**Chapter 1: The Late-Night Call**
Fred’s boots thudded against the hardwood floor as he paced the quiet house, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. His wife, Monica, was halfway across the country, probably sipping wine in some fancy hotel bar, while he was stuck here, playing the dutiful stepdad. Not that he minded—Lisa was a good kid, even if she was a whirlwind of teenage rebellion at eighteen. But tonight, he’d hoped for a quiet beer and some mindless TV. That hope shattered at 1:07 a.m. when his phone buzzed with Lisa’s name flashing across the screen.
“Fred, I—I need you to come get us. Now,” Lisa’s voice trembled through the speaker, slurred and panicked. “I think... I think someone slipped something in our drinks. Me and Becky. We’re at this party on Elm Street, and I don’t feel right.”
Fred’s gut clenched. “Stay where you are, kid. I’m on my way. Don’t move, don’t drink anything else. You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, just hurry,” she mumbled, the line crackling with her uneven breaths.
He was out the door in under a minute, the cool night air slapping his face as he gunned his old pickup down the empty streets. Elm Street wasn’t far, but every second felt like an hour. When he pulled up to the thumping house party, Lisa and Becky were slumped against the porch railing, barely holding each other up. Lisa’s dark hair was a mess, her tight black tank top riding up to show a sliver of toned stomach. Becky, her best friend since middle school, looked just as rough—blonde curls tangled, her denim skirt so short it barely covered her thighs. Fred’s jaw tightened as he jumped out, his protective instincts roaring.
“C’mon, girls, let’s get you outta here,” he growled, slinging an arm around each of them. They stumbled, giggling incoherently, their weight dragging on him as he half-carried them to the truck. “You two are a damn mess. What the hell were you thinking, drinking at a place like this?”
Lisa’s head lolled against his shoulder, her breath hot on his neck. “Didn’t... didn’t know, Fred. Thought it was just punch. Swear.”
Becky let out a slurred laugh, her hand gripping his arm a little too tightly. “You’re, like, our hero, Mr. Mailman. Swooping in to save the day. Bet you’ve got a big... package for us, huh?”
Fred’s face burned at the innuendo, but he kept his tone sharp. “Watch it, Becky. I’m not in the mood for your smartass comments. You’re lucky I don’t drop you both at the ER.”
“Aw, don’t be mad,” Becky purred, her glassy eyes glinting with mischief even as she swayed. “We owe you. Big time.”
He ignored her, focusing on getting them into the truck and back to the house. By the time they stumbled through the front door, both girls were barely conscious. Fred guided them to Monica’s king-sized bed upstairs—his and Monica’s room, since Lisa’s tiny twin wouldn’t fit them both. They collapsed in a heap, Lisa curling into a ball while Becky sprawled out, one leg dangling off the edge. Their breathing slowed, heavy and uneven, and Fred let out a sigh of relief. Just sleep, he told himself. They’d be fine after some rest.
But as he stood there, the dim light from the hallway casting shadows over their forms, he couldn’t help but notice... everything. Lisa’s curves, even in sleep, were undeniable—her tight jeans hugging every inch of her hips. And Becky—damn, that skirt had ridden up even higher, exposing the edge of lace underneath. Her petite frame looked so delicate, yet there was a raw, untamed energy about her, even unconscious. Fred’s throat went dry, a flicker of guilt warring with something darker, hotter, as his eyes lingered on the smooth skin of her thigh.
“Get a grip, man,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his graying hair. But his hands moved almost on their own, reaching for Becky’s jacket. “These clothes... they’re too tight. She can’t sleep like this. Just helping her breathe easier, that’s all.”
He unzipped the jacket slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room, revealing the thin camisole beneath. Her chest rose and fell, the fabric clinging to every curve, and Fred’s pulse quickened. His fingers hesitated at the hem of her skirt, the air thick with tension as he fought the urge to go further. Just a little more, he thought, just to make her comfortable...
And then Becky’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but sharp, locking onto his. A slow, wicked smile curled her lips. “Well, damn, Mr. Mailman,” she whispered, her voice low and teasing, “didn’t know you delivered... personal service.”
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