Chapter 1: The Living Room Show
The living room held the heat of the afternoon like a breath caught in its throat. Sunlight cut through the slats of the blinds, lighting up galaxies of dust dancing over the worn carpet. The air was a familiar soup: stale Mountain Dew, the ghost of adolescent sweat, cheap cologne, and underneath it all, the sharp, clean threat of Noxzema from one of Mom’s recent inspections.
Jeff was losing. Again. The rat-a-tat burst of pixelated gunfire from the TV screen punctuated his character’s final, gurgling death cry. On the couch, her brother Mateo cackled, not even looking up from his controller.
“Dude. You’re pathetic.”
“Your sister’s cheat code distraction last round ruined my focus,” Jeff muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. The couch groaned under him as he shifted.
The door to the hallway swung open.
All sound from the game died, replaced by the low hum of the console. Nikki padded in, barefoot, the old floorboards letting out a soft creak of welcome. She was wearing a threadbare, heather-gray tank top, so loose it slipped off one smooth, tanned shoulder. It was clearly braless; the soft cotton draped and pulled in ways that outlined the heavy, teardrop shape of her breasts with every slight movement. Below, the only other item of clothing was a tiny, electric blue thong that disappeared between the gentle curve of her cheeks.
She moved with the unselfconscious grace of a dancer, humming something under her breath. She went straight for the fridge in the adjoining kitchenette, bending at the waist to peer inside. The position made the tank top gap, offering a profound, shadowed glimpse of cleavage, and pulled the fabric of the thong taut.
Jeff’s controller slid from his hands and thudded onto the carpet. He didn’t move to pick it up.
Mateo’s triumphant smirk vanished. He dragged his eyes from the screen to his sister, then to his stupefied best friend. A long, suffering groan dragged out of him. “Nikki. For the love of God. We have company. Put on some actual pants.”
“It’s a hundred degrees, Matty. My pants are on strike.” Her voice was light, amused. She straightened up, a cold can of Coke in her hand, and turned to lean against the fridge. The condensation immediately began to darken the thin fabric over her stomach. She popped the top with a sharp hiss and took a long sip, her throat working. Her warm brown eyes settled on Jeff, who looked like he’d been slapped. A tiny, playful smile touched her lips.
“See?” Mateo jabbed a thumb in Jeff’s direction. “You broke him. Again. Is this your superpower?”
Nikki shrugged, making everything jiggle softly. She padded back into the living room and flopped down into the sagging armchair opposite the couch. It was a dramatic, full-body flop that sent another seismic wave through her chest. She curled one leg beneath her, the other dangling over the chair’s arm, putting her small, high-arched foot on display. She wiggled her toes, painted a cheerful coral pink.
“He’s a big boy, Matty. He can handle it.” She took another sip, her eyes never leaving Jeff’s flushed face. “Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t seen the girls before.”
Mateo winced, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Do not. Do not start.”
“What?” Nikki’s tone was all innocent confusion. She looked at Jeff, her head tilted. “Remember? That time at the community pool two summers ago? My top came untied after that cannonball. You were there. You saw everything.” She said it the way someone might mention the weather. A simple, factual statement.
Jeff finally found his voice, though it came out as a croak. “It was… windy.”
“It was not windy,” Nikki corrected with a giggle. “The knot was bad. And you stared. You stared for a long, long time, Jeff.” She took a slow, deliberate sip of her soda, the can hiding her widening smile. “So really, this is nothing new. You’re already a member of the club.”
“There is no club!” Mateo barked, throwing his hands up. “Mom is going to walk in here and have an aneurysm. She told you to put on a bra if you were going to leave your room.”
“My room’s an oven. And bras are torture chambers.” Nikki set her can down on the side table with a definitive clack. She stretched her arms over her head, a movement that lifted the hem of her tank top and tightened it across her spectacular chest. The faded Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster on the wall behind her seemed to be staring, too. “You’re just jealous because all your friends think I’m hotter than your last girlfriend.”
“She was not my—”
“She called my boobs ‘distracting.’ I heard her.”
Jeff made a small, choked sound that was not quite a laugh. He finally bent to retrieve his controller, his face the color of the neon Pac-Man ghost on the poster. He focused intently on re-selecting his character.
Mateo just shook his head, a defeated man. “You’re impossible. Don’t you have, like, a cheer routine to practice? A job to look for? Something that isn’t tormenting us?”
Nikki’s playful expression softened, just a fraction. She traced a finger through the condensation on her soda can. “I’ve got resumes out. Nobody’s calling back. Dad said he’d float me cash, but Mom said no way, not unless I ‘present myself professionally.’” She mimicked her mother’s stern voice perfectly, then sighed, the sound causing another noticeable shift under her tank top. “So I’m stuck. Until someone hires the girl with the distracting resume, I guess.”
She uncurled herself from the chair in one fluid, boneless motion. Jeff’s eyes tracked her helplessly as she walked back toward the hallway. In the doorway, she paused, looking back over her bare shoulder. The sunlight from the window caught the fine, dark hairs on her arm, turning them to gold.
“You guys want pizza later? Dad’s card is on the fridge.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Mateo mumbled, already refocusing on the game.
“Jeff?” she asked, her voice a gentle tease.
Jeff just nodded, mute.
Nikki’s smile was brilliant and knowing. “Cool. Extra pepperoni. For the big man.” She gave a little wink, directed squarely at him, and then she was gone, the sound of her light footsteps fading down the hall.
The living room was suddenly just a sticky, sun-drenched room again. The pixels on the screen moved. The dusty air settled.
Mateo elbowed Jeff hard in the ribs. “Dude. Breathe.”
Jeff sucked in a sharp, ragged breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The ghost of her silhouette, backlit in the doorway, was burned onto his vision. He could still smell a hint of her—coconut sunscreen and clean sweat—over the room’s old smells.
“She’s going to be the death of me,” he finally muttered, picking up his controller, his fingers feeling clumsy and foreign on the buttons.
“Tell me about it,” Mateo sighed, restarting the match. “She’s nineteen going on lethal. Just wait ‘til she actually gets that job. Some poor manager has no idea what’s coming.”
On screen, their characters began to fight again. But Jeff’s focus was already fractured, listening for any sound from down the hall, part of him already counting the minutes until pizza, until she’d glide back into the room and casually, effortlessly, pull all the oxygen out of it again.