In the Nest with Christie

The first thing I did after Dad's car sputtered away was to snatch my phone from my dresser and tap desperate texts to former high school friends who I hoped might be free to hang out tonight. I didn't care what we did. I just had to get out. After humiliating myself in front of my stepmother, I couldn't bear to be stuck here all night with her

and

Christie

and

Christie's oh-so-perfect, boy-band-beautiful boyfriend. Fuck that shit. I'd rather die. Or spend the night playing Dungeons and Dragons in my dorkiest friend's mother's basement.

Impatient for someone to answer my texts, I paced.

Minutes passed.

My anxiety grew.

I should lie down, I thought. Close my eyes. Relax.

When I turned to my bed, I promptly changed my mind. It looked like a bomb exploded on it, pillows scattered like blown-off heads, mangled sheets twisting to the floor like limp bodies.

This bed--this

room

was ground zero of my horrific morning. No way could I relax here.

Phone in hand, I fled for the kitchen. I was a chef, and nothing soothed my soul like preparing food.

As I passed through the living room, I stepped on something sharp and prickly. With a hoot of pain, I raised my foot and found a hairbrush threaded with tangled strands of frosted brown hair.

Other items Therese had dropped from her purse when she beat her retreat lay scattered on the floor: A compact mirror; a tube of lipstick; individual hand wipe packets; a half-full bottle of prescription tranquilizers; loose change.

I tucked my phone in the waistband of my boxers and picked up the items as I followed their trail from the living room through the kitchen. The tranquilizers surprised me a little since Therese was a teetotaler, but given her high-strung nature, I supposed it made sense she needed something to wind her ass down.

After dumping everything in the coin-and-keys plate on the counter, I leaned against the counter while my foot recovered and tried to come up with tasks to keep my frazzled brain occupied while everyone was at church.

Unfortunately, what I told Therese was true: I'd prepped most of today's meal last night. Normally I wouldn't, but she and Dad had gone to bed early, and, after masturbating to Christie fantasies in the shower, I got bored, so I made the butternut squash salad and wild rice stuffing, mixed the marinade, and sealed the hens in it. They would only take two hours to roast. For now, there was nothing to do.

Still, I was calmer in the kitchen. Unconcerned for the moment about the lack of texts from my friends, I pulled my phone from my waistband and set it on the table. Then I drifted around, peeking into cabinets and drawers, idly reviewing what my stepmother kept in stock.

My gaze lingered on a bag of sugar, and inspiration struck.

Dessert.

I hadn't made dessert.

Not that I didn't want to. I loved making desserts. But Dad and Therese had sworn off sweets for health reasons, and I'd sooner stick a fork in my eye than ask Christie what her shithead fuckface boyfriend liked, so I'd bought a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream and figured if they didn't like it, fuck 'em.

But my impromptu inventory told me Therese had everything I needed to make cream puffs. The perfect dessert for Christie and her twinkie, I decided.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing at the island sculpting dough on a baking sheet and plotting excuses for going home immediately after dinner when, from the table behind me, my phone rang--the chime of a call, not the ding of a text.

I frowned. The only people who didn't text me before calling were Dad and telemarketers. With a muttered curse, I wiped my hands on my boxers and reached for the phone.

My breath hitched when I saw Christie's name on the screen.

Though often on my mind, her name looked weird on my phone. She hadn't called me since I'd moved out two years ago. Annoyed at the jitters in my stomach, I accepted the call and slouched against the island, attempting to sound bored and unsurprised. "Hey, Christie."

"Are they gone?"

The urgency in her voice electrified my dick. "Who?" I asked.

She huffed with impatience. I imagined her rolling those gorgeous, gold-flecked green eyes of hers. "Mom and Howard, silly. Have they left for church?"

"Oh, uh, yeah." I cleared my throat loudly, straight into the phone, which was one of my dad's most annoying habits.

Stop sounding like an old man.

"They, uh, left, uh, half an hour ago, uh..."

Stop sounding like an idiot.

I paused, took a deep breath, and concentrated. "Therese Said She Texted You." I over-enunciated each word.

Okay, good, now you sound normal.

"She Said You And --"

The fuckface.

"Your Buh, Buh, Boyfr --"

Nope, can't say it, try something else.

"A... A --"

Asshole.

"... Aaron Were Supposed To Meet Them At Church."

Christie paused so long, I thought she might be worried I was having a brain aneurism. Then she uttered a weary sigh and said, "Well, unfortunately for Mom, that's not happening."

I raised my eyebrows. "You're skipping church?"

"Damn right."

This was a surprise. I never expected such rebelliousness from my sweet, obedient stepsister. "Where are you and Aaron now?"

"Oh, I'm not with that jerk anymore."

I blinked.

"And I'm pulling into the driveway."

I dropped my phone in the dough.

"Oh... okay... uh..." I fished the phone out of the mixing bowl, not sure my stammers were audible through the goop. As car tires squeaked beside the house, I wiped the phone with a dish towel, which merely spread the goop around more, so fuck it, I'd clean the phone later--I was more worried about bedhead. Rushing to the sink, I rinsed my hands and finger-combed my hair with hurried swipes. Then I checked my T-shirt for embarrassing stains. Not too bad. The usual food splatters, but nothing incriminating. Whew. Okay.

Then I realized I wasn't wearing pants.

It shouldn't have mattered. Dad and I lounged around the house in our boxers all the time. Considering recent events, though, pants seemed prudent.

I darted from the kitchen through the living room toward the back hall. Along the way, I glanced at the picture window and quickened my pace as Christie's messy blonde bun bobbled up the porch steps.

But when I reached the hallway, I halted at the sound of a piercing, full-throated scream.

"Aaaaaahhhh!"

Chee-chee-chee-chee-chee!

I couldn't help chuckling. Like mother, like daughter. Concerns about clothing vanished as I awaited the hilarious slapstick-comedy entrance I'd tease her about for the rest of our lives.

But the entrance never came. Christie's screams disintegrated into breathless cries, then pitiful moans. Through the picture window, I watched the robin shoo her to the edge of the porch, flapping and screeching in her face as she shuffled backward in bug-eyed terror.

My schadenfreude faded as I recalled how paralyzed with shock

I'd

been by that feathery ball of fury, only snapping out of it when Therese intervened and yanked me inside. Pants or no pants, I owed Christie the same courtesy.

Heedless of my half-clothed state, I banged through the front door and burst onto the porch.

The bird, startled by my sudden appearance, whisked past Christie's head and retreated to her tree.

Christie wobbled at the far end of the porch, staring glassy-eyed in my direction without seeming to see me.

I saw her, though.

Damn.

No matter how many photos I ogled or fantasies I replayed, her sexy body always stunned me when I beheld it in the flesh.

And speaking of flesh--she was showing more than usual. Normally, she wore classy outfits that flattered her figure without flaunting it. Today, though, a hot-pink half-tee hugged her pert braless breasts, squeezing her fear-hardened nipples. A flash of reflected sunlight alerted me to a belly button piercing I didn't know she had. Tight denim cut-offs cleaved above the topmost swells of her thighs, and at the ends of her long tan legs, nude flip-flops showcased shapely little feet. My eyes traveled up and down her delectable body. Boobs... hips... legs... feet...

Stop!

I snapped out of it, knowing I'd reveal too much flesh of my own if I wasn't careful.

"Sorry about that," I said, forcing a light-hearted laugh as I gestured toward the Japanese maple. "I guess Therese didn't warn you about the bird. We'd better get inside before it comes back with reinforcements."

Christie didn't respond. She just swayed in a daze at the porch's edge. There was no railing to support her if she lost her balance, and I almost crossed the distance between us to pull her to safety, but her helplessness was nearly as sexy to me as her skimpy attire, so physical contact was probably a bad idea. Instead, I put my hands on my hips, squinted at the maple, and spoke in a chit-chatty tone I hoped would set her at ease.

"Not sure birds do that," I said. "Bring reinforcements, I mean. Kind of reminds me of that old movie--Alfred Hitchcock, I think--the one where birds turn against humans. Ever see it?" I glanced at her. She didn't answer. I shrugged. "I've never seen it. Just heard about it. I forget what it's called."

Christie jerked her head, showing vague awareness. She spoke under her breath.

I took a tentative step closer. "What'd you say?"

She twitched. Her eyes blinked into brief semi-clarity, then clouded again. "The... birds." Her speech was groggy and slurred. "It's... called... the... birds."

"Huh?" Distracted by her loopiness, I'd lost track of the conversation. Then it clicked. "Oh, the movie! Yeah, that's right--

The Birds.

Heh-heh. Boy, they really wracked their brains coming up with

that

title, eh?"

A corner of her mouth quirked up. She rolled her eyes. Ah, progress. This was her usual expression when I said something stupid.

Eager to build on success, I opened my mouth to say more stupid things.

But then I noticed her eyes kept rolling... all the way back in her head.

"Christie?"

Lips still tilted in a smirk, she tipped over the ledge, flip-flops flying from her feet as she plopped into a bush.

"Oh my God!"

Visions of ambulances and hospitals and a lifetime of guilt swirled through my brain as I raced across the porch.

"Christie! Oh my God! Christie!"

She lay as if napping in luxurious comfort on a fluffy green bed. She didn't appear to be injured. The porch wasn't too high, so she hadn't fallen far. Still, it was lucky she landed in that bush.

"Christie?"

Her ankles were propped on the ledge. The rest of her sank slightly lower into the shrubbery. I extended my big toe and nudged her calf. "Christie." I dropped to a crouch and tapped her foot with my fingers. "Christie... Hey... Christie..."

Over the years, Therese had claimed Christie sometimes fainted from sudden scares. It was why she opposed certain activities, like surprise parties or trips to Six Flags. I assumed she was just an overprotective mother exaggerating her daughter's delicacy. The girl might be skittish, but chicks only swooned from fear in old black and white movies, I thought.

But now, as her breathing settled into a light snore while I poked her foot, I realized Christie had fainted like it was going out of style. Which it did. A long time ago. Yet I found it adorable.

Fuck. I was a pervert.

Worse yet, with panic fading and my senses returning, I noticed how smooth her bare sole felt against my fingertips. My nostrils tingled with the sweet apple aroma of her body wash mingling with the earthy springtime fragrance of the bush.

Bush,

my animal brain said--and I knew I'd better get my shit together right fucking now.

Rising from my crouch before my cock could regroup, I took hold of Christie's ankles to pull her toward the porch. The proper course of action was to carry her inside, set her on the sofa, and tend to her like the civilized gentleman I periodically pretended to be.

My intentions were noble, but my execution lacked finesse.

As soon as I tugged at her legs, I realized she wouldn't slide the way I'd hoped. Instead, she sank deeper into the shrubbery like it was quicksand. Whoops.

In an unthinking rush, I repositioned my grip on her ankles and hoisted her upside down in the air.

Her dead weight startled me. Her total limpness made her heavier than her petite form had any business being. I teetered dangerously on the ledge as I adjusted to this unexpected consequence of unconsciousness. Though I noticed her half-tee riding up her torso, it hardly registered, because holy shit, this was serious. Her life was in my hands.

Afraid of bonking her head when I backed up to reel her in, I eyed the edge of the porch and, wobbling with effort, raised her high enough to clear it.

I steadied myself, clutched her ankles securely, and took a slow, careful step backward.

Then a slight shudder rippled through her inanimate figure. Her legs jerked. Her toes wiggled. She issued a breathy little sigh.

Oh, good. She was coming to. That would make this easier, I thought.

And maybe it would have, had she been more sanguine about waking up dangling upside down by her ankles.

In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised when she instead burst into a cataclysm of bone-rattling screams, jolting from dead faint to deranged frenzy in the blink of an eye. But I was caught off-guard and, as I weaved and swayed on the ledge, my desperate shouts couldn't compete with her full-tilt freakout. I bent forward and stretched my arms, straining to hold her over the center of the bush in case I lost my grip while she bucked and thrashed like a wild animal. And speaking of wild animals--

chee-chee-chee-chee-chee!

--the mama bird picked that moment to launch another attack, flapping around my head while Christie flailed in my hands, causing my balance and grip to give way, and

fwoosh!

The next thing I knew, I was enshrouded in shrubbery.