His Little Slut

We were sitting in the cafeteria, trading embarrassing stories, as I stabbed the tines of my fork against my thigh.

Clara, the beautiful, brilliant sun of our little solar system, threw her head back laughing, exposing her long, slender throat and dainty collarbones.

I giggled, fantasizing about how it would feel to strangle her.

The story, an anecdote about our first time partying, cast me as the dimwitted butt of the joke, like her stories always did.

Never mind that it was embellished – Clara's stories always were.

In fact, the person who'd actually gone into a bedroom with a senior and come out with chlamydia had been her, but I didn't dare to correct her. One word about what really happened that night and I'd spend the remainder of our time at high school as a social leper.

So, I smiled and played along.

After all, I'd been playing the empty-headed bimbo foil to Clara for years now.

Never mind that I'd be taking college classes too, if Mom could afford it.

"-Kelly?"

At the sound of my name, I perked up.

"Sorry, what?"

Clara shot a glance at Sierra, who put her hand in front of her mouth to hide her sneer.

Licking her lips, Clara looked back at me. "I asked if you're sure you can get the stuff for Friday night."

I nodded. I was used to skimming extra doses off of my prescription Xanax for Clara, and I'd set aside several in anticipation of tomorrow night.

We were going to party, get high and have a sleepover at Clara's house.

Or, at least they were.

I was going to wait until they passed out to go fuck Clara's dad.

….

Clara's house was a mammoth monument to upper-middle-class tastelessness.

Located in the darkest, most white-bread heart of the suburbs, the two-story, finished-basement paean to pretension was Clara's father's half of the marital assets, sundered after a nasty divorce.

But, for all intents and purposes, the house was Clara's alone.

Her father, George, spent most of his time away on business, and had for years. This fact not only drove his wife into the arms of the contractor who'd renovated the kitchen, but also made him an enigmatic and fascinating figure to me.

In all the time I'd known Clara, I could count on one hand the number of words I'd said to her father.

But, oh, did he make an impression...

I looked at him now, his broad back to me as he rinsed dishes in the kitchen sink. I let my gaze trail lower, admiring the way his torso tapered down to his waist and the firm roundness of his buttocks.

"Hey, Dad!" Clara called as I closed the door behind us.

"Hi, Pumpkin!" He turned, and I got a glimpse of his rich, brown eyes and sharp, stubbled jawline. "How was school?"

"Good. Got an A on that Calculus test."

She hadn't – she'd gotten a D- and an admonition to come in next week for a retake.

Not that I was going to correct her.

His full lips curved with pride, "Great job, honey!" Noticing us, he nodded, "Hi, girls."