by David Wayne
We picked a spot next to a small pond that had cattails sprinkled around its perimeter. A rotted dock, long in disrepair, was collapsed into the water. Faded beer bottles littered the area, and a stone fire pit sat idle in the middle of a cleared semicircle. I saw an old, used condom slung on a bush. It looked like a high school party spot, which meant houses would be close by. As we readied the camp, Jenn headed down to the lake. My eyes were unconsciously glued to her slim body and long legs—so smooth and tanned. She covered herself in a beach towel, but by the way her ass wiggled, she was nude underneath.
Whack!
I was slugged viciously in the arm. “What have I done now? I’m standing here doing nothing. Damn it, that hurt,” I said.
“You’re cursing again, Mr. Ryker, just like you always do when you’ve done wrong and refuse to admit it. Now if you please, I was putting up our tent, alone, while you were busy lusting for that…woman.”
“I wasn’t lusting…what I was doing was—”
“You know, I’ve worked very hard to instill some sense of decency into you these last weeks—a lost cause, I may add. The devil's got a special seat in hell with your name written all over it,” she said before storming off.
That’s when I realized I had hurt the sister somehow, but I had no inclination as to why. I had simply checked out a chick’s ass. Shit, I did that all the time—back in the old life. No one ever hit me or yelled at me or told me I had a special seat in hell for doing it. I was glad the sister didn’t know what else I did with chicks, because it was a helluva lot more than look at their keisters.
Thirty minutes later, we had a fire blazing, the site set up, and started settling in for dinner. That’s when I heard Jenn coming up from the pond. I looked straight into the fire, stoking it with a stick, feeling the sister's eyes boring in on me. No way was I going to look. Uh-uh.
A few minutes later, the pitter-pattering feet of Jenn approached, and she plopped down next to me, almost in my lap. She was wearing a T-shirt, cut to midriff, and no bra. If her cutoffs were any shorter, I’m not sure they’d be considered pants. I stared at the fire. So did Dale, who was also conscious of the thick, uncomfortable tension. Sister stared at Jenn in stunned disbelief. The woman was all but naked, and flaunting it.
Then things got worse.
Chapter 42
“Is dinner ready yet? I’m starved,” Jenn asked, sounding frustrated, crossing her legs, and settling in.
“We had work to do at the campsite first, Jenn, while you enjoyed a beauty bath. We were just now moving on to dinner,” Sister said.
“Good. Like I said, I’m starved. Please, hurry.”
“I see Dale set up your tent and got all your stuff together while you took care of your essentials. How sweet of him.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t bother looking at the sister while she spoke. She was smiling at me.
We ate dinner in silence. Sister enforced my grace obligation, but unlike previous days, she didn’t correct my prayer; she simply accepted what I offered. Afterward, Dale brought out a cheap bottle of vodka, the red label still sporting its six-ninety-nine price tag. It was three quarters full.
“This is the last of the Mohican,” he said with a big grin. Dale and I made small talk, putting effort into controlling the conversation. Otherwise, we knew the women would engage in uncomfortable comments and pointed jabs at one another. Their hostility was growing, and Jennifer’s attire was pushing the sister’s boundaries big-time. We maintained the peace for almost an hour, but it was destined to break.
Jenn had no problem matching Dale and me, shot for shot, and was obviously on her way. She wasn’t smashed but had a cocky buzz going and was ready to clear the female air—and that was what she did.
She turned toward Susan, reaching over and touching her arm lightly. “Sister… dear,” she started, lips drawn tight, “you see, Max and I have needs, as a man and woman. You’re of the Church, and you don’t have those…desires or needs,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Now, Max is so kind he can’t bring himself to ask you to move out of his tent, but…I know you understand, right?” she said, not waiting on a reply but patting the sister's arm. “We’ll just flip-flop accommodations; I’ll give you my tent and I’ll move in with Max. Dale will be happy to help move your things, won’t you, hon?” she said, smiling at Dale before leaning into me with a giggle.
Dale looked like someone gave him a good, hard gut punch; I probably looked the same. The sister, however, was unfazed.
“Oh, so you have it, too?” Sister said, using an exaggerated Southern accent.
Jenn’s voice was a bit slurred. “Have what?” she laughed, holding on to my arm.
“Max told you, right, sugar?” she said, touching Jenn. “He has Zenaphobitis? If you’re going to have sex with him, you must have it, too, right?” she said, glancing around to confused looks, including mine.
A little bit of drunk fog left Jenn’s eyes, and she removed her hand from my arm. “What is Zen-whatever?”
“They call it Zena, for short. It’s a respiratory disease, spread mainly through body fluids, but it can also be passed on through extended close contact. It was brought on by the Event. How long have you had it, dear?” Susan asked.
Jenn pulled farther away from me. “I don’t. I don’t have any diseases.”
A little drunkenness had also left Dale. “Is it like the flu or—”
“No, no. It’s a fatal disease. Nasty stuff. Clogs up the lungs and then suffocates you,” Sister said. “I’m afraid I’ve caught it as well.” With that, she coughed in Jenn’s direction, without covering her mouth.
Jenn jumped up, fanning the air from her face. “What the hell? Oh, my God.” Dale also stood and moved back a few paces. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Jenn demanded, glaring over at me.
Susan hammered her. “With your red, watery eyes, Jenn, I just assumed…” she said, throwing up her hands and letting the comment float.
Jenn fell against Dale, ready to faint.
Dale stood there, looking dazed.
I sipped the vodka.
Sister smiled innocently.
No one spoke.
Finally, Dale leaned in, looking closely at Jenn in the flickering firelight. “Honey, your eyes are a bit bloodshot.”
“Oh, shit,” Jenn said, running over to her tent. She started packing up her belongings. Dale did likewise.
“Let’s go to bed, Ryker,” Sister said. I followed her to our tent.
I had to admit, it was quite the performance. We lay still in the darkness, without speaking, listening to them pack in haste. Within twenty minutes, we heard them hightail it from camp, arguing as they went.
“What is Zenaphobitis?” I asked.
“No idea. I made it up,” she said.
“A respiratory disease that spreads through sex?” I said with a chuckle.
“I figured she isn’t the ripest apple in the bushel,” she answered.
“You knew her eyes were bloodshot from swimming in the pond. You don’t think that was a tad over-the-top?” I asked.
“Maybe. Sorta. Perhaps.”
I smiled to myself. Ignorance, the ultimate tool for the master manipulator. “Maybe we should call you the fixer, Sis.”
She rolled over, fluffing her pillow. “I’m not a fixer, Ryker. I do contract work.”
Chapter 43
I fell asleep with the sense that Sister was hurting. I wanted to do something, but what could I do? I didn’t have a clue what was going on, so how could I fix it? I awoke to find myself wrapped around her, my face in her neck, her hair on my face. She smelled like a woman and was warm and soft. It took me a few seconds to regroup, but then reality struck hard—if I didn’t disentangle, and quickly, she would wake up and go ballistic. If she knew I had been cuddling her, she would freak. Not that I did it on purpose, mind you; I’d been totally asleep and unaware.
Slowly I crept away, inch by critical inch, aware the bomb could explode at any moment. I was dete
rmined to utilize all the discipline at my command, to move one millimeter at a time. In the end, my mastery of stealth paid off, and I had broken free of the sister—completely undetected.
“Max?”
Oh, shit, was I caught? No, go to plan B. I put on a groggy voice. “Uh…what… what’s going on?” I said, yawning and rubbing my eyes. “Oh, sorry. I must have bumped you when I rolled over.”
“No, Max, you were cuddling me because you felt guilty for trampling my feelings these last few days. That means you’re evolving into a human, a real live person.”
“Oh.” I braced for the punch, but none came. Did I do something right?
*
It was a beautiful morning. Birds singing, the sun shining—Dale and Jenn gone. Sister was unusually quiet, and I hoped the whole Jenn thing was behind us. Maybe this could be an issue that just went away; no need to discuss it—beat a dead horse and all that. The minute our feet hit the gravel road, that hope evaporated.
“I can’t believe what you made me do. I prayed all night for forgiveness. As expected, you were sawing z’s the minute your head hit the pillow, clueless and unrepentant.” She was walking fast, arms swinging side to side. I stayed quiet, not sure how to respond, so I didn’t.
She stopped, giving me a face-to-face. “You’ve got nothing to say for yourself, Mr. Ryker? Nothing at all?” Her chest was heaving, never a good sign.
“I thought it was a pretty slick move on your part,” I said. Compliments are a good way to defuse a woman.
“I didn’t. I was reduced to a lying manipulator, all because you were busy being led around by your pee pee.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sister, please, we’re not in kindergarten. Grown men don’t have pee pees.”
To my complete astonishment, she gave me a once-over before saying, “Based on what I saw the other night, I beg to differ.”
Ouch!
*
We walked hard in the cool morning sun. Once her anger was spent, she tended to enjoy moving fast, putting miles under our feet. The day was clear and warming fast, and we had only walked a few miles when she suddenly squealed and took off running. I grabbed my gun, turning circles in the road, ready to do business.
She stopped, spun around, and yelled, “Come on, what are you waiting for?” before taking off running again.
What the hell was she doing now? Then I saw the object of her affection—horses. Shit! I hate horses. I don't just hate horses, I hate any animal that’s bigger and weighs more than me. If it can potentially beat me up, forget about it. I ran to catch up.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea. Let’s keep moving.” I grabbed her arm and started to walk away. She pulled loose, roughly.
“Nonsense. We’re going to ride these guys.” She was laughing, very excited, doing a little Indian dance.
“Not a good idea, Sis. Please, let’s go.”
She stopped dancing. “You’re afraid of horses, aren’t you?” she said, giving me a suspicious look.
“Of course not. Max Ryker isn’t afraid of anything. Back in Jersey—”
“You were the king of the rodeo, or whatever, I know. There’s the barn. Let’s go get the tackle.”
I stood silently.
She took off toward the faded red barn.
I followed, shoulders hunched, head down.
“There’re no saddles in here, so we’ll have to ride bareback. Are you sure you can do this? Otherwise, I don’t mind.” A smirk was lurking, just behind her smile.
“What do you mean, can I do this? Of course I can. Whatever the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve—that includes riding wild beasts.” I started collecting blankets and padding, copying her because I was clueless.
I’d never been inside a real barn before, but I was underwhelmed. I started poking around, checking things out. I saw a big black Stetson hanging on a nail and snatched it up. Now I was a real cowboy, pardner.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Daisy Mae,” I said, suppressing a laugh.
She looked up. “Who is Daisy Mae?” Before I could answer, she said, “Never mind. I can tell by the evil grin it’s some sort of pubescent sexual reference. Really, Max, there’s more to life than sex.” She threw a disappointed look my way before returning to her task.
I could debate that issue but decided it best to drop it. Besides, she’d never seen Daisy in those short, cutoff blue jeans and—
“Max Ryker! Get your mind out of the gutter and help me collect the horses. When we reach Atlanta, I’m taking you straight to the doctor—you have a hormone imbalance or something. You’re stuck at age fifteen.”
We rounded up the horses, and it didn’t take her long to get the bridle and riding pads on; she performed the tasks with the efficiency of an expert. “I’ll take the black stallion, who we’ll call Blackie. You can have the white mustang, and we’ll call that guy Whitey. Isn’t it fun, Max?”
“I’ll name my horse; you name yours. Besides, I was leaning toward Mr. Ed or maybe Trigger,” I said.
She dismissed me. “No, let’s run with Whitey. I like that better.”
“Sister, you really were born with an abundance of control hormones. I heard there’s a great clinic in Atlanta that specializes in control-freak disorders—we really must get you checked out when we get there.”
She spun around, waving her finger in the air. “I am not a control freak. I’m traveling with a young boy trapped inside a man’s body. A person who must be constantly mothered, or he gets into all kinds of trouble and mischief. Especially with floozies.”
“You think?” I said, amused. Then I tackled her, mid-waist, pushing her into a big pile of hay. She fought back, wrestling hard. She was stronger than I expected, a wiry little rascal, but I finally pinned her in the soft pile. I sat straddling her shoulders with my knees.
“Get off me this instant.”
“No, Mommy, I’m being a naughty boy.”
I started tickling her, and she bucked like a wild bronco, with everything she had. Finally, we became exhausted, and I rolled off. We lay there, side by side in a bed of hay, laughing and catching our breath. As was her MO, she shot me a zinger out of the clear blue.
“You know, someday you’re going to have to quit being a nomad, stop the aimless wandering, and make some commitments. You can’t flip-flop through life like a beach bum, Max.”
“I commit all the time and I’m not aimless—and I never flip-flop. I’m male, a naturally decisive decider.”
She changed the subject. “So, is it Mr. Ed or Trigger?”
“Neither. I decided to make a firm commitment. I’m going with Whitey.”
She looked up at the sky. “God, please help me.”
Chapter 44
“Are you coming, or are you going to sit there all day practicing your cowboy poses?” she said.
“He won’t go. I keep kicking, but he won’t move,” I said. I was scooching back and forth on his back, but it didn’t work.
“Did you talk to him?” she said.
“The horse talks?”
“Very funny. The horse must like you and feel safe before he’ll let you ride him. Now go ahead, talk to him.”
“Giddy up, giddy up and goooooo!” I yelled. “Hi, ho, Silver!” Nothing happened. “It’s not working; maybe he’s out of gas,” I said.
She exhaled deeply before dismounting. “Good boy, nice horsey,” she said, patting him gently on the nose and rubbing his long neck. “Come on, Whitey, come on, boy.” Magically, the horse moved, and she walked alongside us. She remounted Blackie and trotted up to ride side by side.
I adjusted the Stetson. “Howdy, ma’am, name’s Josie… Josie Wales,” I said, using my best cowboy voice.
Sister ignored me.
I nodded. “Howdy, son, I’m the new sheriff in town. Go fetch me some vittles.”
The horse walked along gently, causing me to rock back and forth. Then I realized—I’m a natural at this
. “Just moseying off into the sunset, friend. A lonely cowboy, looking for a squaw…or two,” I said.
“Enough with the cowboy movie lines, already. You look and sound silly,” she said, giving her horse a pat on the neck.
“You’re looking mighty purty this evenin’, ma’am, if I do say so m’self,” I said, tipping my hat in a grand gesture. The sudden movement caused the blanket to slide a few inches down the horse’s side. I tried to straighten, but I was cocked sideways, and I started slipping farther downward. My weight worked against me and for gravity. As I began to slide off, my hands grabbed fistfuls of air. The horse got a bit spooked and jolted forward, causing the padding to slide completely off, with me on it.
Thump.
My shoulder kissed the dirt and it was hello, Mr. Ground. I was lying flat on my ass. I jumped up quickly. “That was an old clown trick I saw on TV once. Don’t try that at home,” I said, picking up my hat and plucking a long weed. I got back up on the horse. The sister said nothing, letting her blank stare speak her mind. I blew it off. This time, Whitey walked on his own, no begging required.
I pulled my hat low, shoved the weed in my mouth, and put my swagger on. I decided to go for John Wayne. “Ma’am—”
“Max, please, you’re gonna kill yourself. Shush!”
What fun was riding a horse if you couldn’t play cowboy? I had the hat and everything. She was such a party pooper.
“You really need to lighten up, Sis, learn to interact with people. Up in Jersey, we call it c-o-m-m-u-n-i-c-a-t-i-o-n. Try it sometime, it’s good for what’s hurting the soul, deep down in here,” I said, mimicking her voice and patting my heart.