by Ami Snow
“What the fuck is your problem, you fat bitch?” leered Lauren, exposing a set of small, slightly pointed teeth.
Imogen stood up, straightening her back as she stuck a hand on her hip. She growled, “You need to get your head out of your ass and stop being such an inconsiderate bitch. You've been doing fuck all while I've been working my ass off –”
“Please, you're a fucking waitress. That's a glorified maid,” taunted Lauren, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“Honey, at least I have a job,” said Imogen through gritted teeth, “Dad's got enough on his plate. Donna's trying to study for her exam, the least you could do is show some respect and let her study in peace. Not everyone in this house aims as high as you.”
“Step off that pedestal, bitch, you think you're so high and mighty just cause you got yourself a job –”
“Guys, please – I –” stammered Donna.
“Shut up!” Imogen and Donna snapped simultaneously, breathing heavily as they shot each other deathly glares.
There was a hard knocking on the door. Ronald Paige entered the room, a wide smile spread across his face. The stress of being a single father and raising five children on the salary of a simple insurance salesman had definitely taken its toll on him; he looked much older than his fifty-five years of age. He was now a shadow of the athletic, muscular man he had been in his prime years, his once full head of auburn, wavy locks, reduced to limp, graying hair stuffed inside an old baseball cap. Imogen noticed the brightness in his eyes, something she had not seen in a long time.
“How we all doing today?” chirped Ronald, rubbing his hands together excitedly.
“We're fine, Dad,” said Imogen, sneaking a glare towards Lauren's direction, “What's got you all excited?”
“My buddy, Tucker, best friend from way back – he's back in town. Now I wanted to talk to you girls about our monthly family camping trip – if it's alright, I'd like it to just be Tucker and I this month. It's been years, and I'd love to spend a night or two with him catching up.”
“No problem at all, Daddy, you have yourself a great time!” said Lauren cheerily, batting her eyelashes at her father, “I'll keep everything under control.”
“Actually, Lauren,” said Ronald crossly, frowning, “After how you trashed the house last time you were left alone, I can't trust you with the house again. I've asked your brother Connor and your sister-in-law Macy to come watch you and Chris.”
“A babysitter? But, Daddy –” protested Lauren, sticking out her bottom lip.
“And on second thought, Imogen, honey, I know how hard you've been working lately. I know how much you value your alone time so I'd like to invite you out with us for a few nights, so you could be on your own for a few days? Your own tent, your own space. What do –”
“Yes, Dad,” interjected Imogen, her heart fluttering in excitement, “That sounds amazing!”
“Great, honey. We leave Friday night.”
Before Lauren could open her mouth to object, Ronald turned and exited the room quickly, closing the door behind him. Imogen couldn't seem to wipe the satisfied smirk off her face as Lauren slumped off into her corner of the room, flopping face down on the mattress in frustration. Imogen turned back to her laptop, biting her lip in anticipation. She couldn't remember the last time she had any actual alone time. She nudged at the black bag hidden underneath her desk, grinning to herself. She knew exactly what she was packing.
Chapter Two –
Tucker Travis lowered his head, peering at the cards spread like an accordion in his cupped hands. He took a long, last puff of his cigarette, crushing the reddish glow of the butt against the ashtray. He squinted at his hand, smoke drifting out of his nostrils and parted lips. His head felt heavy, and was drooping slightly from the putrid stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke lingering in the air, the pulsating beat of the music prodding at his eardrums. He took a long sip of his whiskey and burped, jolting at the sudden release of gas. He hiccuped, winking at the attractive, dark-haired woman next to him. She looked away, sniffing in disgust.
“Mr. Travis, how do you call?”
The man sitting across from him fiddled with the end of his black goatee, his small, pitch black eyes narrowed, gleaming slightly purple from the dim lighting of the den. He eyed Tucker's twitchy movements meticulously, drawing in a particularly lengthy puff from the cuban cigar between his fingers. He glanced to the side, making subtle eye contact with two burly, broad-chested men in crisp matching suits and ties. They nodded knowingly, retreating to the shadows as they inched closer towards Tucker.
“I'm all in, Mr. Cheng,” slurred Tucker, sloppily nudging his remaining stacks of chips towards the center of the table. The players around him tossed their cards facedown on the table, grunting and shuffling their feet in obvious irritation.
“Is that so, Mr. Travis? What've you got?”
Tucker flopped down a pair of jacks next to the river – an ace and a jack. He grinned from ear to ear as he clumsily rose from the table. He leaned across, his eyebrows bobbing up and down, a smug grin on his face as he reached towards the glorious pile of chips with his arms wide open. Mr. Cheng grabbed him swiftly by the arm, a malicious smile twisting on his lips.
“What a coincidence,” said Mr. Cheng darkly, “That's the exact same pair I have. Do you want to tell me how five jacks ended up on my table? From the deck of cards in my establishment?”
“I – uh –” stammered Tucker, perspiration gathering in his palms, “Company that made the cards could've fucked up, I suppose –”
“Right,” said Mr. Cheng, clearly unamused. He looked beyond Tucker's swaying, intoxicated frame, nodding at the two men behind him. The pair emerged from the shadows. Without a word, they twisted his arms against his back, slamming his head against the table, holding his head in place. Two pieces of cards flitted out of his tucked sleeves. The other players screeched in fright, scattering to the corners of the den. Tucker barked in pain, the dark green pelt of the table scratching against the side of his face. Hard, strained breaths heaved out of his pained, parted lips, wisps of green shivering off the pelt.
“Don't try to fuck with me, Mr. Travis. This ain't Brooklyn, you in my city now,” snarled Mr. Cheng. He cleared his throat, a glob of spit hitting Tucker in the cheek, “I ever catch you in my club again, I will fucking end you, do I make myself clear?”
“Y – yes,” croaked Tucker, coughing violently, swinging his arms wildly in an attempt to wriggle from the men's rigid hold.
“Good. Now get the fuck out.”
The men grabbed Tucker by the collar, violently escorting him out of the den, and hurled him out of the doorway. Tucker groaned in agony as his weight smacked against the coarse pavement. He staggered to his feet, blinking at the droplets of scintillating red blood sprouting out of his fresh, smarting cuts. He rubbed his hands against his pants crudely, steadying himself against the grainy brick wall as he wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk.
He stopped, approaching a lone, wooden bench illuminated by the flickering glow of the streetlamp. He parked his inebriated frame on the bench, hiccuping as his head rolled back, muttering an unintelligible garble of self-deprecating nonsense. He jerked in his seat, his phone vibrating continuously against his leg. He reached into his pocket, scrunching his eyes as he attempted to unlock his screen. A hint of a smile crept onto his lips as Ronald's name appeared on the screen, feeling a twinge of joy and nostalgia arising inside of him. He scanned the text message through blurred vision. His wobbly fingers jabbed at the keyboard on his screen as he replied, “Camping sounds great. See u soon buddy.”
Tucker bounced up, his hands clutching at his increasingly knotting, churning stomach. His head swung back and forth alarmingly, turning instinctively at the clicking sound of heels closing in. He threw out an arm in warning, but before he could stop himself, heaved a grotesque, rancid hurling of poorly digested, mixed alcohol in a spreading puddle, next to a pair of orange chevron kitten heels.
>
He looked up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. An aghast young woman stood before him, her nose wrinkled and her mouth hanging open in disgust. The woman's flowing black hair shimmered the soft shade of currants under the glow of the lamplight, tied up in a loose ponytail. She had stunning, cocoa brown eyes that were slightly upturned and accentuated by a pristine cat's eye. She bit her full, apricot tinted lips nervously as she stared wide-eyed at Tucker and the mess next to her shoes. His eyes latched onto the curves of her shapely hips, the bronze of her flesh lightly pouring out of her tight jeans.
“S – sorry, sexy!” said Tucker groggily, squinting at the gleam from the gold-plated name tag pinned to her blouse as she pushed past him, “Imogen.” As soon as the name dribbled out of his lips, his eyelids fluctuated shut, passing out cold before he even hit the ground.
Chapter Three –
“Bailey Lake is gorgeous this time of the year,” marveled Ronald as he walked out to the stretch of the bank, stretching his arms over his head.
Ronald plopped down on the plot of dirt next to Imogen, who was busy finicking with the bait and the hook. He took it from her hands, piercing the bait through the hook with ease. He flashed his daughter an animated grin, the creases next to his eyes rumpling.
“I don't think I remember ever seeing you this happy, Dad,” noted Imogen, stretching her legs across the bank, “This Travis dude must be some guy.”
“He's great,” agreed Ronald, his eyes lighting up, “Grew up together in Brooklyn. We both had it rough growing up so we had that instant connection, ya know? One of the smartest people I've ever met. Got a scholarship to college and finished with honors and an engineering degree. Had a great job and everything.”
“Had?”
“Yup, the market crash was hard on everyone. First, they slashed his pay damn near in half, then he just lost his job in 2010. Went through a terrible rough patch with his wife, now ex. His ex had a miscarriage, destroying his marriage. Got into drinking and gambling, last I've heard,” said Ronald, his tone of his voice dropping to a near whisper, “But don't you mention any of that when he's around.”
“Of course not, Dad,” assured Imogen, frowning, “Where is Mr. Travis, anyway?”
“He should be here – speak of the devil, Tucker, my man!”
“How's it going, Ronny-boy?”
Imogen shifted in her seat, her fingernails burrowing into the dirt, gawking as she watched her father embrace the man who had practically thrown up all over her the previous night. She rose from the ground, patting the dirt off the legs of her jeans. She folded her arms across her chest, internally debating whether or not she should clue her father in to his friend's preceding whereabouts. Tucker broke free from Ronald's enthusiastic embrace, smiling at the gloriously familiar face. His eyes landed on Imogen's piercing gaze, widening in sudden realization, a fleeting look of astonishment in his eyes. He raised his eyebrows at her, nodding, flashing her a cool, casual smile.
Her fingers curled into her palms, gulping down the sudden tightness in her throat. The staggering difference of his sober demeanor was astounding. His mahogany, lightly peppered hair was styled in a neat crewcut sitting atop a high forehead. Instead of the frightening, pawing bloodshot gaze, he stared at her with a pair of clear, penetrating emerald eyes that slanted slightly downwards, resting close beneath a pair of thin, yet expressive eyebrows. She turned away, deciding against ruining her father's reunion.
Imogen spent the rest of the day entertaining herself, sprawled out on a blanket, baking herself in the sun as she immersed herself in the pages of her mystery novel. She glanced up every once in a while to check up on the men, who seemed to be in their own world, twittering away like schoolgirls as they caught up on lost years. She embraced her short-lived independence, free from the clutter and noise, free from the world. She breathed in the tranquil silence of the calm, sparkling water, tinted rose from the rays of the setting sun.
Imogen zipped up the sleeves of her tent and flopped onto her maroon sleeping bag. She stretched out her arms and legs, groaning in contentment at the crackling of her limbs. She pushed her ear against the walls of her tent, listening intently. Satisfied, she reached into her duffel bag and removed a bulky, black drawstring pouch. She untangled the strings and pulled the bag open gingerly, producing a violet, egg-shaped vibrator; a six-inch, flesh-colored rubber dildo; a string of pink, glossy anal beads; and a tube of lubricant.
She slipped up the hem of her oversized shirt and pulled down her sheer, black panties. She grabbed the vibrator and spread open her legs, switching it on, the soft buzzing filling the space of her enclosed tent. She quivered, the folds of her lips already moist, pushing the vibrator gently against the button of her clitoris. She gasped as her clitoris numbed, her head sinking into the pillow of her bedspread. She sat up, panting, gripping the vibrator between her legs as she oozed a line of lubricant onto the dildo. Slowly, she pulled open her folds, guiding the dildo into her glistening hole. She pumped the dildo in and out of her, her gasps drowning out the humming of the vibrator against her clitoris.
“Holy shit –”
“Fuck, no –” whispered Imogen, her eyes snapping open.
The sleeves of her tent half-drawn, Tucker peered inside, rubbing his eyes as he stood blinking in utter disbelief. He gulped, his eyes trailing down to the half-penetrated dildo sticking out of her sticky, gaping, pink hole, the insides of her thighs slick and shiny with a copious mixture of oil and her juices. He put a hand over the throbbing erection bulging through his sweatpants.
Imogen's eyes narrowed, breathing huskily, “Are you just gonna stand there?” Her heart thumped against her chest, her ears ringing in a brief sense of regret.
Tucker swallowed as he climbed into the tent and zipped the sleeves behind him. He smirked, dropping his pants as he rubbed the length of his full erection up and down, inches from her flicking tongue. He pulled back, grinning.
“You naughty little girl, fucking yourself with your dad just a few feet away... Or was it me? You wanted me to hear you, didn't you?”
He watched as her round, glistering brown eyes eyed his cock hungrily. He pushed the tip of his wet cock against the edge of her small, round nose, leaving a light, damp trail down her lip. She moaned in surprise as he turned her around, thrusting the full length of his pulsating cock into her folds. He slapped her full, jiggling cheeks, cupping it with his hand, groaning as he thrusted in and out of her, pushing her face to the pillow, her moans of ecstasy muffled.
“You wanna get fucked with your toys, baby?”
Tucker lubricated the string of anal beads and pushed the beads into the pulsing hole above his immersed cock, grunting as he watched the beads disappear. Imogen squealed into the pillow, writhing as she felt a sudden trickle down her thighs. He thrusted in and out of her, his hands buried inside her jersey, caressing the shapely, supple globe of her bouncing breast, twiddling her erect nipples with his fingers. He groaned, his cock throbbing, pulling out hastily as he finished onto her blanket.
“Oh my god, Mr. Travis, that was amazing, but you need to leave now, before my dad wakes up.”
Tucker got dressed in silence, his brows furrowed, lost in thought. He unzipped the sleeves of her tent. He turned, opening his mouth to say something, but she was already curled into her sleeping bag, facing away. Imogen squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the rustling of the zipper. As soon as he left, she opened her eyes, palming her crotch as she felt a strange oozing from her folds. She gasped as she stared at the white, sticky substance in the palm of her hand. She rubbed it into the covers and collapsed into her sleeping bag. She closed her eyes, forcing away her milling thoughts as she willed herself to fall asleep.
Chapter Four –
“Hey, Billy, is my order for table four ready?”
Imogen leaned her arm against the counter, peering into the kitchen. She watched as Billy, the line cook, rubbed his arm against his nose, sniffing, as he grabbed a plate of soft-shell lobster tac
os, garnished with spicy tomato salsa and multicolored tortilla chips. He leaned over, sluggishly sprinkling a handful of shredded cilantro leaves into the tacos. She rested her arms under her swollen breasts impatiently, glancing behind her to check on the patrons at her table. She turned back, scowling as she caught Billy's eyes lingering on the deep line of her sore cleavage, peeking out of the v-neck of her uniform.
“Thanks, perv,” snapped Imogen, snatching the plate from the counter and placing it on her tray.
Imogen walked to her table, plastering a feigned smile on her face as she approached her customers. She dipped the tray onto the table, smiling sweetly. The two men, dressed in matching college sweatshirts, grinned at her, their blazed, red eyes blinking at her swelling chest. She giggled sheepishly, her cheeks reddening as she hiked up the neck of her uniform.
“Nice,” said the man with the cornrows, bumping fists with his friend across him.
“Um, thanks, guys,” stammered Imogen, “Just give me a holler if you need anything.”
“Will do, babe.”
Imogen turned on her heels, sighing as she walked towards the register. She rubbed on the tendon between her thumb and index finger vigorously, groaning under her breath. She had been feeling light-headed for a couple of days now, and stocking up on vitamins and fluids didn't seem to combat whatever illness was heading her way. She sat down on the chair behind the register, leaning her head against the bar.
“Slacking off already, are we?”
Imogen sprung to her feet, her eyes snapping open. She muttered under her breath, crumpling back into the seat, “Christ, Sarah, you scared me. Thought you were Patricia.”
Sarah rubbed her chin thoughtfully, staring at Imogen's slouched frame. She tucked a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ears as she tutted, pursing her vivid, mulberry red painted lips. She placed the back of her hand against Imogen's forehead, commenting, “You alright, hon? Don't think I've ever seen you sick in the two years you've worked here. It's a pretty slow day, you wanna go home? I'll let Patricia –”