by Echo Slater
Slamming my thighs shut, I think of the sexy biker. He smelled like black licorice, and I’ve always had a sweet tooth. It’s why I struggle to fit my ass in these jeans.
I can still feel his stubble brushing against my cheek and forehead. He’d been forward and a little gross with the blowjob talk but also playful.
“I want him to be my first.”
“Who?” Hagan asks, shoving down her jeans and seeming overheated. “Did we ever get a name?”
“Wait, what?”
“His name isn’t Horse, and his name isn’t Cash. But what was his name, Cam?”
I burst into laughter and blush bright red. “I don’t know.”
“But he knows your first name. He can ask around and get your info. He’ll probably stalk you. Show up at your house and shake Phil’s hand and talk about bass fishing.”
“Why would they ever do that?”
“Because they’re the same fucking age, you fat-lipped nutter-butter.”
Wiggling free of my pants as we sit in the now dark room, I try to imagine my dad and the biker fishing. “You’re just angry he didn’t want you to suck him off.”
“Yeah, probably,” she says and nudges my leg with her knee. “He was hot. Shredded-as-fuck as if he spends his days pumping weights and gobbling steroids.”
“And his eyes were as dark as chocolate.”
Hagan exhales hard. “Bitch, get off your diet and just eat normal.”
“I can’t. I want to look good for when my cooch gets torn apart by the pierced-dick, steroid monster old enough to be my dad.”
“Well, when you put it that way, you really ought to add extra cardio to your routine.”
“What should I call the biker until I know his name?”
“Dad?”
“You offered to suck Dad’s dick for an ounce of MJ,” I remind her while she laughs at her joke.
A knock at the door startles us into the corner. Laughing, we spray air freshener and turn up the fan until our hair is flying everyone. Finally, I walk to the door to pretend I’m not stoned.
Phil pops his head in. No glasses on my dad’s face since he’s preparing for bed. He smiles at us and then sighs.
“Your mom and I would like very much if you could gossip in more hushed tones, so our fuzzy denial can better remain intact.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Stumbling over to us, Hagan puts on her sad puppy face. “Yes, I also apologize, Phil.”
“Well, I know you’re sorry, Hagan. Always the best influence, this one, right, Cameo?”
“She’s the epitome of moral integrity,” I say, hugging Hagan to me. “We’ll be quieter.”
“My gag reflex very much thanks you.”
After Dad shuts the door, Hagan and I giggle over his discomfort.
“Call him Dirty Bastard,” Hagan whispers after we crawl on my bed and listen to a Pink song. “That way, you’ll never forget who you’re dealing with.”
“But I shouldn’t call him that to his face, right?”
“Of course not. The tenderhearted crybaby might need therapy if you hurt his precious grown-man feelings.”
“He might. You can never tell. Look at Phil. He’s so very manly. Few could catch so much bass as my studly father, yet he was grossed out by the smallest amount of sex talk. I mean, we barely even mentioned the pee and poop stuff.”
“Yeah, Phil is quite the man. Super secure in his masculinity, too. That’s why he’s brave enough to wear shorts with those knobby knees.”
Covering her mouth, I laugh at the memory of my father in his gardening shorts. I suspect Arlene makes him wear them as a way to turn off other women. Or maybe she just wants people looking at his knobby knees, so they won’t notice hers.
Later, as Hagan dozes off—worn out by a long day of snark—I wonder if Dirty Bastard owns a pair of shorts. Maybe the cutoff-jeans kind revealing his thick, muscular thighs. I try to imagine him under me while I do all the great bouncy-fucking I’ve seen in movies and porn. Ugh, not quite as sexy when it’s my body jiggling around.
No way am I woman enough for Dirty Bastard. I can’t imagine withstanding even a one-night stand of great, not-at-all-gross sex. I’ll chicken out before I get anywhere near his no doubt impressive dick.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan to drop by his “not an orgy” party next weekend. If I’m stuck with only my pink vibrator to provide me the warm and fuzzies, I deserve as much eye-candy inspiration as possible.
MAD DOG—ANY MAJOR DUDE WILL TELL YOU
The Ranch came about after Cash decided to use some of his inheritance to buy a piece of empty land here in Barrow. He figured all of us Wet Dicks living in separate places around normal folk was a recipe for disaster.
Since Cash bought the land, we’ve built twenty gray-shingle-and-stone bungalows. There’s also a large common area—The Hanger—with an industrial-style kitchen, a massive dining room, and a chill area with pool tables. We watch sports and movies in the shared media room. The Ranch also offers a pool, basketball court, and a shooting range.
Like most mornings, we enjoy all the fixings cooked up by the prez’s aunt, Dexy, and her man, Rubber Duck. With scrambled eggs, sausage, and biscuits and gravy, we end up eating so many calories that we’ll spend hours working them off in the gym.
Usually, Grizz’s woman—Raquel, aka Raqui—will help cook. But she’s gotten big in the last month and mostly waddles around after her nearly two-year-old son, Cross.
“You need to get married,” Raqui announces after sitting down at the long wooden table next to her old man. She’s a sexy blonde with sharp green eyes and perky tits she claims remain as stellar as before she popped out Cross.
“Who you talking to, girl?” Stoney asks, sitting across from me. His blue eyes flash with annoyance. “If you’re speaking to your man, maybe lower the volume so we don’t all have to listen.”
“Why would I want my man to get married?”
“I don’t know. You’re always talking. And it’s never to me. What do I care?”
“Grizz, he’s being a dickhead,” Raqui snitches to our president, whose gruff face is almost always frowning.
“Yeah, but that’s his thing, baby,” he says, flashing her a smirk. “If I get him to stop spewing shit, what’s Stoney going to do with his time?”
“Jack off ten more times than usual?” she suggests and then shakes her head. “I had a point.”
“You want someone to get married,” I say, helping her get to where she’s going.
“Exactly. One or more of you need to find a woman, preferably someone who doesn’t suck, and marry her. Knock her up, too. I want someone to hang out with while you dipshits drink beers and have literal pissing contests.”
“Mad Dog was drooling over a little gal at the club last night,” Cash says, grinning at me. “She seemed like a righteous woman capable of putting up with the mounds of shit necessary to love the asshole.”
“Thanks, man, really,” I say, flicking eggs at him.
“Is she a hag?” Raqui asks.
“She’s damn near perfect,” I spit out and then shrug. “Only flaw was her unwillingness to wrap her fat lips around my dick first off. Otherwise, she was a living doll. She’s coming to the townie party next weekend.”
“Quality women suck off guys on the second date,” Raqui says, fighting a grin and trying to play serious. “Everyone knows that. It’s even in the Bible, I believe.”
“I recall reading that passage,” Dexy adds, laying their bullshit on thick.
Rubbing his wild blond beard, Cash asks, “Second date, huh? That means I’ve never met a quality woman.”
“Wouldn’t you consider your mom a quality woman?” Stoney asks, chuckling at his choice to poke at that wound.
“She sucked off the help without taking any of them on a single date. No, she lacks quality.”
“Poor Cash,” Grizz mumbles with his mouth full. “His mama broke him a little, did she?”
Cash
shakes his hand at us as if waving off our taunting. “Let’s get back to Raqui’s thing where Mad Dog needs to marry the girl he spoke to for five minutes.”
“Yeah, my thing,” she says, handing a sausage link to Cross sitting between Grizz and her. “And five minutes is plenty of time, Cash. I knew as soon as Grizz flexed his left bicep how I’d met the man of my dreams.”
Though we laugh at her sincerity, Raqui and Grizz did hook up damn quick. Our president met the eighteen-year-old waitress when she was working at a chain restaurant off the highway. I remember him coming home from a ride and claiming he’d met his woman. It was quite the fucking shock after he flipped out over his former VP doing the same damn thing. The Wet Dicks Motorcycle Club used to have twelve members. We broke in half after Hoot got a woman. Despite all that, Grizz still made Raqui sound like a done deal and beyond discussion.
After breakfast, I find myself busy with errands for the club. Barrow is a small town where people mind their own fucking business. The local cops never hassle the club. We’ve got too much dirt on powerful people around here—sheriff, preachers, lawyers, judges. The club owns all the naughty places where people fuck up and make bad choices. So, we do what we want within limit.
Except now we have competition from Hoot’s club, Filthy Roosters. That was the deal, of course. Grizz and Hoot parted ways, split the club’s territory, and agreed to stay out of each other’s way. Not that we’ve done a great job of that last part.
Today, Bishop and I get buzzed by two Roosters as we head to The Cherry. Nirvana and Tank race by on each side, waving their figurative dicks in a way that makes me smile. Those guys were my club brothers once. Family, really, but I wasn’t walking away from Grizz. Like in many divorces, the kids got to choose, and I picked the better man.
All day, no matter where I go or what I do, I have the sexy teenage tease on my mind.
But soon, I start doubting she’ll show at the weekend townie party. As the days pass, I get to wondering if my memories of that night are correct. Was I just so awestruck by her lips and eyes—plus what hid under her hoodie—that I hadn’t been thinking straight? By Thursday, I can’t be sure of anything.
“Hey, dipshit,” I say to one of my teenage buyers after he hits me up for pot at The Cherry. “You go to the high school, right?”
“No, man, I’m in college,” he croaks in a voice barely finished dropping.
“Sure, turd. Do you know a girl named Cameo?”
His face changes immediately. “Yeah, she’s one of the cheerleader hoes.”
“The dumpster-pail kid,” snickers his equally stupid friend.
These two are the kind of fuckwits I pounded on in high school. Stole their lunch money, too. Why the fuck not? My parents never had any cash for me to eat, and my pa was too proud for government help. He preferred for his boy to go hungry. So, yeah, I bullied shitheads like these two and got what I needed. Why not do the same thing now for info?
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, poking Baby Dick #2’s scrawny chest with my big-ass finger.
“Her mom left her in a dumpster,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. “Like those dolls. Get it, Mad Dog?”
“Don’t call me by my name. You and I ain’t friends.”
“What should I call you?”
“Sir,” I say, and Stoney chuckles nearby. “Show me respect before I see what’s bigger, my foot or your head?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Well, then, that’s the right kind of manners. Bet your mama’s real proud. Now, tell me more about Cameo. She’s a cheerleader, eh? Does that mean she’s popular?”
“Sure, yeah,” Baby Dick #1 says and adds, “But she mostly chills with her slut friend, Hogan.”
“Hagan,” Baby Dick #2 corrects. “He just calls her that because she gave him the nickname, ‘Gone in Sixty Seconds.’”
“Like the movie,” says Baby Dick #1.
“That ain’t why she calls him that,” Baby Dick #2 tells me and laughs.
“Shut up, asshole.”
“Both of you need to zip it,” I growl before shrugging. “I mean, shit, you’re a little kid. Of course, your balls shoot their wad in a minute. What do you expect? Now, I’m happy you hit the jackpot with some chick. If she’s the hot brunette with the big brown eyes, you got more than lucky. You hit the pity lottery there. However, I’m not your pal or mentor, so put aside your dick stories. Just tell me about Cameo.”
“Cameo Sutton. That’s her name,” Baby Dick #2 says, feeling helpful now. “She lives on Willow Lane in the blue house with all the fucking gnomes. Her dad is the accountant on Main Street, and her mom is Barrow Elementary School’s vice principal.”
“See, that’s the kind of helpful info I’m looking for,” I say, pointing at the second boy. “Now, does Cameo have a boyfriend? Is she into jocks? Will I need to beat up a teenage shit-stain to make her single?”
“She used to date a guy named Brayden,” Baby Dick #2 explains, “but they broke up last year. When she goes to parties, she just hangs out with Hagan. We think they’re lesbians.”
“Seems right,” Stoney says. “They probably act that way with dweebs like you. My loser brother couldn’t get laid in high school, so he figured every girl was a lesbo.”
“Whatever, man,” Baby Dick #1 says and then corrects himself after I lift my fist in response. “Sir, I mean. Can we go?”
“Are you planning to tell Cameo I asked about her?”
“No.”
“Unless you want us to,” Baby Dick #2 says since he seems a little smarter than his friend.
“No, let stuff slide. Don’t want to spook the sweet thing.”
“She isn’t all sweet,” Baby Dick #1 grumbles. “She kneed a football player in the balls before a big game, and we lost.”
“Not because of him, but his inability to walk didn’t help,” Baby Dick #2 clarifies.
“I like you,” I say to the second guy. “You’re a straight shooter. You do me a favor and keep an eye on Cameo. Just let me know if anyone gives her shit. Then, I’ll care if someone ever gives you shit. Get it?”
“Yeah, thanks, sir.”
Once the twerps return to their car and disappear, Stoney nudges me with his elbow.
“This girl is high school, brother,” he says, rubbing his stubbled jaw and laughing at me with his bright blue eyes. “That’s a lot of drama and homework and other bullshit a grown man doesn’t need.”
“You only say that crap because you haven’t seen this girl. She’s peak hotness and left me feeling like a child begging for his mama’s attention. There was some magic between her and me.”
Stoney runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair and flashes me a frown. “One time, for less than five minutes.”
“You don’t know.”
“Oh, I know,” he mutters, offering a smirk. “Cash acted out the entire embarrassing spectacle. He did the girl’s part while Horse stood like a dummy doing you. It was quite the show.”
“Humor is a good thing for a lonely man to embrace.”
“I ain’t lonely,” he says, throwing his leg over his hog. “And neither are you.”
“Well, neither was Grizz until he met Raqui. Then, his heart couldn’t be left alone without that girl.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stoney says, rolling his eyes. “You better watch these urges before Chris Hansen lures you to a kitchen.”
“She’s eighteen. Nice and legal.”
“And you’re a man who loves the fucking law,” he says, chuckling at my situation as he rides away.
With no one around and The Cherry not opening for a few hours, I decide to run back to the Ranch before my shift. On the way, I roll past Cameo’s blue house with the gnome-cluttered front yard on Willow Lane. Seeing where she lives makes me feel like a man hung up on a kid. She isn’t even paying her own way yet. Probably has a curfew. Might even get grounded for messing around with a guy like me.
Those are a whole heap of good reasons to shut down my inter
est.
But I refuse to do the right thing. Why let something good walk away before I’m ready? I’ll never push her to do more than she wants.
Cameo will show up this weekend, or she won’t. Right now, I’m patient. If she doesn’t show, we’ll run into each other. This town is too small, and I’ve got no damn doubt our paths are meant to cross again.
CAMEO—WHY CAN’T I?
Hagan swears I better not tell my parents where we’re headed. She claims they won’t let us leave if they know. I listen to her worries before explaining to my parents exactly where we’re going.
“You’re a dumbass,” Hagan grumbles once we’re in the car on the way to the Ranch.
“What if we disappeared, and they only had our fake info to go by? Wouldn’t you want to make it easier for our parents to find our corpses for a decent burial?”
“Sure, but the real question is which of our pictures would the media use when we went missing?”
“Oh, definitely the cheerleading ones. People will care more about finding us if they think we’re fuckable.”
Hagan grins. “I hope they use an older one of me from before I traumatized my hair with a mom cut.”
Reaching over, I run my fingers through her shoulder-length mahogany hair. “I still like it. Bounce is good in hair.”
“If my hair’s bouncing, it’ll distract from my boobs.”
“Do you really think these bikers or any guy will give two shits about your hair?”
“No, naw, nope.”
Smiling at her approving glance down at her breasts, I recall my parents’ reaction to my choice to hang out at the Ranch.
“It’ll get wild,” Arlene muttered, nervously cracking her knuckles.
“I’ll stay with Hagan.”
Even unimpressed, Phil nodded. “There will be drugs and alcohol.”
“There are drugs and alcohol at high school parties.”
“Not helping,” Mom said.
“On my luxurious hair, I swear I will never leave Hagan’s side. We’ll share a single beer opened in front of us to avoid roofies. And we will be home by one.”
“And if a fight breaks out?” Phil asked.