Well, That Backfired 3 by White Walls

Part One: Be Nice to Your Step Mom TOM

“Is that the house?” I ask Mom as I pull along the curb of the quiet Des Moines cul-de-sac. Mom looks out of the passenger window and nods.

“He still has the black Explorer,” Mom says, gesturing to the truck in the driveway, “you were conceived in the back seat, Tom.”

“That’s more information than I needed.” I reply. Mom gives me an exaggerated look of shock, and I smile.

“What about me?” Laurie perks up from the back seat.

“You were made behind the dumpster of a Hardee’s Jr, Sweetie,” Mom smirks back at her daughter, “and the best versions of you ended up on my back.”

“You don’t want the best versions of me,” Laurie sniggers as she runs her hands through the coils of Mom’s hair, “you like the worst version too much.”

Mother and daughter lock eyes with each other over the front seat of the van. From the shoulders up, the picture of the two almost looks like a mirror image; both women baring strikingly similar facial features and expressions. Their curly, brown hair, big, blue eyes, cut jawline, high cheekbones, pointed nose, and full, pale lips are nearly identical, but move lower, and you can see where mother and daughter differ. Laurie is well shaped, but lean and sleek, while Mom’s curves border on exaggeration. And though the two are sexually different, their eyes share the same carnal hunger, and their mouths express the same seductive smirk. They move together, their lips part, their tongues entwine, and their fingers slink into the curls of each other’s auburn hair.

“Hey, Sierra,” Eleanor pipes-in from the back seat, “is that Bradley?”

Mom whips her head to the side, and stares out the passenger window. Through the reflection of the glass, I see the dim features of her face express melancholy longing. I look over her shoulders, and see my dad for the first time in over a decade. Holy shit, it’s like looking in a mirror. Save for the bald spot on the crown of his head, and the muscle on his arms, he’s a spitting image of myself. He walks out the front door, and gets into the Explorer. A woman follows him out, and waves as he pulls from the driveway. Goddamn, Dad; you sure know how to pick ‘em. Audrie is twenty-seven years of tan skin, blonde hair, and a body you could paint on a warship. Her breasts slope from her chest in perfect proportionality to her statuesque frame, and perch high and full above a flat abdomen toned with soft muscle beneath a tight top. Her back curves in a graceful arc down her length, and ends in a pair of leggings that leave nothing to the imagination. The fabric stretches and clings to the gravity-defying fullness of her backside, whose domes crease perfectly about the thigh in two, smiling folds. She’s wearing hooped earrings that dangle from between strands of long, platinum hair, and her face bares the soft features of rosy cheeks, luscious, pink lips, a narrow nose, and grey, clear irises shining from big, oval eyes.

“You guys know the plan,” Eleanor whispers to Laurie and me, “you two go in there and have fun with your step mom, and Sierra and I will go deal with Bradley.”

“You’re going to have to help us on this one,” I say to Eleanor, “I don’t think Laurie and I can handle a woman like that on our own.”

“Just because she’s a hot piece, doesn’t mean she’s a hard mark,” Eleanor chuckles, “you got me in bed, and if I may be so bold, I think I’m rather attractive.”

“You’re a shameless slut, Ellie,” I smirk, “it was just a matter of time before I got my turn.”

Eleanor pouts her full, red lips in mock indignation. Her green eyes sparkle mischievously from her freckled, pixie-like face, whose innocent structure acts as a perverse mask for the lecherous mind behind it. Her crimson hair bows inwardly about her cheeks, accentuating the girlishness of her portrait, but the innocent façade does not extend to her body. Large, pale breasts protrude vulgarly from the cut neckline of her t-shirt, and her thick legs widen into a set of glutes that burst lasciviously from her plaid skirt. Eleanor is a slut, she’d be the first to tell you that, but she is so much more. I’ve never met someone who can read a person like Eleanor can; she gleans more from a single glance than most could from an extensive conversation. If Laurie and I are going to take Audrie on our own, we’ll need some help from our redheaded harlot.

“Alright,” Eleanor says, and glances out the window. She studies the woman across the street for a moment, and then turns back to me, “what can you tell me about her?”

I look at the beautiful blonde on her porch, and can’t see past the ass and titties. I’m a simple man, what can I say?

“A hot piece of ass.” I reply, and catch a scornful look from Mom and Laurie.

“Let me help you.” Eleanor says with a roll of her eyes, and gestures to my step-mom, “She drives a Prius, with a Bernie Sanders bumper sticker. She has a ‘peace’ flag in the window, a ‘legalize it’ sign in the yard, and a rainbow tire cover in the driveway. She has a UCLA t-shirt, but a John Deere hat on. It’s Thursday, and she’s in her house at ten AM. What does that tell you about her?”

“She’s… a democrat?” I ask stupidly.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Eleanor snorts, “since you’re such a fucking genius, I’ll just tell you. Audrie is a classic example of a country girl who ‘found herself’ in a big-city college. She was the hottest bitch in a small town high school, thought she was too good for the place, and applied to UCLA. Only when she got to L.A, she realized she was just a small fish in a big pond. Her rural heritage didn’t jive with the hot, urban sentiments of her peers, and her superiority complex vanished. Audrie felt insecure for the first time in her life, so what did she do? She reinvented herself to fit in. She cast away her country roots, and dove into the progressive college experience with both feet. She sexually overcompensated because she wanted to experience everything, and she chose a major like Women’s Studies or some shit because all the sudden she was an activist, just like the trendy, urban peers she desperately wanted to impress. She had the time of her life, and those four years she spent in UCLA defined her. But then she graduated, and realized that a liberal art’s major doesn’t pay off student loans. She moved back to Iowa, and latched onto the first man with a stable income she could find: your dad. Now, she spends her days doing yoga and bitching about Trump on the internet. But do you know what the most important thing about Audrie is? She’s bored.”

I stare blankly at Eleanor, both amazed and a little scared at how well she just read a woman she’d never met. Eleanor grins broadly at me, and then kisses me on the neck, places a single finger on my cheek, and turns my attention back to the woman in the doorway.

“I think it’s time I take the training wheels off and let my students fend for themselves,” she whispers seductively, her lips tickling my ear, “Why don’t you and Laurie give Audrie some excitement?”

AUDRIE

Congratulations on finally getting your GED, I type furiously into the youtube comment section, you can put it right next to your NRA certificate. You know, it’s people like you that are the reason this country-

A knock on the door interrupts my self-righteous monologue, and I break my attention from the five paragraphs I was planning to write. Fucking girl scouts; I had a whole dissertation to drop on that ignorant asshole. I walk across the kitchen, open the door, and my jaw almost hits the floor. Holy shit, it’s a young Bradley. The hair, the eyes, the frame; it’s all there.

“Hey,” the young man smiles easily, “are you Audrie Baker?”

“Y-y-yes!” I stammer, still stupefied at what I’m looking at, “How can I help you?”

“I’m Tom Baker,” the man says (of course he is!), “and this is my sister, Laurie.”

I barely noticed the girl standing next to him. She’s about five inches shorter than myself, brown haired, blue-eyed, and wearing a very risqué plaid skirt and button-up shirt.

“Can we come in?” she asks, smiling with the same easy smile as her brother.

“Of course!” I yell, a little too eagerly, “Come in, come in!”

I usher my step-children into the room, my heart beating with excitement. I’d always heard about Tom and Laurie from Bradley, but the only pictures he has of them are of when they were barely older than toddlers. I finally get a chance to meet the mysterious part of his past! This is the most exciting thing to happen to me since I watched the Game of Thrones trailer!

“Make yourselves at home!” I say, gesturing grandly to the minimalist living room, “I’ll get you guys something to drink; beer?” I ask, knowing they’re underage. It seems like a desperate attempt to show them I’m ‘cool,’ and it is, but I really want these kids to like me.

“Sure,” Tom smiles, “got any Bud?”

“No Bud here,” I say, “only craft. You ever have an IPA before?”

“What’s an IPA?” Laurie asks.

“Indian Pale Ale,” I say with a bit too much smugness, “you’ll love it, trust me.”

I walk into the kitchen, very pleased with myself. I’m going to be the awesome step-mom who lets them drink, and knows about trendy microbreweries. Maybe I should offer them some weed? Do they smoke weed? Of course they do, they’re high school kids. I pull the bottles from the fridge, and take out the bag from the drawer.

“You just missed your dad,” I say as I pop the caps and pack a bowl, “by like, ten seconds. I can give him a call if you want.”

“No,” Tom’s voice says from the living room, “we’d like it to be a surprise.”

I finish packing the weed into the bowl, grab the frosty pale ales, and walk into the living room. Tom and Laurie are sitting on the couch together, and I notice Laurie briskly pull her hand away from his as I step into the room. I hand them each their beverages and then coyly show them the pipe I had behind my back.