by Meghan Quinn
“Dad, did she mean frozen ice or the drug ice?” Marley asks.
“Frozen ice, of course…” Bernie pauses with his soda halfway to his mouth. “I assume. Now that I think about it, she was really twitchy. Holy Franklin Delano Roosevelt, do you think she was offering me drugs?”
“Most likely, Dad. See what happens when you talk to random strangers? You get offered drugs. You’re grounded from here on out,” Paul says, bringing his beer to his lips.
From behind him, I see Marley lift her hand, and in one quick motion, throw something at Paul’s feet. An eruption of loud pops echoes through our campsite, sending Paul flying out of his chair.
In slow motion, I watch Paul spill his beer on his shirt before his bottle crashes to the ground. His hands are dancing by his head as Marley throws another handful of something at his feet, making him dance some more, this time girly screams flying out of his mouth you would only expect to come from glitter wearing ten year old girls. He’s spinning in circles, trying to get away from the loud popping sounds, which I can only assume he thinks is the fire.
His dancing is amusing, his jazz hands by his ears comical, until he trips on a rock outlining the fire pit, causing him to turn in horror and land ass first in the burning embers of our little fire. Do you remember waking up on Saturday mornings, grabbing a huge bowl of cereal and sitting down in front of the TV to watch your morning cartoons? Tom and Jerry was always a classic to me and there is one episode that is coming to mind right now, when Tom gets his tail burned in a waffle iron. His immediate reaction is shooting off the ground and pausing in midair, arms and legs spread and the look of pure horror on his face.
That’s exactly what Paul did. I swear to you, his ass touched the embers for a millisecond before he shot off the ground, floated in the air and ran in place, all the while screaming and holding onto his burnt butt.
Once his feet touch the ground, they propel him around the campsite, hands to ass, veins popping out of his neck, and venom spitting from his eyes. I’ve never been so scared and humored all in one moment.
I look over at Marley, who has her mouth covered by both of her hands in shock. Below Paul’s seat are wrappers from little firework poppers, which I realize is what Marley was tossing at Paul’s feet to give him a scare. I bet she never expected this kind of outcome.
“My ass! My ass!” Paul screams, still running around, a small trail of smoke trailing behind him.
“I think your pants are on fire, son,” Bernie says in a casual tone.
Immediately, Paul stops, drops and rolls, only he doesn’t look where he’s going and unfortunately rolls onto a tumbleweed, driving the spurs into his pants.
If he wasn’t so spastic, we’d be able to help him, but the man refuses to calm down and instead, hops off the ground, screaming bloody murder, while his charred pants are encased by a giant tumbleweed.
“Someone needs to help him,” Bernie says to Marley and me.
Quickly, in a stealth like manner, Marley lifts her finger to her nose and says, “Not it.”
Following protocol, I do the same, leaving Bernie to the task of coddling Paul. I can already tell it’s going to be a long night for the man.
With a sigh, Bernie gets out of his chair and points his can of soda at Marley. “You got clean up duty, and don’t say anything to me about it. I saw what you did.”
Smartly, Marley accepts her punishment and starts cleaning up, while Bernie chases after Paul, asking him to slow down so he can check the severity of the burn.
I watch Marley quickly clean up the poppers around Paul’s chair to clear the evidence and then tend to the rest of the mess from our grill out. She’s silent, but from the smirk on her face, I can tell she’s amused with herself.
“If he finds out that was you, you can kiss every last piece of your makeup goodbye. Paul will probably piss all over it.”
Marley nods her head and glances over at me, her head slightly tilted to the side. “You know, it just might all be worth it.”
I’m about to answer when I hear Paul wail. “Porter, I need you. Bring the baby powder and Neosporin.”
Paul’s voice is coming from behind me, so I turn to see him hobbling to the bathroom with Bernie. Looks like my non-Paul duties aren’t completely nixed.
Following instructions, I grab the much needed items and jog off to the bathroom, where I see Paul with his hands leaning against the wall, his pants completely off, and his tumbleweed friend off to the side.
“Just tell it to me straight, what does it look like? Do I need a skin graph? Porter, will you give me your skin?”
Bernie gives me a disgusted look as he slowly lifts Paul’s shirt so we can see the damage.
“Ahhh, careful!” Paul clenches and pulls away.
I’m not going to lie, I’m a little frightened to see the kind of char Paul has on his ass. He can be a drama queen, but sitting in a fire full of burning embers can’t leave a nice mark. There has to be some severe damage. I unscrew the top of the baby powder and point it at Paul’s ass, ready to douse it with one squeeze if need be.
Bernie and I both stand back, waiting for something to pop out from under Paul’s shirt as Bernie lifts it with the tips of his fingers.
I ignore Paul’s abnormally hairy legs and focus on the reveal of the butt burn. The first thing I see are the bottom of his severely clenched cheeks and they are red. Nerves set in as I realize this can’t be pretty.
“Oh, God, what does it look like? Is my skin falling off? It feels like I melted it. Where is the nearest hospital? Porter, you never answered about the skin graph.”
“Let’s just see what it looks like first, bro, okay?”
“Just get it over with; tell me what it looks like.”
I nod at Bernie and hold the baby powder out further, as if it’s a fire extinguisher, ready to put out the butt fire.
Bernie lifts the last of Paul’s shirt and Bernie and I both are caught off guard from what we see. We step back, look at each other, and then dive in closer to get a better look.
“I knew it was bad. Oh, fuck, I can’t get married with a melted ass. Savannah won’t want half a man. She always says she likes my balls the best that’s why she plays with them so much, but will she want to play with them knowing the wrinkles in my scrotum resemble the wrinkles in my disintegrated dookie maker?” Paul pauses and then practically screams. “OH, GOD!!! Did the fire melt my asshole shut? If I have to poop through a tube, I might as well jump off a cliff right now. No one likes a poop bag hanging off their belt. Yes, a nice conversation piece, but only for a few moments. Please tell me my asshole isn’t fried shut. I’m trying to fart, but it feels plugged up. Is it shut?”
“Shut the fuck up!” I yell at Paul. “Damn, man. It’s not bad, your asshole isn’t melted, you’re barely even red, and don’t try to fart because if you accidently shit on us, you’re going to have bigger problems than your butt.”
It’s true, Bernie and I are inspecting Paul’s butt, which is…fuck, so not attractive, especially up close. Why there is a trail of hair thick enough to turn into a Mohawk along his crack is beyond me, but there isn’t a burn, there isn’t even a scar. His butt is only a little scratched from the tumbleweed and red from the fire. I look down at his parachute pants and see that they are burned, but not burned through. What kind of material are they made out of?
“I’m not burnt? My asshole is okay?”
“Yes, moron,” Bernie says. “Your asshole is fine, but thank you for the vivid images you put in my head. Put your pants back on and sit on some ice. I’m going to bed.”
“Hey, maybe your skeletor friend could hook us up with that ice now,” I joke around. “Looks like your incessant over-sharing is going to pay off for our friend, Paul.”
Bernie chuckles and starts to walk away with me, when Paul calls out to me from over his shoulder. His hands are still on the wall, bracing his body.
“Porter, will you…powder my butt for me?”
Bernie
grunts and walks away, clearly not wanting to be a part of this conversation.
“Please, Porter? It’s so sensitive.”
“Why can’t you just put some on the ground and sit on it?” I suggest, not wanting to cup Paul’s ass.
“The floor is dirty. Please, Porter?”
I run my hand over my face in irritation, then grab the powder and squirt some on my hands. I hold my hands up to his butt and look him dead in the eyes.
“I swear on the tip of your dick, if you ever utter what I’m about to do to anyone, I will make sure your asshole really is welded shut and you spend the rest of your life pooping through a tube. You got it?”
Paul nods in agreement and sticks his butt out to me.
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, not wanting to remember one ounce of this lovely memory on our trip across Route 66 and pat Paul’s ass gently, letting the powder run against his red cheeks.
“Oh, yeah, that feels so good…” Paul moans, clenching his butt cheeks together against my hands. Weirdly I can feel them ripple over my palms and the sensation is something I want to burn out of my skull.
“And we’re done.” I pull my hands away quickly and wash them in the sink, trying to scrub away the feeling of Paul’s ass.
Marley is in so much trouble. Revenge is a bitch, and after having to powder her brother’s ass, I have no problem making sure Marley suffers just as much as I did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
**MARLEY**
When I bought those poppers to scare Paul, I never expected for him to land ass first in the fire and then proceed to run around the campground screaming about his melted asshole, but he did, and you know what? I would do it all over again.
I went to bed last night, hearing Paul cry about his raw butt and how it was uncomfortable to sleep, but according to my dad, Paul didn’t even blister from sitting in the fire for point one seconds. He just burned his pants and had a little bit of a red bum, but nothing too traumatizing. Like in good Paul fashion, he over exaggerated.
We woke up this morning—windows open, thank God—to the sound of Paul fidgeting outside with his fishing pole, grunting and snorting. I vaguely recall the boys talking about going to the pond that’s on the campground for some fishing, but I wasn’t sure if that was actually going to happen. By the sounds Paul was making outside, it was going to happen.
“Hey, Buttons,” my dad says as he stands next to my bed. “I think it’s best if you stay here while us men go do some fishing. I think Paul needs some time with the guys.”
“Are you punishing me for last night?”
“No…” he pauses. “Not really. I just think it would be good for him to just be with the men. This is supposed to be his bachelor party too, and I feel like he needs a nice relaxing morning on the boat…sister free.”
“Fine. Gives me time to sleep some more. Your snoring is out of control these days.” I turn to the side and tuck my arm under my blanket.
“Are you going to be sour all day? Are we looking at another red dot special later?”
“Keep calling it that and you will.” I look over my shoulder at my dad, who looks a little regretful of his decision. “Its fine, go have fun, but if you think I’m cleaning that bathroom while you’re gone, you don’t know me at all. That room is vile.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my dad says with a smile as he walks out of the RV.
From a distance, I can hear Porter’s deep voice, and even from afar, it rumbles through me, exciting me. Last night, all I dreamt of was Porter at Cadillac Ranch and the way he gazed into my eyes, the way he spoke to me so softly, the affectionate moment we shared. It all was on replay in my dreams, but instead of him pulling away, he finally kissed me.
Mmm…I wonder what his lips taste like now. I’ve only kissed him once, but it wasn’t enough, and before things could really ignite between us, he took off. What I wouldn’t give just to feel his lips against mine again.
I feel like if he ever, on an off chance, kissed me, I would be one of those idiots whose back end lifted in the air while their feet clapped together, shooting off love hearts into the sky. I wouldn’t play it cool at all, at this point, I would maul him. I would probably choke him with my tongue and the sensual moment I’ve been saving to have with him would be quickly destroyed by him up-chucking on my face from my tongue assault. Nothing says sexual times like a good yak to the face.
I try to keep my eyes closed to cherish the moment, but it’s no use, I have to pee and I’m awake. Stupid Paul and his fishing. I open my eyes and stare at Tacy’s ceiling. When I first came on this trip, I didn’t think Porter would be involved, but now that he is, I want more of him. I feel like I don’t get enough time with him, and after yesterday, after the way he gently talked to me, I would do anything to have another alone moment with him.
But no, he’s off fishing with my stupid brother Paul, who keeps using his forthcoming nuptials to get his way. The nerve!
And it’s not like I can say anything. First of all, Porter just wants to be friends—ugh, gag, the worst thing you can say to girl when she wants to hump your face—and second, Paul would have a minor stroke if he ever found out I have feelings for Porter.
Frustrated, I toss my covers to the side, slip on a pair of my dad’s shoes, and take a deep breath before I head into the bathroom. I lift the toilet seat, hover my ass over it and pee as quickly as possible because I’m way too lazy to hike it to the communal bathrooms on the campground. Afterwards, I wash my hands in the sink and brush my teeth there too. I undo my loose braids and run some sea salt water through them, giving them a nice beach wave.
Once I’m done with my hair, I decide it’s a no makeup day because once again, I’m too lazy, and look for my bag to change. Tacy has become a disaster zone in the mornings with the bitch bed undone and everyone’s night time bags scattered over the floor. Plus, the beard clippings and dirty laundry are starting to filter out of the bathroom. It’s disgusting how gross men can be and not care about it, but to hell if I’m going to clean that godforsaken bathroom. They made the mess, they can clean it up, even if there’s a pile of beard clippings on the sink tall enough to hide a mini horse.
Searching for my bag is a disaster in the mess around my bed. I think I spot the strap to my bag and pull on it, but instead of my bag being on the other end, it’s Porter’s. Not exactly what I was looking for, but now that I have it in hand, and it just so happens to be slightly open, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a little gander, right?
It’s slightly unzipped, revealing one of his flannels. Accidently, my hand swats at the zipper, which opens up the bag even more.
“Oh, heavens, how did that happen?” I say to no one as I look around.
Not a soul in sight, so I dive in.
And when I say dive, I mean, plunge noggin first into a plaid abyss. My head falls into the bag, burying my face into his mountainous smell, my cheek rubbing against the smooth cotton of his shirts. If God put Heaven on earth, it would be this bag. No doubt in my mind, if I put his bag on display and charged people five dollars for one head plunge, I would be rolling in the dough.
Pulling my head out of the bag, I look around once again, making sure the coast is clear and grab one of his flannels. It’s red, white, and blue checkered, so American. Without even thinking, I pull off my pants and shirt and put the shirt on so I can feel it on my body. I button a few buttons and then curtsy in the plaid gown. Porter is much taller than me and much broader, it’s noticeable in the way his tight fitting shirt is so loose and large on me.
Without tripping, I twirl around Tacy, occasionally stopping for a moment to smell the shirt and take in the feel of the fabric. Either Porter knows where to buy the softest shirts on the planet, or he uses one hell of a fabric softener because the feel of the shirt against my nipples is a sensation I will one hundred percent be dreaming about tonight.
Wanting more, I dive into his bag once again, moving my hand around it until I collide with s
omething hard. Confused, I pull it out of the bag to see it’s a bottle of cologne. Porter wears cologne? I take the top off and breathe in a huge whiff.
Did you see that, the twinge in my leg and the instant showing of arousal? Yeah, pretty sure I just smell-gasmed.
I knew Porter didn’t naturally smell like a pile of hot male models with redwoods between their legs, but hell, can’t he give a girl a break? This shit smells way too damn good.
Without even thinking twice, I spray the air and walk through it, letting the mini drops of Porter rain over me. Just for luck, I spray the bottle one more time, set it on my bed, and walk through it, holding my hands to my heart and closing my eyes, wishing it was Porter falling down upon me.
I continue to twirl in Tacy, marveling in the Porter-like bubble I created for myself. I’m so consumed by my visions of Porter holding me tightly that I don’t hear the gravel being crunched under a heavy foot, or the door to Tacy swinging wide open until Porter steps into the RV.
I’m mid-twirl when I make eye contact with him. The door slams shut and a huge smile crosses Porter’s face. He gives me the once over and the smile that once graced his face vanishes, and in its place, his jaw tightens and his eyes turn a dark shade of the night sky.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his hand grabbing on to his neck while he stares at me.
He’s surprisingly not wearing his red hat, instead, his hair is styled in a mess to the side, he’s wearing a denim shirt that fits tightly across his chest that is tucked into his grey jeans, and he has an old light brown belt on display, wrapping around his waist. He’s wearing boots and I can’t help but want to run my hands all over his body from just how sexy he looks.
“Umm…dancing?” I say, more as a question than anything.
My mind stops eye-fucking Porter for a second to realize I’m wearing his flannel shirt, spraying his cologne all over Tacy, and dancing. Not the best showing I’ve ever had.