by Kendall Grey
But only if we let it.
If I let it.
My stomach sinks. I paste on an understanding smile I don’t come close to feeling and squelch the sudden urge to vomit. “Okay, no judgment. Tell me all about your baby momma.”
Turkey Scrotum Blues
Shades scoops my hand into his, and we head down the sidewalk. It’s dark as shit out here—way past midnight—and kind of chilly. Normally, I’d be the first to whip out my genius phone (it’s far more intelligent than the average smartphone) and find an attraction to walk to, but it seems more appropriate to wander for this convo. Let the sidewalk take us where it will.
“You have Thanksgiving traditions at your house when you were growing up?” Shades says out of the blue. It’s the first weekend of November, but nowhere near Turkey Day. Wonder where this is leading?
“We never had a house. My dad was a firm believer in absentee parenting, so I didn’t see him much after he and my mom split. It was just Mom and I with an occasional appearance from my bat-shit crazy grandma. We didn’t …” I focus on the stars above and channel some of the warmth from Shades’s hand into mine. “We didn’t stuff turkey asses or eat their scrotums. At least, not that I remember.”
Shades laughs softly. “Turkeys don’t have balls.”
I stop and face him. “Hell yes, they do. They’re inside, near the kidneys, instead of outside. If you bread and fry turkey sacs, they taste like deep-fried mushrooms. At least, that’s what I heard. I never tried one myself. Fat Johnny used to keep turkey poppers in the back at the Barbeque Shack for his ‘special customers.’ Dipped ’em in ranch dressing or hot sauce. He always got the shits for a week after.” I shiver at the memory.
Shades’s face cycles through a series of expressions ranging from amusement to disgust. “It scares me you know so much shit about turkey nuts.”
“Yeah, me too.” So glad I don’t work for that nasty fucker Johnny anymore. Come to think of it, it’s been almost a year since I quit the Barbeque Shack to join the Cherry Buzz Float-Killer Dixon tour. Wow, time flies.
“I guess my family’s a little more … traditional,” Shades says. “You know my dad owns the Armstrong Hotel chain.”
I nod as we resume our trek to nowhere.
“He hosts a big shindig to celebrate Thanksgiving every year at the hotel in Boston. He and my mom invite politicians and their wealthy asshole friends. The party’s not about family at all. It’s about the appearance of generosity. And about being seen.
“I married Eliza in Vegas a year ago in March, mostly out of love, but also out of rebellion against my parents. Our elopement didn’t go over well. Dad gave me a bunch of shit about us not mixing with them. How it doesn’t look good. Total bullshit excuses that left me with more ammunition for despising him.”
I shake my head. One thing I don’t tolerate is fucking racism. What a dick.
“Anyway, it didn’t work out between her and me. Our schedules never synced. She was hardly ever home, doing gigs with Banging Betties, who were starting to gain popularity up north. We were both too immature to deal with masquerading as grown-ups together. We decided to be adults for the first time in our lives and call it quits. We filed for no-fault divorce. It was finalized the week of Thanksgiving.
“There was never any animosity between Eliza and me about the breakup. We stayed friends and kept living in the same house together. There was no reason not to. The lease was supposed to end in November. I’d been splitting my time between Boston and Athens for months with my first band. Then Killer Dixon fell into my lap. After I hooked up with Rax and Toombs, I planned to move south right after Thanksgiving. She had a new roommate coming in December first. It was all good.
“When Turkey Day rolls around, I decide to stick it to my dad. I invite Eliza to the party at the hotel so I can show off my hot ex-wife one last time before I hit the road. I wanted to prove to him I’m not the total fuck-up he thinks I am. Me and Eliza, we were like pigs in shit over the power we had to bring out so many eye rolls, snotty glances, and pearl clutches. We spent the whole night pushing my parents’ buttons with totally over-the-top PDAs, ass grabs, and lewd stares. By the time we left, we were half in the bag and horny as hell.
“So, we went home. We fucked all night. Our way of saying goodbye. Thanks for the memories. It was a good run while it lasted. Bon voyage.” He waves his curved palm at nothing like he’s Miss Fucking America leading a parade down Bourbon Street.
I inhale deeply and release my breath in a quiet whoosh. We stop at the next corner, and I face him. No cars in sight.
“You loved her.”
“Wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t.”
I frown. Of course he did. Dumbest question ever.
“Well, let me qualify my statement.” He pauses and sinks his soulful eye-barbs into me, masking their entry with words that rock my mountain: “I thought I loved her. But only because I hadn’t met you yet.”
Yank! More ouches. Damn, those barbs smart! But this is a good ouch. A really, really good ouch.
I blow a raspberry at him. “You’re just trying to get in my pants.”
He grins. “Maybe. But it’s also the truth.”
Truth. That shit is pretty relative. Despite him injecting me with love venom that liquefies my insides like a spider fixin’ to go down on a fat fly, I extract one of my biggest and most valid concerns—health—from my sweaty ass cheeks and wave it under his nose to see if he flinches. When a partner promises me he practices safe sex, I take him seriously.
“Like you telling me on the night we got it on with Rax behind the bus that you were always safe?” Much as I’d like another helping of the sweet flattery he’s so fond of drizzling on me, I take a small step back.
“I said, ‘unless I’m in a relationship.’ I was still in a relationship—sort of—with Eliza before I moved to Athens. We’d been married, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get more relationship-y than that.”
“You were divorced.” I stand my ground. “What if she went out before you two got it on and found some cute, green-eyed white boy to mess around with and didn’t use protection? Did you consider the possibility that baby thing isn’t yours?”
His Adam’s apple bobs over a swallow. “To be honest, no. I haven’t considered it. Because I just found out there’s a good chance I’m someone’s dad. You gotta understand something, pussycat. I’m as shocked as you are about this. I had no clue Eliza was pregnant. I haven’t talked to her since I left Boston. She comes here out of nowhere with this kid who looks like me, claiming I’m the father. What am I supposed to do?”
“Well, the first thing you should do is arrange for a paternity test. If you’re not the little shit’s father, you can declare Game Over and move on with your life.”
He sighs.
I’m confused by this sudden resistance. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Truth?” He lifts his brows.
“Truth.”
“I kind of don’t.”
My heart sinks. “Because …?”
“Because … it freaks me out. On the one hand, there’s a good chance I’m the kid’s dad. If she’s mine, it’ll change my life—and yours—in ways we never imagined. I can’t not be responsible for my daughter’s—” He chokes on the word. Verbally stumbles. Tries to catch himself. Falls regardless.
Two small lines of water flood the rims of his lower lids. He looks away and scrubs his face.
He’s really worried about this. And way more mature about it than I am. Even when faced with the possibility of being expected to unconditionally love someone he’s never met, of taking an active role in raising another human being to adulthood, of having to give up indulgences for someone else, Shades is totally prepared to man up.
Shit. Now he’s got me all choked up too. I turn into the oncoming breeze, willing the chilled night air to evaporate these damn tears before they have a chance to drop. I will not cry over Shades’s little bastard. I will not.
He swings his gaze my way again. “Every parent has to accept responsibility for their kid—planned or not. Wanted or not.” He slips into his usual easygoing state, but the casual front is girded with underlying stoicism, strength, and commitment. I selfishly wish it were for me. “I’m not ready to find out if she’s mine. I need time to process everything before I can take that step. Once the cat’s out of the bag—either way—there won’t be any way to get it back in. I gotta get to a point where I can accept whatever cards the universe deals and be prepared to bluff or fold.”
I stroke the bristles on his chin. “You’re too strong to fold, Shades.”
Lips pressed together, he urges me across the street. I have no idea where we are. Hell, I don’t even remember what city we’re in. A big brick building looms ahead. A wire fence squares off its side, and a swing set comes into view behind the woven silver diamonds.
It’s been six million years since I’ve been on a playground. “Come on.” I grab Shades’s hand and run toward the fence with him in tow.
The thuds of our boots are the only sounds here in the middle of nowhere. Such a stark contrast to the ever-present movement on a tour bus. On the road, nothing slows down. No time for stopping. It’s always go, go, go—to the next city, the next audience, the next paycheck.
Wonder if life will ever slow down enough for us to enjoy the little things together. Like sharing an ice cream. Or a walk on the beach with the sun warming our skin. Or blowing bubbles into the wind.
Or flying on a swing.
I slow my pace and look at Shades. “I want to swing with you.”
He perks up to attention. “You mean like, key-party-swing?”
I slap his arm. “No, you douche.” With a grand gesture, I indicate the playground. “Swing swing.”
He eases closer and palms my elbows as I smooth the front of his shirt. “We’d be trespassing.” The mischievous tone of his voice suggests he’s okay with breaking the law.
“You’re a cop.” I snuggle into his uniformed chest, turning my tender nose to the side as I absorb the thumps of his heart. “Who’s gonna say anything?” With a tweak of his fake badge, I tilt my face upward and wink.
My man stares down at me, and the frustrations from the last couple hours fade away. Tomorrow the shit will return with a vengeance, but right now I have Shades. My Rock. My dream. My life. He’s all that matters.
I slip my cold fingers down the front of his gross polyester pants and gather his balls. “I wonder if human sacs taste like ’shrooms when you fry ’em.”
He shovels a mass of hair from my cheek and curls his hand around the back of my neck. Leaning close enough to kiss, he says, “How about I dip ’em in that deep fryer pussy of yours, and we’ll find out?”
“You’re on.”
You Ever Done It on a Seesaw?
No headlights document our criminal activity as we climb the metal fence and hop onto the playground. It’s part of an elementary school, which makes the fun we’re about to embark on even dirtier.
Shades and I stick to the shadows as best we can, just in case. Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I make out a swing set, a seesaw, a couple of slides connected by a series of crawl tubes, and monkey bars. So many opportunities for great sexual cardio here, I’m not sure where to start.
I snap my hands to my hips. “You ever done it on a seesaw?”
Pretty sure Shades smiles. “First time for everything.”
Next thing I know, my sexy cop herds me to the dubious metal contraption, shoves me face down atop the fulcrum, and lifts my skirt.
Except the fulcrum is just that, and my balance right now isn’t the best. The metal plank wobbles and strains to find equilibrium. In the process, my nose takes another hit, and I yelp. “Fuck!” I grab my schnoz and hop around like I’m dancing on hot coals.
“Shit. Sorry, pussycat.” He tries to soothe me by pulling me close, but my face plants itself against one of his shirt buttons, and more pain ensues. Fuck, if I didn’t break my nose before, I probably did now.
“Goddamn it!” My head pops up and butts his by accident. His hand flies to his cheek. “Aww, Christ. Are you okay?”
Cupping his nose, he says, “Maybe the seesaw’s not the best idea. Let’s try the slide instead.” He shakes off and guides me over that way.
I execute a saucy boob jiggle despite the freshly throbbing ouchie. “How about I slide into home? You gonna knock my pussy out of this world with your cock, or do I need to go down head first with my mouth wide open?”
He quirks a brow. “Mmm. I kinda like the mouth thing. For warm-ups.”
“Then I suggest your hand gets busy coaxing the trouser snake from its den. I’m coming for him.” I swing around the nearest pole and climb the ladder to the top of the slide. On the way up, a red alert flares in my brain’s frontal lobe: You sure you want to do this with a busted nose? Hmm. Probably not one of my wisest ideas, but fuck it. You only live once. I get horizontal, tits down, and yell, “You ready for me?”
“I was born ready for you. Come and get it, pussycat.” The three thumps following must be his dick banging the metal like the clapper on a dinner bell.
“Yee-haw!” I launch forward, feet up in the air. Down I go, warming the slide with friction and body heat and the promise of the hearty cock roast that’ll soon be melting in my mouth.
Bombs away!
Shades waits for me at the bottom, squatting at an awkward angle, wielding his dick. “That’s it, baby. Right here.” He scoots left, then right, then left again as if he’s trying to anticipate my trajectory.
I open wide. The closer I get to the bottom, the faster I go, until …
CRASH!
I barrel into him with my gaping mouth. Shades loses his balance. The impact knocks him backward. I gag and choke as I’m impaled, and my jaw reacts by clamping shut. On his cock.
He howls, and I hock up a slab of raw man meat. “Shit!” I didn’t bite it off, but I probably bruised it pretty good. He contracts into a fetal position, clutching his nuts and probably trying really hard to hold onto his dinner too. I sit up. We’re both covered in wood chips, some of which took up residence in my mouth. I spit splinters out and reach for him. “Let me see.”
Knees to his chin, Shades rolls on the ground like an overturned cockroach, moaning, huffing, cursing. I know I’m a terrible person for this, but it’s hard for me not to laugh, especially since I’m still a little mad at him. I mean, I get the whole I’m-trying-to-figure-out-what-the-hell-is-happening-with-this-kid thing, but it serves him right for fucking another woman, even if it was a year ago and we weren’t together at the time.
God, I’m hormonal.
And no, this is not my biological clock ticking. It’s like sperm competition. Except the opposite. Egg competition? Minus the testicular fertilizer, maybe.
No, it’s not hormones or egg competition. It’s jealousy.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve never been jealous of anyone. No reason to be. Look how fucking awesome I am!
I tame Shades’s fauxhawk with a gentle pat. Jeez, I gotta pull my head out of my ass about this crap. I love Shades. The rest shouldn’t matter. “You okay?”
“I think God cursed us,” he ekes out between pants.
“What, for trying to get it on at a playground?” I laugh. Well, if there ever was a reason to go to hell, shooting your load all over a place where little kids conduct their black market candy activities might be a good one. But it’s not like we planned to leave any presents wrapped in coital fluids in someone’s desk or anything. “Fuck that. Third time’s the charm. Get your ass up, and let’s try the swings.”
“You’re killing me, Letty.” He rolls to his side and takes his sweet time sitting up.
“Focus on the heady combination of pleasure and pain.” I stand and dust the wood chips from my skirt; then I tilt my kilt up and slide the thong left so he can mentally snap a close-up of my cooch.
He fixates on my chakra of power. I grasp the
edge of the fabric’s pleats, pumping a couple of times, and fan some of my scent his way. He dives his face into me. I commandeer a fistful of hair and use it as a rein to ensure he gets me just right. Little to the left … ah. THERE.
His studded tongue roughs my clit for a few exaggerated breaths. I tighten my grip and guide his head, signaling him to go slower. Bowing at my feet, he dips into my slit with the gentle sincerity of an apology. He diddles around those sugar walls with long, sated laps. He’s anything but sated, but he knows he’d better obey me if he wants his way later.
My thighs spread wider to give him deeper access. I rest my back against one of the slide’s supports, pull up a leg, and let him feast. Kisses sound off down there, and I imagine we’re christening the stage as we usually do before a big gig, except this time, the performance isn’t just for Shades. It’s for Eliza too. I wish she were here so I could prove to her Shades is all fucking mine.
It takes everything I’ve got to keep from grinding my cunt hard enough to suffocate him. This delicate balance between rough and soft, hard and light, fast and slow is one we’ve walked for months. Usually, there’s urgency to our fucking. We’re trying not to get caught in an alley or a beach or a parking lot somewhere. I don’t know if it’s the uniform tricking me into believing we’ll be safe if someone busted us, or the beaten-down emotions that lost access to the usual fears, but right now, splayed against a slide on a kids’ playground with Shades munching my carpet, I feel … conquered. Like I finally gave in to something I fought all my life to resist.
Does this man have any idea how much he means to me? How much I need him? Shades is the human version of The Rock. He holds me together. If I lose him …
Shit.
I don’t like being afraid. I hate the loss of control. The forced submission. The helplessness.
Right now, I fear the unknown, breathing against the back of my neck, teeth taunting my skin with frightening promises, threatening to claim my last breath. I can’t … I won’t …
