The night had continued peacefully, and they played one more game where Bobby was paired with Megan, who had passed the happily drunk stage and into mumbling territory. Kate’s roast was terrific, and Bobby eagerly devoured the succulent dish, spearing potatoes and scooping carrots. He washed it down with water at Kate’s behest.
“I’m fu…” Megan’s words devolved into a yawn. She hadn’t eaten much, Bobby noted, staring at her plate. “…king tired. Come on, Orca, let’s go to bed.” Her speech was slurred, jumbled together, and her movements were sloppy.
The O word—it had sounded like ‘Orcle’—reduced his sympathy for her upcoming morning by a great deal. He grinned at her.
“You know better than that, dear,” Kate said, as Emma walked into the room. Her slippers dragging along the hardwood flooring with a series of lazy, whooshes and scrapes. Emma’s face was thinner than Megan’s, higher cheek bones, and she had a slight cleft in her chin and a lollipop in her mouth.
Megan pouted at her mother, ignoring Emma’s appearance. “We won’t do anything,” she said, her voice rising toward the end and sounding like a question.
Kate only blinked at her, as Emma smacked her lips around the sucker and sat down next to Mrs. Anderson. “I assured his mother that he would be sleeping on the pullout,” Kate said, a note of finality in her tone. “He’s a sugarbear, and I don’t trust you to refrain from sweets.”
Puffing out her cheeks, Megan got to her feet on wobbly legs and used the wall for balance. “Too fuck to tired anyway,” she slurred, shrugging one shoulder. Bobby got up to help her, and Mrs. Anderson did likewise, together they dragged her into her room and onto the bed. Megan immediately pressed her face into a pillow and closed her eyes.
She really is ‘too fuck to tired’, Bobby thought.
Emma was forking Megan’s unfinished meal into her mouth when Mrs. Anderson and Bobby returned. Her rectangular lollipop rested on the edge of the dish, where a swirling, pink and gold pattern had been inlaid onto the plate.
“Emma, dear, this is Bobby,” Kate said, gesturing at him. “Forgive me if you’ve already been introduced.”
Bobby felt a spring of guilt bouncing in his stomach, but he tried quashing it and smiled, taking his seat. “Nice to meet you.”
Emma turned to him and said, “Hello.” Her voice was bubblier than he expected.
“Did Megan tell you, Bobby?” Kate asked, cutting into her final morsel of meat. The serrated blade screeched. “Emma here is something of a star.”
Bobby was already a fan of her work, but he would never mention how Megan had corrupted him. “Oh, yeah?” he asked and squinted at her, trying to see if he recognized her from PikPok or chinstagram. She could be a plus sized model from the top of the chest to the bottom of the breasts, and a volleyball player everywhere else. “Are you famous on PikPok?”
Alessio liked to read too and had tried getting Bobby to read Throne Games, but Bobby had lost the paperback before opening it. I should replace it, he thought. “Like, you discuss plot holes and stuff?” he asked and downed some water.
Emma nodded, eating a slice of potato she had cut neatly. “Among other things, assuming I notice a plot hole,” she said. “I stick to older works, discussing prose and passages that speak to me or are beautifully written, but I do enjoy contemporary authors as well. Do you read?”
Mrs. Anderson laughed, and Bobby looked away from Emma’s inquiring eyes, his guilt redoubling. Fucking Megan, he thought. “Not really, I was going to read Throne Games, but I ended up losing the book,” he said, stabbing a congealed carrot.
“Throne Games is incredible, Geno Robbinson Rustov Mendonhall is a brilliant author,” Emma said. “Though, he is rather plodding at times, but I enjoy trudging through beautiful nothing.” She smiled sheepishly, dimples appearing on her tan cheeks.
Bobby had no idea what she was talking about. “Er, yeah, I’ve heard good things about it,” he replied.
From across the table, Mrs. Anderson scoffed and puffed on her vape. She blew the ‘smoke’ out aggressively. “Don’t bother, Bobby, the series will never be finished,” she stated and put her elbows on the table. “He is referred to as Mendon-stall for a reason.”
“You’re only angry because you loved it,” Emma said, leaning forward and stuck the lollipop in her cheek. It bulged suggestively. “You should feel lucky that it struck such a flame inside you. Most novels fail in that regard.” Her voice only changed slightly at the sucker’s intrusion.
“I’m mad because leaving it unfinished is a travesty,” Mrs. Anderson said and had a swig of wine. “His legacy is tainted in my mind.”
Emma adjusted her lollipop with a sucking smack, shoved it in the opposite cheek. “Everyone leaves something unfinished or unsaid or unseen, even you Trish, people grow old and tired or pass away. Throne Games itself mirrors life in a perfectly poetic way, Trish, in that it died young, full of potential and elegance.”
Kate got up with a sigh and gave Bobby an apologetic look. “Come, dear, let’s get your bed ready,” she said. “They’ll be at it for a while.”
Bobby chugged the rest of his water as Mrs. Anderson said, “I don’t need it to resemble life, I need it to imitate story, and stories need to have an ending. The same way people need a beginning.”
*
“Once Emma get’s going, it’s difficult to stop her,” Kate said, removing a cushion from the couch and hugged it to her ample bosom. “We should do this again sometime, longmuffin.”
What is with this family and nicknames, he thought. He wasn’t sure he liked ‘longmuffin’ and didn’t know if it was a euphemism or just another one from her holster. It was better than Orca. “Yeah, I had a great time,” he said, plucking a cushion free and setting it on top of a leather armchair. Bobby lowered his voice. “Especially the moment we had together.” You are reading on NovelPing, the official source.
Kate tossed the last cushion on the pile. “Are you still angry with me?” she whispered and bent, grasping the handle sticking out on the far end of the couch.
Bobby grabbed the other loop, and they both pulled, the bed coming free with a mechanical twang and unfolded into something he could sleep on comfortably. “No, I’m over it,” he said, eyeing the bed. “I hope she asks me to start doing my own laundry soon. I can’t just do it out of the blue, or she’ll realize that I know she knows about my mess, and I couldn’t go on living after that.”
She laughed and sniffed the sheet covering the thin mattress. “You’re over thinking it, turtledove,” Kate said. “Parents always know more than we let on. I’ll run and fetch you a blanket and some pillows.”
Flopping onto the bed, Bobby heaved a sigh; he was exhausted and the room around him whirled lazily. All was silent but for the muttering of Mrs. Anderson and Emma. He took his shirt off as the air conditioning kicked into motion and a trickle of frigid air washed over him. He closed his eyes.
The next morning, he threw off the comforter and followed the aroma of breakfast and the song of sizzling grease. He couldn’t think of a better sound; if his stomach could nut, it would have picked that moment to do so.
Kate stood at the stove, and his eyes fell to her backside. Her silken, pajama bottoms were painted on and accentuated her fatty, dimpled ass cheeks. The navy material was wedged into her crack, as if the seam had a perverted mind of its own and a taste for more. Moving her arm, Kate’s butt wiggled as she mixed something. She hummed.
Bobby stepped closer and said, “Morning.”
Kate turned her head. “Hey, sugarbear, how are you feeling?” she asked and hurried over to the refrigerator.
He was hungover but not terribly so. Bobby’s head pulsed, and his stomach was a tad uneasy but the smell in the air nursed that into submission. “Not great,” he answered and got a whiff of himself; stale alcohol and Megan’s perfume.
Kate poured some orange juice into a glass. Her top looked like a suit jacket with a notched collar, and he could make out the prick of her nipples underneath the flimsy fabric. “Drink this,” she said and gave him the condensation frosted glass. “Are you hungry, longmuffin?”
He chuckled, took a sip and then a full gulp. “Starving, I’ve never smelled anything that good,” he said, inclining his head toward the stove.
She smiled, her lined lips stretching tight. “Oh, hush, you shouldn’t flatter me,” Kate mock scolded and turned, tending to her pans.