by Julia Kent
Long, honey-brown waves of hair stretching down over nearly naked breasts, the curls at the ends of her long locks licking at her hips. Tiny little bright red strings dotted her smooth, tanned, taut skin, and eyes the color of blinding lust looked into mine, nervous and uncertain.
Her shy smile showed the kind of evenness only years of orthodontia could produce. Marley was an incessantly tweaked, optimized twenty-three-year-old piece of lovely ass.
That I couldn’t tap.
But I could look and tent-pole my pants.
“Hi, Joe,” she said, breathless and suddenly more relaxed, as if showing up at my door in a string bikini in December, in Philadelphia, were the most normal thing on earth.
Sure it was.
In a porno movie.
Excitement flushed through my veins. Was that what she did for a living? Every time I’d asked her about her career she’d shied away. Holy shit, she was a porno actress. The tent pole became a flagpole.
“Where’s Demon?” I blurted out.
“D’Man,” she said flatly. “Like ‘the man.’”
“Whatever.” I bent forward, pretending to crane my head around her to look for D’Man, but really just getting my face closer to those amazing breasts. I inhaled deeply. She smelled like lemons and vanilla lotion and freshly washed pussy.
Someone needed to make a car freshener with that scent. They’d make millions.
“So, um,” Marley said, and then I realized she had something in her hand. Hard to notice when half a mile of perfect flesh was stretched out in front of me, an ass begging to be grabbed, tits that wanted to be sucked, and hair I could yank—
“Yes,” I choked out, needing to stop my thoughts before they made my hands do things that would make Darla cut them off and feed them to Mavis.
“You got this envelope. The guy who delivered it interrupted me,” she added, pointing toward her door. She looked up at me with a coquettish look that made my heart stop and my cock beg for sweet mercy.
Handing me a thick delivery envelope, she licked her lips. My throat closed. Time stood still. My eyes raked over that fine, nubile body stretched out before me. This was how I would die, wasn’t it? Drooling uncontrollably over a woman whose heart beat feet from mine, whose blood rushed to all the right places, her nipples now tight little buds under that red, stretchy fabric I wanted to eat. A sudden image of Darla catching me gnawing on Marley’s nipple made me think of Trevor, how unfair life was that he got Harvard and my woman, and how he was probably banging Darla right now without me.
Without me.
But if Darla ever did catch me with another woman, I wouldn’t be alive. I’d be hanging from a crane in the back of some construction site in Ohio, naked and covered with honey while she released swarms of bees.
And I’d be hanging by one testicle.
That quelled my fucking insane libido as Marley looked at me like I was a bit addled. Which I was. Enough Red Bull can lower anyone’s IQ.
Even a super-high one like mine.
A quick glance at the envelope and I noticed my signature on the front. Except it wasn’t mine. It looked like a squirrel with a broken paw signed it.
Under water.
“You signed for me?” I asked, a bit incredulous.
“No. D’Man did.”
“And the delivery guy let him?”
She pinked. “The delivery guy was kind of surprised by what, um, he saw when D’Man told him to just walk in.”
Intriguing. The hair on my arms started to tingle. “And what were you doing?”
“Modeling.”
The envelope became an afterthought, something to throw backwards into the living room like a frisbee. “What kind of modeling? And do you want to come in and have a…” Shit. I trailed off because the only drink in the house was my Red Bull/Mountain Dew/coffee combination, and I didn’t want to offer the gastronomical equivalent of sweet diarrhea to a chick wearing a string bikini who was about to confess that she modeled—
“Dinosaur erotica book covers.”
I blinked stupidly.
“Dinosaur what?”
She brightened. “Ever watch the Stephen Colbert show? The one with that super-conservative guy my mom and dad say has such great American values?”
Cognitive dissonance. I opened my mouth to try to explain that Colbert was a hyper-ironic parody of the conservative talk show hosts her parents clearly adored, but I realized it was hopeless. Bite your tongue, man. Just go with it.
Curiosity overrode my need to be right, so I just made a noncommittal sound, which she took as encouragement, her excitement showing in the gentle grace of her boobage bouncing.
“So, he talked about dinosaur erotica on his show a while ago, and how it’s, like, this big industry, m’kay? And Bigfoot erotica, too.”
“Bigfoot—what? How is Bigfoot erotic? Like, Wookie porn? What kind of woman wants to fuck a guy who doesn’t ever wipe?” That poured out of me like jizz coming out of a fourteen-year-old during his first nipple contact.
Marley frowned. “I never thought of it like that, Joe.” She looked like she was about to cry. “Maybe D’Man is wrong, but we’re making a few thousand a month selling these modeling pictures online.”
I made a face that showed her I was impressed. “That’s…interesting. The delivery guy, though—what did he find?”
“We were shooting covers for T-Rex sex.”
“T-Rex sex?”
She nodded. I wanted for her to elaborate. She just gave me the Bambi eyes.
“You were being fucked by a T-Rex?” I asked. Surreal. Were these words really coming out of my mouth when I had half a day to finish my final paper for a contract law course?
“You’ve read one of the books? Because that’s totally a title.” Her hips shimmied and my dick whimpered.
“I…” At least this conversation had one benefit: I was now as limp as D’Man’s hair tail.
“The delivery guy walked in while I had a big plastic T-Rex between my legs, and D’Man was shouting, ‘Lick her good!’ He just trembled when D’Man signed for you.”
“Gotcha.” Bzzzzz. My pocket roared to life.
Saved by Steve Jobs. Even from the grave.
“I have to go, Marley,” I said with genuine regret. Hearing more about prehistoric fucking or Sasquatch eating someone out would be way more interesting than whatever—I looked at my screen—my mom wanted.
But the image of D’Man, a BPA-covered dinosaur, and Marley’s parted thighs made my cock do push-ups. Up. Down. Up. Down. It didn’t know what it was supposed to do, and started to spasm. Not in a good way.
“I hope your package is fun.”
I looked at my crotch. Shit. Could she tell?
“My what?”
Gesturing at the envelope, she twisted her body, giving me a healthy eye full of side boob. “Your envelope. Whatever’s in there, I hope it’s fun and something good.”
Bzzzzzz.
The flounce of her hair as she opened her apartment and disappeared made me feel like my balls were permanently lodged in my throat.
Ignoring my fucking phone, I ripped the envelope open. D’Man would pay for scribbling what appeared to be a facsimile of a drunken preschooler’s forgery of my signature. A fine linen envelope greeted me.
Bzzzzzz.
I opened the letter and within seconds I realized I wouldn’t need my Red Bull any more.
Because I was permanently turbocharged.
Chapter Three
Darla
Joe was on the screen, that chiseled jaw covered with stubble, his hands twitching like Christian Grey with a set of handcuffs.
“Joe, honey? You all right? You look like you’ve been run through a car wash and force-fed a half-dozen Ritalin after going through a haunted house a few times,” I said to the screen, touching it with my fingertip lovingly.
“I hate when you do that!” he snapped, running a hand through his mane of curls, which were a shaggy mess. He hadn’t cut his ha
ir since he went off to Penn and it framed his face just so, curling at the ends and making me want to rub his head against my naked breasts so I could feel it.
“Do what?”
“Act like touching the screen is a form of affection. I hate it.”
“Sorry I’m not a pussy pocket you can attach to your tablet and fuck, with sound effects and vibrations and all,” I teased.
Liam and Sam had appeared out of nowhere within minutes of me getting to Trevor’s place. The four of us were clustered around Trevor’s tablet, all clutching our separate copies of what we now referred to as The Invitation, the capital letters etched into the hushed tones we used when referring to it.
Three sets of eyes turned to me, eyebrows to high heaven after I uttered that remark. “Is this another Ohio-ism?” Sam whispered to Liam out of the corner of his mouth. Liam shrugged.
“We’re not supposed to talk about that,” Joe shot back in a strained voice. His screen blacked out but we could still hear him.
Amy was furiously texting Sam, who was texting back faster. He looked up from the screen, his hair as long as Joe’s but the color of Ron’s from the Harry Potter movies. “Amy wants to know what a pussy pocket is. So do I,” he added, face scrunched up in a look of fear and curiosity.
“And how do you know what that is?” Trevor asked me.
“Mama’s romance contests.”
His eyes closed slowly, and a sound of defeat hissed through his parted lips.
“Of course.”
“That’s supposed to be an answer?” Liam said, laughing. “What are your mother’s romance contests, and what do they have to do with Joe fucking Steve Jobs’ baby?” Everyone ignored him as Joe gave him the bird and spoke up.
“Read yours again,” Joe told me. I pulled that fine, fine piece of paper out of my envelope like it was the Golden Ticket from Willy Wonka and read:
Dear Ms. Jennings,
You are cordially invited to join me for a four-night stay at my island, accompanying the band Random Acts of Crazy as its manager. All of your transportation and travel expenses will be paid for, and I offer you the sum of $5000 for your role in assisting the band. In turn, the four members of the band Random Acts of Crazy will be contracted to perform one ninety-minute set on the Saturday night of your stay.
Should you wish to accept this offer, please contact my assistant at…
Holy motherfucking shit yes I would be contacting your assistant, Mr. Island Man. An all-expenses-paid trip and $5000? I’d lick the resort’s toilets with my labia for that deal. Hell, I’d have an open conversation with my mama and Uncle Mike about my life with Trevor and Joe for $5000. Make it $10,000 and I’d throw in Joe’s mom and James Dobson.
“And you checked with your mother?” Joe asked me after I finished reading. “This isn’t some sort of sweepstakes she won, like the Mount Everest of kitty litter or that S&M gift pack?”
Liam and Sam snorted. That got Sam’s attention, and he looked up for the first time since they’d barged through the door, waving their envelopes.
“S&M what?” Liam sneered. You know those guys in teen movies who are the gorgeous, surfer-blond, tanned rich boys who act like they own the world? The ones who are breathtakingly gorgeous and even though they’re mean-as-fuck bullies, you want to fling yourself into their arms and dry hump them?
Yeah.
Liam.
“Shut up, Magic Mike,” I snapped. That silenced him. Sam snickered and tapped away.
“Are you going to finger fuck your phone all night?” Trevor asked Sam, whose head snapped up so fast his overgrown bangs bounced like he was one of the Jonas Brothers.
Ding! The apartment bell rang. “You guys invite the neighborhood?” Joe cracked.
In walked Amy. “Hi, Joe. Good to see you, too!” All long, brown hair and clear, quiet brown eyes, Amy walked in with a laser focus on Sam. The two kissed and she settled in his lap as he handed her his invitation. Those brown eyes got as big as full moons and I could tell the exact moment she saw the dollar amount.
“Ten thousand dollars!” she gasped. The guys were each being paid more than me, which was more than fair. But it was too bad Amy wouldn’t get to go.
“You didn’t get an envelope?” I asked her. “Maybe yours is late?”
She looked up and frowned. We were friends. You can’t help someone pull a smart phone out of their vagina without being buddies.
(For the record, the phone was stuck in her vagina. Not mine. Mine does not have that kind of roaming capability.)
She scanned the page and then smiled, her voice loud as she commanded our attention. “You are welcome to bring Ms. Smithson as a guest, with all expenses paid,” she announced.
Sam looked like he was about to cream his shorts. “Can you believe it?” He slung an arm around her shoulder and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. It made me smile.
Hell, it made Liam and Trevor grin. Everyone was all sappy happy until Joe muttered, “Kumbaya and all that. I think it’s a scam.”
Amy frowned, twisting a lock of hair around her finger as she snuggled in to Sam’s chest. “Why?”
“Because who does this?” he spat out. Joe could be terse. He could even be an asshole sometimes. What was driving him right now, though, into evil-dude territory was his need to finish the damn semester and come home to me and Trevor.
“Don’t you have a paper to write, hon?” I asked in a calm voice, the kind of voice you use on angry wild boars you find rustling through your garbage.
“Don’t patronize me!” His knee was bouncing up and down so hard I thought his leg had turned into a pogo stick.
“Not patronizing,” I said soothingly. “Just asking.”
“This isn’t helping! And Marley and demon and dinosaur sex!”
Eh? “Come again?” I asked.
“That’s what she said,” Liam muttered under his breath.
“Original!” Trevor joked, punching Liam’s shoulder. Liam hit back. The two started to joke wrestle, powerful, muscled legs entwining quickly, taut arms groping to gain the advantage.
“Amy!” I shouted. “Get the bottle of oil while I rip their shirts off!”
Sam looked like his eyebrows were about to knit together as he stared at the screen and said, “Dinosaur sex?” to Joe, Liam grabbed the hem of Trevor’s shirt and pulled. Hard.
Riiiip!
“I was joking!” I screeched, as Amy came running back from the kitchen with a big old bottle of olive oil.
Her face fell. “Oh,” she said quietly, garnering Sam’s attention.
His eyebrows shot up. “You want to see two half-naked men oiled up and touching each other?”
“Who wouldn’t?” I couldn’t help but mutter. Sam ignored me.
“If I wanted to see that,” she shot back, “I’d just make sure I came to one of your bachelorette party gigs.” Sam’s stripping job was a bone of contention between them. Still, apparently.
“Or maybe you just want to see Liam shirtless.”
All motion stopped and Liam and Trevor’s faces tipped up to look at the couple. Oh no.
I smiled nice and tight, the way women around here did. Like they smeared Preparation H all over their lips. Someone needed to break the tension, because Amy was furious, and calm, placid Sam’s fingers began tapping against his hips like they had a life of their own. When Sam did that, you knew trouble was brewing.
“We have just been given the opportunity to get a nice tropical vacation and each earn more money from one gig than from the last six months of them,” I said. “Not that I’ve earned a penny off your gigs. You people are rolling on the floor like something out of Borat—”
“Dude,” Liam said to Trevor, “no balls in my face, okay? Save that for when you’re with Ross and Darla.”
Oh no he di’int.
Man Code, according to what Trevor and Joe had told me, dictated that 1) you never talk about a friend’s balls touching another friend’s balls unless they had been officially marr
ied in a lovely beachside Cape Cod ceremony in Provincetown and 2) you definitely never talk about our threesome and how Trevor and Joe related to each other within it.
But, of course, Liam had gone there. Because Liam was a loose cannon.
When in the ever-loving hell had this meeting turned into the beginnings of a brawl? Now Amy was whispering furiously with Sam, pulling him to the hallway. Liam and Trevor were playacting at being angry with each other, and Joe was hissing about his paper and something about how Liam could bite his ass. Which I don’t think helped, because Liam said:
“You want another guy in the band to touch your ass?”
And Joe shouted (to the extent that you can shout through the glass of an 8.9-inch screen), “We don’t touch! You fucker! Stop saying that!”
This was all too much. I felt like Chris Harrison from The Bachelorette breaking up a cat fight, except this one involved six-pack abs and my strung-out, law-school-hating, Mountain Dew-addicted boyfriend.
And my other boyfriend wrestling his hot bandmate while all I could do is feel my head spin from it all. Pea soup was about to come shootin’ outta my mouth if this didn’t end now.
“HEY!” I shouted. “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS ARE INSANE.”
They ignored me. Shit. I’d used that line a few too many times since I’d been around the band, huh?
“I AM PREGNANT!”
Dead calm and all eyes on me suddenly. I could, of course, only use that line once. I’d just blown my wad.
Like Joe needed to.
“You’re what?” Joe choked out, going so pale he looked like a whiteboard. He turned to Trevor. “You fucking ass—”
“NOT pregnant,” I rushed in. “Just tired of you people arguing and ignoring me.”
“Lying about a pregnancy is one of the shittiest things a girl can do,” Liam said, his sudden personality change daunting. He looked at me like I was dogshit dipped in diarrhea.
“Good thing I’m not a girl.” One long, drawn-out look at my abundant, overflowing bosom was enough to make Liam shrug one shoulder in concession. Hah. Call me a girl? Might as well call him a zygote. And speaking of zygotes…