Page 92 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

One hand shot to her waist.

The other gripped the back of her thigh to stop her fall.

His fingers curled under the hem of her dress, tryin’ not to feel anything, though he could feel everything. “Fuckin’ shit, bro—” he hissed, teeth clenched and glancin’ up, seein’ his hand under her hiked dress, palm full of her. He shot daggers at Roger. “Wanna explain why I got my hand on your mom’s ass right now? Come get her and take care’a this shit.”

Roger didn’t move, starin’ up at his mom with a deadpan face.

Then he took a sip from his Solo cup.

Andrew let out a huff, one hand tryin’ to drag away into a safe zone. “C’mon now. Let’s get off the damn chair before you bust your ass, alright?”

She didn’t move, too busy scannin’ the room, eyes throwin’ knives.

Girls shuffled toward the hallway, hesitatin’, glancin’ back thinkin’ maybe this was a prank.

“That’s it, girls,” Mrs. Robinson called, “move it along. Your boyfriends’ll be with you in five. You’ll live.”

Andrew didn’t like where this was goin’.

Mrs. Robinson didn’t budge ‘til the last girl was outta sight and the door slammed shut. She snapped her fingers, turnin’ toward the back of the house as he helped her down. “Alright. Bring her in!”

Andrew’s stomach sank.

Bring who in? The fuck was about to happen?

The first screech of guitar licked through the speakers—“SHE’S MY CHERRY PIE…”—volume up, bass rippin’ under the floor and shakin’ the walls. Then, from the kitchen, a girl strutted in with long tanned legs, heels, and black lace ridin’ high on her hips, as if she stepped right out of a centerfold.

The living room exploded into whistles, cough-laughs, guys jumpin’ up to their feet. One of ‘em tossed his hat in the air. Another fake-fainted into the carpet. Another banged a drumroll into the coffee table.

The DJ shouted from the corner, “Ayo—Montclair comin’ with the heat tonight!”

Mrs. Robinson grabbed Roger’s shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “Sit, sweetheart,” she cooed. And he did, glancin’ at Andrew with help-me eyes.

Around the room, his boys were goin’ feral as the stripper circled him, hips movin’ side-to-side, her hand trailin’ across his shoulders, and Roger’s eyes went dead, lookin’ right at her but seein’ nothin’—pale, stiff, no color, gone inside himself. It made Andrew’s gut churn heavy.

“Can’t have my son growin’ up confused. Not in this house,” Mrs. Robinson mutters from behind. “One day he’ll thank me.”

Andrew’s face hardened, teeth grindin’ so hard his temples throbbed as he stared at Roger like—you good, bro? But Roger wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at anyone.

The room broke out in hoots and slap-heavy laughter.

“Yo, he blushin’!”

“Look at Rog, bro!”

“She gonna ride him in that chair or what?!”

“Ain’t no way he makin’ it through this.”

But Roger wasn’t smilin’.

Roger wasn’t blushin’, either.

Andrew scanned the room at all the guys laughin’ their asses off, too lit to clock what was really happenin’. Over his shoulder, Mrs. Robinson took a sip of her glass, swayin’ to the music, smilin’ and proud of herself.

When Andrew’s gaze circled back to Roger, he was sittin’ with his bones locked up, arms clamped to the sides of the chair, eyes open and filled with fear.

He wasn’t scared of women or the fact there was tits in his lap.