Chapter 2: The Welcome Dinner
Eric didn’t follow.
He stood in the clearing until the drone of insects returned, until the ghost of Vicki’s apple-sweet scent was swallowed by the smell of cut grass and damp earth. His heart slowed from a frantic drum to a dull, sick thud. He picked up the scythe, its wooden handle now feeling like the bone of some dead thing, and walked back to the house with the careful steps of a man navigating a minefield.
The next two days were a study in silent terror. He avoided the woods, the orchard, any space that wasn’t strictly necessary. He tinkered in the garage, reorganizing boxes that didn’t need it, the radio playing too loud to fill the silence. Gloria moved through the house like a curator, her presence a constant, low-pressure system. She said little, but her looks said everything. Her eyes tracked him from room to room, a silent question hanging in the air: Well?
On the third evening, as Eric scrubbed a pan in the kitchen sink long after it was clean, Gloria finally spoke. “We’re having a little welcome dinner tomorrow.”
Eric stiffened, the sponge going still under his fingers. “We?”
“You, me, Dad.” Her voice was light, arranging sunflowers in a vase on the table. “And I’ve invited that nice girl from the woods. Vicki.”
The world tilted. The water from the faucet roared in his ears. “Why?”
Gloria turned, a single sunflower in her hand. She tilted her head, a parody of maternal concern. “Because it’s polite, Eric. She’s a neighbor. And you seemed… taken with her.” She snapped the stem and placed the flower in the vase with sharp precision. “Seven o’clock. Don’t wear work clothes.”
The night was endless. Eric lay in the bed he shared with Tara, the emptiness on her side a physical ache. He imagined calling her, confessing everything—the desire, the shame, the trap he felt closing. But the words wouldn’t form. How could they? He’d done nothing. Yet. The guilt was for the thoughts, the want, the terrible, unwelcome heat. He felt stained.
By 6:45 the next evening, he was dressed in chinos and a button-down, feeling like a fraud. The sun porch was indeed a sanctuary of golden light, but tonight the light felt accusatory, exposing. Gloria had set the small wicker table with her good linen and the vintage floral china. The scent of roasting chicken and rosemary warred with the cloying sweetness of the potted jasmine.
Tara’s father, Bill, was already in his usual chair, a highball glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was a large man, gone soft in the middle, with a permanent squint and hands like weathered stone. He watched Eric enter with flat, unreadable eyes, took a slow sip of his drink, and said nothing.
Gloria floated in from the kitchen, a vision in a lavender dress. “Perfect timing. She just pulled up.”
Through the screen door, Eric saw Vicki’s figure approaching the house. He wore a simple white cotton blouse and a flowing navy skirt that swished around his calves. His hair was down, falling in soft waves around his shoulders. He carried a bottle of wine. He looked, for all the world, like a lovely young woman coming to dinner.
“Eric, be a dear and get the door,” Gloria said, her fingers brushing his back as she passed, pushing him gently forward.
He moved as if through sludge. He opened the screen door.
“Hey,” Vicki said, smiling up at him. His makeup was softer tonight, his eyes bright. “Thanks for having me.” He offered the bottle.
Eric took it, their fingers touching. “Sure.”
Vicki stepped inside, his smile taking in the porch. “Oh, it’s so pretty in here.” He turned to Bill. “You must be Mr. Abbott.”
Bill just nodded, his eyes doing a slow, thorough journey from Vicki’s face down to his sandaled feet and back up.
“Let me help you with that,” Gloria chirped, taking the wine from Eric’s numb hand. Her fingers closed over his, nails digging in just for a second. “Eric, show Vicki where to sit.”
The table was set for four. Gloria directed Vicki to the seat directly opposite Eric. Bill was at the head, Gloria to his right. Eric sank into his chair, feeling the wicker dig into his thighs. Vicki sat gracefully, arranging his skirt.
“I love your home,” Vicki said, his voice light and conversational. “It feels so lived in. So many stories.”
“Some stories are better than others,” Bill grunted, his first words of the evening.
Gloria laughed, a tinkling sound. “Don’t be morbid, dear.” She began pouring the wine Vicki had brought. When she got to Eric’s glass, she leaned across him to fill it. Her arm brushed his shoulder, her breast pressed against his upper arm. The scent of her rose perfume was overpowering. She lingered, topping off the glass until it was almost overflowing.
As she straightened, her hand, holding the bottle, dropped below the table. The cold glass base of the bottle came to rest on Eric’s thigh, right above his knee. Then, subtly, she twisted it. The pressure was sharp, insistent. A command. She held it there for three long seconds before pulling away, her expression serene.
The meal was a bizarre pantomime of normalcy. Gloria served the chicken, asking Vicki polite questions about where he was from. Vicki spun a vague tale about moving to the area for college, his answers fluid and practiced. He laughed at Bill’s few, gruff jokes. He complimented the food.
And he watched Eric. Constantly. Every time Eric looked up, Vicki’s eyes were on him, flicking away only at the last second. A shy smile playing on his lips.
Halfway through the meal, Vicki reached for his wine glass. As he brought it to his lips, his elbow caught the edge of his water glass. It toppled, not with a crash, but with a swift, silent rush, drenching the front of his white blouse.
“Oh, shoot!” Vicki gasped, standing up quickly.
The thin cotton fabric went instantly transparent, plastered to his chest. He wasn’t wearing a bra. The details underneath were unmistakable, outlined perfectly against the wet cloth.
“Goodness, let me get you a towel,” Gloria said, but she didn’t move. She just watched.
Bill had stopped chewing. His eyes were locked on Vicki’s chest, his fork suspended in mid-air.
Vicki looked down at himself, then laughed, a nervous, girlish sound. He grabbed his napkin and began dabbing at the stain. The motion made things worse, rubbing the wet fabric against his skin, emphasizing what lay beneath. He bent forward slightly, peering down as he patted his chest. The neckline gaped.
Eric couldn’t look away. His face was on fire. Shame and a brutal, involuntary hunger twisted in his gut.
“It’s really okay,” Vicki said, straightening finally, the napkin held modestly over his front. He looked directly at Eric, his eyes wide and a little helpless. “I’m such a klutz.”
“It’s fine, dear,” Gloria said, her voice smooth. “These things happen.” She finally pushed her chair back. “Come with me, we’ll get you a blouse of mine to change into. Something dry.”
Vicki followed Gloria into the house, still holding the napkin to his chest. The porch was silent save for the hum of the ceiling fan. Bill took a long, slow drink of his whiskey, his eyes fixed on the doorway they’d disappeared through.
Eric stared at his plate, his appetite gone. The smells of the food now seemed greasy, suffocating.
A few minutes later, they returned. Vicki was wearing one of Gloria’s blouses, a silky peach thing that was too large for him. He’d rolled the sleeves up. It slipped off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone. He’d taken his hair down and re-tied it, a few loose strands framing his face.
“Much better,” Gloria announced, resuming her seat. She looked at Eric. “Isn’t that better, Eric?”
Eric nodded, unable to speak.
The rest of the dessert—a lemon cake Gloria had made—passed in a blur. Eric felt disembodied, floating outside himself. He watched his own hand lift the fork, chew, swallow. He heard laughter that seemed to come from far away.
Finally, Vicki announced he should be going. “Thank you so much for a lovely evening,” he said, standing. He smiled at Gloria, then at Bill, and finally, lingeringly, at Eric. “It was… really special.”
Gloria walked him to the door. Eric stayed seated, paralyzed. He heard their murmured goodbyes, the soft sound of the screen door closing.
Silence descended again. Bill drained the last of his whiskey, set the glass down with a heavy thunk, and without a word, pushed himself up and lumbered into the house, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
Eric was alone with Gloria.
She began clearing the plates, her movements efficient. She stacked Eric’s plate onto Bill’s, then Vicki’s. As she reached across the table for Eric’s wine glass, her body stretched over the space between them. Her fingers closed around the stem.
Her other hand dropped below the table. This time, it wasn’t a bottle. It was her hand. It found his thigh, squeezed hard. Then, her fingers walked inward, tracing a slow, deliberate path along the inseam of his chinos. They stopped, a firm, undeniable pressure over the most intimate part of him.
Her face was a foot from his, completely calm. She looked him dead in the eye, her voice a low, private murmur. “See? I told you we’d get you cleaned up.”
She held the position, her gaze boring into him, her hand an anchor of pure horror. In her other hand, the wine glass she’d picked up tilted slightly. A single, dark red drop welled at the rim, trembled, and fell. It landed with a soft, final tap on the white linen tablecloth, spreading instantly into a stark, unmistakable stain.
It landed with a soft, final tap on the white linen tablecloth, spreading instantly into a stark, unmistakable stain.
Eric flinched. Her hand remained, a hot, possessive weight against his groin. He was frozen, trapped between the wicker chair and her unwavering stare.
“That’s a good boy,” Gloria whispered, her voice like crushed velvet.
She withdrew her hand and straightened up, the wine glass now steady in her grasp. She looked at the spreading burgundy blotch on the linen as if it were a fascinating piece of art. “I’ll need to soak this,” she said, her tone conversational again, a bizarre return to normalcy.
From the hallway, Bill’s heavy footsteps approached. He appeared in the doorway, his face flushed from whiskey and the lingering image of Vicki’s wet blouse. “I’m turning in,” he grunted, his gaze sliding over Eric without interest.
“Sleep well, dear,” Gloria said, not looking at him.
Bill nodded, his eyes lingering on his wife for a moment too long, something silent passing between them. Then he turned and shuffled down the hall, the floorboards creaking under his weight until a door closed with a soft click.
The house settled into a deeper quiet. Eric could hear the refrigerator hum from the kitchen. The porch fan whirred above, stirring the jasmine-scented air.
Gloria picked up the stained tablecloth, gathering it slowly into a bundle. She held it against her chest. “Help me with the dishes,” she said. It was not a request.
Eric stood, his legs unsteady. He followed her into the kitchen, a bright, yellow-painted room that felt suddenly like a surgical theater. She dropped the bundled linen into the sink and ran the tap, the water hitting the fabric with a hollow sound.
She did not turn around. “Lock the back door.”
He moved mechanically, turning the deadbolt. The click echoed in the quiet room.
“Now come here.”
He turned. She was facing him, leaning back against the counter by the sink. Her lavender dress was crisp, her posture perfect. Her eyes held none of the predatory warmth from the porch. They were flat, instruction manuals.
“You’ve been wound so tight, Eric,” she said, her voice low and even. “All that pent-up frustration. It’s not good for a man.” She paused, letting the words hang. “Bill is asleep. He sleeps like the dead.”
Eric’s mouth was desert dry. He tried to form words, to say ‘no,’ to say ‘Tara,’ but nothing came out.
“What happened in the woods with that pretty little neighbor?” Gloria continued, tilting her head. “That got you started, didn’t it? All that youthful energy, that flirty little act.” She smiled, a thin, knowing curve of her lips. “It’s okay. I understand. A man has needs.”
She turned around, presenting her back to him. She placed her hands on the edge of the counter, her fingers splayed. The lavender fabric of her dress stretched tight across her hips.
“This dress,” she said, her voice muffled slightly as she looked forward at the blank wall cabinet. “It has buttons.”
Eric stared at the line of small pearl buttons running from the nape of her neck down her spine. His breath came in short, shallow pulls.
“Unbutton it.”
His hands trembled as he lifted them. The first button slipped free easily. Then the next. The fabric parted, revealing a strip of pale skin and the clasp of a plain white bra. He worked his way down, the task absurdly intimate, his knuckles brushing the warmth of her back through each new opening.
When the final button was free, the dress gaped open. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, letting the top half of the dress fall forward, catching at her elbows. Her back was fully exposed now, down to the waistband of her slip.
“Good,” she murmured.
Then she bent forward from the waist, placing her forearms flat on the countertop. The movement hiked the skirt of her dress and slip up her thighs. She rested her forehead on her arms, her face turned to the side, watching the dark window. “Now,” she said, her voice cool and direct. “Pull my underwear aside.”
Eric’s vision swam. The kitchen light was too bright. He could see the faint blue veins in her thighs, the dimpled texture of her skin. He reached out with a shaking hand. The fabric of her panties was simple cotton. He hooked a finger in the side, at the curve of her hip, and tugged.
The sight was brutally anatomical. The cleft of her ass was exposed, pale and private. A small, dark pucker lay nestled between the full, spread cheeks.
“You know what to do,” she stated, her voice devoid of encouragement. It was a simple directive.
He did. His finger, slick with his own sweat, found the tight rosette. He pressed against it, feeling the dense, resistant muscle. He pushed harder, a sick, surrendering part of his brain taking over. The tip of his finger breached the outer ring.
Gloria let out a sharp, hissed intake of breath. Her back arched slightly.
He pushed further in, up to the first knuckle. It was shockingly tight, a hot, clutching pressure around his finger. He felt her clench deliberately, then relax, a practiced pulse. He worked his finger slowly in and out, the action lewd and functional. The scent of her—soap, rosewater, and something deeper, muskier—filled his nostrils.
“More,” she commanded, her voice tight.
He added a second finger beside the first, stretching the opening. She grunted, a low, guttural sound of effort. He fucked her ass with his fingers, the motions becoming rougher, driven by a torrent of shame and a grotesque, rising compulsion. The filthy, wet sounds filled the silent kitchen.
“That’s it,” she panted, her cheek now pressed to the cool laminate of the counter. “Just like that. Don’t you dare stop.”
His own arousal was a painful, aching throb confined by his chinos. He fucked her with his hand, the rhythm brutal and mechanical. She began to push back against his thrusts, meeting him, her hips rolling in a crude counter-rhythm.
“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Gloria gasped, her eyes squeezed shut. “That little slut from the woods. You’re thinking this is her.”
Eric jammed his fingers deeper, a silent, furious admission. He was. The yellow dress, the swaying hips, the vanilla-apple smell—it all twisted together with the lavender dress and the rose perfume and the kitchen smell of lemon cleaner.
“It’s my ass you’re fucking,” she hissed, triumphant and vicious. “Remember that. It’s my ass.”
She came then, with a choked, shuddering gasp, her body clenching violently around his invading fingers. Her knees buckled and she sagged against the counter, her weight fully on her forearms. He kept moving, forcing her through the aftershocks until she slapped a hand back weakly to stop him.
He pulled his fingers out. They were slick. The kitchen was silent again, save for their ragged breathing.
Gloria slowly straightened, pulling her underwear back into place with a practiced tug. She turned around, the dress still hanging open down her back. Her face was flushed, her hair slightly disheveled. She looked at him, at the stunned horror on his face, at the obvious bulge straining his pants.
She reached out with a hand that wasn’t clean and patted his cheek, once, twice. Her touch was sticky.
“Go to bed, Eric,” she said softly, her voice almost kind. “We’re not done. But for tonight, that’s enough.”
She turned back to the sink, picked up the stained tablecloth, and began running water over it as if nothing had happened.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at her back, at the open lavender dress gaping over her white slip. His fingers were tacky, held slightly away from his body. The smell of her, of the act, clung to his skin. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, his footsteps hollow on the hall floorboards. In the bathroom, he scrubbed his hands raw under scalding water until they were bright pink, but the feeling remained.
He did not sleep. He lay in the dark, tracing the crack in the ceiling, his body vibrating with a sickened energy. The memory of her tight heat around his fingers was a loop he couldn’t stop, each replay laced with revulsion. Dawn came as a gray, reluctant stain at the window. He dragged himself upright, feeling decades older.
The smell of coffee and frying bacon pulled him downstairs. It was a normal, familial smell that now felt like a lie. He paused in the dining room doorway, his breath catching.
Vicki was at the kitchen table. He wore what could only be described as a negligee—a sheer, peach-colored babydoll that ended high on his thighs. The lace-trimmed shorts beneath were visible, the top sheer enough to show the flat planes of his chest. He was perched on a chair next to Bill, who was shoveling eggs into his mouth, his morning paper ignored beside his plate.
“Oh, that’s a good one, Bill,” Vicki giggled, his voice high and bright. He reached out and placed a hand on Bill’s forearm, his fingers tracing the coarse gray hairs there. “You’re so funny.”
Bill grunted, a flicker of a smile on his thick lips. He didn’t pull his arm away.
Eric’s stomach turned to stone. He moved into the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Vicki looked up, his eyes widening with feigned surprise. “Eric! Good morning.” His gaze raked over Eric’s rumpled clothes, the shadows under his eyes. “You look tired.”
“Didn’t sleep,” Eric mumbled, heading for the coffee pot.
“I bet,” Vicki murmured under his breath, then laughed again at nothing Bill had said. He leaned closer to the older man, the sheer fabric of his top brushing Bill’s sleeve. “Isn’t that right, Bill? Men never know when to quit.”
Bill chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. He turned his hand over, his thick fingers curling around Vicki’s slender ones for a moment. “Something like that.”
Jealousy, hot and absurd, twisted in Eric’s gut. He hated it, hated himself for feeling it, but it was there. This charade, this person who was not who he seemed, was captivating the man whose respect Eric had never earned. He poured coffee, the stream shaking from his trembling hand.
The back door opened. Gloria stepped inside, wiping her hands on a gardening towel. She had dirt smudged on her cheek. “The hydrangeas are just coming in,” she announced, her eyes sweeping the scene. They lingered on Vicki’s hand, still near Bill’s. Her expression didn’t change. “Need more mulch, though. Bill, be a dear and help me bring a few bags from the shed?”
Bill sighed, a put-upon sound, but pushed his chair back. “Fine.”
“We’ll be just a minute,” Gloria said, her smile bland. She turned and went back outside, letting the screen door slam. Bill heaved himself up and followed, his heavy tread fading across the porch.
Silence descended, thick and electric.
Vicki didn’t move. He took a slow sip of orange juice, his eyes locked on Eric over the rim of the glass. He set it down with a soft click.
Then, with a fluid, deliberate motion, he stood up. He walked the few steps to where Bill’s chair was still pushed back from the table. He turned it to face the center of the room. He looked at Eric, a challenge in his gaze, a smirk playing on his glossed lips.
Without breaking eye contact, Vicki hiked up the scant shorts of his babydoll, just enough to free his movement. Then he straddled the chair, facing the backrest. He positioned himself over the worn wood of the seat, his bare thighs gripping the sides.
He began to move. It was a slow, rocking grind, his hips undulating against the hard surface of the chair. The sheer fabric of his top shifted, revealing more. He closed his eyes, his head tipping back, a soft sigh escaping his lips. The rhythm became more pronounced, more desperate. He was humping the chair, his movements wanton and explicit.
“Mmm,” he moaned, the sound theatrical yet charged. “Bill’s chair. It still smells like him. Old spice and… power.”
Eric was paralyzed, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. He was being baited, toyed with. This was a performance for him, a cruel pantomime of what he couldn’t have, of what was being given to the gruff, oblivious man who’d just left.
Vicki’s eyes snapped open. They were dark, glazed with simulated pleasure, fixed on Eric. He bit his lower lip, his rocking becoming faster, more frantic. The chair creaked under his rhythm. He reached a hand beneath the flimsy shorts, his fingers working out of sight. A sharp gasp cut the air.
“Fuck,” Vicki breathed, his voice dropping into a lower register, losing some of its affected femininity. “You should see your face.” He pumped his hand against himself, his hips bucking against the chair. “You want this. You want to be this chair, don’t you? You want me riding you just like this while your fucking wife is away.”
He threw his head back, his back arching. A series of raw, guttural sounds tore from his throat, stripped of all pretense. It was a male sound, rough and triumphant. His body shuddered, his thighs clamping tight on the wood. He collapsed forward over the chair back, panting, his shoulders rising and falling.
The back door opened.
Vicki didn’t jump. He slowly, languidly, pulled his hand from his shorts. He stayed draped over the chair, spent, as Gloria and Bill walked back in.
Bill stopped short, taking in the scene: Vicki sprawled across his chair, disheveled and breathing heavily. A slow, confused understanding dawned on his face.
Gloria looked from Vicki to Eric’s horrified, frozen expression. A slow, cold smile spread across her face, a smile of absolute, terrible comprehension. She wiped the garden dirt from her hands, her eyes gleaming with victory.