ceremony itself.
She looked at him once again, caught his eye, and felt ever more naked, open, willing. Any thoughts of blood or blindfolds or blades had been eclipsed as totally as the brazen face of the moon in the willfully calibrated heavens.
* * *
“Let’s go check ’em out. Naked. No fucking clothes.” Jason Robb pumped his fist, felt his abs clench. Girls loved that shit; too bad none of them was around to see him.
But maybe mo’ betta, mon, not havin’ dem shorties wich you. Ever since his parents had taken him to Montego Bay, Jason had begun talking to himself in what he thought of as his “Jamaican voice.” He might be white, but he didn’t have to sound like it. Still, he kept his quarterback’s bark alive for his teammates: “Come on, you assholes. They’re gonna be dancing around gettin’ all horny. Got to strike while the punani’s hot.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” groused Carl Boon, his center. Jason had seen enough of Boon’s fat butt to last a lifetime, and he’d about had it with all the fag jokes about reaching down between Carl’s chunky fucking legs. “You jerking him off during audibles, QB?” Like I’d juke him, mon, even if I was some batty boy.
“Hey, you know the one with the tat on her shoulder?” Jason said. “Big fucking flower?”
“Big fucking tits?” Gabe, his halfback, smiled. Built like his father and uncles: square body, square head, stumpy legs. Tiny dick.
“Yeah, Forensia, the one my brother drilled.” She’d never fucked Gareth again. Wouldn’t even kiss him. Called him a “bad mistake.” And then Gar ran off and signed up and got his ass shot to death in Baghdad. The bitch didn’t even come to his goddamn funeral. She breaks his heart, gets him sent to fucking Baghdad, and then spits on his grave. Time to defend de family honor, bredda. “She’s joining some kind of witches’ thing along with that new chink chick. Christy told me.” Christy Walker, the sheriff’s younger daughter.
“Christy gonna be there?” Carl asked, sounding like he couldn’t have cared less.
“She wasn’t sure. Suze’s going.” The older sister, the one Jason had played grab ass with forever. More like grab dem everything, mon.
Jason and about half his team squeezed into two cars and tore down the old lake road, which led along rolling hills before they roared onto a dirt track and raised a huge cloud of dust that tailed them past the Empire Campgrounds. If not for the drought, the campsites would have been packed with every kind of suck-ass city shithead, but since the lake started looking like a burned-up biscuit the place had been practically deserted.
Jason slowed, turning off Shabba Ranks’s reggae rap because now he had to focus. (“Make yuh choo-choo like a train…”) This is where it gets tricky as shit, he thought. He pulled over; the second car followed closely. Jason kicked open his door and hopped out. “We’re gonna hafta huff it for about a mile up to Pointer Ridge.”
“Shit, man, I don’t want to hike all that way,” Carl complained.
“You know what?” Jason stuck his head back into the car and stared as Carl tried to crawl out of the Camaro’s tiny backseat. “You really are a fucking faggot.”
“Fuck you,” Carl muttered for the millionth time. “I’m just tired’s all.”
“Get out so Bert can move. You’re no faggot, are you, Bert?”
Bert was a lineman, a body crusher; and he’d be a lineman the rest of his life, near as Jason could tell. Always staring at girls like he was Lurch from The Addams Family . Not that any girl would go near him. Jason figured Bert was storing up the sight of legs and tits for later use. A goddamn squirrel thinking only of his nuts. Well, not only de nutbag, mon.
“Everybody,” Jason said after the guys emptied out of the two cars, “shut the fuck up when we get near the ridge. You want to see some fucking ass, you shut your fucking pie holes.”
“I’m planning
She looked at him once again, caught his eye, and felt ever more naked, open, willing. Any thoughts of blood or blindfolds or blades had been eclipsed as totally as the brazen face of the moon in the willfully calibrated heavens.
* * *
“Let’s go check ’em out. Naked. No fucking clothes.” Jason Robb pumped his fist, felt his abs clench. Girls loved that shit; too bad none of them was around to see him.
But maybe mo’ betta, mon, not havin’ dem shorties wich you. Ever since his parents had taken him to Montego Bay, Jason had begun talking to himself in what he thought of as his “Jamaican voice.” He might be white, but he didn’t have to sound like it. Still, he kept his quarterback’s bark alive for his teammates: “Come on, you assholes. They’re gonna be dancing around gettin’ all horny. Got to strike while the punani’s hot.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” groused Carl Boon, his center. Jason had seen enough of Boon’s fat butt to last a lifetime, and he’d about had it with all the fag jokes about reaching down between Carl’s chunky fucking legs. “You jerking him off during audibles, QB?” Like I’d juke him, mon, even if I was some batty boy.
“Hey, you know the one with the tat on her shoulder?” Jason said. “Big fucking flower?”
“Big fucking tits?” Gabe, his halfback, smiled. Built like his father and uncles: square body, square head, stumpy legs. Tiny dick.
“Yeah, Forensia, the one my brother drilled.” She’d never fucked Gareth again. Wouldn’t even kiss him. Called him a “bad mistake.” And then Gar ran off and signed up and got his ass shot to death in Baghdad. The bitch didn’t even come to his goddamn funeral. She breaks his heart, gets him sent to fucking Baghdad, and then spits on his grave. Time to defend de family honor, bredda. “She’s joining some kind of witches’ thing along with that new chink chick. Christy told me.” Christy Walker, the sheriff’s younger daughter.
“Christy gonna be there?” Carl asked, sounding like he couldn’t have cared less.
“She wasn’t sure. Suze’s going.” The older sister, the one Jason had played grab ass with forever. More like grab dem everything, mon.
Jason and about half his team squeezed into two cars and tore down the old lake road, which led along rolling hills before they roared onto a dirt track and raised a huge cloud of dust that tailed them past the Empire Campgrounds. If not for the drought, the campsites would have been packed with every kind of suck-ass city shithead, but since the lake started looking like a burned-up biscuit the place had been practically deserted.
Jason slowed, turning off Shabba Ranks’s reggae rap because now he had to focus. (“Make yuh choo-choo like a train…”) This is where it gets tricky as shit, he thought. He pulled over; the second car followed closely. Jason kicked open his door and hopped out. “We’re gonna hafta huff it for about a mile up to Pointer Ridge.”
“Shit, man, I don’t want to hike all that way,” Carl complained.
“You know what?” Jason stuck his head back into the car and stared as Carl tried to crawl out of the Camaro’s tiny backseat. “You really are a fucking faggot.”
“Fuck you,” Carl muttered for the millionth time. “I’m just tired’s all.”
“Get out so Bert can move. You’re no faggot, are you, Bert?”
Bert was a lineman, a body crusher; and he’d be a lineman the rest of his life, near as Jason could tell. Always staring at girls like he was Lurch from The Addams Family . Not that any girl would go near him. Jason figured Bert was storing up the sight of legs and tits for later use. A goddamn squirrel thinking only of his nuts. Well, not only de nutbag, mon.
“Everybody,” Jason said after the guys emptied out of the two cars, “shut the fuck up when we get near the ridge. You want to see some fucking ass, you shut your fucking pie holes.”
“I’m planning
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