Betrayed 2(223)

SANDY



I met Brent Griffin on a chilly January day when I came into the Ford dealership to have my car serviced. My fifteen-year-old Taurus was a total piece of shit, but it was all I could afford, so I had to keep it running.

I’d gotten a coupon in the mail a few days before letting me know that Tuesday was Ladies’ Day at the dealership. I could have my oil changed, fluids topped off, tires pumped up, and filters checked for just $29. I scraped together my spare change and used the tips I’d made from cutting hair all weekend to have the work done.

I pulled up to the large bay door around the side of the dealership. I was number three in line at the service center. I sat in my car with the heater going and watched as a cute service advisor with shaggy brown hair and clipboard in hand leaned in to chat with the drivers seated inside their nice warm cars. When he got to me, he asked my name and did a double take when he glanced into my eyes. It was so cute.

“My name?” I stuttered because he was staring at me, smiling.

His eyes narrowed when he smiled. He had these adorable little dimples in his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am, I need your name,” he said, tapping the pen to the clipboard.

“Oh, um, Sandy Duval,” I said.

“Hi, Sandy,” he said, writing. “I’m Brent. What can we do for your today?”

“Hi, Brent. Um, I want that Tuesday Ladies Special thingy.” God, I must have sounded like an idiot because he grinned at me. He had such a nice smile.

He asked, “You mean the oil change service?”

“Yes, that’s it,” I said, nodding like a bobble-head. I forced my head to stop bobbing when he gazed into my eyes again.

“Can I get your phone number, Sandy?” he asked.

I gave him my cell number. I bit my lip as I watched him jot it down on the form.

Without looking up, he asked, “Would it be okay if I called you some time, Sandy?”

“You mean about my car?” I asked, confused.

“No, about dinner.” His eyes widened. They were so brown I could see myself in them. “Maybe Red Lobster or Olive Garden.”

I felt my cheeks flush. I said, “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said with a happy nod. He stuck the pen behind his ear and reached for the door handle. “We’ll get you in and out as quickly as possible. If you’d like to wait in the lounge, there’s coffee and donuts.”

I watched him walk away. He had a cute, tight ass beneath the blue uniform pants. He glanced back over his shoulder at me and smiled again as if he knew I was checking him out.

He called me the next day and we went to Red Lobster for dinner the following Friday night. We quickly became inseparable, at least until he went somewhere that I could not go.



Brent and I met on Tuesday, January 24th.

We always did silly little anniversaries every month; the anniversary of our first date, the anniversary of our first kiss, the anniversary of the first time we made love in the little apartment he shared with his best friend, Wesley. The anniversary of the night he asked me to marry him.

Sunday, July 24th was the six-month anniversary of the day we met. I came up with the brilliant idea of recreating our first date. We went back to Red Lobster for dinner. I had grilled scampi and Brent had popcorn shrimp. I drank a margarita and Brent drank two glasses of sweet tea. The bill was the same and Brent left the exact same tip. The only difference between then and now was that I was desperately, hopelessly in love. I had met the man of my dreams. We were to be married on Saturday, October 15th in the little Baptist Church where Brent’s dad was an elder. Our families were thrilled. I already had my dress.

We were in Brent’s truck, a two-year-old Ford F-150 that he loved just a little less than he loved me. He was so proud of that truck. His dad had it now, though he never drove it. It just sat in the driveway, where Brent parked when he came home to visit. The bullet holes were still in the windshield and the back glass. His dad had duct-taped a piece of cardboard over the busted-out passenger side window. I think that he thought that having the truck repaired would somehow mean that he had accepted his only son’s death. Brent’s dad and I were a lot alike. Neither of us would ever let that happen.

It was just after eight o’clock when we left Red Lobster. It was the middle of summer and even though the sun was just going down, the air was still sticky and hot. We had the windows up and the AC blasting. We were going back to our little apartment to consummate our anniversary.

Sex with Brent was always quick and simple (there’s that word again). Even though he was twenty-six and good looking, he’d only been with one other girl before me, so his skills in the bedroom were somewhat awkward and a little bland. I’d had sex with four guys, one of them a lot older than me, and had done pretty much everything you could imagine, but I never suggested we do anything more than a little fingering foreplay and the quick missionary position to Brent. He was the sensitive type; deeply religious and wholesome. Telling him I wanted him to eat my pussy or that I wanted him to shove his cock into my mouth probably would have scared him to death. Brent was such a good guy, I could live with bland sex if it meant we would be together forever. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. If Brent couldn’t satisfy me, I could satisfy myself.