Chapter 1: A Bikini and a back deck
The lawnmower coughed out a final cloud of blue smoke and sputtered into silence. Brandon wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, the muscles in his stomach tightening with the motion. The afternoon sun was a physical weight on his bare shoulders, and the smell of freshly cut grass hung thick in the humid air.
“Brandon, honey? You’re going to melt out there.”
The voice was husky, a sound that always made him think of late-night radio. He turned, the lawnmower handle still warm in his grip.
Kim stood on her back porch, one hip cocked against the railing. She wore a bikini top the color of a pink cocktail and denim shorts cut high on her thigh. Her skin was slick with oil, catching the light. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. Brandon’s eyes did a quick, frantic dance—from her smiling face, to her collarbone, to a safe spot just over her left shoulder. He forced them to stay there.
“Just finishing up, Mrs. Archer.”
“Kim,” she corrected, as she always did. She took a slow drag. “I swear, you get more done in an afternoon than that lawn service did all month. You’re a lifesaver.”
He shrugged, a gesture that felt awkward and too-big for his body. “It’s not a problem.”
“I’ve got another one for you, if you’re willing.” She gestured with her cigarette hand toward the porch behind her. The wood was a sad, weathered gray, peeling in long strips like sunburnt skin. “This eyesore needs painting. My husband, God bless him, promised for two summers. Then he left for Shanghai. Again. Left his credit card, though.”
She said it with a practiced roll of her eyes, a joke they were both supposed to share. Brandon just nodded.
“I can paint,” he said, too quickly. “I mean, I know how. I’ve got all the stuff in my dad’s garage. Brushes, drop cloths.”
“Would you?” Her expression softened into something genuine. “I’d pay you, of course. Whatever you think is fair. It’s just… the silence in this place gets so loud when he’s gone. Having someone around… it’s nice.”
There was a rawness to that last part that made Brandon’s chest feel tight. He focused on the practical. “Sure. I just gotta put the mower away and I can come take a look.”
“You’re a sweetheart.” She smiled, and the lines around her eyes deepened. They were the only part of her that ever looked her age. “Don’t rush on my account. I’m just soaking up what’s left of this sun.”
She padded barefoot down the porch steps and onto a faded yellow lounger she’d positioned in the center of her manicured lawn. She lay down, arranged herself with a sigh, and closed her eyes. The sun lit the gentle curve of her flat stomach, the delicate chain of a necklace settling in the hollow of her throat.
Brandon busied himself with the mower, wheeling it with exaggerated care back to his family’s garage next door. His heart was doing a funny, irregular thump against his ribs. It was just the heat. The physical work.
Twenty minutes later, he was standing on her back porch, examining the splintered rails. The door to her apartment was open, and the thump of a bassline from her record player drifted out, mixed with the smell of stale smoke and vanilla candle wax.
Kim appeared in the doorway. She’d tied a sheer, patterned sarong around her hips. “Well, doctor? What’s the prognosis?”
“Needs a good sanding first,” he said, running a hand over a rough post. “Then primer. Then paint. It’s a couple days' work, if the weather holds.”
“Better get started then,” she said. “And take your shirt off.”
He froze. “What?”
“It’s ninety degrees, Brandon. You’ll get a terrible farmer’s tan. You don’t want to show up at college in September looking like you spent the summer in a tank top, do you?” Her tone was light, practical. A motherly command. “Besides, I don’t want paint on that nice t-shirt. Go on.”
Feeling his ears burn, he pulled the shirt over his head, folded it awkwardly, and set it on the steps. The air felt different on his skin now, charged.
“That’s better.” She had moved beside him, holding a large bottle. “Sunblock. You’re already pink. This sun is vicious today.”
Before he could protest or offer to do it himself, he felt the cool, thick lotion on his upper back. Her hands were firm, sweeping in broad, efficient circles. The shock of the temperature, then the slow, smoothing pressure. He held his breath.
“You’re all knotted up,” she murmured, her voice closer now. Her thumbs dug into the muscles along his shoulder blades, finding a tension he didn’t know he was carrying. It wasn’t part of applying sunscreen. It was something else. Her fingers slid lower, following the line of his spine, spreading the white lotion until it vanished into his skin. The scent of her—cigarettes, coconut oil, and a sharp, dark perfume—wrapped around him.
His mind went blank, then raced. This was normal. Helpful. She was just being nice. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a trapped thing.
Her hand paused, resting lightly at the small of his back. He could feel every callus on her fingers, the warmth of her palm.
“All set,” she said, her voice a low scratch in his ear. She gave his shoulder a final, almost imperceptible squeeze and stepped back. The absence of her touch was as startling as its arrival.
She held out the bottle. “You can get the front.”
He took it, muttering a thanks, and fumbled with the cap. She watched him for a second, a small, unreadable smile playing on her bright lips. Then she turned and walked back into the dim apartment, the sarong swaying.
Brandon stood alone on the porch, the sun beating down on his freshly lotioned skin. He felt marked. The music from inside swelled, a brassy, yearning song from another era. He looked at the peeling wood, the can of primer he’d brought over, the clean brushes waiting in their plastic wrap. The work ahead seemed suddenly immense, and the quiet street outside her fence felt a thousand miles away. He was, for the first time, painfully aware of his own body in the space, of the ghost of her hands on his back, and of the long, hot, silent afternoon stretching out before them both.
He was, for the first time, painfully aware of his own body in the space, of the ghost of her hands on his back, and of the long, hot, silent afternoon stretching out before them both.
Brandon got to work. He sanded the old wood with rough, purposeful strokes, the grit flying in tiny clouds that stuck to his sweat. The afternoon sun poured over him, and the oil she’d applied glistened, accentuating every line of his chest and abs, etching the definition of his shoulders with light and shadow. The rhythmic scratch of sandpaper filled the air, a counterpoint to the music drifting from inside.
Through the sliding screen door, he could see Kim moving in the kitchen’s neon glow. She poured clear liquid over ice, squeezed a lime wedge. She lit a cigarette with a quick flick of her wrist, the flare of the match bright in the dim apartment. She then proceeded to pretend to watch TV, perched on the edge of her plush sofa. But her head never turned toward the screen. Her gaze, heavy and unblinking, was fixed on him—on the shift and flex of his back, the drop of sweat tracing a path down his sternum.
He sanded. He stained, the rich cedar smell cutting through the perfume and smoke. He painted, careful strokes along the railings. Hours bled together, marked only by the changing angle of the light and the occasional clink of ice in her glass. A quiet, hypnotic tension built, thread by thread, in the space between the porch and the living room.
When he was done, he was soaked in sweat. It beaded on his skin, soaked the waistband of his shorts. He leaned against the fresh, wet railing, breathing hard, muscles singing with a dull ache.
The screen door slid open. She brought him a drink, condensation already fogging the glass. “You earned this.”
“Thanks.” His voice was rough from disuse. He took the glass, their fingers brushing. The drink was sharp, cold, a little sweet. He gulped half of it down in one go, the burn hitting his chest.
She offered him a cigarette from her pack. He hesitated, then took it. She lit it for him, her hand cupping his to steady the flame. He inhaled, coughed a little, then tried again. The smoke mixed weirdly with the taste of the drink.
He finished his drink and felt a decent buzz, a soft unraveling at the edges of his thoughts. The world seemed quieter, slower. He put the glass down on the painted porch floor.
Kim stood close, too close. The sarong was gone. Just the bikini. Her eyes searched his face. “Tell me something true, Brandon.” Her voice was low. “You ever been with a woman?”
He looked at the cigarette in his hand, then back at her. A lie felt impossible here, in this neon-lit vacuum. “Yeah,” he said, the word barely a whisper. A single, clumsy fumble in the back of a friend’s car last summer. It didn’t feel like a real answer.
She stepped even closer, until she was standing right in front of him. “You think I’m pretty?”
He could smell everything now—the gin, the smoke, her sweat, the waxy vanilla. His throat tightened. “You know you are.”
A slow smile. She didn’t touch him with her hands. Instead, she pressed the flat, warm plane of her belly toward him, a gentle, insistent pressure against his body. His breath hitched. He looked down, then bent his head, pressing his lips to her skin. He kissed it, just below her navel. Salt and coconut.
She moaned loudly, a raw, unfiltered sound that went straight through him. Her hands came up, one tangling in his hair, the other guiding his head lower.
He untied the knot at her hips. The fabric fell away. He wasn’t thinking. His body was moving on a current she had switched on. He sat back on his heels, pulling her with him. He fingered her, his movements awkward at first, then instinctive as he found a rhythm. He tasted her, and she shuddered, her thighs tightening around his ears. She came loudly and hard, a sharp cry that fractured the humid air, her body bucking against his mouth.
When the tremors subsided, he stood up on shaky legs. Without a word, he swept the ashtray and their glasses off the low wicker table with his arm. They crashed onto the lawn, unimportant. He pulled his pants and boxers down in one motion.
His cock, thick and erect, stood between them.
A shaky laugh escaped her. “Knew it,” she breathed, her eyes wide, hungry.
He guided her onto the cleared table. She was already wet and ready. He slid into her, a single, deep stroke that buried him completely. She came again in seconds, a choked, desperate sound, her nails digging into his forearms, her body arching up from the glass surface. It was fast, a release of coiled-up tension and neglect so profound it seemed to shock her.
He didn’t say anything. There were no words in his head, just a blinding, consuming focus. The task at hand was simple, mechanical, immense: filling her, again and again, the wet suck of their connection the only sound besides their ragged breathing. The wicker creaked beneath her. A plane droned far overhead. He was somewhere else, someone else, a vessel for a need that had been waiting in the silence of both their afternoons.
He was somewhere else, someone else, a vessel for a need that had been waiting in the silence of both their afternoons. The rhythm built, a frantic, driving thing. His hands gripped her hips, fingertips pressing into soft flesh. Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him deeper, faster. The wicker table groaned in protest.
A low cry started in his throat, torn from a place he didn’t recognize. His vision blurred at the edges. As his orgasm peaked she could feel him swell. He pulled out and she immediately grabbed him in her hand and squeezed every sweet sticky ounce from him. A shuddering groan racked his body, wave after wave, as she milked him completely, her grip firm and knowing. His head collapsed between her tits and she affectionately stroked his hair and lightly scratches his back.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling with the distant music. She was catching her breath and her eyes were closed from the intensity. Then she looked down. She looked at the massive pool collected in her belly button and laughs, a low, husky sound of pure surprise. “Christ, Brandon. You been saving that up all summer?”
He couldn’t speak. He just shook his head against her skin, inhaling the tangled scent of sex and her perfume. Every muscle in his body had turned to liquid. She gave his hair a final ruffle and pushed gently at his shoulder.
He stumbled back, his legs unreliable. He collapses in a chair, a worn-out patio thing with frayed straps. His dick, slick from her juices, already looked spent, vulnerable against his thigh. He stared at it, then at her, the reality of what just happened crashing into him like a delayed shockwave.
Kim sat up slowly, wincing slightly. She regarded the mess on her stomach with a weird, practical detachment. “Well,” she sighed, a smile playing on her swollen lips. “I had better shower.”
She stood, a little unsteady herself, and walked toward the sliding door. As she slowly walks up the stairs she stares at him. Her gaze wasn’t an invitation; it was a command, soft but absolute. He took the hint and walks up with her, pulling his pants up as he went, the fabric uncomfortably damp.
The upstairs bathroom was small, fogged from her earlier use. It smelled like her—soap, perfume, the lingering ghost of cigarettes. She turned on the water, tested it with her hand, then stepped in, beckoning him with a curl of her finger.
He followed, his clothes falling in a heap on the tile floor. The water was scalding, just shy of painful. She soaped up a washcloth and began to clean him with a startling, matter-of-fact tenderness. She washed his chest, his arms, his neck.
She washed his chest, his arms, his neck. The terrycloth was rough, her touch surprisingly gentle. He stood there, pliant, letting her guide him under the spray. The water sluiced away the sweat, the grass clippings, the lingering scent of paint and sun. Her motions were methodical, almost clinical, until they weren’t.
Her slippery hand moved lower, over his belly. She soaped him there, her fingers tracing the lines of his hips. Then her hand cupped him, a firm, knowledgeable hold that made his knees weaken. She massaged his balls with a slow, rolling pressure, her other hand stroking his soapy cock with a rhythm that was purely instructional. He gasped, a sharp intake of steam-filled air.
“Just getting you clean,” she murmured, but her eyes were dark, fixated on his reaction.
The hot water poured over him, rinsing away the suds. The slick glide of her hand on now-bare skin was electric. Despite everything, despite the exhausted, spent feeling that had been there just minutes ago, he felt a thick, insistent warmth growing under her touch. He got hard again, fast, a surrender to pure sensation.
He saw the flicker of triumph in her eyes. He didn’t care. He pulled her into a kiss, cutting off whatever she was about to say. It was messier than before, open-mouthed and desperate, tasted of steam and her. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and hiked her leg up around his hip. He supported her weight easily, her back against the cool tile. He slid himself into her again, standing.
The angle was deep, different. A low, guttural sound choked out of her. He started moving, a constant, smooth rhythm born of some new, untapped confidence. He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was listening. Every gasp, every bitten-off moan from her lips was a cue. He adjusted his tempo, the angle of his hips, the depth of his thrusts, playing off the noises she was making. A faster pace when her breathing hitched. A slower, grinding roll when she clutched at his shoulders. Always such a sweet, attentive boy.
“There,” she hissed, her head falling back against the tile. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The water cascaded over them, sealing them in a thunderous, private world. Her climax built in tight, inner flutters around him, then broke with a series of sharp, crying jerks. The feel of it, the sound of it, unraveled the last of his control. His own release slammed into him, a white-hot current surging from his core. He finished inside of her, a deep, pulsing rush, and the warmth jetting into that secret pool under her belly button was a mind scramble. A total, blinding short-circuit of thought and past and future.
He held her there, pinned between his body and the wall, as the water began to run cool. Their harsh breaths fogged the glass door. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her leg. Her foot touched the wet tub floor with a soft slap.
She reached past him and turned the shower off.
The silence was immediate, huge, broken only by the drip-drip from the showerhead and the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs. The neon glow from the kitchen sliced up the staircase, painting them in eerie, segmented light.
She stepped out first, grabbing a towel, not looking at him. She wrapped herself roughly. “Towels are in the cabinet,” she said, her voice back to that practical, smoke-rasp. The huskiness was layered with something else now, a raw-edged fatigue.
He fumbled for a towel, his body feeling strange in the still air. He dried himself mechanically. When he stepped into the bedroom, she was already pulling on a silk kimono, her back to him. The room was dominated by a huge, unmade bed. The air smelled of perfume and sleep.
The air smelled of perfume and sleep. The room was very still, very quiet. He stood there, dripping on her rug, the towel hanging loose from his hand. He didn’t know what to do with his body. It felt borrowed.
Kim folded the top of the kimono over, tying the sash tight. She ran a hand through her damp hair, pushing it back from her face. In the dim light, without the makeup, she looked different. Softer. Tired. The glamour was a layer she’d washed off, and what was left was a woman in a dark room at the end of a long day. She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, tapped one out, and lit it. The flare of the lighter was a tiny, violent snap in the stillness.
She took a long drag, held it, then breathed the smoke out in a slow stream toward the ceiling. She finally looked at him. Really looked. Her eyes traveled over him, from his messy hair down to his bare feet, and back up. There was no hunger in it now. It was an assessment. He felt strangely transparent.
“You should get dressed, honey,” she said, her voice raspy. “Your mom will be wondering where you are.”
The words were ordinary, domestic. They landed like bricks. The world outside this apartment—his home, his mother, the cut grass, college in the fall—crashed back in with a dizzying force. He was eighteen. He had just mowed the lawn. He looked at the pile of his clothes on the bathroom floor, visible through the open door.
He moved numbly, retrieving them. They were damp in places from the bathroom steam. Putting them on felt like assembling a costume for a person he used to be. The cotton of his t-shirt was stiff against his skin. He stood by the bed, fidgeting with the hem.
Kim watched him, smoking. She smiled then, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was a small, tight thing. She reached out and smoothed a wrinkle on his shoulder, the gesture quick and oddly formal.
“You did a real good job on the porch,” she said. Her tone had shifted. It was sweet now, undeniably maternal. It was the voice she used when she’d call over the fence to ask if he could change a lightbulb. “It looks brand new. Thank you.”
He just nodded, his throat too tight for words.
She glanced toward the window. The sky was deepening into dusk. “You get on home now. It’s getting late.” She took a final drag and stubbed the cigarette out in a clamshell ashtray already overflowing. Then she looked back at him, and for a fleeting second, something else flickered in her gaze—not passion, but a deep, weary loneliness. She touched his cheek, just a brush of her cool fingers.
“But if you… if you wanted to stop by later,” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, almost conspiratorial. “The back door will be open.”
She gave his arm a gentle, dismissing squeeze and turned away, walking toward her living room, leaving him alone in the doorway of her dark bedroom. The neon sign from the bar across the alley buzzed on, painting her retreating figure in a sudden, pulsing red glow.
He stood there for another minute, listening to the faint click of her lighter, the soft sigh of the couch as she settled onto it. Then he turned and walked down the stairs, through the clean, neon-lit kitchen, past the freshly painted porch that gleamed wet and dark in the gathering twilight. He let himself out the back gate.
The evening air was cooler now. It smelled of cut grass and barbecue from somewhere down the block. His own house was just next door, lights glowing yellow in the windows. He could see the silhouette of his mother moving in the kitchen. Normal life. A life that seemed like it belonged to someone else.
He stood in the shadow between the two properties, looking at Kim’s dark back door, then at the bright, familiar door of his own home. The weight of the afternoon pressed down on him, a mix of awe and sickness and a confusion so vast he felt unmoored.
The back door would be open.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking, not toward his house, but down the street, into the neutral territory of the falling night, with nowhere to go but circles.