by Emme Rollins, Julia Kent, Anna Antonia, Helena Newbury, Aubrey Rose
A fucking chicken.
And when you learn that about a guy you're fucking, then pretty much any ability to organize your thoughts goes out the window. Especially, though, when you have two hot men stroking your thighs with hands that want to go higher. They were feeling my legs as a proxy for what we all wanted to feel.
I knew damn well Trevor hadn't actually fucked a chicken, but it was fun teasing him into a frothing frenzy. I could think of some other frenzies I'd like to tease him into, though, that didn't involve talking about sex with a chicken.
Ew. Boy, that sounded as bad in my mind as it did in the telling, huh? Let's just scratch that joke. Get it? Scratch? OK. I give up.
Mike was completely oblivious on the other side of that booth, thinking that the most important topic right now was what had happened to Trevor and the story of how Mike had, in many ways, been his savior. If the dynamics of this table had made that the priority, we'd all still be laughing about Mavis the chicken. Instead, some sort of social drama was taking place with fingers and palms and pants fabric that felt like sandpaper against my swollen skin as each man claimed his expanse of my body.
And then I saw Aunt Marlene. Mama's sister. Josie's mother. Marlene wore black jeggings with fake diamonds around the ankles, six-inch red high heels, and one of those sheer tank tops that you're supposed to wear under an opaque shirt. She'd been bleaching her hair nearly white since I could remember, and her mouth had the same deep smoker's grooves I saw on Mama, wrinkled like the folds on those fancy little dogs on television. Thick black eyeliner made her eyes seem even more yellow, and her fingers held a cigarette or a beer. Always. Even when she came to the gas station to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights she had one lit in her left hand, right hand digging in her ginormous purse for her money.
See, I call Josie Aunt Josie because growing up, that's how it seemed—like she took care of me the way an aunt would. Not like a cousin. Cousin sounds like a peer. Josie wasn't my peer. When her mama came back from the Cleveland Clinic “not quite right,” as Mama said, Josie moved in with us. Mrs. Humbolt had been great, letting us live with her after our daddies died, but Mama wanted us kids together. Part of it, I think, was that Josie played with me. Kept me busy. Made it so I didn't ask too many questions. Apparently, I was a motormouth even at the age of four.
Aunt Marlene came home a broken woman and she was what Uncle Mike called the “town barfly.” Proving his point, she was sitting at the bar snuggling up to some guy who was buying her beer after beer. If you could chain-smoke a beer, she was managing to do it, emptying one and guzzling another in the sixty seconds or so I watched her.
Mama had said that Marlene was nice and sweet and in love with Uncle Jeff before. Our life was split in two: there was before and after. The shorthand was so simple even a four year old could understand it. I remember thinking I was lucky, because my mama lost a foot, but Josie's mama lost her mind. My little-kid understanding of the world thought she had literally lost her mind, as if she'd left it behind on the school playground and it was waiting for her in a cardboard box marked “Lost and Found,” resting in there with a scarf and some notebooks and orphaned mittens.
I once told Josie that, when I was about six and she was thirteen, and she got real quiet, then said, “That's pretty close to the truth, Darla.”
If I ignored my aunt, she'd ignore me, and the night would roll on just fine. Even when I was little that's how it worked. She'd pay attention to me if it got her something, or helped her somehow, but otherwise I didn't exist, like some sort of tool in a toolbox she pulled out only for her own projects.
Maybe that's how Trevor's parents saw him. As a tool. Something to use to put together an assemblage of parts to meet some sort of purpose that only made sense to the user. Seeing Marlene reminded me that I should call Josie and get some advice for this quickly-careening situation.
In the meantime, though, I had to deal with the fact that two men were, at this very moment, turning me into their tool.
Joe
A few people from the crowd swung over to congratulate Trevor, and to get the website name for Random Acts of Crazy. Apparently, they have the Internet out here: who knew? Those seven beers were helping me cope, but they also made me rock hard wanting Darla. She looked so happy and radiant right now, emanating a sense of completeness that I couldn't feel—ever—in my own life. Maybe if I could touch her enough some of it would rub off.
Maybe I just needed to go rub one off.
My head was spinning and Trevor was, once again, the center of attention. I didn't begrudge him (much)—that took some serious balls, getting on stage and singing a song no one here had heard, then debuting a completely original song without any guitar practice. He was such a natural at this, able to improvise under extraordinary circumstances. Playing bass, for me, meant endless practice and a need for the sheet music within a quick glance. I wasn't bad—I just needed to be over-rehearsed, while Trevor could fumble his way to an outstanding performance.
“I'm sorry we couldn't find a way to fit you in on stage,” Darla whispered.
My brain melted at the double entendre and my social filter disappeared. “I'm sure you can find a way to fit me in,” I whispered. Trev looked at us with a stare of study, as if he were observing without judgment. It unnerved me and strengthened me at the same time. Boldness came easily when I wanted to steal drugs from the evidence room, or crash my dad's car just to get some attention.
This? Being with someone so different, or coming on to what I was growing to view as my best friend's girlfriend? I didn't do shit like that.
Now, though, it appeared I did. Anything seemed to go here, as if we were in a debauched land where our culture didn't apply. Or, maybe, we were the debauched ones. Whatever. Nothing made much sense any more.
Except Darla's thigh. Trevor seemed to have the same idea, which made a thunderball of hot lead form in my gut, simultaneously heating me up and making me hard. Let me be clear: it wasn't Trev who made me hard. It was Darla.
And the thought of me and Trevor and Darla—doing what? No progressive sexuality education course, even the one Mom and Dad made me attend at our local Unitarian Universalist church, taught me about how to handle it when the thought of being sexual with a woman I was falling for was enhanced by the idea that another man would be with us.
Operationally, I knew what two men could do with one woman. I'd seen enough YouPorn amateur video to make my eyeballs bleed (and would have preferred that over what I saw, sometimes). On rare occasions our friends in the dorms, or in the apartments we shared, would scroll along and find a tender, loving, intimate video with two men and a woman, and inevitably someone would shout “Too tame!” and on we'd go to Two Girls, One Cup or a woman fucking a Sybian.
Later, though, I'd go back and watch the more intimate portrayal. That's where my mind had been going for a long time, but who do you talk to about that? Hey, Mom, I find myself drawn to the idea of a threesome. Remember how you told me I could talk to you about anything? Mom? Mom? No, I don't have a Xanax. What? A bowl? So you can throw up? Oh. Weed. Um...
You don't. Talk, I mean.
You just don't.
Darla
Two men. Two hands.
Two Darlas battling for control.
Uncle Mike came to the rescue. “OK, kids, let's head home and look at that car.”
“What car?” Joe asked. Hoo boy. Was that beer number eight he was sucking on? For a guy who turned his nose up at American beer, he sure was having a love affair with his Rolling Rocks.
Trevor stood and I scooted out, a smoldering look on his face and his hand on my ass. The imprint of his fingers setting my body on fire. I scooched out and Joe's loose, languid body followed mine, his arm draped over my shoulders. We followed Mike out the door, several guys stopping Trevor to shake his hand and nod. That's a high compliment around here.
“I'm driving,” I declared. One beer cleared through me and I was fine.
“Me, too,” M
ike added.
“Nope. I'll do all the driving,” Trevor declared. “I had one and it was a while ago. Darla can bring you back in the morning, Mike, for your truck.”
I froze. Disagreeing with Mike was a dicey move. This could go either way. Mike was Mama's brother and had been there through the mess of Daddy's death and her recovery. He knew, to the core, that driving under the influence wasn't something we did. Yet that stupid macho shit came out of him sometimes and checked out the sensible side.
“I'll drive!” Joe declared.
“And I'll model for Playgirl,” Uncle Mike countered, rubbing his big old belly and striking a model's pose. We all laughed as we stepped into the cool night air, the breeze making my skin turn to gooseflesh, Joe layered on me like silk cloth, leaning against my shoulder and warm, his muscles fed by a steady stream of beer. He wasn't quite pickled, but he certainly was loose.
Trevor won, but only because I pointedly handed him the keys and Mike just shrugged. Score one for the ovaries. I crawled in back with Joe and Mike rode shotgun. The back of my car was a place I'd frequented plenty over the years, but never with anyone in the front seat. It felt about as foreign as everything else these past two days, but once you're thoroughly out of your comfort zone, why not go for broke?
The drive home was uneventful, Mike and Trevor talking about the Patriots and the Browns, a bunch of talk about the draft and number three picks. It sounded like a foreign language, or a chemistry equation, but instead of saying methyltetrawhatever they were talking about defensive linesomethings and salary caps.
I liked that Trevor could find common ground with Mike. Joe, on the other hand, was looking for common ground with me. And by common ground, I mean flesh we could rub together. His hands were in his own lap but if eyes could fuck, his eyeballs would be halfway up me by now.
Trevor pulled in neatly next to the covered BMW and we all piled out. Joe fished his car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Mike, who made appreciative sounds when the Beemer was revealed.
“Damn fine car.”
“The best my parents' guilt can buy,” Joe agreed. Mike climbed in and you could hear the sigh of sitting in luxury, of a clean car unmarred by bumps that dump coffee on the seats, grease and mud and grime and plain old wear and tear. It was a finely-oiled machine designed for status and prestige. Around here, a brand new king-cab Dodge or Toyota Tundra might grant that. Mike could appreciate a different culture, though, and he caressed the steering wheel the way a 17-year-old boy might enjoy his first handful of bare breast.
Mike tried to turn the car over. Nothing. Trevor got a little skittish suddenly, excusing himself to go to the bathroom inside the trailer. Joe leaned against my shed and grinned a loopy smile. Mike fumbled with the controls in the front seat and finally found the hood latch, popping it, and then climbing reluctantly out of the car to amble around the front, reaching in the small slit of the hood to find the full release lever, pulling up and securing the hood in an elevated position.
“Jesus Christ. What a joke!” he muttered. “Nothing's wrong with your car, Joe. You kids playing a joke on me?”
“What do you mean, Mike?” I asked. Trevor's disappearance puzzled me and made my hinky meter go on alert. Had he sabotaged the car? Why?
“Someone just pulled a bunch of hoses loose and undid a spark plug. Nothing wrong with the car. Give me a minute and I'll loop it all back in place.” Mike's meaty hands worked with a deft precision I found myself admiring. I wanted to turn to Joe and say, “See? Even in this backwater town I went and found you someone to fix your fancy car.”
So I did.
Joe just ignored me, walked over to Mike, and asked, “What do you mean?” His left hand reached up to lean on the edge of the upright hood, but Mike's reflexes were faster, grabbing him at the wrist before he could put his full weight on the edge. That was a rookie mistake, and one of the fastest ways to injure a guy working on a car. Meekly, Joe pulled back and shoved his hands in his pocket, a lock of hair falling over his eye and making him look like he was on a midnight photo shoot for Vogue.
“I mean your car is fine, Joe. Someone just pulled on the parts for kicks. Some kids around here, I guess.”
“Not around here,” Joe mumbled. “A kid from Massachusetts,” Joe declared, his voice surprisingly jocular compared to what I imagined was a storm of fury inside him.
Trevor
Stepping into the trailer was a bit like dodging land mines. I escaped from one set by getting away from Joe; the second Mike looked under that hood, he'd know it had been messed with. Pretending to need the bathroom was my only out.
Cathy sat at the cluttered dining room, giving me that look moms seem to cultivate over time, the judgment and disappointment like a language they hone on Rosetta Stone the way they make us polish our Spanish.
“Hi, Cathy,” I said politely, pointing down the hallway toward the bathroom.
She just nodded, a gesture of understanding, and I ran in to use the facilities and gather my thoughts, which were a jumbled, rush mess right now. What the hell were we doing? Joe had his hands and mouth all over Darla and I...didn't care? Not quite. I cared. I didn't care in the way I was supposed to care. And neither did Darla or Joe, it seemed. This was like some complicated, hokey Disney family special, except it involved me and some very real-life problems with high stakes.
Continue and be burned?
Never try and regret it?
As I washed my hands and ran wet fingers through my hair, cooling down and trying to get my brain to slow down, I caught my face in the mirror. Same blue eyes. Same blondish hair. Same shit-eating grin and body.
Different man. How could I change so radically in two days?
Coming out of the bathroom, Cathy smiled at me and beckoned me to sit at the table across from her. Uh, oh. This was going to be one of those parent grill sessions, wasn't it? Stifling a groan, I did what she asked. I was sleeping with her daughter, after all. She had the right to ask me a few questions, I guess. Beside, it bought me time before getting chewed out by Joe, who would be wicked pissed right now as he learned what I'd done.
“You enjoying your time here, Trevor?” Her voice was a gravelly version of Darla's, and her hands were extremely well manicured, like my mom's.
“Yes, Ma'am.” Where did that come from? We didn't do the “Ma'am” and “Sir” thing in Mass. All the parents were on first name basis. None of them wanted to feel old.
“But you're about to leave.”
Ouch. “Yes.”
“You know, Darla has a cousin who lives near Boston.”
“OK.” Where was this going?
“And her cousin has been trying to get her to move there for a long time.”
That's where this was going. Was Cathy afraid I was trying to take Darla away? I mean, two days did not equal asking Darla to move. Staying silent seemed like the safest course here, Cathy's eyes boring into mine. What was I supposed to say? Choosing the Joe approach, I let my own awkwardness fill in the blanks and hoped she'd speak up first.
Like all parents, she did. “I like having Darla here. She helps a lot.” A pained smile spread her features wide as my fists clenched at my sides, my teeth grinding together. We really weren't so different, were we? Parents who wanted to tell us what to do, even as adults. Darla's mom was disabled and needed to use her as a crutch. My mom was disabled in her own way—heartbroken and convinced she needed to turn me into Uberboy.
What if we just broke free?
Like so many other lessons in life, you just have to try it and see what you experience. How could I do that with a tightly-controlled schedule of How to Be Perfect, a project-managed specimen that proved my parents could produce a kid who didn't need to be institutionalized?
What they didn't realize was that at the rate they were going, and Mr. and Mrs. Ross, too, Joe and I were going to end up in a very different kind of institution.
Or, worse, like clones of our parents.
No.fucking.way.
And Darla? If Cathy didn't give her a chance to spread her wings and go where the wind took her, then she'd end up just as stifled. A flash of anger made me start to speak, but Cathy interrupted before I had the chance.
“And I think it's time she went and visited her cousin Josie in Cambridge.”
“Mama!” I hadn't heard Darla step into the trailer, but as I turned around and followed her voice, there she stood, her face a mask of shock, wild hair backlit by the foyer light. “What are you talking about?”
“It's time you go, Darla.” Cathy folded her hands primly on the table top, worrying a piece of paper that had the words “GRAND PRIZE WINNER!” on it. I took a good look at Darla's mother and saw that she'd gone to some trouble with her appearance, wearing lipstick and something on her eyes. Her expression was more animated, and she tapped the paper.
Darla stepped forward and reached next to me, her shirt sliding open as she bent down, giving me a heady whiff of her scent and a nice view of her rack. I should have been able to suppress that right now, under the circumstances, but I was horny as hell and frustrated as fuck, knowing we were about to head out and leave her behind. A few more hours, a handful of days...more. I wanted more.
Cathy handed Darla the paper and a second form under it. As she read both, Darla's eyes widened, her face spreading into a friendly, eager look of promises fulfilled, of hopes granted, of something she hadn't had—ever, if her countenance were to be believed. It made me want to scoop her up and take her away, to give her that feeling of having enough, of being wanted enough, of being—dare I say it?—loved enough to be something I gave her every single day.
“You got your aide hours?” Darla sputtered. Aide hours?
“Yep. Fifteen a week. Paid for by the state, and I can hire who I want. Guess who is coming to work for me?”