Zoey pulled out her iPhone with her other hand, texting while sipping at her grape juice. I grabbed a cloth and wiped the counter down. I hated messes. Things should be tidy. Orderly. Dad always said a house is a reflection of its master. A clean house meant a man who was in charge, a man who kept his family working smoothly, made sure his children did their chores.

Discipline.

And it was gone.

Mom’s heels clicked as she walked into the kitchen, still wearing her business skirt and blouse, her dyed-blonde hair in a messy bun. The roots of her hair were dark-black. She didn’t wear much makeup or did more with her hair than pull it back into a bun these days. She dyed her hair and kept it long because Dad liked it, and she still half-heartily kept it up.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked Mom as she headed for the lower cabinet beside the sink. I tried not to stare at her skirt pulled tight over her ass.

My sister had inherited her brick-house body from our mother.

“Order what you want,” Mom said, her voice tired. She rose, clutching a box of wine in one hand. “I’m too tired to cook tonight.”

“You’re too tired to cook any night,” I muttered. She used to cook dinner every night save Fridays and Sundays. Dad liked home-cooked meals. So did I. Ordering pizza or Chinese or subs got old fast.

Mom didn’t respond as she walked past. “I’m going over to Vicky’s.”

As she walked out, my sister muttered, “I see she restocked on box wine.”

I grunted.

“Buck up, squirt,” Zoey said, ruffling my hair as she passed her. I scowled at her. “You get to pick dinner. Since you’re the man of the house now.”

I hated her mocking smile. “Shut up.”

“See, already taking charge.” She finished her glass of grape juice and set it down on the counter two feet from the sink.

“You going to rinse that out?”

She shrugged. “Need to get to work.”

My eyebrows arched. “They let you work at Dairy Queen dressed like that?”

“They have uniforms for us to wear at the store,” she said, snagging her purse. “One of us needs to get the money to pay for Mom’s wine. Maybe you should man up and get a job?”

Since she turned twenty two weeks ago, she had gotten a job where her friend, Stefani, had started working. It shocked me that she would even get a job. She was a lazy cow. I grabbed her glass as she sauntered by, staring at her phone.

It beeped and she let out a pleased sound. “Ooh, she’s here.”

The front door opened a moment later. Stefani sauntered into the kitchen, a redhead with a big smile on her face and delightful dimples. She gave my sister a hug as I rinsed out Zoey’s glass. If I didn’t wash it, the glass would just stay on the damned counter all night. My hand clenched on it. If Dad was alive, he would spank Zoey no matter what her age was for doing that.

“And there’s the stud,” Stefani said, sauntering over to me. She wore a tight, short skirt and thigh-high, heeled boots. I smelled her perfume as she leaned against the counter. “How you doing?”

I frowned at her. “Same as when we shared World History today.”

It was Aunt Vicky’s class. She taught history at our high school. Not that her being my aunt caused her to cut me any slack. I had taken classes taught by her before, and she made sure I didn’t half-ass my homework, not wanting to show any nepotism. The irony of that sucked.

“Your hair’s ruffled,” Stefani said, leaning against me, her breasts straining the belly shirt she wore. I could see the outline of her nipples.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Damn, why did I have to be surrounded by women I couldn’t do anything with? Sexy women. Melody, Zoey, Mom, and even Stefani. Zoey would kill me if I made a move on her best friend. And Stefani knew it.

She was a cocktease.

“I like a man with mused hair,” she purred, her voice growing husky. “Makes them look…dangerous.”

I took a deep breath. “Cool.” She was just fucking with me. Right? The way she spoke, the way her green eyes burned as she leaned into me, the scent of her perfume.

Melody should wear perfume.

“We need to go, Dandi,” Zoey said. Don’t ask me why my sister calls her friend Dandi. Or why Stefani called my sister Yunie.

“Right, Yunie,” laughed Stefani, pushing away from the counter. “Got to go make those mad bills.”

She hooked my sister’s arm and the pair strode out. “Later, squirt,” called my sister.

I almost threw her glass to the floor. I hated when she called me squirt. “I’m not a fucking little boy, bitch.”

She laughed. The front door closed.

I put her glass into the dishwasher. It was full, so I added soap and started the load. I headed out of the kitchen and upstairs, my shoes ringing on the hardwood runners. Dad put hardwood floors throughout all the house for Mom when I was ten or so. “Let the women decide on the decorating,” Dad told me. “Then do it for them. Show them you’re handy, skilled. Women like knowing their men are handy. Keep them happy, and they’ll please you, son.”

Fuck, I missed him. I hadn’t even been in his shed in the backyard where he had his carpenter tools since he died. Too fucking painful.

I reached the second floor hallway and crossed it to the attic stairs. My little sister’s door opened, and she strode out, her face staring intently at her Kindle. She was the only member of the family without a smartphone or a tablet. But she had her Kindle eReader. She pushed her glasses absently up her cute nose and then gasped when she saw me.

“Clint,” she groaned, clutching her Kindle to her chest. At eighteen, she was small and skinny, her light-brown hair in girlish pigtails. She just started as a freshman at my school. “You scared me.”

“Don’t walk around with your nose in a the kindle then, Alicia,” I retorted.

She shrugged, turned, and walked to the bathroom, her eyes locked on her book. I sighed. I hardly even spoke to her since Dad’s death. She spent all her time in her room, even eating in there these days. What few friends she did have seemed to have fallen away.

Damn, maybe I should talk to her or something?

I groaned and headed up the stairs to the attic. My bedroom took up half of it, the other was storage filled with cardboard boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, and the usual junk any family accumulates over the years. My door was the one on the left at the top of the stairs. I thrust it open and dropped my backpack when I walked in.

My room was neat, tidy. I liked it that way. My bed was underneath the sloping attic ceiling. I had only the one window, a dormer thrusting through the roof. I could stand up to my full height in it. The walls were painted blue—a project I did with Dad a decade or more ago. I flopped onto my bed, my eyes suddenly heavy.

I should start on the homework. Melody would be here soon, but it had been a long week, a long month.

A long series of months.

I closed my eyes, breathing slow, and didn’t fight the nap pulling me down into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Melody Samuels

I pulled on the tight tank top, shivering at how it molded to my breasts. My nipples were hard. It was so obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra. That made me both nervous and excited to go over to my cousin’s. No bra. Maybe…I would show my tits to him. And he could touch them directly. Not through my shirt or bra.

Direct contact.

That sent an excited warmth through my pussy as my hips shook. I was scared of taking this step. There was only one place our relationship was heading—sex.

I so wanted to have sex with Clint. To make love to him. To have him as my first man. Our relationship was forbidden, doomed. We were first cousins. I was practically his sister. We could never be together openly. It was even illegal. But…damn if he wasn’t such a sexy, young man, growing strong just like Uncle Clinton had been. Dark hair, broad shoulders, muscular figure, and that strong jawline…

I wiggled my hips, wishing I owned a pair of tighter jeans to show off my curves. I know he liked tight jeans. He couldn’t help but look at Zoey whenever she pranced around in her tight jeans or shorts, flaunting her cameltoe. I loved teasing Clint whenever I caught him looking at his older sister.

Damn, why did my best friend have to be my cousin? Then we could date. We could make love. We could hold hands and kiss and hug and not care who saw us.

I grabbed my apricot-flavored lip gloss and applied it. I smacked my lips, tasting the flavor—it wasn’t my favorite, but Clint loved it—and capped it. I took another breath, my stomach twisting. I was showered, freshened up, and sexy. I couldn’t date Clint, but I could hang out with him. Be with him.

I wanted this to last for as long as it could.

I stepped out of my room and passed my younger sister’s door. It was half-opened, revealing the chaos that was Lee’s room, her bed unmade, clothes lying strewn across the floor, a frilly pair of panties dangling from the edge of her desk. No music blared, so she wasn’t at home. It was Friday, which meant a date night for most girls, but probably not for Lee. I bet she was at the park running. She liked that.

Girl had too much energy.

Voices came from the kitchen. My mom and Aunt Cheryl sat on the bar stools talking at the kitchen island, a glass of white wine in my aunt’s hand. A box of cheap wine set beside her. She took a long sip as my mom stroked my aunt’s arm.

“Hey, Aunt Cheryl,” I said, streaming through the kitchen.

My mom glanced up and her eyebrows lifted. I blushed, feeling so self-conscious of the tight top I wore. “That’s new, honey.”

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “Picked it up last weekend.”

“You heading somewhere? A date?”

“Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just heading next door. Clint and I have schoolwork to work on.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Aunt Cheryl said, her cheeks red. She lowered her drink and pressed down on the spigot on the side of the wine box. Liquid splashed as she topped off her glass. “How long are you staying?”

“Probably late,” I shrugged. “We’ll eat dinner, watch some bad movies or something. I might even just crash there.”

“Oh, that’s cruel. Making your cousin sleep on the floor when you could just walk next door,” Mom said.

“Oh, Clint wouldn’t mind,” Aunt Cheryl said. “He’s a gentleman like his father.” She took a long drink of her wine. “Just like him…”