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Greg Kennedy had it all - a wonderful wife and two gorgeous step-daughters. But when Madison and Morgan decide that their step-father is the man of their dreams, his life turns upside down! Who will win, and who will lose, when a pair of horny twins take the reins? Buckle up for a wild ride in "Double Dare, Daddy!" ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ Morgan looked up at him, her blue eyes dark with love. "Here's how it is, Daddy," she whispered. "If you want us to stop, we will. I made Maddie promise me that, last night, when we were talking about this." She shot a look over his shoulder, aimed, Greg assumed, at her twin. "We won't take what you don't want to give us. "But we want you. Both of us want you. Can you give us this one thing? Just once?" "I dare you, Daddy." A teasing whisper from behind him, followed by a lick at the back of his neck that made his knees shake. "I double-dare you, Daddy." And Morgan stripped off her shirt, showing him her spectacular body. "We love you. Both of us. And we want to take you to bed. Both of us." Her long, tapering fingers caressed the skin on her belly, and Greg couldn't help but notice how her small white teeth caught at her lower lip. It was stupid. Insane. He ought to be committed to an asylum just for considering it. But instead of a harsh command that his daughters take their hands off him, put their clothes back on, and never bring up such a catastrophically misguided idea ever again, he heard his voice whispering, "Who first?"
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By Alana Church
Artwork by Moira Nelligar
Copyright 2018 Alana Church
~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~
St. Louis in July, Greg Kennedy thought. Which means it’s only slightly cooler than January in Hell.
All around him, the employees and the families of the Gruenschlager Brewing Company milled about, come for the annual company picnic. At long trestle tables, families ate a picnic lunch - pulled pork sandwiches, hot dogs or hamburgers, along with baked beans, corn on the cob, salad, chips, and as much beer or soda as they could hold. Small children waited impatiently in line to get their faces painted, watched a magician, or played on the swings, teeter-totters, and slides on the playground. Teenagers walked back and forth, listening to music on their headphones, or gathered in groups of four or six or eight, the boys looking the girls over with interest, the girls doing the same, though they disguised it a little bit better.
And all, Greg thought, in a broiling, stifling heat that would make Satan himself install central air. The sun, glaring down out of a pale blue sky, hit with the force of a hammer. In the park, near the Mississippi River, far below the hills that made St. Louis bearable, there was not a breath of wind, and all around the park people fanned themselves with their hands or stood under the shade trees, trying to escape the choking humidity.
He wandered over to the picnic area, looking for something cool to drink. Luckily, the social committee had planned ahead, and there were two big barrels full of ice and water. One held soda, the other was packed with selections of the brewer’s art which had won Gruenschlager a small but militant following over the years. In some parts of town, he had been told, asking for an Anheuser-Busch product in the local tavern, rather than a Gruenschlager, was a good way to get asked to leave.
Kind of like wearing a Cubs hat in Busch Stadium, he smiled.
He avoided the beer, picking out a diet soda, and somehow resisted the urge to stick his entire head in the barrel until he had cooled off. It wouldn’t take long. Only take three or four hours, he figured. Five at the most. Drowning didn’t seem like a bad exchange. Or maybe he should just crawl into the barrel until he either caught hypothermia or winter arrived.
Instead he settled for cracking the bottle and downing half the soda in one long gulp. Sighing with relief, however temporary, he turned, surveying the scene. He had only worked for Gruenschlager for a few months, and this was the first company outing he had attended.
It seemed to be a good place to work, he had to admit. The people were generally friendly, even to a newbie who was trying to learn the ins and outs of the distribution system. In one corner of the park, a group of men were setting up a softball game. Nearby, a gaggle of chattering women, obviously old friends, had commandeered one of the picnic tables and looked ready to stay as long as the food and beer lasted.
“You’re new here,” a voice said, coming from only a few feet away.
He jumped, startled, then turned. An attractive woman, maybe five years older than himself, stood smiling. She had light brown hair, streaked with waves of dark blond, and striking blue eyes. A bottle of beer hung casually at her side, clasped by the neck by long, tapering fngers, and she wore a loose cotton t-shirt and shorts, which did absolutely nothing to disguise her long, slim legs.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was friendly, and she held out a hand. “I’m Isabel Jordan.”
“Greg Kennedy,” he replied, taking it. “And yeah, I’m new. I started back in March.”
“So how do you like it so far?”
“Well,” he said, taking off his hat and running his heads through his sweat-soaked hair, “if I didn’t feel like I was on a barbeque spit, being slowly roasted alive, I’d like it quite a bit.”
Isabel laughed, her lips turning up at the corners. “Yeah, in summer it feels like we’re about five miles north of Hell,” she said. “Not from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
She shrugged. “Nah. But the first thing people do, if they’re not from the area, is complain about the heat in summer.” She smiled at him. “You think this is bad? Wait until August.”
“No thanks,” he said solemnly. “But yeah. I’m from Iowa. Des Moines, actually.”
“Oh?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Cubs fan?”
What is it with people and baseball around here? Is it a religion, or does it just seem that way? “What if I say yes?”
“Then I wait until no one’s looking, kill you, and hide your body.”
“Then I guess I’m lucky that I’m a Cardinals fan when it comes to baseball,” he said. “Though if you’re looking for a Rams fan in football, you’re out of luck. I root for the Vikings.”
“Poor guy,” she commiserated. “But fuck the Rams,” she said bluntly. “And fuck that asshole owner. He couldn’t wait to move the team to LA and take a big giant dump all over this town on his way out.”
Greg snickered. “Wow. I’m glad you don’t, you know, have strong opinions about sports or anything,” he said, trying to figure her out. Was she drunk? Or just alarmingly direct?
“You bet your ass.” She took a drink of her beer. “Just wait until the college football and basketball seasons start up around here. Then you’ll see some strong opinions. Where did you go to college?”
“Oh, good. That’s in the Missouri Valley Conference, not the Big Ten or the Big Twelve. You should be safe. You would not believe the way people at work get riled up about the Illinois-Mizzou rivalry games. One of our VPs got a bet on with the head of the finance department over the basketball game in December. Loser had to shave their head.”
“Illinois. And the head of finance. Which was a lucky thing for me.” She ran her hand over her hair. “I think I’d look funny if I were bald.”
He blinked. “You’re the head of the finance department? For the whole company?”
“Last time I checked, yeah.” She cocked her head to one side. “Anything wrong with that?”
“No, I…” but before he could say anything more, two blond-haired streaks shot up to them from one side, wrapping their arms around Isabel’s waist.
“We’re done, Mommy!” said the first urchin, a girl who was maybe six years old. “See?” She tilted her head up, and Greg could see that she’d had her face painted as a cat. Black “whiskers” shot off from either side of her nose, and her cheeks were made up in a tabby-stripe pattern. “I’m a cat!”
“Very nice, Madison,” Isabel said, squatting down and hugging her shoulders. “And what are you, Morgan?”
“I’m Wonder Woman!” Indeed, the stripe across her forehead was bright yellow, with a red star sitting boldly in the middle, and she sported a spangle of smaller blue and silver stars on her cheeks.
“Who are you?” the first girl asked him curiously, looking up from around the protection of her mother’s back. Her golden hair, much lighter than her mother’s, was caught back in a ponytail.
“My name is Greg,” he said. “I work with your mom.”
“I’m Madison,” she said. She pointed to the other girl. “This is my sister, Morgan. We’re twins.”
As if there could be any doubt, Greg thought. Aside from the hair and the makeup, the two girls were alike as two peas in a pod. If peas were disgustingly cute.
“Really?” He rounded his eyes at them as they giggled, his voice disbelieving. “I would have never guessed.”
“Have you eaten yet?” Isabel asked. She pointed at the tables, groaning with food. “We’ll keep you company. And you can help me keep these two little scamps under control,” she finished, looking at the girls fondly.
“No, thanks,” he replied, slapping his stomach. “I’ve already had enough for one day.” In fact, he had been thinking about leaving. He hadn’t been at the company long enough to make any real close friends there. Most of the people in his department were older, veterans who had been with the company for decades. They were fiercely loyal to Gruenschlager, and to the owner of the company, who Greg had barely glimpsed. An upright old patriarch, nearly eighty years old, he was the grandson of the company’s founder, who had somehow kept the company afloat through prohibition, depression, and two world wars. It gave the company a family feel, even though it employed hundreds of people. The downside was that it was very hard for someone who had no obvious ties, either to Gruenschlager or the area, to fit in.
“Then you can keep me company,” Isabel replied, taking him by the arm. When Greg hesitated, she leaned close. He could smell her perfume, a light, floral scent. “Please,” she said under her breath. “I need a conversation that’s not about credit lines and spreadsheets and income flow. Or,” she said, glancing at her daughters, “the latest adventures of Spongebob Squarepants.”
“Will your husband mind?”
Isabel raised her left hand, wiggling her fingers. A ring was conspicuous in its absence. “He might. If we were still married. But that ship sailed a long time ago.” Her face was smiling, but her blue eyes were flinty.
He surrendered. There was nothing waiting for him back at his apartment but a computer and a television set, and he was heartily bored of his own company. Why not hang out for a while? It wasn’t as if Isabel could fire him. They worked in two completely different departments.
“All right.” He looked around at the park. “Where first?”
They walked slowly around the park, stopping often, as the girls found something they wanted to explore. They visited the softball game, with Isabel being invited to join, which she laughingly declined. A few minutes later, they watched the magician for a while, the girls staring in open-mouthed wonder as he pulled tongues of flame from his voluminous sleeves, aided by a scantily-dressed assistant, whose costume seemed to consist mainly of bangles, sequins, and a shocking amount of bare skin.
Isabel chatted with him easily, asking about how he was settling in to St Louis and his job, while he tried to figure out how a woman as young as she was the finance director of a multi-million-dollar company. Some of the old brewing companies in the area were clannish, he knew, positions being passed down from one generation to the next the same way a farmer back home would pass down his land to his oldest son. But still, the woman couldn’t be that much older than he was. Not even thirty, if he had to guess. Probably even younger.
“What’s that?” one of the girls asked. Morgan? No, Madison, the one with the ponytail. Morgan wore her hair loose. Usually terrible with names, Greg forced himself to remember. Madison was the cat, Morgan the superhero.
The young girl pointed to an open section of the park. There, someone had set up what looked like a series of lopsided platforms, slightly raised on one end, tilting down towards the ground on the other. About four feet long and two feet wide, they were painted with the Gruenschlager logo and lacquered so they shone brightly in the sun.
“Oh,” he said. “They’re setting up a cornhole tournament. Cool.”
“Cornhole?” Isabel’s voice was amused. “We call it bags down here. Though I’ve never played.” She sighed as the girls darted ahead, inspecting the closest board. “What are the rules?”
“Oh, it’s easy,” he replied as they joined the twins. He picked up a beanbag, tossing it in one hand as he explained. “There’s two teams, two people on each team, and you get four bags. You throw from here,” he said, standing next to one board. “And try to hit the board over there. You get one point if you can get the bag to hit the board on the fly and stay there. Three points if you can get it to go through the hole. You add up the totals, and then subtract the difference. So if I get two points, and you get one, I’m plus one in that round.” He shrugged. “First team to twenty-one wins.”
“I want to try!” Morgan said. She took a bag, throwing it overhand at the opposite board. It landed short. A second try, thrown with more force, hit the ground, then bounced up onto the board. “I get a point!” she exclaimed excitedly.
“No you don’t,” her sister said crossly. “Because Greg said it can’t hit the ground first. Didn’t you?” She looked up at him, her dark blue eyes inquiring.
Smart, he realized. Most children wouldn’t have picked up that point. Or would have simply ignored it. “You’re right,” he said. He smiled apologetically at Morgan. “It can’t bounce, Wonder Woman. It has to go all the way there.”
Morgan frowned, but wound up again. She squealed excitedly as her throw hit the front edge of the board, then groaned as it slid all the way up and over the back edge. “Aw!”
“Here,” he suggested. “Try it this way.” He faced the board, his arm reaching back in a slow, deliberate, underhand throw. The bag arced high, then hit the board with a thump, barely moving as it stayed on.
“Wow!” Madison looked impressed. “You’re good!” She tugged at his hand. “Greg’s on my team!”
He turned to Isabel, who was watching with every evidence of amusement. “You okay with hanging out here for a while?”
She shrugged fluidly. “Why not? It beats sitting around and drinking and listening to the same stories everyone has heard a dozen times. I swear. I think that if they just looped the same picnic over and over again, half the people here wouldn’t notice.”
The shooed the girls down to the other board, and started to play. Prudently, after the first round, where he scored five points, and none of the others even hit the board, Greg stopped keeping score. He knew enough about kids to know that Madison would be excited about being on the winning team, which would probably upset her twin.
Still, Isabel eyed him as he casually dropped another bag on target. “You’ve played this a lot, haven’t you?”
“Some.” He smiled in memory. “Me and some of my friends were in a league in college.”
“They have leagues for this?” She tossed another bag, hissing in frustration as it slid off the back of the board.
“Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “Sponsored by bars, usually. You know. Show up on a Monday night, have a beer. Or three. Play some cornhole, go back to your apartment. Not a bad way to spend a night. Especially in Des Moines, where there’s usually jack-all to do.
“Here,” he said, holding up a hand to stop her as she started to throw again. “Try it this way.” He moved her fingers slightly. “Now, when you let go, give it a bit of a spin.” He demonstrated with his empty hand, his wrist flicking.
Nodding, her face set in a frown of concentration, Isabel tossed the bag. It hit the front of the board, but this time it didn’t slide off the back. Instead it moved only a foot or so, coming to rest with the back edge on the lip of the hole.
The girls jumped up and down excitedly. “Good job, Mommy!” Morgan called.
Isabel seemed to be hiding a triumphant grin. “How?” she asked.
“The spin means that there’s more friction going on when the bag hits the board,” he said. “At least, that’s what I think happens. I’m no engineer.
“But that’s a real good throw. You blocked off the hole. And if you did that early in the round, another throw would probably knock your bag in.”
“Huh.” She looked around, where more people were beginning to gather. “You, my friend, are a ringer.”
She poked his shoulder. “And we are so going to win this tourney.”
When one of the top executives at your company tells you that you’re her partner for a cornhole tournament, the smart thing to do is to nod, smile, and agree.
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