Chapter 5: BBQ the return

I was so conflicted standing here in their garden. It was a little bigger than ours but packed with people, none of whom I knew. Trent and Cliff had returned the favour and invited us to their annual family BBQ, as we were now sort of family. I’d been introduced to a few people and was already forgetting the names.

Chris had managed to talk me into wearing a summer dress that was a little too flirty for my liking and the audience today. I knew I looked good, maybe a little too good. It wasn’t that I had too much flesh showing, there were a few bikinis and speedos out there, it was more that I may have looked a little too, I dunno, slutty. It was a lovely deep yellow, sunflower print, a good inch or two above my knees and very loose and flowing there. It tapered tightly around my waist and then ballooned around my boobs. I wasn’t showing any cleavage, but they were very much up there, out there, my big tits for all to notice. He’d also managed to beg me to wear a sort of yellow matching heeled sandal, and some stupid hooped earrings. He’d grinned like a Cheshire cat when he saw me. Though I’d put some grey small gym shorts under the skirt as it was way too free for my liking, I didn’t tell him about that. I did however feel that some of the older women here were looking in my direction rather disapprovingly from time to time.

We’d only been here about 15 minutes or so, Claire had dived off to be with Cliff and Chris was nearby but chatting with some other men about computer games or some crap. Trent had nodded an acknowledgement to me when we arrived but had largely been yapping to his other guests.

There was a good mix of people here, all ages, mostly black, a few white people, but we were definitely outnumbered. There was a heavily pregnant black lady that I’d yet to chat to, I was guessing that she was Trent’s last implantation. Interestingly there were two mixed-race children running around, I hadn’t worked out their parents yet but wondered if they were also Trent’s.

Then my body buzzed, like a 6th sense knowing someone was looking at you. I turned my head to see what or who it was and there was Trent on his own, walking towards me with two drinks in his hand. I watched him with a frown on my face as he drew closer.

My heart did a clumsy, heavy flip in my chest. He was carrying a tall glass of something that looked suspiciously like the strong Strawberry Daiquiri from our BBQ, and a bottle of beer for himself. The late afternoon sun caught his face, and for a fleeting, insane moment, I didn’t see the greasy hair or the soft belly. I saw the pure, unadulterated confidence in his eyes, the absolute certainty in his walk. He knew he had me rattled, and he was savouring every second of it.

“Thought you looked a little lost,” his voice rumbled as he stopped in front of me, the familiar musky scent of him cutting through the smell of charcoal and cut grass. He offered me the tall glass. “Special recipe. Just for you.”

My hand remained stubbornly at my side. “No, thank you, Trent.” The words were firm, but my voice had a slight tremor. I could feel Chris’s eyes on us from across the lawn, a prickle of heat on the back of my neck. He was watching. Waiting.

Trent’s grin didn’t falter. “You sure about that, Emily? It’s a hot day. Wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated.” He waggled the glass, the red liquid sloshing invitingly against the ice. “Don’t worry,” he added, his voice dropping so only I could hear, “it’s just a drink. I wouldn’t do anything ... unless you wanted me to.”

The audacity of him. He was turning it around, placing the responsibility, the desire, squarely in my lap. My eyes darted from the drink to his face. Was it a test? Was he trying to see if I’d accuse him? Or was it an honest-to-God invitation? A choice. That thought was somehow more terrifying than being drugged against my will. To consciously choose this madness.

I could feel the weight of his gaze, the heavy press of Chris’s anticipation, the disapproving glances from the other women. I was on a stage, and the spotlight was burning my skin. With a hand that wasn’t quite steady, I took the glass.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. I didn’t drink it. I just held it, the condensation cold against my suddenly clammy palm.

“That dress is somethin’ else,” he murmured, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative tour from the yellow-heeled sandals up my legs to the swell of my chest. “Your husband knows how to show you off. Knows what a man likes to see.”