The Slumber Party Pt. 02

The next day:

"Where'd you pack my razor?" I hear Brian's voice from the other room.

"It's in the mesh pouch of your blue suitcase," Brooke replies.

"Yeah, because that's such an obvious spot for it. You knew that me and your dad are going out to the range this morning. I swear, you just want me to go around grungy. Actually, why did you even pack it up? It was fine where it was in the bathroom."

"I'm sorry, I should have asked. I just thought that since we're heading out this afternoon that I'd get things around and--"

"You'll have plenty of time to pack the car after I'm out. Figure it out. Your job's not that hard."

"My job?"

"You really want to get into this now at your parents' house?" I hear a suitcase unzip and plastic clutter being rifled through. "Give me a kiss." A pause, a wet smack. "I love you. Just try to be more considerate next time, okay? We're in this together; just meet me halfway."

Maybe ten minutes later, a freshly shaved Brian strolls up to my open bedroom door, a bag of golf clubs clattering around behind him. Knock, knock. He raps on the doorframe twice and smiles--layers and layers of teeth, all white to the point of being uncanny.

"Hey, bud," he greets me, "just wanted to stop by and say, I had a lot of fun hanging out with you this weekend, and just in case I don't see you before we take off, remember: If you're ever up in Mulberry just swing on by. Our door's always open to you, bud."

I close the defensive playbook that I'm studying and nod back at him. "I'll keep that in mind, bud."

He gets a weird look about his face, but just widens his mouth into a bigger smile to hide it, raps twice on the threshold--I guess some kind of nervous tick--, and leaves. His clubs rattle on down the hall.

Somehow, the doorway doesn't feel any less empty now that he's gone, like the same amount of substance fills the air whether or not he's there.

I wait until I hear Dad's Silverado crunching down the driveway, and then I hop to my feet, and plod down to Brian's fiance's room. Yeah, okay, it's Brooke's room. But still, fuck that guy.

Her door's closed, so I knock. Brooke's voice calls out, "Just a minute!"

"It's me," I say.

"Oh, yeah, you can come in."

As I enter, I see that she's sitting in front of her vanity in that old wooden kitchen chair; her mouth's stalled in an "O" face while she pencils something onto her eyebrows. Her back is bare save for the plain white strap of an uninspired bra. Her thighs are covered by a loose pair of, what have to be, Brian's gym shorts. Her hair, well, it's a mess, frazzled in every direction.

She looks like she just woke up. She looks...normal.

"You're creeping me out, man." She playfully wrinkles her nose as she says this.

I don't apologize. I close the door and look at all the piles of clothes and plastic baggies full of toiletries and other odds and ends strewn across the bed and the floor.

"You want a hand?" I point to all that cluttered crap that she was clearly in the middle of packing up.

Brooke shugs and switches to penciling in that brown gunk on her other brow. "Yeah, sure. Boy stuff goes in the blue suitcase. Girl stuff in the beige one."

"'Kay."

As I'm helping her pack, I catch her watching me through the mirror. It dawns on me that she's just going through the motions of putting on makeup. She's not actually getting much done.

Still, there isn't a whole lot to do, and the stuff packs easily. I make it a point to pack Brian's stuff really well so that Brooke doesn't catch hell later. I zip them up and wheel the pair next to the door. "You got your keys? I'll run them down to the car," I say.

She points to the purse laying next to her, resting right among all the scattered palettes of body paint, the purposes of which I'll never understand. I stand right behind her and slide the purse in front of us both, no real reason for it; I just wanted to be close. My arms reach over her shoulders and rifle through all her stuff buried inside, and somehow, this act of going through her purse feels really intimate. Without a shred of hesitation, she just offhandedly lets me go through her most personal place--well, perhaps not her most personal place, but purses are up there; I'm sure.

My right eye catches some dust, and I scratch it away. All the while, Sis is studying me through the mirror, seems like she's really chewing on a thought.

Her keys jingle as I rattle them out and put them in my pocket. And still, I linger over her, put my hands on her bare shoulders. God, my palms engulf her body--Brooke, with her lithe proportions. That feeling of her shoulder and collar bones poking out, no fat, no padding, it's sublime because it's her. And I draw my hands in toward her neck, massaging the tender unguarded flesh, so soft, trusting. She even pushes her head back into my belly, exposing her throat to me. Sis is mine right now.

I kiss the top of her head. It smells a bit funky, a bit sweaty, and her bed head frazzles tickle my nose; after all, she just woke up. Even still, I rest my lips there, just holding onto her shoulders.

Her freckles are pure. No foundation, yet. The rings under her eyes glare half as dark as her void irises. Her features aren't aesthetically striking in any way. Truly, everything about my sister implies comfort; she's a casual beauty.

I kneel down behind her, wrap my arms around her stomach, and rest my chin on her shoulder. I stare at her through the mirror, and she leans her head over to rest her cheek against mine. There's no uneasiness about any of this. I mean, this is my sister. I got nothing to hide from her, and perhaps vice-versa.

She moves to finish stenciling in her eyebrow.

"Can you wait?" I ask.

"Wait, what?" She's making the "O" face again as she finishes up.

"Like, what time's Dad and Brian getting back?"

She thinks for a moment. "I dunno, 'prolly one or two, why?"

"Well, then wait until noon to fix yourself up. I like this you the best."

I can see her breath hitch as she swallows, but quickly, she covers that up with her normal veneer of confidence. "Sophie really is going to love you."

"You keep talking in future tense about that, and I don't know why."

"Well, you know, if you'd just nut up and ask her, she'd definitely drop her beard--er, uh, what's her husband's name, again?" Brooke snaps into the air. "Timmy, that's it."

"Tommy," I correct.

"Yeah, She'd drop Timmy in a heartbeat." Half a smile. "I mean that."

My forefinger rolls around the rim of Brooke's belly button. She shivers. I kiss her cheek.

"I'd rather it be like this, you know? Of course, we'd have to become really good liars, but this--" I squeeze her into the chair, into me. "--could be every morning. You know me, and I know you. Hell, you're all I know. So, this isn't just some honeymoon phase talking. This is really how it'd be."

She hics. Her head jolts.

"This isn't a spur of the moment thing. I've really thought a lot about this. Every obstacle is a non obstacle when you think about it. All I know is that when you're gone, I'm not right. That's when the panic attacks started. You're stronger than me. You could take the brunt of Dad's ambitions. I never could. I'm too anxious. Too weak."

I can see her pencil trembling between her fingertips.

"We grew up under the same thing. You understand me more than anyone."

That got a reaction. She leans forward and rasped out a strained laugh. "You are so stupid." She set down her pencil and sighed. "Listen, I looked it up. They call it 'trauma bonding.' I know what Dad did to you. In fact, I think I know better than you do yourself. It's subtle, but it's big. That's what makes it so easy to ignore. It took me a long time to work through my own shit, and yeah, you even had it worse than I did."

I held up a hand. "It wasn't that bad. He just wanted me to succeed."

"Mason. I know what happened after the Paylor High game."

Oh. Well...shoot.

...

...

Huh. That was a mood-killer.

"About that...," I mumble, "Listen, Dad told me a thousand times to wrap my ankles. And I just blew off his advice." I'm really having to concentrate to keep my tone neutral. "Sprained ankles happen in football. It could have been way worse. I got lucky, hard as that hit was. I could have torn an ACL, all contorted under that pile-on, and even moreso--" My words get away from me. "--that's a leg problem. Not an arm problem. All I had to do was hold onto the ball. There's no excuse for a fumble!"

"Jesus, Mason," Brooke says, "you're a lineman, not a receiver. You had three guys piled on you, and more than that, you're in highschool. Besides, that play was a bullshit option." She shakes her head. "What am I even saying? God, I'm just like him. None of that's even the point here."

No, I suppose it's not. I'll give her that. After they carted me off the field, after the ambulance ride down the Sturgeon Medical, there was me, laid up in that hospital bed with my foot elevated on a pillow. Me, Dad, and Mom were all waiting on the doctor, and Dad, he was so mad about it all that he just couldn't resist taking that opportunity to make my pain so much worse. Probably added a couple weeks to the healing time.

Nobody should do that to another human being. Even I am not that naive.

I suppose, in Dad's defense, this was right after Brooke got cut from the UCLA cross country team, and then, it just so happened that his other kid let him down in the worst way. He was juggling a lot of stress. He was going through a lot.

And Mom just stood in the corner and watched. Silently.

And I just took it, muffled screams, biting down on my forearm, just like a bitch.

But that was far and above the worst it ever got. He felt bad about that, I think.

Also, it can be said that I never did fumble again, not even in practice. I held onto that fucking ball for dear life every goddamn tackle. Never neglected to wrap my weak ankle again, either.

Somehow, while I was thinking about that, mine and Brooke's dynamic had shifted. She'd spun herself around and was now holding onto me. Stroking the back of my head--shhh, shhh, shhh--whispering into my ear.

"It's alright, Love. I know." Love, she calls me Love.

None of this makes it better, but it does make it okay for right now.

She buries her head into my shoulder, and in a voice so meek that I can barely hear it, she tells me, "I'll handle Dad. You handle Brian."

"...what?"

"Nothing." She kisses the side of my neck.

I don't press the issue. After who knows how much time, I regain my composure despite being half-tempted to feign injury just so I could loiter in my sister's arms. As much as I want to, even despite my desperate offer, I do understand that I'm too weak of a man to be a valid partner right now.

My display here was pathetic.

We can play pretend and wish in these moments, but the truth is, I'm a manbaby to coddle, not an equal partner.

I got nothing on Brian, even with his clear failings.

I stand up and force a smile. "Sorry, Brooke." I really have a way of turning these tender conversations into stupid bullcrap. Who'd want to live with that shit? Sis deserves better.

I still have the presence of mind to give her my hand to help her to her feet. She takes it, and with right aplomb, she tries to nestle into my embrace for a quick kiss--a down and dirty Casablanca or something. I pretend to be oblivious as I turn toward the suitcases. "So those need to go out to the Explorer, right?"

She's silent as she really ponders over something. Finally, she says, "Just run the blue one out for now. I still need mine."

"Okay."

On my way, I see Mom cooking up some eggs in the kitchen. She tries to tell me good morning. Even turns to me, grease dripping spatula in her hand, and beams like Barbie, asking if I want my eggs over-easy or some other stupid shit. That question pisses me off more than it should. Eighteen years and she doesn't even know that I like my eggs fried? Guess she's used to blending me kale and creatine shakes. Holidays are the only times that Dad lets me eat real food anymore.

I look at her, right in her eyes, which really brightens her face. She's not used to that kind of attention. Then I scoff and keep on walking, wheeling the suitcase behind me like she doesn't even exist. That's what she's used to. That's what she deserves. Spineless. Cares nothing for her children, only Dad's approval.

Hypocritical.

Dont' care.

I wheel the suitcase out to the Explorer.

When I come back in, Mom mentions something about the eggs being over medium now. Great! Why you telling me?

Feeling petulant, I stomp up the stairs to Brooke's room. Halfway up, I realize what a brat I'm being. Just a big immature mess. Manbaby. I shake my head. These certainly are not the qualities of a husband or a father.

As I'm walking down the hall, Brooke's door flies open and she rushes past me, bumping into my shoulder on the way. She spins around and holds up one finger. "Be right back." She whips around before I even have a chance to ask what that was all about.

I go into her room and stand there right in the middle of her floor, feeling a bit awkward. When I hear her bare feet pad back in, she's holding a long stemmed Bic lighter and a--citronella candle? What--she pull that out of the camping gear in the garage? I think so.

Brook doesn't mind me; she's concentrating wholly on lighting the candle. Flick, flick, flick. Her tongue curls over her upper lip, and her eyes bug out in concentration, like it's a holy artifact rather than a Walmart mosquito repellant.

"Yes." There's a pop-sizzle as the wax burns off the wicks and she gets them to light. Brooke pumps her elbow and beams, presenting me with the now lit candle.

I purse my lips together, confused but not super intrigued. "That's great."

All three wicks dance together, letting off gray wisps of citrusy smoke with a pencil thin tendril of soot framing in the burnings. She sets the candle right on the nightstand, then spins around and takes off down the hall again. I wait, mildly curious now that I can see how excited she is about something. After what feels like an unreasonable amount of time to leave me hanging, Brooke comes back into the room hugging two bottles, a towel, and a rag into her chest.

She kicks the door shut again, not bothering with the lock.

Then Brooke lays the bottles out on the nightstand next to the burning candle. She flips out the towel and lays it over the edge of the bed. Her back is turned to me, but I see her hands reach around and without a shred of fanfare, unclasp her bra and drop it to the floor.

Huh?

Her bare shoulder blades poke back as my sister hooks her thumbs into her waistband and drops both her shorts and her panties down to the floor in one go. Her bare bubble butt wiggles and bounces as she steps out of her clothes and kicks them off to the corner of the room, just like all of this is the most normal thing in the world.

Brooke turns around to face me, and hops up onto the bed, right onto the towel she'd just laid down.

She leans back, kicks her bare feet up idly into the air, perhaps something like a siren lazing on a rock. Behind her, the morning sun glares through the window framing in her bed, and the light diffuses into her frazzled strands of hair. Her eyes are still underlined with bags, yes, but now they have a sparkle of life, too. It's funny; seeing that spark now, I just realized how much of her was truly missing before. I think she's come to some kind of a resolve; something's changed here.

Brooke--pale toned stomach, faint ripples of abs. Long legs, fat thigh muscles, calves tanned, panty lines above. Modest chest, a triangle of pasty flesh over her fat nipples--I guess from her bikini covering.

When she sees me staring just absolutely slack jawed, she grins like a brat. The balls of her feet scratch up her shins. As she does that, her eyebrows jump with a flicker of shock. She leans over and runs her hand up and down her calves and thighs.

Ah, I see. Her legs are studded with long black hairs, which is kind of weird to see on a girl. I guess because I'm not used to it.

My sister peeks up with a nervous smile. "Sorry. I've kind of let myself go here lately. It's not...this isn't what normal would be, just to let you know."

My gaze wanders up her hair studded legs, between her thighs--a tuft of bush peeking out, on up over her smooth stomach, over the perky swells of her breasts--engorged nipples, then there's the soft nape of her neck, that heart shaped jawline, and finally I settle on her eyes. "There's not a part of you that I'd think was dirty, Brooke."

A wicked grin curls up her cheeks. "We'll see about that..."

My sister lifts her knees into the air, and parts them along the edge of the bed, her body all bunched up in a delicious 'M' shape. Her calves become pillars framing in her sex.

Her long fingers reach down and spread the sinewy cheeks of her ass wide open, exposing her puckered little butthole. A little higher up, her fat ruffled labia hacks a trail through her now thick and wiry pubes, my sister's carpet of bush--and yet, that hair somehow appears as inviting as black down.

She arches her back, puffing out her modest chest. My eyes follow the creases of her ribs and the prominent bone structure caging her chest in. It leads my sight to the fatty swell of her breasts. I stare at her palm sized areolas and nipples so long and erect, it's like they're flags staked to the top of those hills.

I swear, I'm drooling. I take a step toward her.

"Wait," she holds up a hand, "just look."

I scratch my wrist. "Is this like a power thing?"

Brooke rolls her eyes. "No, stupid. Remember what Sophie said?" Brooke's voice shifts high pitched and borderline whiny--I guess trying to imitate Sophie's little voice. "That's all I got. Everything I got to show, Mason."

She sighs. "Well, this is what I got. Pimple tits, knobby knees, and a greasy bush."

Ah, I see what she's doing now. I slide off my shirt and drop my own shorts just as unceremoniously she did her own. Just to tease her, I squeeze my ample pecs. "Well, then do more cable flys, Sis."

She huffs. "They're perky enough." Brooke squeezes her breasts and flicks her long fat nipple. "Just, I got pepperoni nipples."

Instead of arguing, I walk right up to her, right between her spread. The heat radiating off of her sex is insane. My sister is hot! Christ, I swear the humidity's up to near full saturation in the swamp between her legs. I smell her damp musk as well as--and I chuckle a bit--the citrus spice of the citronella candle that she lit for some reason. Though, now I kind of think it's her way of masking the smell of sex.

I roll out my cock, flop it onto the bed. "Can we throw an impotent weiner into the mix?"

"Impotent?" Sis's smile is devious. "I've been putting a lot of thought into that."

"Into my weiner?"

She nods. "A lot." Seeing my reaction, she bites her tongue, and adds in. "But not as much as I've been thinking about who that weiner is attached to."

Her hand glides over mine and pats it reassuringly. "Just watch." She rolls over and grabs one of the bottles off the nightstand. "Give me your palm." She instructs.

I do. There's a wet squirt as she shoots a dollop of clear greasy liquid--oh, that's lube--into my hand. I hold it there, unsure what to do, although I do have plenty of ideas. Then she squirts a dollop onto her own palm.

It's kind of a weird position to be in right now. Sis is spread in front of me, sitting up with her knees scrunched into her chest, spread so wide that she's essentially straddling my waist. And I'm in front of her with my cock rolled out on the mattress, holding a shiny patch of lube in my palm, confused as a dweeb.