My 3 Rockstar Bosses

Biting my lip, I peer into the closet. Nerves make my hands jittery, and I glance around wide-eyed. Because this is going to be so awkward. We’re going to the Morgans’ house for dinner tonight, but the parents have no idea what’s going on between the boys and me. So they’ll be oblivious, chatting like nothing’s wrong, smiling and making nice.

But something tells me the Morgan sons aren’t going to let me off easily. I doubt they’ll be on their best behavior, because what is best behavior for them? Just a quick swipe under my dress, nothing more? A mere tap to my asshole, instead of a full-on rub?

Shaking my head, my insides liquefy again. Oh god, oh god. What to do? I want things to be perfect, yet at the same time, everything feels crazy out of control.

But clothes. Right, clothes. At least I can control what I wear. My fingers grab a purple wrap dress, and I smooth it on. Okay, during high school graduation, it was a little loose, but now the fabric hugs every curve. Oh shit, oh shit! I can’t go to a family dinner with my boobs popping out of the deep V, it’s completely inappropriate. So grabbing a blazer, I hastily cover myself. Okay, that’s better. It doesn’t exactly match, but at least I’m decent and ready for a family dinner.

Twisting and turning before the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. It’s okay that I’m a little plump. I’m a chef, after all, and cooking and eating food is what makes me more authentic than some of the skinny ladies on TV who never eat what they serve. Or worse yet, they eat it then barf it up when no one’s looking. Yep, that happens, believe it or not. There’s a little bowl hidden where the camera can’t see so they can spit out what’s in their mouth.

But no, that’ll never be me. If the Morgan boys appreciate my curves, then I’m gonna live it up. Even if they don’t stick around after this summer stint, I’m not ready to go back to my old self. There’s a new Macy, ready to break out.

“Ready honey?” my mom voice calls up the stairs.

I sigh, coming down slowly.

“Yep, ready,” is my mutter.

As usual Marsha is perfect down to the tiniest detail. Her brown bob gleams, nails done to a shine. By contrast, my curls are wild and riotous, surrounding my face in a halo. Whereas my mom’s wearing a face full of make-up, lashes like big, black spiders, I just have on subtle lip gloss and concealer.

Marsha looks at me critically then.

“No need to wear that jacket,” she says. “It doesn’t match honey, and you know how the Morgans are. So stylish all the time. Maybe you could make a good impression on the boys, they might be able to get you a job somewhere.”

I almost choke. A job is the least of my worries right now, especially when it comes to my neighbors.

But I nod numbly.

“It’s a little cold,” I murmur. “Maybe I’ll take off the jacket when we’re inside.”

Marsha turns away.

“Suit yourself,” is her careless reply. “Jim? You ready? I don’t want to be late.”

And carefully, we pick our way across the yard and onto the Morgan’s property. Going in the back door, Maddy Morgan is slaving by herself in the kitchen.

“Hi there,” she says breathlessly, pounding something with a pestle. Holy cow! Is Maddy making her own pesto with fresh basil? My respect for the woman skyrockets.

“Oh hello Maddy,” coos my mom. “How’s it going?”

Immediately I rush over.

“Can I help?” I ask, looking down at the stone bowl. Sure enough, the citrusy scent of fresh basil rises to my nostrils, mouth watering hungrily.

But Maddy shakes her head, shooing us with fluttery hands.

“No, no, you’re the guests. Go ahead and say hello to Ted, he’s waiting for you folks in the living room. Besides, I’ve been cooking for a full house for years, it’s nothing new,” she says with a smile.

I nod, and the three of us head out to the common area. Unfortunately, Mr. Morgan is in a sad state. He’s in a wheelchair by the table, the left side of his mouth pulled down and immobile. In fact, it looks like his whole left side is impaired, and my mother scurries over to his side, hugging him and gushing over how sorry she is that he’s been so sick.

My father salutes him. “Hell of a hit to your golf game, hey Ted?”

Mr. Morgan waves his right hand dismissively.

“Temp’rary,” he manages, the functional side of his mouth smiling.

My parents sit down and tell me to head into the living room to say hi to the Morgan boys. But before I do, Mr. Morgan holds out his right hand and when I take it, he pulls me in close.

“Such a pretty one,” he manages, wheezing a bit. “So pretty.”