Chapter 1: The Mall Bikini Try-On
The fluorescent lights in the mall fitting room buzzed like a trapped insect. Nikki Nunez stood in the center of the three-way mirror, a critical pout on her glossed lips. The reflection showed a neon pink bikini, the triangles of fabric doing a heroic, losing battle against the sheer volume of her 32G breasts. She gave an experimental shimmy. The resulting jiggle made her smirk.
Perfect.
A stack of other possibilities—lace, string, animal print—sat neatly folded on the padded bench. She’d already tried seven. This was the real work of summer.
She popped her head out past the faded floral curtain. The common area was empty except for a weary mom and a toddler. Ricardo stood a few feet away, studying a wall display of men’s cargo shorts with profound concentration, his broad back to her.
“Daddy.”
He turned. His warm, brown eyes softened immediately at the sight of her, just as she knew they would. “Mija, you find something yet?”
“You have to see this one.” She beckoned him with a curl of her fingers, her smile all innocent sugar. “I need a second opinion. Mom’s not here, and you have good taste.”
Ricardo’s easy smile faltered for a half-second. He cast a glance down the corridor of fitting rooms. The toddler was now crying. The mom was not looking. He let out a slow breath, a man walking a familiar, shaky tightrope. “Okay, okay. Just for a second.”
He ducked inside, and she let the curtain fall closed behind him. The space shrank instantly. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of her vanilla body spray and new spandex. His stocky frame took up what little empty air there was.
“So?” Nikki planted her hands on her hips and spun slowly on the balls of her feet. The movement was pure dancer, graceful, but the effect was seismic. Her breasts, spilling generously from the pink cups, swayed and bounced with a life of their own. The ties at her hips and neck seemed like mere formalities.
Ricardo’s gaze stuck to the mirror, to the triple reflection of her curves. He cleared his throat. “It’s, uh. It’s bright.”
“It’s supposed to be bright! It’s for tanning. Jeff’s pool party is next weekend.” She said the name lightly, watching Ricardo’s face in the glass. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She turned her back to him, pretending to examine the fit of the bikini bottom in the mirror. The fabric was a scant V of pink against her tan skin, framing her small, round butt. She bent over slightly, adjusting a string at her hip, knowing the pose was flawless. “Does this part look too tight? I don’t want a wedgie all day.”
His breath hitched. A tiny, satisfying sound. “It looks fine, Nikki.”
“You think?” She straightened up and turned to face him directly, within arm’s reach. She bit her lower lip, widening her brown eyes. “Be honest. Is it too much? I can’t tell.”
She watched the internal war play out on his face. The stepfather who wanted to say yes, it’s too much, go put on a T-shirt. The man who was helpless against her deliberate, cheerful charm. The one who loved to spoil her.
“You look beautiful,” he said finally, the words gruff. “As always. But your mother…”
“Mom’s not here,” Nikki sang, stepping closer. She patted his solid chest. “You’re here. And you’re the best daddy for helping me.” She spun away again, looking over her shoulder at him. “But I think the green one is better. Wanna see?”
Before he could answer, she had shimmied out of the pink top, letting it drop to the floor. Ricardo’s eyes snapped up to the ceiling, then to the corner of the mirror, anywhere but directly at her. His ears were pink. She giggled, unhurried, and reached for the next suit, a searing lime green with ties so thin they looked like dental floss.
She tied the top on, her movements efficient. It was smaller than the pink one. Her breasts swelled against the thin fabric, the deep curve of cleavage dramatic and shadowed. The material strained across her nipples, which she knew, from years of practice, were perfectly outlined but still technically covered. Mom’s one hard rule. She followed it. Technically.
“Ta-da!” She presented herself, arms wide. The action made everything lift and settle. “This is the one, right? It makes my eyes pop.”
Ricardo was staring now, a trapped, glazed look in his eyes. He wasn’t seeing her eyes. His own gaze was locked on the middle of her torso, watching the rhythmic bounce slow to a gentle quiver. He looked dizzy. “It’s… very green.”
“You’re no help.” She pouted, but her eyes sparkled with victory. She had him. He was utterly wrapped. She did a little cheerleading kick, just to feel the air move and to watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I think I’ll get both. You’ll get them for me, won’t you? My cheerleading check doesn’t come ‘til Friday.”
He finally managed to look at her face, at her playfully pleading expression. The tension in his shoulders leaked out in a resigned, fond sigh. He reached out and tugged gently on a stray strand of her long brunette hair, a safe, paternal gesture. “Yeah, mija. I’ll get them. You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day, you know that?”
She beamed, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his middle in a quick, tight hug, pressing her impressive chest against his abdomen. She felt him stiffen, then slowly, carefully, pat her back. “Thank you, daddy! You’re the best.”
She released him and began gathering the suits, her mind already on the pool party, on Jeff’s likely expression, on the sun warming her skin. “I’ll get changed. Meet you at the register?”
“I’ll be there,” Ricardo said, his voice a little rough. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped out into the cooler, broader air of the mall corridor. He didn’t look back.
Inside the cubicle, Nikki smiled at herself in the warped mirror, smoothing her hands over the phenomenal swell of her breasts in the green bikini. She gave them an affectionate, proud little bounce. Yeah. Jeff was gonna lose his mind.
Outside, Ricardo leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He could still see the afterimage in the dark behind his eyelids: the curve, the sway, the innocent, devastating smile. He took a deep, shaky breath, running a hand over his graying temples. A familiar cocktail of warmth, pride, and a low, shameful thrum of something else pulsed in his veins.
What was he doing?
He pushed off the wall and headed toward the register, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He was getting her the bikinis. He always did.
The air conditioning in the department store was a brutal shock after the cocoon of the fitting room. Ricardo blinked, the neon signs and racks of brightly colored sale items coming back into focus. He could still feel the phantom warmth of the cubicle, the scent of her spray, the dizzying visual echo of curved, tanned skin in triplicate.
He walked to the register, a flat glass counter manned by a pimply teenager with a name tag that read "Troy." Troy was zoning out, chewing gum with his mouth open.
"Nikki, come on now," Ricardo called over his shoulder, his voice firmer out here in the open. It was his dad-voice, the one he used when he needed to feel in control of the situation.
"Coming, daddy!"
She emerged from the corridor of curtains, now back in her own clothes—a tight, cropped baby-tee and denim shorts that barely covered the essentials. Her long hair was tossed over one shoulder. She carried the two bikinis, the neon fabrics a vivid splash in her hands. She placed them on the glass counter with a soft, triumphant plop.
Troy’s gum-chewing stopped. His eyes, glazed seconds before, clicked into sharp focus. They traveled from Nikki’s smiling face, down the impossible geography of her chest under the thin cotton shirt, to the tiny scraps of fabric on the counter. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Twice.
"Just these," Nikki said, her voice sweet. She leaned forward on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands. The position did things to her neckline. Troy stared, transfixed.
Ricardo cleared his throat, a low, rumbling sound. Troy flinched, his gaze snapping up to Ricardo’s face. The man was big, wide-shouldered, and his expression was no longer warm. It was neutral, but his eyes held a quiet, steady warning.
"Uh. Yeah. Sure," Troy stammered. He fumbled with the tags, his fingers clumsy. He scanned the first one. The mechanical beep was loud in the silence.
"These are so cute, right?" Nikki chirped, oblivious or, more likely, perfectly aware. "The green one is my favorite. It's gonna look amazing in the sun. Don't you think?"
She directed this at Troy, who was now sweating. He mumbled something incoherent and scanned the second tag.
Ricardo pulled out his wallet, a thick leather bifold. He didn't look at the total on the screen. He never did. He extracted a credit card and slid it across the glass.
The transaction processed. The machine whirred and printed a receipt. The whole time, Nikki hummed a Madonna song under her breath, swaying slightly on her heels, a contained energy ready to burst.
"Bag?" Troy squeaked, holding up a flimsy plastic sack.
"I'll take it," Ricardo said, his hand closing around the bag first. He took the receipt, the card, and bundled it all away. His movements were final, a period at the end of the sentence. "Let's go, mija. Your mother expects us for dinner."
Nikki skipped ahead, her small, cute butt swaying in the cut-offs. "Thanks, Troy!" she called back, a wave over her shoulder.
Troy just nodded, shell-shocked, already receding into the landscape of the mall.
They walked in silence for a minute, the sounds of the mall—the Muzak, the chatter, the clatter of a distant food court—washing over them. Ricardo carried the plastic bag, the two tiny items inside weighing nothing at all.
Nikki looped her arm through his, hugging it to her side. She leaned her head against his bicep. "You're the best, you know that? Seriously. Jeff is gonna plotz when he sees me in that green one."
Ricardo looked straight ahead. He felt the pressure of her body against his, the affectionate squeeze of her arm. He felt the weight of the bag in his other hand. He had bought them. Of course he had.
He always did.
The blue Chevy Blazer’s interior held the day’s heat like a oven. Ricardo cranked the AC, the vents hissing out a lukewarm stream that would take miles to get cold. He focused on backing out of the parking space, the steering wheel warm under his palms.
Nikki threw the plastic bag onto the backseat and buckled herself in with a click. She kicked her legs out straight, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Success. I can’t wait to oil up in the backyard tomorrow. You wanna be on tanning duty? You’re better at my back than mom. She always misses a spot.”
“We’ll see,” Ricardo said, his voice neutral. He navigated out of the mall lot and onto the main boulevard, the setting sun glinting off storefronts.
Ricardo kept his eyes on the road, turning onto their residential street. The houses here were stucco and tile, lawns neatly trimmed.
The houses here were stucco and tile, lawns neatly trimmed. The Blazer’s engine hummed, a familiar sound. Nikki shifted in her seat, the denim of her shorts whispering against the vinyl. She was quiet for a full block, which was unusual.
Then she let out a soft, contented sigh and bent forward. Ricardo heard the faint click of plastic, the rustle of movement. From the corner of his eye, he saw her remove one sandal, then the other. She dropped them to the floor mat with a dull thud.
He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, on Mrs. Alvarez watering her geraniums three houses down.
A second later, he felt it. The light, warm weight of her feet settling onto his thigh, just above his knee. He stiffened, his hands tightening on the wheel. Her soles were clean, tanned, the nails painted a creamy, pearlescent pink. She wiggled her toes.
“Drive with one hand, daddy,” she said, her voice a playful murmur. “You’re a pro.”
“Nikki,” he said, the word a low warning. He didn’t move his leg. The heat of her skin seeped through his khakis.
“What?” Her tone was all feigned innocence. She flexed her foot, the arch curving against his leg. “My feet are tired from all that standing. Those fitting room floors are concrete, you know.” She paused, letting the quiet of the car fill with the rush of air from the vents. “So. Be honest. Do you think my feet are pretty?”
He risked a glance down. Her feet were small, slender, undeniably well-cared for. The polish was flawless. It was such a bizarre, intimate question. Safer than the bikinis, somehow, and yet far more dangerous in its casual trespass.
“They’re feet, mija,” he said, aiming for dismissive and landing somewhere near strained.
“That’s not an answer.” She pressed down slightly, a gentle pressure. “Mom says I have my grandmother’s feet. High arches. Good for dancing. You think they’re pretty or not?”
He could smell the lotion she used, something with coconut. He could see the delicate bones of her ankle. He drove, the turn onto their street coming up too slowly.
“Yes,” he breathed out, the concession pulled from him. “They’re pretty. Now put your shoes on. We’re almost home.”
She giggled, a sound of pure victory, but she didn’t move her feet. Instead, she relaxed them fully into his lap, a cozy, domestic weight. “You’re so easy. I was just kidding. You didn’t have to answer.” She watched the familiar houses slide by. “Jeff says girls with pretty feet are a sign of good genetics. He read that somewhere.”
The name was a spark to dry tinder. Ricardo’s jaw clenched. His left hand came off the wheel, not to push her feet away, but to firmly, finally, grasp her ankle and lift it, moving her legs back onto her own side of the car. The contact was brief, electric. Her skin was soft.
“Enough,” he said, and this time his voice held a finality that even she couldn’t ignore. It was the voice that rarely surfaced, the one from deep in his chest. It left no room for play.
Nikki’s smirk faded. She pulled her feet in, tucking them underneath her. She looked out the passenger window, a faint blush on her cheeks that might have been annoyance or the first flicker of something like shame. She stayed silent.
Ricardo turned into their driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. He put the Blazer in park and killed the engine. The sudden quiet was a relief. He sat for a moment, staring at the closed garage door, listening to the tick of the cooling engine.
“Get your things,” he said, his voice softer now, worn out. He opened his door and stepped into the evening air, which was still warm but carried the scent of jasmine from the fence line. He didn’t wait for her, heading to the front door, the keys jangling in his hand.
Nikki grabbed the plastic bag from the backseat and her sandals from the floor. She followed, her steps slower. She watched his broad back as he unlocked the door, the set of his shoulders. The tease had landed differently this time. It had bounced off something harder. She felt a weird little twist in her stomach, not guilt exactly, but a recognition that a line, invisible and never discussed, had just been drawn in the sand. And she’d been the one to step right over it.
She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, the thin plastic crinkling. Tomorrow, she’d wear the green bikini. Tomorrow, Jeff would stare. But right now, the victory felt thin, and the silence stretching between her and the man at the door felt heavier than any look from a boy ever could.