by Kendall Grey
I hit the point of no return—that split second where you have to decide whether to give in to the unstoppable climax, or you fumble it and have to start over.
I let it go.
“Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh …” The grunts are soft at first, but they quickly rise in volume until my throat is hoarse. That’s when the orgasm digs its claws in. It rocks me against a drunken, swirling backdrop of a polyester uniform, a dark street, and fast-paced pants from hungry lips. The jabs in my butt continue to hammer my G-spot. That horny bitch sings like the opera lady hitting a soprano C, my head drops forward, and I push.
Old Faithful’s first spray hits pavement, and I lose all sense of decorum. (Okay, so maybe I didn’t have any to begin with. Shoot me.) The amused cop pauses long enough to unlock my wrist jewelry and tosses the handcuffs to the pavement. Then he grabs me around the waist and guides us to the hood of his car. Blue lights spin, blinding, meddling with my already precarious sobriety. With his cock-key still engaged in my rear door’s lock, he hoists me up one-handed—my back to his chest—both of us draped over the warm hood. His free hand darts front and center. He flicks me at 60 miles an hour, splashing through the raging river in my pudding trench like a kid tackling a Slip ’N Slide.
Fighting to maintain what little control I have left, I bite my bottom lip as pain and pleasure collide in an intimate yet very public meeting of the minds. Thin, clear fluid flies skyward. I push again. Another rush shoots out and falls like rain all over us, dotting the car. He sticks out his tongue and catches a few droplets.
“Fuck it!” I yell at him. “Fuck my ass!”
He does. With great vigor. “You like this big dick tearing up your ass, Letty? Huh? You want me to make you a cream pie?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “Fill me with your cream. Make me squirt again. And again and again.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. With a gravelly groan, he dumps his cum deep inside me as he fingers my sopping wet cunt into another frenzy. It’s like an alarm clock going off. I wake from my sex-drugged daze.
Another push. I cry out. I flail on his hard, twitching pole. I lose my mind as a gallon of lady spunk sprays straight into the air in a glorious fountain of love.
I drown in laughter and pussy juice.
When the rain finally stops, he slips out and lowers my feet to the ground. His chest heaves as he labors for breath. The spinning blue and white lights fade. The fantasy dissipates. I’m left standing half-naked beside a stranger’s car behind the Killer Buzz Float tour bus with a thoroughly drenched, disgustingly hot rocker wearing a cop costume. His deflating dick hovers over a pair of fake police uniform pants bunched around his ankles. I snatch the shades off the bridge of his nose and gaze into familiar green eyes.
The piercing through his brow glitters as Shades smiles. “Pussycat, that was—”
I tackle-kiss him, arms choking his neck as I subtly wipe my sticky wet hands on the blue polyester covering his broad shoulders. His fauxhawk is ruined. His exposed skin glistens. He looks like he got in a fight with a fire hose and lost. Awesome. We can clean this shit up later. Right now, I need snuggles. Or, at least, our kind of snuggles, which usually entail sloppy, post-coital smooching in public places.
I taste myself as his tongue plays tug of war with mine. Giggles bubble up again, and I break the kiss. “I love the destruction you wreak between my legs.” Goddamn, Shades is something. This role-playing thing was the best idea we’ve had in ages. Aside from the Birthday Club business, which hasn’t happened yet.
(More on that later.)
Laughing, he wipes the thin film of liquid Letty off his face and makes a show of licking his palm. This is the guy who does things to me. The one who makes me feel alive. Who makes my heart swell. God, I missed him.
“Todd?”
Shades and I freeze, and then tilt away from each other simultaneously.
“What are you doing?” the female voice asks.
Light footsteps announce an unknown woman’s arrival. I tug my tank top and thong into place and squint into the darkness. Shades bends over, grabs his pants, and pulls them up. They catch on the billy club still sticking out of his butt. I stifle a smart-ass comment. That’s my boy.
“Shit,” he mumbles, stuffing his junk into the front of the black fabric and leaving the back end open. I wiggle the makeshift dildo, and he swats my hand away behind us.
This chick must be another crazy Killer Buzz Float stalker. Honestly, I love our fans, but some of them need to learn the meaning of the word “boundaries.” Just last week after a show, a girl turned up on the bus, totally naked except for a leather collar and riding crop. She said she was there to “teach Rax a lesson.” If she were as hardcore a fan as she claimed to be, she’d know Rax doesn’t take lessons. He gives them. Toombs, on the other hand …
The shadows part and reveal the most beautiful Black woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. We’re talking supermodel stunning. Long, softly curled hair, not a strand out of place. Flawless skin the color of an old-timey walnut piano. Tall, thin, curvy. Put her in a sexy, floor-length, strappy red dress, and she could totally be one of those ingénue lounge singers from a nightclub in the 70s.
Clutching a multihued silk scarf, the woman swaggers closer and steps into a pool of anemic, yellow street light. The colorful wrap covers what looks like a knapsack strapped across her chest. She might be beautiful, but clearly she has no fashion sense. You’re supposed to wear those things on your back.
She lays a hand on her hip and looks to Shades expectantly.
I glance his way. All color has drained from his face, and his jaw hangs open. A bad feeling stabs its barbs deep in the pit of my suddenly sour stomach. I turn to the chick. “Who the hell are you?” I demand, a little afraid of the answer.
“I’m his wife.”
Get Away from Her, You Bitch!
“Ex-wife,” Shades corrects. A hint of exasperation—maybe irritation?—snips his words.
“Ex … WHAT?” My alcohol-impaired gaze bounces between them as I try to decide whom I’m madder at.
I can’t believe this. Shades has a fucking wife!?
An ex-wife, but still. A wife.
Why the fuck didn’t he tell me? He’s had months to let the cat out of the bag. Every opportunity to confess. Why would he hide such a thing? I thought we trusted each other. I thought—
“What are you doing here, Eliza?” Shades goes rigid and crosses his arms.
“I needed to see you. We have some things to discuss.” She even talks pretty. The bitch.
Shades won’t look at me. He’s fully focused on her. That pisses me off even more.
Is he avoiding me? Kissing her ass? Both? My hands curl into tight balls at my sides. With a huff, I grasp the billy club and yank it as hard as I can out of his ass.
Shades jumps about a foot off the ground and shoots me a glare. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it real quick-like.
Can’t yell at me for pulling your plug, can you? Wouldn’t want your special lady friend to know your butt enjoys munching rubber a little more than a straight ass should. I flick a twitchy, sarcastic smile his way and subtly let the baton drop to the ground. Cheeks regaining some color, he buttons and zips his pants with a scowl.
“Come inside, Eliza. It’s a little more … private in there,” he says, nodding toward the door. Still ignoring me. I’m tempted to wave my arms in front of his face just to see if he’ll notice. Talk about a comedown. Not five minutes ago, we were getting our freak—and I mean that in the most literal sense—on outside the bus, butt-fucking, role-playing, mega-squirting. Connecting for the first time in ages. All was right in our world. Then this twat shows up, and I turn fucking invisible.
Gritting my teeth, I follow Shades and my insta-nemesis up the bus steps. Her perfect round ass swings in my face, taunting me. I resist the urge to bite it.
Eliza. Sounds like a wife name. Ugh.
Once inside, Shades flips on the dim lights and grabs a towel.
He rubs it over the mess I left on him (take that, Eliza!) and roughs his hair into its usual spiky place. Note to self: squirt juice makes pretty decent hair gel.
The beautiful bitch with bad fashion sense hovers by the driver’s seat. Hard to see in here, but damn it, she’s even prettier than I realized.
But seriously, why is she wearing a backpack under a scarf? She can’t be that dumb.
Shades leans against the table bolted to the floor in front. I squeeze in next to him, seeking the warmth I’ve grown accustomed to, but he keeps his arms at his sides instead of slipping one around me like he usually does. A shiver rattles my spine.
So, he doesn’t want to acknowledge my presence here? Fine. I’ll take matters into my own hands. I use my manners like my momma taught me—hey, I know how to lay on the Southern hospitality when I want to—and stick out my hand. Pretty sure the squirt sauce has dried by now. “I’m Letty. His girlfriend.” I nod to Shades. “Nice to meet you.”
“Eliza Guns.” She accepts, pumps twice with a rock solid grip, and lets go. Wonder if she got any on her. Bless her heart.
“Got rid of the Armstrong permanently, huh?” Shades says.
I consider inserting my fist into the gape left behind by the billy club, digging through his intestines until I reach his voice box, and ripping it out.
“We’re divorced. No need to keep it. Besides, everyone knows me by my stage name, so when I dropped yours, I made it official.”
Guns. Eliza Guns.
Wait a minute …
“Shit! You’re the guitarist for Banging Betties.” Not my kind of music (that Trixie pop metal shit sucks), but they’re getting pretty popular. And I’ll admit, bitch can play guitar. I turn to Shades. “You two were really married?”
Without moving a muscle, he lifts his gaze to hers. “Briefly.”
“How … briefly?” My jealousy software is powering up. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s probably got a fucking virus and is spreading like the goddamn plague.
“Couple months.” He still won’t look at me, damn it. “You should’ve called,” Shades says to her softly.
“I know.” She shoots an eyeball dart at me, and then returns to Shades. “I tagged along with my manager for the meeting tomorrow, so I figured we’d take care of business in person.”
Guarded suspicion stiffens his stance. “Meeting? What meeting?”
Yeah, what mee—
Shifting fabric catches my attention.
Holy shit, it moved. The bag fucking moved. I may be drunk, but I know what I saw. “Um …” I startle and cautiously point a finger at her chest as I stumble a few steps down the aisle. “What is that thing?”
She rakes her gaze over me from top to bottom as if studying a non-sentient life form in a petri dish. “What do you think?” Sarcasm dries her voice.
Alien. Has to be.
My heart takes off at a full sprint.
It moves again. My lids pop wide open, and I stifle the squeal ready to rip the top of my throat off. Eliza tugs down the scarf and tosses it into the driver’s seat. The freshly revealed backpack/army bag/ruck sack for the stylishly challenged sprouts little brown turtle legs.
I gasp and clutch my sternum. It is a fucking alien! I grab Shades’s arm and pull him away. Heebie-jeebies crawl all over my skin. A full-body wriggle grabs me like a seizure. We gotta get out of here.
“What the … fuck?” Shades says.
A series of peeps and bitten-off yelps are the only things my vocal cords can muster, and those sound about as alien as the creature surely sucking the very soul out of this unfortunate woman. I cross myself and pray to The Rock that some razor-toothed little fucker doesn’t bust out of Eliza’s chest in a spray of blood and hiss up at me like I’m Sigourney fucking Weaver sitting at the dinner table in the Nostromo mess hall.
I look up at Shades. He’s as pale as I must be. Counting off his fingers, he mumbles, “December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August.” He ends with nine digits showing. He whips his disbelieving gaze to the alien.
I know. I can’t believe it, either. An alien aboard our ship, the U.S.S. Squirt.
“No.” He shakes his head. Fear seeps a shot of green into his pallor. “No, it can’t be.”
“Can be and is,” she replies. The alien wiggles and makes a quiet but freakishly high-pitched noise. I cover my ears, terrified.
Shades grabs his hair. Jabs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “No, Eliza,” he pleads.
Incoming voices interrupt the impending disaster.
My best friend Jinx hops up the steps, her boyfriend Toombs right on her heels.
Oh. No. Jinx!
She glances at the ex-wife and her monstrous chest goiter, and squeals the way I tried to a few moments ago. Except this isn’t a scared oh-my-God-it’s-an-alien squeal. It’s a squee! Something’s awesome! squeal. Wearing a huge smile, she stomps her feet in a quick little dance, shoulders lifted, hands grabby.
No. I must save my friend. Arms out, I jump between her and Eliza. “Don’t touch it, Jinx! The alien will kill you dead!” Visions of Sigourney Weaver clopping around in a big, yellow power loader bombard my hazy-dazy mind. I turn to Eliza and shout, “Get away from her, you bitch!”
Jinx pauses, drops the goofy cheerleader pretense, and plants her hands on her hips. “It’s just a sweet little baby, Letty.”
“A ba—”
What?
What the fucking fuck?
I take a closer but cautious look. Eliza hefts the organic mass from its holster and turns it around, clutching it across the belly. Sure enough, the thing has a humanoid face. Squinting, I inch closer still, keeping my fists in a defensive position in case I need to use some ninja moves and chop suey this miniature motherfucker.
It gurgles and looks up at me.
Green eyes.
My mouth goes dry. Vision shreds. Blood pressure loses its will to live. The lights go out, and I body-bomb the floor.
Float Like a Butterfly and Sting Like a Bee
When I resurrect from the facial burial in the grooves of the bus flooring, Shades’s wrinkled brow unfurls above me. “You okay, pussycat?” He taps my cheek gently. Caresses it. He smells of fear with a whiff of apology.
Good. ’Cause he’s got a lot of explaining to do. I flex my eyebrows at him, the only means of intimidation I’ve got at the moment.
Ouch.
Oww.
What the fuck is this incessant, screaming ouch on my face?
With an unsteady hand, I pat my chin, follow a trail of stickiness up to a very tender nose—seriously, fucking OWW!—and check my fingers. They’re covered in blood.
Blood.
I’ve been injured.
I glance past all the legs cluttering the aisle on the bus to a pair of high heels topping off slender, sexy calves that don’t belong here. The sickly sweetness of baby powder pounds my smooshed nose. A wire trips inside my head, a trap springs, and I come undone.
Those ninja moves I stockpiled from before don their shit kickers and crack their knuckles. Fueled by fury and heartbreaking pain like I’ve never known, I swing my fists, Muhammad Ali style. Okay, maybe I don’t have his “float like a butterfly and sting like a bee” moves, but I got a big ol’ can of condensed whoop-ass.
Warning: contents under pressure.
POP!
I blindly wail on Shades, the floor, the air contracting between us. He ducks to avoid the blows while trying to grab me.
If it were just the two of us, I’d scream, “Don’t touch me!” in his face, but I’ve probably already given Eliza enough of a clue that I’m hurt beyond measure. No need to feed her any more gloating ammunition for her stun gun. Christ knows what she might hit us with next. Venereal disease? Twins? Alimony?
Shit. Alimony.
“Letty, you gotta calm down,” Shades says. “You passed out. I don’t want you to hurt yourself again.”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Jillian, the band’
s manager, slips into view and scowls down at me, an electronic cigarette dangling from her mouth. “What happened to her?” She looks to Jinx, who’s standing beside the Alien Whisperer holding Shades’s bastard ba—
Fuck.
Shades’s baby.
A goddamned human being lovingly crafted from my man’s DNA and melded with … hers.
I stop the assault and still my angry fists. Chug in a full breath and let it out hard. Tears fill my eyes. I turn away and pretend to attend to my busted nose and lip so no one can see me crying like a big fat pussy. Shades leans into my field of vision. His harsh expression softens for a split second, and through the tiny window of vulnerability, I read the words stamped on the front of his conscience: “Guilty. I’m sorry.”
Sorry. I mentally snort.
Yeah, me too.
Despite the lingering buzz, I’m sober enough to recognize the importance of timing. This kid is his. This wife is his. And in a heartbeat, I’m … no longer sure I’m anything of his.
How can a person’s life change so fast and so permanently from one second to the next?
A time machine would be great about now. Take me back to the moment Shades and I decided to engage in this stupid cop-and-drunk-driver routine, but shift the scene to a hotel room in a different city. Or another country. Somewhere far away from Eliza Armstrong Guns and her mini alien homewrecker.
But it wouldn’t change the truth, would it? Wouldn’t change the fact that Shades knocked her up around the time he and I first met.
Ignorance is bliss.
I’ll have the blue pill, please.
Loud feet trudge up the steps. Rax and Eve join the crowd. Frenetic conversation surges around me, but I don’t register what anyone says. I struggle to my side and slap Shades’s hand away when he tries to help me up. Forehead scrunched, he peers into my face, wounded but silent. Join the fucking club.
I find my balance on my knees, grab hold of the nearest bunk, and gingerly drag my ass into it. Elbows plant on my thighs, and I lean over. Unsure if I’m wobbly from the booze, the massive baby-daddy downer, the face-squash with blood-tinged accessories, or all of the above, I close my eyes for a moment.
