Chapter 2: Bad Bad Girl
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Bob woke up with a stiff neck and the taste of stale champagne still ghosting his tongue. He was in a La-Z-Boy recliner, the leather cracked and cool against his cheek. A large-screen television played a muted fishing show. The room was normal. Alarmingly normal. Beige walls, a generic landscape painting, a smell of lemon polish and old carpet.
It was so quiet. After the echoing shrieks and bass of the mansion, the silence felt like a physical weight.
A throat cleared. A man was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a can of cheap beer. He was built like a retired linebacker going soft in the middle, with a bristly grey crew cut and a flannel shirt tucked into jeans. His eyes, small and hard, were fixed on Bob.
“You,” the man said. His voice was gravel in a bucket.
Bob slowly pushed the footrest down. “Hi. I, uh, think I might be lost?”
“Damn right you’re lost.” The man took a slow sip of beer, his stare never wavering. “You’re on my couch. That’s my beer you’re not drinking. And that,” he jabbed a thick thumb over his shoulder, “is my daughter.”
Bob looked past him.
Leaning against the kitchen counter was a young woman. She was wearing tiny denim shorts and a pink crop top that seemed to be struggling with a biological impossibility. Her hair was in high, bouncy pigtails. Her face was a cartoon of vapid allure: glossy, pouty lips, heavily mascaraed eyes that blinked slowly. She was peeling a banana, not eating it, just slowly, deliberately peeling it, her tongue tracing her upper lip as she looked Bob up and down.
She made a small, wet pop with her mouth.
Bob felt a cold dread, entirely separate from the leftover exhaustion in his limbs. This wasn’t the chaotic group assault of the mansion. This was something else, with rules he didn’t know.
The dad stepped closer, blocking the view. He leaned down, putting his face close to Bob’s. His breath smelled of hops and regret. “Let me be clear, son. You are not to have sex with my daughter. You understand me? Not on my couch. Not in her room. Not in the garage where I keep my tools. Not anywhere on this property. She is a good girl. She’s focused on her online influencer career. You got that?”
Bob nodded, a quick, terrified jerk of his head. “Yes. Sir. Absolutely. No sex. With your daughter. Got it.”
“Good.” The man straightened up, took another swig. “I’m going downstairs to the den to watch the game. You two… behave.” He delivered the last word like a threat, his eyes narrowing, before he turned and stomped down a set of stairs, his heavy footsteps fading.
The click of the basement door latch was deafening.
For three full seconds, there was silence.
Then, the sound of the banana being dropped into the sink.
Bob watched, frozen, as the daughter pushed off the counter. She didn’t walk so much as glide, a hip-swaying, deliberate trajectory that brought her across the shag carpet. She stopped right in front of his chair, looking down at him. A bubblegum smell overwhelmed the lemon polish.
“So,” she said, her voice a high, breathy whisper. “You wanna, like, fuck?”
“Your dad just said—”
“Ugh, I know what he said.” She rolled her eyes, a massive, theatrical gesture. “He says that to everyone. The mailman. The guy who reads the meter. It’s, like, his thing. He’s so repressed.” She leaned forward, placing a hand on each arm of the La-Z-Boy, caging him in. Her cleavage presented itself at his eye level, a dizzying canyon of tanned skin and lace. “But he’s gonna be down there for, like, hours. The Bears are playing. He gets super emotional.”
“I really shouldn’t,” Bob whispered, his voice cracking. The memory of the velveteen sofa and the sloppy kisses was a raw, aching echo in his muscles.
“Shouldn’t what?” she breathed, lowering her face so close he could see the clumps of mascara on her lashes. “Shouldn’t put your dick in me? Because, newsflash, twiggy, it’s all I’ve been thinking about since you just, like, appeared here all confused and stuff. It’s all I can think about.”
Her hand snaked down, palming him through his jeans. He was, to his own horror, already responding, a traitorous reaction to the sheer, overwhelming directedness of her attention. It felt different from the mansion’s chaos. This was a targeted strike.
“See?” she giggled, giving him a squeeze. “Your brain says no, but your dick is, like, writing a five-star Yelp review. C’mon.”
She grabbed his hand and yanked him upright. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She pulled him out of the living room, down a hallway. “Not my room, he checks that first if he gets a ‘bad feeling’,” she muttered, more to herself than him. She pushed open a door to a laundry room. Warm, humid air smelling of fabric softener hit them. “In here. Quick.”
It was a cramped space. A washing machine churned quietly. She backed into the folding table, sending a basket of clean socks tumbling to the floor. She hopped up onto the vibrating dryer, the metal drum humming against her thighs. She wriggled out of her shorts without unbuttoning them, just shimmying them down and kicking them away.
“Hurry up,” she whined, pulling him by his belt buckle.
It was fast, frantic, and almost silent except for the rattling thump of the dryer and her suppressed, high-pitched gasps. Her eyes were fixed on the laundry room door, a sliver of hallway light visible underneath. Every creak of the house made her freeze, her internal muscles clenching around him in a way that was equally terrifying and electrifying.
“He thinks… I’m still a virgin,” she panted into his ear, her pigtails brushing his cheeks. “Can you believe that? It’s, like, so pathetic.”
After a few pounding minutes, she pushed him back. “Not here. He might come up for snacks.” She slid off the dryer, pulled her shorts back on in one motion, and peeked out the door. “Coast is clear. Let’s go to the pool house.”
“You have a pool house?”
“It’s where I do my TikToks,” she said, as if that explained everything.
They scurried through the kitchen. She paused to grab two popsicles from the freezer, handing him one. “For, like, energy.”
The pool house was a small, humid building that smelled of chlorine and cheap body spray. A neon “HOT GIRL SUMMER” sign buzzed on one wall, illuminating a tangle of inflatable flamingos and loungers. She didn’t even bother with the lounger. She pushed him against the cool stucco wall next to the chemical storage closet, dropping to her knees and taking him into her mouth with a practiced, vacuum-sealed efficiency that made his legs tremble.
A distant roar echoed from the main house. “TOUCHDOWN!”
She stopped, popping off with an obscene wet sound. “See? He’s happy. We’ve got time.” She stood, turned around, and bent over a stack of pool noodles, looking back at him over her shoulder with a grin that was all gleaming teeth and invitation. “Don’t be a wuss.”
It went on like this. A frantic, whispered encounter in the garage, behind his vintage Camaro (“Don’t scratch the paint!”). A slow, tortuous grind on the staircase landing, listening for his footsteps below. In the walk-in pantry, surrounded by cans of soup, she rode him slowly, whispering about how her ex-boyfriend couldn’t even change a tire and how she needed a “real man,” all while compulsively checking her reflection in the toaster.
Bob was a puppet. A living, breathing sex toy being smuggled around a suburban home. His body was a raw nerve, overstimulated and aching, yet relentlessly spurred on by her single-minded, bratty hunger and the ever-present terror of the basement door opening.
The final stop was her bedroom after all. She’d declared the game was in the two-minute warning. “He won’t move now. Not even for a fire.”
Her room was a shrine to pink and consumption. She fell back onto a bed covered in stuffed animals, pulling him on top of her. This time, there was no caution. She was loud. Deliberately loud. Moaning his name—a name she’d never asked for—and chanting “yes, yes, yes” like it was a personal anthem.
Bob knew, in a moment of clarity that felt like ice water, that she wanted to get caught. This was the finale. The scream of the climax that would bring the dad pounding up the stairs.
And it did.
Just as his vision whitened out, a thunderous bellow shook the hallway. “BRITTANY? WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON UP THERE?”
The door burst open.
Bob scrambled off, clutching a neon zebra-print comforter to his waist. The dad stood in the doorway, his face a volcano of purple rage. He wasn’t holding a beer anymore. He was holding a wooden baseball bat.
Brittany just lay there, sprawled and grinning. “Oops.”
The dad’s eyes moved from his daughter’s smirk to Bob’s terrified face. The rage didn’t intensify. Instead, it seemed to collapse inward. The purple flush receded. His shoulders sagged. He lowered the bat, tapping the end of it softly against his leg.
He looked old. Tired.
“You,” he said to Bob, his voice now just flat, devoid of all its earlier gravel. “Get out. Through the window. Now.”
Bob didn’t need telling twice. He fumbled for his jeans, yanked them on, and stumbled to the window. He shoved it open, the cool night air hitting his sweat-slicked skin. He threw one leg over the sill, looking back.
The dad was just sitting on the edge of Brittany’s bed, head in his hands. Brittany was applying lip gloss, watching Bob in the mirror of her compact.
Bob fell out into a row of hydrangeas.
He lay there for a moment, staring up at a clear, starless sky that seemed too vast and empty. His body was a map of new aches. His mind was a hollow drum.
He got up. He walked. The suburban street dissolved into shadows, then into the familiar, plain white walls of his room. The simple bed. The grey blanket.
He didn’t even try to understand. He just crawled under the blanket, still smelling of chlorine and bubblegum, and waited for the nothingness of sleep to take him again.
(Next scene will see him alone in an aerobics class with a black woman with a hyper energetic bimbo with worn out enhancements, wearing shorts that leave his cock flopping around, doing exercises that devolve into gross filthy sex)