My 3 Rockstar Bosses

Ford on Friday.

Sam on Saturday.

And Smith … oh god, Smith’s perfect for Sundays.

Because Sunday’s meant for penance.

Doing right and thinking good thoughts.

Going to church and acting godly.

But I can’t be good.

I can’t possibly choose, they’re too gorgeous.

So I don’t.

Is that wrong?

Or is seven my lucky number?

CHAPTER ONE

Macy

Nothing like the “freshman fifteen” to take a girl down a peg.

Or maybe the freshman twenty.

Or even thirty.

Because I haven’t put a swimsuit on all year and damn, this is tight. When I bought this bikini, it was for an epic post-graduation trip with my girlfriends. We took tons of selfies, giggling and splashing one another, and then the suit went in my drawer and I headed off to my freshman year of college.

But holy curves, Batman! Because since then, I’ve got a little more in the midsection, a little more on the thighs, and a lot more on top. My tits and ass are ready to wage war on these tiny bits of red fabric.

But I can’t just sit up here all day. My parents are throwing a big pool party to celebrate my homecoming. Who will come to such a party, one might ask? Well, that remains to be seen but I’d be willing to guess several middle-aged neighbors and maybe a few old people. People who definitely wouldn’t appreciate a nip slip Janet Jackson-style.

Taking a deep breath, I assess the situation in the full-length for a moment longer. The hair is good, at least. A quick fluff and my long, thick brunette locks fall sexily down my near-naked back. The eyes are good, too, I suppose – big and brown against creamy skin and full, pink lips. Grimacing, I stick a tongue out at my reflection in the mirror. Why is my skin so pale and pasty? It’s probably the library doing that to me, hours spent in my carrel hitting the books.

But there’s nothing to be done about that now. No amount of self-tanner will make me a goddess from Baywatch, so might as well own it. Sticking my tongue out one last time, I pad down the stairs, taking a deep breath. Oh no! My breasts bounce like two balls on a playground, jiggling up and down joyfully. God only knows what my ass is doing back there. Probably wobbling like a bowl full of fraternity-spiked Jello.

But the minute I walk into the kitchen my mom has me in a bear hug.

“There you are!” Marsha coos, dancing side to side, not letting go. “We missed you!”

“Um, you just saw me at breakfast,” comes my mumble.

Mom lets go and puts a finger on my nose.

“Boop!” she chirps, doing this dumb thing she’s done ever since I was a little kid. “You can’t blame me for being excited. You’re my only daughter! I was so lonely without you all year.”

I stand stiffly. This is just a show by Marsha. She loves making like she’s an adoring mother, but really, the situation’s a lot more complicated. But this isn’t the time to fight. A quick peek down confirms that half of my breast is pushing its way out of my bathing suit top after all that hugging. I subtly try to squeeze everything back in and say, “I need a new swim suit, Mom. This one is too tight.”

Marsha frowns for a moment.

“Maybe a little,” she acknowledges, “But it’s because you’re a big girl. Big girls have big assets, and it just means that they’re feeding you well at school,” she announces.

My face goes red. Trust Mom to proclaim to the world that I’m a size extra large. But oh well, there’s nothing to be done about it. Marsha will always be Marsha, and no matter how often I tell her not to do something, she’ll always do what she wants.