Jason Whitefeather pumped his legs harder as the sweat across his chest started running down in rivulets. A few more thrusts. "Don't let this go", he thought, "milk it to the last drop". His last thrust pushed him over the edge and he finally felt the pressure on his thighs let up.
He knew this old bicycle would be a good idea. Years ago he would deliver newspapers on it to most of the houses in this valley. It kept him in great shape. Today he had a different task.
Selling soap. Laundry soap. It helped the kids buy uniforms for the football team. When he had noticed his old friendly Schwinn in the corner of the garage last week and that the mounted baskets were still intact, he knew it would be a great way to get some exercise.
Coasting down toward the next cluster of houses he felt the breeze starting to cool off his sweat. He hoped he had better luck in this area. Selling generic laundry soap door to door was not a particularly fruitful endeavor in the early 2000s. The soap selling for uniforms had been a tradition in this Northern California town for as long as he could remember. The team didn't need the money at all. The selling of soap was supposed to "build character". Each player had to sell 5 cases of 4 bottles each.
Each year more and more kids seemed to avoid it. As far as he knew, he was one of the few coaches or players even trying to sell the stuff, and on a bicycle to boot!. At least he was getting a workout.
Jason had been a linebacker on the team over a decade ago. He had some moves, but he had always been a tall, lanky kid. No matter how much he pumped iron, his body stayed the same. His coach had even teasingly called him "Hawkeye", after Daniel Day-Lewis' character in Last of the Mohicans. The name had stuck to this day. Most people just called him Hawk.
It didn't help that he had similar facial features to Daniel Day-Lewis, shoulder length hair, and a slight british accent. His mother came from London and taught biochemistry at the local college. She was a pleasant woman, and the source of his quick smile. He always thought it made him look less manly, but she kept assuring him that it was going to open doors for him when he least expected it.
His father was whom he wished he would have derived more features from. His Navajo blood gave Jason his deep, dark eyes, but not much else. He loved his mother, but being half Native American gave him a strong sense of pride. If only he could have looked more the part.
Jason turned down the street adrift in his thoughts when he suddenly had to stop quickly. Thankfully, his years of experience with the newspapers prevented him from dumping the laundry detergent all over the road.
Just through a break in the trees he could see a young woman sunbathing by the pool below. She had on a white bikini, the brightness of which had caught his eye. It was too far away to tell for sure, but she seemed quite toned, almost buff. His view was of her back, and her butt muscles reminded him of those seen on gymnasts or dancers. He didn't recall a pool being in this house before. Most houses this far North didn't bother. That was an LA thing.
Finally, he decided he wasn't going to find out by spying from a distance, so he pushed on and started coasting down towards the drive.
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Sarah hated summer. Why someone would invent a fantastic place like schools to lock kids away, only to let them out to run around like wild animals in the blistering heat when the windows had to be open was beyond her.
When she married Charles years ago, he insisted that they could not raise a family in San Francisco and moved her to an estate just east of the city.. The plan was to eventually move his practice out there, but that never transpired. She had been one of the finest MMA instructors in San Francisco when they met. Now she was a suburban housewife with three kids and a pocketful of broken dreams.
Not long ago Charles approached her and said he had found the perfect home even further west and that it had a ready-made practice for him to simply "drop into". To this day she could still feel her stomach churn as a year later the police opened up what was supposed to be his office and she saw how low he could really go. The only thing in there was a desk and a phone which forwarded every call to his office in San Francisco. He had been making excuse after excuse about why he hadn't come home at nights, and occasionally flew in to keep his cover.
She had called him and told him that it was no longer necessary to bother with that anymore. His only response was a snort.
The doorbell ringing broke up the memory. Why did these suburbanites insist on making their door chimes some hair pulling cacophony that was supposed to sound like the real song? If she heard that sick, crackly version of "What's New Pussycat" one more time she was going to take one of Charles' old golf clubs and destroy the device.
It was going to go off repeatedly before one of the kids finally answered it. She braced herself. She waited. Nothing happened. Did one of the kids already get it? Not a chance. Was someone important actually at the door? Even less likely..
Maybe she should check. She tossed her fishnet shawl over her shoulders, stepped into her sandals, and headed for the door. When she rounded the corner she could tell it was an adult on the other side of the door. A tall one. Straight black hair could be seen through the glass porthole at the top. Could it be a woman? Poor thing if she's that tall.
She opened the door and... now there was a surprise!
A young man was standing there with a confused look on his face, but it quickly. dropped to a deadly go-to smile. He had the deepest brown eyes she had ever seen and a slightly hawkish look to his face - some Native American was in there.
She knew better than to flick her eyes downward, but the man was wearing nothing but a loose fitting pair of jean shorts and some Converse shoes. She thought he might apologize for not wearing a shirt, but he just started looking around as if there might be someone behind her. Despite being in a skimpy bikini and slathered in oil, he did not flick his eyes downward to look at her.
Instead, he flashed that great smile again and said, "I'm sorry to bother you, is your mother home?" He had a touch of a British accent. That made the question even more ludicrous.
She stepped back into the light a bit, put her hands on her hips, and said, "been out in the sun too long boy?"
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Jason cringed when the standard "is your mother home?" routine didn't work. He really wanted to sell some soap today. He was hot, tired, and-
Did she just call him "boy?".
The family must have been new in town because he didn't recognize the woman before him. He wasn't going to lower his eyes and start ogling her, but he could see enough to understand why he thought she might be younger. She had on a shawl to cover her shoulders, but it did nothing to cover her thighs and abdomen. Her features were smooth but her muscles were tight. Her legs looked capable of either strangling him, or making him pay if he didn't stop trying to get a better look.
She couldn't have been some transplant from the valley. They all had big plastic breasts. Hers were somewhat small, but more than enough to keep them peeking out from under the shawl she was wearing. Her bikini top was a dazzling white and, wait-
Were those freckles?
He took a look under her frilly hat and had to nearly stifle a laugh. She had red hair! Heaven save us Molly Ringwald had moved into town! Actually, she reminded him more of a famous country western singer. What was her name?
"Was there something you needed?" She had crossed her arms. That was not good.
"I'm sorry ma'am, I was thrown off by my previous faux pas. Of course you are the lady of the house and such a fine one it is".
