, holding it up. The liquid sloshed inside.
“It’s still so warm out,” she said, her voice casual, conversational. “Need to keep the moisture in.”
She poured a generous amount into her palm, the sound loud in the quiet. She began applying it to her arms, her shoulders, her throat. The process was deliberate, theatrical. She caught Gary watching, his eyes reflecting the pool’s blue glow.
“Can’t reach my back, though,” she sighed. She looked directly at them, her head tilted. “One of you mind?”
Charles chuckled nervously. “Oh, I don’t think that’s—"
“What would you rather oil first?” she asked, cutting him off. Her gaze danced between them, landing finally on Gary. She leaned back on her hands, presenting herself. “You choose. Chest? Stomach?” Her legs shifted apart on the lounger. “Or maybe you’d like to start lower, Dad? You never did finish my legs earlier.”
Gary made a sound, a strangled intake of breath. Charles stared, his mouth slightly agape, the kindly confusion on his face hardening into dawning, horrified understanding.
Jen didn’t break eye contact with her father. The hollow power was back, colder now, vast and deep. She slowly spread her legs wider, the movement undeniable. The blue light from the pool painted the intimate expanse of her inner thighs.
She held the bottle out toward them, her arm steady.
“Well?” she said, her voice a soft challenge in the dark. “Who’s first?”