The Summer Of Chelsea Pt 02

***A Quick Note***

The beginning of this part contains quite a bit of story, as I am planning of turning this into a novel, however, this IS Literotica, so I know what you're probably here for (lol). Please let me know if the exposition is too long, and I'll work on cutting more out in future chapters to get to the saucy bits quicker. I tried to leave in what I thought was absolutely necessary for character development.

With that being said, the saucy part is toward the end, and I think it's worth the wait.

-Reine Martell

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This story begins with me being in trouble with Desiree, inadvertently, through Bruce.

By the time we're seniors in college, he and I are seasoned professionals. The Code we've developed to avoid getting caught scum-bagging is ironclad, and it's served us well for nearly four years. Code states that if we use a dating app, we can only do so with a fake name and age, and a profile picture that doesn't include our face, or any distinguishable parts of our body. Bruce becomes Brandon, and I become Chris.

Bruce is usually pretty careful about his picture, so I was quite surprised when I suddenly received a screenshot from Desiree, of one Brandon on Tinder along with her message: 'Wtf is THIS?" I reply: 'Some guy on Tinder...?" She then says: 'It's BRUCE.' I reply: 'It doesn't look like him to me'.

The faceless man in the picture is Bruce unquestionably; auburn stubble, cleft chin, and all. The damning feature is the tendril of black ink snaking its way up the back of his shoulder, a shoddy embarrassment of a tribal tattoo he'd gotten two months prior. I'd roasted him about it for 4 days straight.

Desiree only has one reason to care about this discovery: Erin Lee. After Lisa dumped Bruce to go live with some guy in Miami, Bruce had moved on to date Erin, an 18-year-old from some town in Alabama that has a population of less than two thousand.

Bruce's girlfriend Erin is, undoubtedly, the sweetest person I've ever met in my life. Her accent is so thick it's comedic, she smiles constantly, and every person she meets is immediately renamed "Honey". She volunteers at an animal shelter, and fosters special needs kittens. Literally. Even I kind of feel bad that she ended up meeting a shitbag like Bruce Hall.

Desiree and I proceed to have the exact same argument about the situation for three days in a row.

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"It's just a Tinder profile, Desiree. Jesus, pretty much everyone has one."

Desiree and I are walking back to my car after grabbing lunch, when the topic of Bruce's profile comes up yet again. I've been pretty passive about the issue so far, but this time, I can't stop the exasperation from creeping into my voice.

"Do YOU have one?" she asks.

"Of course not." Not one as Jordan Bishop, anyway. "And how do you know it isn't just an old one he forgot to delete?"

"His bio was recent, Jordan: 'School's about to be out, looking for some fun.' Was school about to be out before he started dating Erin six months ago?"

I shrug. "Well maybe, for Christmas break."

"Yeah right, he was talking about SUMMER."

We climb into my SUV, and I start the car without responding. I can't believe that he breached Code, and so flagrantly. It's almost like the guy wants to get caught. I'm as pissed off as I am disappointed.

Desiree keeps going as we pull out onto the road, "I've always known he was a cheater, I just never had proof."

"And now that you think you do, you're going to make my life miserable by forcing me to have a same conversation a million times?" I'm never this sharp with her, but I'm at my wit's end.

Desiree basically ignores me, "Bruce has dated some questionable chicks, but Erin doesn't deserve to be treated like this. She's too naïve and innocent. She's probably never been to a real city in her life. She doesn't know how guys can be, and it makes me sick to watch her get two-timed by some Atlanta player."

I don't respond.

"Don't you agree?"

"I guess you feel like you have to protect her." My voice is flat. I want to get away from this conversation as swiftly as possible.

"Girls have to protect each other. You wouldn't understand."

The ride back to our apartment from the diner is short. I pull into the lot of our complex and cut the engine. Desiree reaches for the door handle, but I stop her.

"Look," I say, my voice firm, "I don't want to have this conversation over and over. What Bruce does is his business. He's my friend, but I have no control over his actions. Besides that, I'm still not entirely convinced that a Tinder profile is evidence of—"

"But Erin—"

I continue my sentence, like she didn't speak, "—is evidence of his cheating. Maybe he was just browsing through some different options out of boredom. Who knows, and who cares? You and Bruce have always been cool."

"He's cool, but he's a cheater."

"I honestly don't know if he is or isn't, but that's not my business, and it's not yours. Neither is Erin. So do me a huge favor and just make peace with getting your 'justice'. We've been going around about this for three days, and I can't take it anymore."

Desiree huffs, and gets out of the car, but I can't tell what she's thinking.

Warily, I follow her up the stairs and into our second floor apartment. The place is much nicer than anything we could ever afford on our own together; all hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and an en-suite bathroom for both bedrooms. The living room even came furnished with a high-end leather sectional and flat screen TV.

Desiree and her roommate Chelsea were struggling to pay the rent each month until Desiree approached her with the idea of having me move in to split the bills three ways. Chelsea was okay with it, and I was more than happy because it meant I'd get to live with Desiree. Overall it was a great deal for everyone. Chelsea's hardly ever there anyway, so Desiree and I basically have the place to ourselves.

Desiree and I hardly ever fight, so I'm a bit confused as to what I should say to her right now. I stand by the couch, silently watching her as she puts her keys and purse on the counter, and grabs a bottled water from the bottom of the fridge.

After being with her for so long, Desiree is still one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. The thick blonde hair that falls to the middle of her back, perfect skin tanned from the Georgia sun, and ample hips straining against the material of her shorts still drive me just as crazy now as they did when we first met.

She takes a sip of water and sighs heavily. "You're right." she says. "I have to let it go. It's his business, and it's a waste of time to stress myself out about the lives of other people. Erin's an adult and she doesn't need protecting."

I feel every muscle in my body relax. I've already chewed Bruce out for his mistake, but I make a note to let him have it one more time for making me go through this.

She crosses back over to me and circles my waist, looking up at me through thick lashes. Her dark drown eyes have taken on a devilish glint, "You know," she says, her voice low, "I think we still have enough time to get in a quickie before Chelsea gets here."

"Weird, I was just thinking the exact same thing..."

"I can tell." She grins and glances down at my waistband, where I've already started getting hard. It doesn't take much. She hooks an index finger through one of my belt loops, and leads me back to our bedroom.

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Desiree and I have just finished showering, and are lying in bed watching TV, when we hear Chelsea come through the front door. Desiree jumps up and leaps over me to run out of the room. Not wanting to be rude, I roll out of bed and mosey after her.

Desiree loves Chelsea, and I've never been able to understand how. In the seven months that we've lived together, I've found Chelsea Kaiser to be totally unapproachable. Every shot I've taken at trying to get to know her is quickly vaporized with a one-word answer, or some comment about how she's busy and has to go. "She's just not one for small talk," Desiree has told me, but how the hell else do you go about getting to know a complete stranger?

At first, Chelsea's standoffish-ness had rubbed me the wrong way, but I've since grown used to her demeanor. Besides, she's usually gone the entire day, only returning every night to sleep before waking up at the crack of dawn to make her coffee and head out to school again. On the rare occasion that she is home during the day, she's holed up in her room, studying.

I'd learned through Desiree that she's a pre-med student taking more than a full course-load, that she tutors after her classes, and that she has a part-time job as a hostess at the Sheckler Arts Center on campus. I guess all of that would keep you busy all day and halfway through the night.

I walk into the living room and find Desiree embracing Chelsea's neck, as Chelsea tentatively pats at her forearm with her fingertips. She's obviously uncomfortable. It looks awkward, as Chelsea is several inches taller that Desiree, who has to reach up for the embrace. You'd think they were long lost friends instead of literal roommates. I nod in greeting to Chelsea, and she nods back.

This goes on for just a few moments too long before Chelsea casually tells her, "You're crushing my windpipe."

"But I missed your pretty face so much!" Desiree gives her a kiss on the cheek before. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

Chelsea carefully dislodges herself from Desiree and walks over to sit down on the sectional. She looks back to Desiree, "You don't look ready." she says. The two of them are going to Atlanta to get outfits for a concert later that night. It's some indie 80's band they're both into, doing a comeback tour.

I'd once asked Chelsea what kind of music she liked, and she'd looked me square in the face, replied, "A bunch of stuff you've never heard of." and then left the room. That may have been my last attempt at trying to chit-chat with her.

"It's Jordan's fault I'm not ready." Desiree says, waggling her eyebrows at me suggestively.

"Please, spare me the salacious details on your sex life. I just ate."

"Yeah, so did he."

To Chelsea's credit, she doesn't react to the comment at all. I've long since gotten over my own embarrassment at Desiree making jokes like this among our friends. Her whole family is the same way: crass, and slightly inappropriate. It's just a part of the Randall "charm". Besides that, she's telling the truth.

Chelsea picks up the remote and starts flipping through channels. "The concert is at eight, and it'll take us forty-five minutes to drive to Atlanta. I'll wait here while you do the math on that, and decide how long you're going to take to get ready."

"You're not ready either!" Desiree gestures to Chelsea's signature Amatis University sweat suit. It's the only thing I ever see her wear. "You're wearing sweats to the mall?"

"I'm wearing sweats to the concert, too."

Desiree looks pissed. "Are you serious?"

"It's going to be a group of sixty-something, arthritic old dudes fumbling on their guitars, trying to remember their old hits," Chelsea doesn't take her blue eyes away from the TV, and her voice is monotone. "It's not like I'm anticipating being pulled up on stage."

"You can NOT wear those, Chelsea Kaiser. At least wear jeans, for gods sake."

"I'll wear what I want."

Desiree glares at her for several long seconds, but Chelsea doesn't seem to notice or care. With a toddler-like huff, Desiree rolls her eyes, and starts walking back toward the hallway. I move to follow her but she stops, and turns back to Chelsea, "Oh! There was something I wanted to ask you."

Chelsea looks up.

"My mom and Dad are having a boat party on Friday, and all my friends are going, plus Jordan. Do you wanna come?"

I'd forgotten about that. The Randall's always throw a party at the end of the school year, and this year's shindig is on her uncle's boat off the Chattahoochee River. The Randall's can find just about any reason to throw a party.

"I can't," Chelsea tells her, "I have to work."

"You don't work on Fridays, but nice try."

"I don't want to go, I hate parties."

"Oh come on, it'll be fun! No need to be self-conscious, we'll all be wasted anyway."

"I don't drink. I'll pass."

"I can hook you up with one of my cousins..." Desiree sing-songs, "When's the last time you got laid anyway?"

"Senior year, after prom, in the back of a rented Dodge Charger." Chelsea says this with a straight face, and I get a weird feeling she's isn't joking. "His name was Jeff. He was a good kisser, but not so good at everything else."

I laugh out loud, and they both look at me. Had they forgotten I was here? This is the longest conversation I've ever witnessed between them, and I'm quite enjoying myself. I straighten my already straight glasses, and clear my throat.

"You're GOING." Desiree says with finality, and pivots to walk back to our room.

"No, I'm not!" Chelsea calls.

"You are!"

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"I'm not!"

They continue this up the hallway until Desiree closes our door behind us.

I fall onto the bed, and pull out my phone to start making my arrangements. I have to get started on them early, so that everything will be set up for this evening. Desiree aggressively rifles through our packed closet, shaking her head at the dizzying amount of options.

"Why are you pressuring her?" I ask, "If she doesn't like parties, then let her be. She'll probably be boring as hell, anyway."

"Chelsea needs to get out and have some fun. It's her last summer down here before she's off to John's Hopkins." Desiree always says the name with an air of grandiosity, but I suppose it's warranted. It is pretty badass that Chelsea got into one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country.

Desiree continues, "She isn't going to go out on her own, she needs someone to push her. That person is me. My goal for this summer is get her laid...at least once." She grins back at me.

I roll my eyes. "Maybe she's waiting to get to get to Baltimore so she can find a doctor boyfriend. Have you considered that?"

"In the meantime, a summer fling wouldn't hurt."

I am tempted to tell my girlfriend—for the second time today—to keep her nose out of other peoples' business, but instead I just let the topic drop. I barely know Chelsea, and I really don't care that much.

It takes them another hour to leave, as Desiree is incapable of even going to the convenience store without full make-up, a perfect outfit, and immaculate hair. I'm absorbed in my phone, checking and re-checking my plans for the evening, until I hear the beep of the front door alarm set behind them.

Finally.

I heave myself up out of bed and walk over to our desk, sit down in the rickety wooden chair, and crack open my books and laptop.

Engineering has always has been my thing. As a kid, I'd was fascinated by machines and circuitry, wanting to crack everything open to see how it worked. When my mom had grown too exasperated at me disassembling the electronics in our house, Dad started buying me different kits to put together, magazines and books. I'd put the kits together in half the time the packaging had suggested they'd take, and mostly ignore the books. I'm more of a hands-on learner.

It wasn't until my junior year of high school that my dad suggested I start thinking about turning my hobby into a career. "Have you researched any engineering programs in-state?" He'd said to me one day, unprompted. I'd never even mentioned college to him at all. I did some research, and that's how I ended up studying robotics engineering at Amatis University, a public college 45 minutes north of Atlanta.

It feels like it's been ten minutes since I sat down, but when I look at the time, I see that I only have half an hour until I have to leave.

With a curse I close my laptop, hop up out of the chair, and dash to our room to take a shower. I briskly run a soapy washcloth over my whole body, and get back out to examine myself in the full length mirror.

Finals have been kicking my ass, and it's past time for some self-care. My six-pack is starting to fade after one too many missed gym appointments, and my hair has gotten too long. Despite all this, I'm still a very attractive guy. I didn't think much of myself until I hit middle school, and girls instantly began fawning over my green eyes, sharp features, and thick dark hair.

I brush my teeth and put in my contacts. I loathe wearing them, but I must. Glasses make me too distinct, and that's the very last thing that I want to be right now.

It's a half hour drive, which is annoying. As I'm pulling up, I check the time. Right about now, Desiree and Chelsea should be standing in line, waiting to get into the venue. After the concert, it'll take them 45 more minutes to drive back to Amatis. I mentally calculate how long I have here, and remind myself to keep checking the clock. I have to get home before them.

After I've parked, I pull a beat up Motorola Razor from behind the passenger seat and shoot a text: I'm outside. Seconds later, my phone buzzes with a reply: The door is open. I get out of the car and hit the lock, surveying the street up and down.

All of the houses are an identical style, and there are no driveways, so all of the cars are parked diagonally into a ditch. Slewfoot, Georgia, a blip of a county 30 minutes east of Amatis. I never even knew this place existed.

"I always end up in these hick towns..." I mutter as I climb the steps, and pass one lone plastic lawn chair to open the door.

It feels odd, walking through the front door of someone's house that you hardly know. We aren't complete strangers though. We'd had coffee in Atlanta a week prior, and talked for about an hour.

Tiffany has shoulder length brown hair and a warm smile, which is what had attracted me to her in the first place. She's 31 years old, and works at a call center. On the back wall of her living room is one of those cabinets with dishes that are never used, and the wall to my right is covered in framed photographs of family.

She's curled up in the recliner, but stands when I walk in. "Chris, hi." Shyly, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

I smile back. "How you doing?"

"I'm good, how are you?" she wraps her arms around my waist and embraces me tightly. I hug her shoulders. This is always the awkward part.

She closes the door and locks it behind me. "You want a soda, or something?"

"Yes, thank you." I'm not thirsty, but I always take refreshments whenever people offer them to me. It's just the southern training, instilled in me from birth.

Tiffany grabs one for herself and we settle on the couch. "How's your day been?" she asks.

"It was good," I say, "Pretty exhausting, though. Bouncing back and forth from one end of Atlanta to the other. But it pays the bills, so I can't complain."

"I hear ya'. Somebody's got to get Pepsi on the shelves for people like me."

Christopher Newman is a 25-year-old from Savannah who works as a vendor for Pepsi. He plays a lot of Call of Duty, and goes fishing on the weekends with his brothers.

The silence stretches between us, and Tiffany sips her soda. "So what do you—"

"Let's go to your room."

Normally, I'm not so abrupt. I'll chit-chat, pretend to watch Netflix, grab a coffee, or whatever else they want to do to get comfortable with what's going to happen next. But right now, I just do not have time. I need to get home before Desiree with enough time to wash up, put on the same clothes I'd been wearing before, and pretend like I'd never left.