Chapter 1: The Grudge
The mug hit the counter with a crack that sent a chip of porcelain skittering across the mismatched tile. Liz didn't bother watching it fall. The coffee inside sloshed over the rim, a brown wave that swallowed the lipstick stain she'd left an hour ago. She stared at the mess, jaw tight, the memory of Johnny's smug, drunk face still burning behind her eyes.
Six. Fucking. Months. And not a single word of apology. Not from him, not from Carly, not even a cowardly text that spelled out "sorry" in cracked thumbs. Tyler had said worse that night, had been the one to grab Johnny's collar first, but no, Johnny had to be the one to land the punch. The one to call him a "spineless prick who married into the family for a roof over his head." The one to look at Liz afterward, standing there with Tyler's blood on his knuckles, and ask if she was going to cry about it too.
She wasn't crying about it. She'd locked the front door when Tyler came home, left the mess of him bleeding on the porch, and hadn't picked up Johnny's calls for a week. Then the calls stopped, and the silence became a wall she refused to be the first to chip.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against a stack of ungraded essays. She ignored it, watching the coffee creep toward the edge of the counter. Fucking apple pie. That's what started it all. The pie tin in her sink, scrubbed clean, sat like a weird, abandoned prop. She had been planning to bake one for the barbecue, one of her grandmother's recipes, and Johnny had laughed at it. Said her pies were all dough and no heart. He was just being an asshole to be an asshole.
The phone buzzed again. Insistent. She reached for it, thumb swiping the screen with more violence than the message warranted.
Carly: I have a plan to end this feud. Be at my house tonight. Wear something slutty.
Liz read it twice. Then a third time. The words sat there on the screen, bright and absurd, like a dare dressed in leopard print. Her anger flared, hot and immediate. Who the hell did Carly think she was, texting her sister-in-law a line like that? As if six months of frozen silence could be melted with a cute little text and a dress that showed her tits.
She set the phone down. Picked it up. Set it down again.
The heat between her thighs was unwelcome, and she hated it. Hated how one word, slutty, could wake something in her that she'd buried beneath lesson plans and tax returns and the dusty grind of being too proud to call anyone. Johnny's face flickered in her mind, not the sneer from the barbecue but the one from years ago, half-drunk at their wedding reception, telling her she cleaned up nice. Carly's younger sister. The one who'd gotten away from the family, she'd joked once, while Johnny's eyes had lingered on her a little too long to be brotherly.
She bit her lower lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
What kind of plan?
The reply came within seconds.
Carly: The kind that ends with you two making up. Or at least making something. Trust me. Shorts. Or a skirt. Something you can move in.
Liz stared at the screen until her eyes watered. This was a trap.
She typed back, three letters, before she could stop herself. "Fine." Then she threw the phone onto the pile of essays and pressed her palms against the cool counter, breathing through her nose like she was about to walk into a classroom full of freshmen on the last day before summer.
The rest of the day crawled. She graded, showered, stood in front of her closet with a towel around her head and a scowl on her face. Slutty. She pulled out a black skirt that hit mid-thigh and a red top with a neckline that did things. Jesus Christ. She almost put it back. Then she remembered Johnny's voice, that smug, drawling tone, asking if she was going to cry. She wore the skirt.
Carly's house smelled like candles and garlic bread. Johnny wasn't there. "He's out back with the grill," Carly said, kissing Liz's cheek like they hadn't been pretending the feud didn't exist all year. "Gabi and Sammy are coming too. I invited everyone. It's a ceasefire, not a hostage negotiation." Liz wanted to ask what the plan was, but Carly was already pouring wine, and somewhere in the kitchen Sammy's laugh rang out, high and easy.
The night bled together. Drinks. Laughter. Johnny came in from the grill, shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, and he looked at Liz for a long moment before nodding like they'd agreed to be civil. The tension sat in the room like a fourth guest. Liz drank too much and laughed too hard at nothing, and by midnight she was sprawled on the sectional, bare feet on the coffee table, watching Johnny and Gabi argue about something stupid.
She must have drifted off. The house had gone quiet, one lamp still burning in the corner. The bathroom door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling across the hallway floor. That's where they were, Sammy and Johnny, except Sammy wasn't in the bathroom. She was in the hallway, barefoot, holding her phone like a flashlight, because she'd heard a sound. A low, ragged breathing. A rhythm.
Sammy stepped closer, pushing the door wider with two fingers.
Johnny sat on the closed toilet lid, jeans bunched around his ankles, boxers hooked on one knee. His fist was wrapped around his cock, thick and rigid, glistening at the tip from the slick he'd worked up. His eyes were squeezed shut, head tipped back against the tank, mouth open on a stifled grunt. The lamp light caught the sweat on his chest, the way his knuckles strained as he dragged his hand down to the base and back up, slow, torturous.
Sammy's breath hitched. She didn't move.
He opened his eyes then, found her in the doorway, and his hand froze mid-stroke. "Sammy." His voice cracked, nearly a whisper. "Shit. I didn't... I thought I locked it." He didn't pull his hand away. He just sat there, breathing hard, cock flushed and leaking, his dark eyes locked on hers.
"Didn't look locked," she said. Her voice came out husky, and she hated herself for how much she meant it. She should leave. She should walk back to the couch and pretend she saw nothing. But her feet wouldn't move, and the wet heat between her thighs was real and insistent, and Johnny's cock twitched in his fist like it knew.
"You gonna keep going?" she asked, the words out before her brain caught up.
Johnny swallowed. His hand started moving again, slow, deliberate, watching her face as he stroked himself. "Only if you watch."
"Only if you watch."
Johnny's voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, a flush climbing his neck. "That was a joke. I meant... shit, Sammy, I didn't mean that."
Sammy's eyes narrowed. The soft heat in her face hardened into something else. She stepped into the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind her with a soft click. The lock turned under her thumb.
"Johnny," she said, low and flat. "You don't get to say that and take it back."
He was already scrambling, jeans around his ankles, trying to haul them up. "No, no, I can't. I can't do this. I have a wife. I love my wife."
Sammy laughed, a short, bitter sound. "You think I don't know that? You think I give a shit right now?" She moved closer, hip brushing the sink. "You were jerking off in Carly's bathroom while your wife is passed out on the couch. Don't lecture me about love."
"I was just... I had a lot to drink, I wasn't thinking."
"You were thinking," she said, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were thinking about something. What were you thinking about, Johnny? Her? Me?"
He shook his head, but his cock was still hard, still glistening, betraying every word coming out of his mouth. Sammy saw it. She looked down and smiled.
"Don't lie to me," she said. "That thing doesn't lie."
Johnny's hands were shaking as he tried to cover himself. "Sammy, please. You're Carly's friend. I can't do this to her."
Sammy's mouth twisted. She stepped forward, planting a hand on his chest, shoving him back against the toilet tank. "Then just pretend I'm her."
"What?"
"Pretend I'm Carly." Her voice was venomous now, hot with anger. "Show me what you do to your wife with that big dick. Cum in me like you cum in your wife."
"I can't."
"You can." She dropped to her knees on the tile, hands on his thighs, spreading them. "You will."
Johnny's breath came in ragged pants. His hands found her shoulders, weak, half-hearted attempts to push her away that turned into gripping her shirt instead. "Sammy, this is wrong. This is so wrong."
She ignored him. Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, and he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking into her grip. She squeezed, feeling the heat and the thickness of him, the way he twitched in her hand like he couldn't decide if he wanted to run or surrender.
"Look at me," she said. He did, his eyes dark and panicked. "I'm her. I'm your wife. And I want you to fuck me like you fuck her."
He opened his mouth to argue, but she leaned forward and swallowed him whole.
The sound he made was strangled, half a protest and half a groan. His head fell back against the tank, hands fisting in her hair, knuckles white. She worked him slow, tongue flat against the underside, taking him deep until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She pulled off with a wet, obscene sound, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock.
"Say you'll do it," she breathed. "Say you'll cum inside me."
"I can't... I shouldn't..."
She grabbed his jaw, forcing his eyes to hers. "I don't care what you should. I want to feel you come apart. I want to feel you fill me up. Pretend I'm her, pretend I'm anyone, but you're going to give me what I've been thinking about since the barbecue."
That did it. The mention of the barbecue, of the night everything broke, made Johnny's expression shift. Something in him bent. He grabbed her arm and hauled her up, spinning her around so her palms hit the sink. Her skirt bunched around her waist when he shoved it up. Her underwear was soaked, clinging to her ass, and he yanked them down to her thighs with one rough motion.
She was already reaching back to spread herself, bare and glistening, when he pressed against her entrance.
"God, Sammy," he groaned, and she felt the head of his cock push into her, thick and blunt.
"Yes," she gasped. "Fuck me. Fuck me like you fuck her."
He drove in, one hard stroke to the hilt, and she cried out, gripping the edge of the sink. The tile was cold under her knees. He was so deep inside her, stretching her around his girth, and she pushed back to meet him when he withdrew and slammed in again.
"You love her?" Sammy asked, voice shaking. "You love your wife?"
"Yes," he grunted, his rhythm steady, brutal. "I love her."
"Then pretend harder."