A Dance With The Devil

Saturday morning Breakfast at mamas house or not !

Kolby's P.O.V

Hannah was feeling incredibly hungover, and it was quite a sight to see her in a hoodie, my baseball cap, and dark sunglasses. The oversized hoodie hung loosely on her frame, the fabric slightly wrinkled from a night of tossing and turning. The baseball cap, which usually sat snugly on my head, was pulled down low over her eyes, casting a shadow that only added to her disheveled appearance. The dark sunglasses, a last-ditch effort to shield her from the harsh morning light, completed the look of someone who had clearly overindulged the night before.

I ended up crashing in the kids' room last night because my wife told me to give her some space—she was in a mood! It was one of those nights where the level of frisky was scary and I knew better than to push my luck. In sleeping in my oown my bed unskathed So, I grabbed a blanket and a couple of pillows and made myself comfortable on the floor among the scattered toys and stuffed animals. The kids' room was a chaotic mess, but it felt oddly comforting in its familiarity. I could hear the faint sounds of my wife moving around the house, and I hoped she would head to bed soon andnot realize I washiding from her at this point we both didn't need that last night

Now, as we were on our way to pick up Kasey, I couldn't help but wonder if she was likely in just as rough shape as Hannah. Kasey had a reputation for being the life of the party, and last night had been no exception. I could only imagine the state she was in after a night of dancing, laughter, and perhaps a few too many cocktails. The thought of her stumbling out of her apartment, hair tousled and makeup smudged, made me chuckle despite the headache that was beginning to throb at my temples.

As we drove through the quiet streets, I glanced over at Hannah, who was now leaning her head against the window, eyes closed, trying to block out the world. I felt a pang of sympathy for her; I knew that feeling all too well. The regret that comes with a hangover is a universal experience, and I couldn't help but think about the fun we had last night, even if it had come at a price.

"Are you going to be okay baby ?" I asked, breaking the silence.

She opened one eye, peering at me through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. "I'll survive," she muttered, her voice hoarse. "Just need some coffee and maybe a greasy breakfast."

I nodded in agreement, already can imagine what mama was cooking.

Brantleys p.o.v

This morning, I woke up to a message from Kasey, and it instantly brought a smile to my face. She was expressing her heartfelt gratitude for the fun we had last night. Kasey mentioned that she doesn't usually drink to that extent, but when she does, she can really hold her own. Her words got me thinking about my own experience after the night out. Honestly, I could have really used a cold shower to cool down after getting home. Instead, I ended up taking a longer shower than I usually do, letting the warm water wash over me as I tried to unwind. Let's just say that I had to take care of myself a couple of times to feel comfortable again, if you know what I mean.   This morning was no different; I found myself indulging in that familiar routine three times before I finally got ready to head out to Mama's house. I was excited to see my beloved kids, whom I've missed so much during the week. But as I drove, I couldn't shake off the memory of that fiery kiss we shared. It was intoxicating, and I could feel my track pants getting a bit tighter as those thoughts crept back into my mind, stirring up another urge. I tried to focus on the road, but the memory lingered, making it hard to concentrate. As I pulled up to Mama's, I thought it might be the right moment to chat with her about that heart-pounding kiss from last night. After all, it was a moment that felt significant, and I could use her perspective on it.

As I stepped into my mom's house, just like any other day, I was confronted with a shocking scene that I might need therapy to forget. My mother was being fucked like a cheap slut by my dad, and they were completely oblivious to my presence. The only word I could manage to choke out was "Mama," which I half-shouted. She screamed, "Oh God, Brantley!" and I heard a loud thud as I nearly stumbled in my haste to escape. I couldn't wrap my head around what I had just witnessed—my divorced parents were having sex on the kitchen table, the very spot where we shared meals and celebrated holidays. I quickly grabbed my phone to text Kolby about the traumatic experience. If I end up needing therapy at 41, he's going to have to join me.