Her Brother’s Best Friend Pt. 05

Jason Woodbridge didn't know the date, the time, or when he'd last eaten. That was fine by him. He was high and balls deep inside Val Evans, which was the closest thing to heaven that he'd found in his twenty-four years.

Some people--many people, actually--considered Jason to be a degenerate, but he didn't let that bother him. He'd been an ethical hedonist, a proud follower of the doctrine and dictates of Aristippus of Cyrene, since his sophomore year of high school when he'd found a one-page overview of the philosophical viewpoint in his world history book under Ancient Greece.

Those old Greek bros had taught him a lot. Aristotle, for example, said that "the high-minded man walks with a steady and even gait." Jason adapted this into a credo: ignore the haters and keep on, keepin' on. Not everyone could vibrate on his frequency.

He thrust in and out of Val slowly, reveling in the sensation of her tight pussy sliding along his length. A fine mist of sweat beaded his torso as he kept himself suspended above her. He tilted his pelvis up, putting pressure on her lower stomach, drawing an imaginary circle within her vagina. He called this move The Swivel Press™. Someday, when he published his sexual hedonist masterwork, tentatively titled Certified Fuck Boy, it would be one of the key chapters in Part II: How to Fuck.

"Oh my god," Val moaned beneath. "Please, please, please--"

"Please, what, baby?" Jason growled.

"Please stop saying 'The Swivel Press' over and over. 'S fuckin' annoying," she gasped.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Baby, I told you. It's a MANTRA. I'm working on my tantric shit."

Val blew her damp, shaggy bangs off her face in exasperation. All the free, good quality MDMA in the world wasn't worth Jason's bullshit some days. "We've been fucking for literally forty-five minutes straight. Come, or get the fuck off me."

Jason kept pumping his hips. "Why don't you do a line with me? It'll get you over the--" he wiggled his eyebrows, "hump."

"Okay, that's enough," Val said, trying to shove him off. Grinning, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the bed. "Seriously, Jason, I'm not in the mood to play this game with you."

"Val, you're always in the mood to play this game with me." He kissed her, hard. "I'll come quick, I promise." He kissed her again, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

"Fine," she pouted prettily up at him.

Smiling, he shifted her legs up onto his shoulders so he could enjoy the way her breasts jiggled as he fucked her. He honestly wasn't sure if he could come again. Between the cocaine, the pot, and the five rounds of sex over the last twenty hours, he felt like he was floating on a higher plane of existence, that there was no greater sexual experience than what he felt right now, with Val, his orgasm be damned.

He wanted to make her come again. Jason didn't like the idea of her finishing any sexual bout with him less than starry-eyed. He'd fucked her for six years, off and on, and he still wasn't sure that she liked him. He figured that every time he punched her O-card, she was that much less likely to break up with him (again).

This new position was Val's favorite. A spin on good ole missionary known as the hook, it allowed for deeper penetration and better access to the clit. After the slow fucking they'd been doing, his sudden quickening of thrusts, paired with the fresh position and a thumb on her clit, made Val gasp and fuck back on his cock.

He knew her low throaty moans better than his favorite AFI record. Time to deploy the dirty talk. She liked it when he was a little mean; he liked it when she glared at him while he fucked her.

"Thought you were done with me fucking you? But you always change your mind once I get rough."

"Bullshit," she gasped in the middle of throwing her head back in ecstasy.

"Can't believe you're caving on me after only fucking for an hour. Maybe I need to get a side piece to be my cock-warmer."

He almost laughed as her eyes widened with outrage. He thrust at just the right angle, once, twice, three times, his thumb still working its magic. She came hard for him, halfway between a satisfied coo and an offended huff. He came, too, primarily from pure satisfaction.

"OFF. Get off!" Val said.

"Aw, baby, I was just teasing you! You like it when I--"

"You think I enjoy being reminded of all the other bitches you instantly fuck the second we take a break?" she demanded.

"You came, didn't you?" he asked, astonished.

"Oh, you son of a--"

The loud shriek of Jason's phone ringing interrupted their argument. Rolling over to the side of the bed, Jason reached for his cell.

"You told me you were taking four days off, that you wouldn't do any work. Were you fucking lying to me?"

Jason didn't know who he was more pissed at, Don for calling him despite explicit instructions to either handle everything or put it off until he was back, Val for being pissy over one phone call, or himself because he couldn't ignore it. He couldn't send the call to voicemail. He had to know what was happening. Did they need him? Was everything he'd built was falling apart in his absence?

He took the call, dodging the pillow Val threw at his head.

"What?" he barked.

"I'm sorry to bother you, boss--"

"What is it, Donnie? Be fucking quick about it."

"We had a guy making his usual delivery in your parents' neighborhood this morning, around 9 AM," Don said.

"A light or heavy drop off?" Jason interrupted. A light drop off was a batch delivery of pot, shrooms, or party poppers to a local dealer, while a heavy drop off included higher price, heavier drugs like oxy, meth, and heroin. Jason kept the two streams separate, in case one ever got burned by the cops.

"Light, but there wasn't an issue. I had him swing your street to check on Molly. I used the usual explanation--that a cop lives on that street. Report any unusual vehicles or visitors to any house on the block."

"And?" Behind him, fabric rustled as Val dressed and stalked out of the room.

"There's a 2012 red Ford Ranger parked in the driveway of your parent's place."

Jason fell silent, listening to the ringing in his ears. Michael fucking Randall had spent the night at his house, alone, with his barely legal baby sister. His thoughts raced. Was it remotely possible that Mikey was just tired and crashed there? Nope. Not a snowflake's chance in hell. The son of a bitch had always had goo-goo eyes for Molly Sue and he'd served her to that perverted asshole on a platter.

"Boss? You want me to go over and check on her?"

"No, I'll take care of it. Thanks for the call, Donnie. Everything else on track?"

"Yep."

"Cool. See you on Wednesday."

He ended the call before snatching his jeans off the floor. He couldn't believe this. Sure, he wasn't on the closest terms with Michael, but he still thought of him as a friend. He felt bad about using Michael to create his reputation as an absent-minded, broke fuck-up, really he did, but it was essential that no one suspected what he did for a living. It was in everyone's best interest. With nearly a million in laundered cash sitting offshore in the beautiful non-extradition island nation of the Maldives, he was well on his way to retiring before thirty-five.

Only Val and Don knew the real him. To everyone else, he was a ne'er-do-well, and that was just the way he liked it. But he also would not allow Michael fucking Randall to disrespect his goddamn sister. He strode out of the bedroom and grabbed his keys and wallet off the coffee table. This was a conversation to be had in person.

Val appeared in the kitchen's doorway, wrapped in a wrinkled peach robe, spitting fire.

"If you fucking leave, then don't come back. Why you came here and lied about not working like you always fucking do, I will never know--"

"Michael Randall fucked Molly last night. One of my guys saw his truck parked out front this morning," he said flatly.

Val paused, astonished, before she burst out laughing. "Well, he did always have a thing for her."

"You're laughing?" he demanded incredulously. "She's a baby! She's probably a virgin! And everyone knows he kept Sally Blankenship tied to a chair with a vibrator stuffed up her cunt for, like, eight hours during junior year and if even I think that's depraved--"

"First, Sally Blankenship was fucking thrilled--"

"I DON'T CARE. This is my baby sister we're talking about--"

"It is extraordinarily paternalistic of you to dream of telling her who she should or should not fuck."

"She has no way of knowing he's a freak in the sack..."

"She probably knows first hand by now."

"This isn't happening. I will fucking kill him--"

"You hardly ever talk to your sister, but who she's fucking matters?"

"You are such a bitch!" he shouted.

"I'm trying to tell you that you're going about this the wrong way!" she bellowed back.

Jason stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He couldn't give a shit what Val thought. He was going to hand deliver a knuckle sandwich to Michael Randall if he had to drive across the surface of the damn sun to serve it to him.

**************

When Molly Sue woke up at half-past eleven, Michael was gone. For a while, she waited for him to return, laying tucked under her blankets, but eventually she went looking for him. With a growing sense of unease, she drifted through the empty house before arriving at the front door. The white, matte interior of the door stared blankly back at her. She was afraid to open it. When she swung it open, it revealed an empty driveway.

He was gone, without explanation. No note. No kiss goodbye. She didn't have his number. He'd been at the house with her for just over half a day, but it was enough. The house, previously full of soothing solitude, was now an echoing cavern that mocked her stupidity.

Their time together could have been a fever dream, except for the takeout leavings in the kitchen and the persistent ache between her legs. Molly held her tears back until she was under the rain of the hot shower. Tears don't count if you can't separate them from the water falling down over you. Sobs shook her body. By the time she stumbled out of the shower, her throat was ached and her eyes were puffy. A sad-eyed, wan stranger stared back at her in the mirror, so different from the girl who'd delighted in watching her spanking the night before in that same room.

"I hate you," she said to her reflection. "How could you be so stupid?"

When she got back to her room, she had a text from a coworker asking if she could cover the afternoon and evening shift. She said yes. She might be an idiot, but she didn't need to dwell on it any longer. Molly would go into work, she would smile and be happy, she would get good Saturday tips, and she would forget that Michael Randall existed. At least, she would try to forget, with every fiber of her being.

**************

Michael got back to the Woodbridge residence at a quarter to one. He'd driven a half hour to go to a French bakery and bring back a really nice spread while Molly slept in. Between the distance and the hellish Saturday morning line, at least an hour and a half had passed. When he pulled up, Jason's beat up Honda CRV was sitting in the driveway.

"This should be fun," he muttered to himself, climbing out of his truck.

Jason stormed out of the house looking rough. His eyes gleamed with a high that hinted at more than coffee. Two days' worth of stubble covered his chin. He looked rumpled, sleep-deprived, and pissed off.

"Where the fuck is she? What did you do to her?" Jason demanded.

Michael's brow furrowed. "She's not inside?"

"Don't play fucking games with me," Jason barked, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the truck. "Where did you take her?"

"I didn't take her anywhere!" he exclaimed, shoving Jason off him roughly. "See? I brought breakfast."

"I know you were here all night. And now she bolted as soon as you left her alone?" Jason swung at him, landing a solid punch on his right cheek. "Stay away from her!"

Michael cupped the side of his head, his ears ringing. He spoke in a low, determined voice. "I'm not gonna stay away from her, Jason. I'm serious about her."

"You fucking will stay away from her," Jason hissed back, fists clenched at his sides.

Michael shook his head. "You're not here looking out for her. I will be. I'll treat her right."

"You've never treated anyone seriously in your goddamn life!"

"Oh, YOU'RE one to talk!"

"I treat Val like a queen--"

"Whenever you're not cheating--"

"I've never cheated! She breaks up with me all the time!"

"Gee, I wonder why?"

"This isn't about me! This is about Molly!"

Michael swung hard, fueled by years of confusion and anger over Jason's odd change in character, his persistent shadiness. They went after one another, rolling in the dirt like two twelve-year-olds.

It was tough to say who won the fight. When Mrs. Furstenberg across the street relayed the scene to Jason and Molly's mother, Marie Woodbridge, later that afternoon, she reported that "they popped each other a few good ones, ruined their clothes, and that seemed to settle whatever the trouble was."

They ended up sitting on the pavement next to one another, leaned against the truck, both scowling and staring into the distance.

"You treat her bad, you upset her, I'll kick your ass again," Jason groused.

"You try to keep me away for no good reason, and I'll kick YOUR ass again," Michael shot back.

The corner of Jason's mouth curved up. "You couldn't have picked literally any other girl? It just had to be my sister?"

"Don't act like you didn't know. For years," Michael mumbled.

"Yeah," Jason said, tilting his head back to stare up at the cloud streaked sky, "I knew."

"Will you text her? Make sure she's okay?"

Jason let out a low laugh. "She hasn't given you her number?"

"Shut up."

Jason pulled out his (miraculously intact) cell phone. "I'll make sure she's okay, but I ain't telling her you're here. Clean up your own fuck-ups."

"Don't even know what I did wrong."

Jason laughed again. "Yeah, I usually don't either."