Chapter 3

The popcorn was the only thing in the room that sounded louder than my own heart. It was a strange, domestic symphony, the rhythmic ‘crunch-crunch-crunch’ of salted kernels and the occasional, genuine giggle from Sherry. We were squeezed onto my leather sofa, a three-person, high-tension sandwich. On my left, Sherry was a warm, humming presence of innocent curiosity; on my right, Sissy sat like a statue carved from ice and suspicion, though the ice was finally starting to melt under the glow of the television.

We were watching “Weekend at Bernies”. It was the kind of movie that is objectively ridiculous, a chaotic mess of dead-body slapstick that should have been too mindless to be engaging. Yet, as the two protagonists dragged their “friend” around by the limbs to avoid police detection, a sound erupted from Sissy that I hadn’t heard since they’d arrived: a laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but a raw, surprising snort of amusement that caught her off guard. She looked startled by her own joy, her green eyes darting to me for a split second as if checking to see if the laughter had made her vulnerable.

I sat there, perfectly still, trying not to let my excitement override the moment. I didn’t try to touch them; I didn’t try to move in. I just wanted them to feel the weight of the air in the room, not heavy with fear, but light with the absurdity of a movie. For the first time, Sissy wasn’t scanning the perimeter for exits or clutching a knife. She was just a woman on a couch, eating popcorn and watching a dead man in sunglasses get treated like a mannequin. It was the most profound victory I’d had in years.

The steam from the pasta rose in fragrant, garlic-heavy clouds, blurring the line between the kitchen and the living room. I had gone all out, homemade marinara that had simmered since noon and meatballs the size of golf balls. As we sat around the small wooden table, the clink of forks against ceramic sounded like a peaceful truce. Sissy was still wary, her gaze flicking to the kitchen door every few minutes, but she was eating with a focused intensity, as if the calories were a form of armor she needed to rebuild.

Sherry, however, was in a playful mood, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like a silk waterfall. She picked up a particularly juicy meatball with her fork, but instead of biting into it, she held it just inches from her lips. With a slow, deliberate motion, she extended her tongue, licking a streak of rich, red sauce from the curve of the meat. She looked at me, her blue eyes dancing with a sudden, mischievous spark that made my pulse jump.

“Mmm,” she murmured, her voice dropping an octave. “I like licking and sucking balls, especially big meaty ones.”

The silence that followed was so thick you could have choked on it. I nearly choked on my water, my face heating up instantly, but Sissy didn’t even blink. She just leaned back in her chair, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her lips as she looked at her daughter and then back at me.

“Please, Sherry,” Sissy scoffed, her voice a raw, teasing rasp. “You’re an amateur. I’ve got a technique that would make your head spin. I’m way better at it.” She paused, her green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. “Actually, that reminds me of a joke. How can you tell which one is the head nurse?” She paused a moment. “Dirty knees.”

Sherry let out a sharp, jagged laugh, the sound echoing in the small room. The air shifted again, the domesticity of the meal sliding effortlessly into something more electric. The joke was a bridge, a way of acknowledging the hunger that lived beneath the surface of our new, strange arrangement.

I added one of my own, “How is being in the military like a blowjob?” I drank a sip of water. “The closer you get to discharge, the better you feel.”

It was great to see the girls laughing for a change. As the meal wound down, Sissy stood up, her movement slow and feline. She didn’t clear her plate; instead, she walked around the table until she was standing directly behind me. I felt her hands settle on my shoulders, her thumbs digging into the tension of my traps.

“The dishes can wait,” she whispered into my ear, her breath a warm, provocative contrast to the cool evening air. “And the shower is calling.”

Suddenly, she leaned down, her lips grazing the shell of my ear. “I remember a promise about someone eating me tonight. I’m not a patient woman, Andy. And I’m wet, very wet.”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. She grabbed my hand, her grip firm and commanding, and led me toward the bathroom. Sherry stayed behind for a moment, her eyes lingering on us with a mixture of longing and curiosity. She reached for the last meatball on the platter, popping it into her mouth with a wink that told me that when her turn finally came, she wouldn’t be an amateur.

Sissy told her, “You sit on the toilet and watch. If he does anything bad...”

Sherry blushed as she interrupted her mother, “I know, call the police. But he won’t. He’s a great guy.”

Inside the bathroom, the mirror began fogging over from the steam of the shower. Sissy didn’t waste time. She stepped out of her clothes in one fluid motion, her pale skin glowing under the fluorescent lights. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, and the sight of her, raw, uninhibited, and staring at me with those hungry green eyes, made the world outside the bathroom walls cease to exist.

“Get in,” she ordered, her voice a low command.

I stepped into the spray with her, the hot water hammering against our shoulders. Sherry stared at my groin, handing me a bar of soap. As I lathered a sponge, Sissy turned her back to me, leaning against the tiled wall. Her muscles rippled under her skin, her many scars a map of survival and strength.