Secret Sins: (A Standalone) by CD Reiss

wanted to devour me skin to bone.
    Yes, it turned me on, but it also annoyed me.
    “What was that about back there? With Indy?” I asked.
    “What was what?”
    “Fuck this.”
    I opened the door, but I didn’t get far. He leaned over and pressed it closed.
    “You don’t know?” he asked. “You can’t tell?”
    “Since the first day you brought me to this house, you’ve treated me like a little sister—”
    I had more to say. Much more. A speech worthy of Ronald Reagan, but he laughed. I just ate those words, chewed and swallowed them, because I’d seriously misread something. He opened the door, still smiling like a fuckhead.
    “Beep us,” was all he got to say before I left.
    I had an orange button on my beeper. I pressed it, and my driver pulled up. Like magic. His job was to take me to and from whatever activity I had going on. His job wasn’t to tell me where to go or tell my family where I was. I barely made it half a block back toward home before I knew I’d beep six-oh-six E-Y-E-B-R-O-W. Or Indy. It didn’t matter. I was addicted to them the way Lynn was addicted to blues. The excitement of their company was the best drug in the world.

Chapter 13.
    Here’s a comprehensive list of what it means to be mature for your age.
    1)  You see people through their lens, not yours. So there’s less getting offended. Less reactive bullshit.
    2)  You have perspective but not experience. You know it all shakes out in the end. So small problems are small, and big problems are small.
    3)  You get cocky because you’re mature and you know it. Stupid mistakes are other people’s problems.
    4)  Your body is still a slave to your brain, and if your brain is thinking about grown-up shit, like sex, your body is going to be a hotbed. And if your body matures early… well, follow the yellow brick road. The Emerald City has its legs spread for you.

Chapter 14.
    1982 – Before the night of the Quaalude
    The house in the Palihood had a thousand square feet of unpermitted add-ons. Some even made sense. Most didn’t. One bedroom was five feet wide and had outdoor wood siding on one wall. One add-on was only accessible via five treacherous two-foot-high steps to an attic the shape of an inverted V, and another bedroom was only accessible from the outside patio and through a closet.
    I arrived one afternoon after a respectable activity I could never recall in black pumps and a Chanel jacket. The house was dead except for the open door and obscure punk playing from the sound system the boys had installed over the lead-painted walls and chipped molding.
    I didn’t announce myself. I never did. I was a piece of furniture, more or less. I heard voices from one of the spare rooms. I passed through the third bathroom, into the closet, and almost opened the louvered door to reveal the sound when I stopped. A cry had come from the other side of the door.
    The louvers gave me a choppy view, but I saw enough skin to make me take a step back. I heard panting. Groaning. A man’s voice. Strat. I took a second step back. Stopped. The doors had a space between them, and I leaned forward and looked.
    I recognized the girl from her silky brown hair. When she moved, it swayed over her shoulders. She was on her hands and knees. Strat was behind her, fucking her so hard my face flushed and my body’s heat level went deep in the red. I could smell them. Their sweat and something funkier. The scent between my legs plus a man. I touched the wall. I needed it to hold me up.
    Leave. Turn around .
    “Take it, baby,” Strat muttered, hands gripping her ass. His skin was satin with sweat.
    I wanted him. I wished I was the girl with the brown hair, taking it. I shifted a little so I could see the place where their bodies met. His cock sliding in and out of her.
    God god god I want it .
    I was blocking the way, but I didn’t want to go back and I couldn’t go forward. All I could was hope that no one wanted to go into the spare bedroom right