A yellow 1960s Volkswagen Beetle with a rusted bumper was parked in his driveway, behind Victoria’s car. “It’s Margaret and Sandra,” he said in a flat voice.

“Who?”

John turned to face Victoria, his erection long gone. “My moms.”

Her jaw dropped as she clutched a sheet to her chest. “What do we do? Should I hide? Should I go out the back?”

He shook his head as he searched the bedroom for clothes. Anything would do. “No, no, you’re not going anywhere. I’ll try to make this quick.”

Victoria left the solace of his bed searching for her own clothes. “I left my overnight bag downstairs.”

“Jesus.” He rifled through his chest of drawers and tossed her a black T-shirt. “Try that on.”

She caught it with one hand and yanked it over her head. “Pants?”

He found her an old pair of plaid pajama pants. “These?”

“They’ll have to do.” Victoria tried to keep the panic from her voice as she grabbed her discarded panties from the floor. John found a similar outfit for himself and hoped they didn’t smell like sex. After a moment, they quickly appraised each other.

“Twinsies,” he said.

“Not now!” she snapped.

“Right.”

He took off downstairs, two steps at a time, skipping the last three. Sandra and Margaret peered inside. “Mom...Mom. Hi. What are you guys doing here?”

Margaret Pierce narrowed her hazel eyes at her son and his heaving chest. Sandra Donovan raised a brow at the stirring behind John. Victoria stood off to the side hugging herself, probably trying to keep her braless breasts in check. Her overnight bag sat at John’s feet. “We brought food for you and Becca,” Sandra said slowly, pushing a foil-covered casserole dish at him.

“But it looks like we’ve interrupted something,” Margaret intoned, a bowl of cookies in her hands.

“Becca isn’t here,” John said, still standing in the doorway. His mind was a scramble of possible excuses to get his mothers to leave so he could get back to Victoria. But the curious expressions the women wore told him that nothing would stop them from finding out more. “She’s at school.”

“We figured as much,” his mother said in a dry voice. “Are you going to let us in or what?”

He girded his loins as he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in, ladies. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

The corner of Sandra’s lips quirked. “We could probably use it, honey.”

As the women entered his home, John took their coats and hung them. Victoria stood at the bottom of the stairwell, still having not said a word. He took the cookies and casserole, gearing up to make introductions, but his mother quickly jumped in.

“I’m Johnny’s mother, Margaret Pierce, and this is his stepmother, Sandy,” she said in a warm but perfunctory voice. “And you are...”