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Joan and Filipe had been my best friends for almost a decade.
Filipe’s dad used to drive for my dad and Filipe practically lived on the estate with me until his dad retired, a nice retirement check deposited into his account for his service and discretion.
Filipe and I fumbled around as pre-teens. The typical “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” kind of play.
As for Joan, she used to live next door, the granddaughter of a mega famous film director.
Joan and I also fumbled around as pre-teens.
I liked my play with Filipe more than I did with Joan, but Filipe didn’t feel the same, and Joan, well, once she met Filipe, they were just goners for each other since they were thirteen years old.
Over the years, there were times where the three of us fell into bed together, but more than not, after a kiss or two, and some writhing and frotting, one or all of us would fall asleep.
Sometimes I’d wake to find them fucking, Joan on top, and if she noticed me awake, she’d reach over and stroke me until I climaxed all over her hand and my stomach. Filipe didn’t seem to mind. He’d watch, umber-brown eyes heated and wanton. Joan liked it because Filipe fucked her harder, though he never lasted as long as I think he wanted to last.
Listening to Filipe’s grunts and Joan’s moans, I rarely lasted long, either.
But with everything going on in my life, I wasn’t in the mood.
I shook my head. “No, not that I don’t appreciate the offer. You two are always there for me. Think I’m gonna ice the shoulder, have a quiet dinner with Dad, and call it a night.”
“Not taking Coach’s daughter out on the town?” she quizzed.
Zoey was Coach Anderson’s daughter, which put extra pressure on me to always be on my best behavior, in and out of the pool. Our usual pattern was a Saturday night dinner at Nobu’s or Tower Bar, or attend one of the many film premieres, and then have her home by two or three in the morning.
“Not tonight,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”
Neither had to ask why Zoey wasn’t dining with me and my dad tonight, and the simple answer was that paparazzi wouldn’t be there. Zoey was trying to break into the film industry and I was just one notch on her path.
My dad had a firm policy of not getting involved even though the merest whisper from him to the right casting director would clear every obstacle. Coach Anderson said he could train me to be one of the best, to land a spot on the national team and a shot at the Olympics. The only thing he wanted was his daughter to be seen on my arm at the right events. There was nothing romantic about it. In fact, Zoey and I considered it a business transaction.
“Speaking of pretty faces,” Joan said with relish, “how’s it feel to be the middle child now?” Filipe had obviously filled Joan in on Dad’s elopement and the development of a new stepbrother. “I hear your stepbrother is a knockout.”
“Fuck you,” I said with a laugh. Ciaran was not a knockout. “He’s just a dumb kid I happen to be related to through marriage.”
Joan smirked. “You protest too much. Show me his picture,” she insisted. She tried to grab for my phone in my pocket but I twisted away from her. “Filipe says it’s on your phone. That you stared at it for ages. Did you set it as your home screen photo?”
So Filipe had noticed that.
During this interchange, Filipe shooed tourists away from his car and buffed out an imaginary dull spot on his door. I could see my own reflection in its mirror shine.
“You’ll see the kid soon enough,” I said after pushing her gently away from me. Filipe came up and captured her around the waist, nibbling on her neck.
She melted into Filipe’s embrace.
“So when do babysitting duties begin?” Filipe asked.
“Saturday next. Dad wants to put Ciaran in the guesthouse, but I’ll see about having Miss Paulina move him into the main house.”
Filipe laughed. “Bring a good bottle with you.”
Miss Paulina was the long-suffering Vaulteneau housekeeper, and arguably the most important person in the house. However, the old dame had a taste for expensive whiskey. If you got in good with Miss Paulina, you were set.
“I’m way ahead of you,” I told him. “There’s a suite in the far wing of the house that’d be perfect for him,” I added. “The old nursery.”
“Hasn’t he suffered enough?” Joan asked. “He worked in a deli, for crying out loud.”
“His mom owned that deli. It’s not like they went hungry, Joan.”
