Field-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  I still have a hard-on!

  No fear. None whatsoever. She’s crazy.

  Goddammit, she turns me on.

  In spite of myself, I chuckle and brush the snow off my pants. I adopt a cool swagger as I cross the finish line, thumbs-upping my coworkers and grinning like an idiot.

  She may have beaten me, but we still won. And I’m still going to stick my dick in her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Burt announces, “we have a tie!”

  I stop in my tracks. “What? What!” I march over to the judge’s table, wild and rabid, like a methhead banned from buying cold medicine. “Tie? Tie! There was no tie! We won fair and square.” I’m lying through my teeth, but that’s beside the point.

  Burt slaps his hands on the table and stares me down. “You got something to say, Bearded Clam?”

  I slam my fist on the table. “This whole thing is rigged! Rigged, I tell you! Rigged!”

  “The other snowmobiles have been tampered with,” he says with his best Clint Eastwood impression. “Therefore, it’s a tie.”

  We lock eyes and snort like bulls. Somewhere in the back of my mind, sane Eli taps my shoulder. Um, what are you doing yelling at an old man?

  I unfurl my fists and roll my shoulders.

  Sabrina appears by my side. “This race is super illegitimate, guys.”

  Ever so calmly, I turn to her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Duh. The race. It’s not legit.”

  Two steps away, Charlie muffles a laugh into her scarf.

  I storm off. “I need a drink.” But first, I need to jack off.

  Halfway back to the lodge, I halt in my tracks. Wait a minute. We tied. We fucking tied!

  I raise my fists to the sky like I just won a gold medal. “Scoooooore!”

  Game on, Chicken.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Eli Plays Two Minutes In The Closet

  Survival Tip: Sooner or later when traveling by compass, you will stray off course. When this happens, attempt a reverse azimuth to return to the last known point.

  Eli’s Mixtape: Queens of the Stone Age, “The Way You Used To”

  I STALK my prey during dinner. I watch her smell each bite of food before she eats it. I watch her twirl a lock of hair around her finger. I watch her sneak glances at me and touch her neck.

  The flush in her cheeks is feverish, and wanton lust glistens in her gaze.

  A flirty laugh floats out. It’s like love birds singing.

  Our brows lift in unison. Our lips part at the same time. Our chairs scrape the wood floor in concert.

  We take our plates to the kitchen. Her dish clatters in the sink. Mine crashes on top of it.

  I stand behind her, my breath blowing the silken threads of her hair. I scoop her ponytail out of the way and kiss the back of her shoulder.

  Her neck stretches like a swan.

  Then I grab her and yank her into the pantry, barring the door with a mop.

  It’s dark, and all I hear is panting. I feel around and pull the light cord.

  “It’s too bright,” she says.

  “The better for me to see you, my dear. Mwahahaha.”

  She swooshes her mouth to the side.

  For a moment, we stand there, not moving.

  She jams her hands on her hips. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “You going to fuck me, or what?”

  And we crash together, tearing at each other’s zippers, ripping our shirts over our heads, gnashing our teeth together.

  We do this five-second jack off—me making sure her pussy is swamped for me—it is—and her making sure I’m hard—I am and have been for an hour—then I grab her tit and bend her over.

  I’ve got my dick lined up against her juicy opening, and panic slams into me.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot a condom.”

  “I’m on the pill.”

  I give her a look.

  One of her eyes squints like Forest Whitaker. “You’re the only man I’ve ever slept with without one.”

  And I’m in. So in. So fucking in. I thrust hard and deep.

  She mewls.

  I give it to her again.

  “God, you feel good,” she says.

  “You feel magical.”

  She leans back, and we kiss. Our tongues tangle in a dance of passion.

  I straighten so I can watch myself burrow in and out of her, my dick shiny and wet. I split apart her cheeks and thumb her asshole, feeling the head of my cock through the layer of skin between us.

  She rubs her clit.

  I bring her pussy-soaked finger to my mouth and take over the duty. It’s clean and salty. I want more.

  I slide out and drop to my knees, eating her out from behind, tongue-fucking her hole.

  Whimpers and vibrations and all the right signals sound out from above. “Hurry, get back inside me,” she cries.

  Perfect timing, because my cock feels dry and lonely. One more lick and I’m back in, pinning her arms against a wall of cereal boxes.

  Squeeze, pluck, fuck, slam, suck. Squeeze, pluck, fuck, slam, suck. My rhythm now established, I hold her tight, her back pressed against my chest.

  Her head rests on my shoulder, and her arms wind back around my neck.

  We mash our mouths together.

  “Mmmm,” I moan.

  In response, her pussy hugs my cock.

  How I’ve missed your cunt, I want to say, but don’t, because I’ve got a mouthful of her.

  My skin slaps against hers, her ass shakes, I’m playing with her tits, and her hand is between us, rolling my balls.

  My left fingers come into play—circling her hard clit, just barely touching it, the way she likes it.

  “Elliott,” she begs and slams her ass back against me.

  I fold her over again and put my right hand to work—one finger in her tight asshole.

  The shelf is wobbling, the floor is creaking, and she’s chanting, “Fuck me. Fuck me.”

  I’m slamming inside her, come leaking from the tip of my cock, the scent of her arousal fueling me.

  Her slippery flesh pulses and tightens around my cock.

  The announcement arrives, the one I’ve been so eager to hear. “I’m coming!” she cries.

  Her legs tremble, and her back arches, and I plunge deeper and rub faster and suck and bite her shoulder (the good one).

  A sack of flour falls off the shelf and bursts open. White powder clouds around us.

  At the base of my balls, a storm swirls, and I murmur dirty words. “I’m going to fuck this pussy raw.” I crack my hand against her ass. “I’m going to fill it with cum.”

  She grinds hard against me. “I love your filthy mouth.”

  A jar of pickles rolls off the shelf and crashes to the floor right as I jet hot streams of cum inside her.

  Her muscles clench and massage the last drop from my tip.

  My ears ring. My heart pounds. I think I bit my tongue.

  And then it’s over.

  I hunch over her back and suck her sweet, sweaty skin.

  She lets out a puff of air, and her vagina releases a hot wash of cum down her thighs.

  I smear it over her pussy lips, like I’m marking her with my brand.

  Then we stand, turn around, and look at each other. We’re covered in flour and sweat and cum. Our socks are sopping wet with pickle juice.

  She cracks up.

  I cover her mouth. “Shh! Someone will hear.”

  Her eyes roll.

  I yank up my boxer shorts and glance around. “Jesus. We made a mess.” I sniff the air. “It smells like pickled sex.”

  Silent laughter shakes her shoulders.

  She grabs a dustpan, and I grab a mop. And like busy little beavers, we clean up our mess.

  Then, as usual, our fun is interrupted by a goddamned knock on the door.

  We freeze, our eyes bugged out.

  “Helloooo,” Malcolm
sings on the other side. He taps again lightly. “When you kids are done banging in there, can you grab the broom and sweep up the kitchen? ’Kay, thanks. Bye.”

  We wait to speak until the clop of his clogs disappears.

  “Think anyone else heard?” she asks.

  “I don’t care.”

  She worries her bottom lip.

  “Do you?”

  Her gaze lowers. “Alan.”

  “Alan,” I repeat. Cold, hard steel—that’s what my body turns into.

  “It’s complicated.”

  I knew it. I knew I should have steered clear of her. “Complicated as in, you’re-still-fucking-your-employee complicated?”

  Her head jerks up, and her brows stitch together.

  For an agonizingly long time, I wait for her to clue me in. It never happens, which tells me they are a recently deceased couple, or worse, they’re still screwing.

  “Right,” I say and fling open the door. “I’m out.”

  “Wait.” She grabs my wrist. “Let me explain.”

  I shake her off and keep on walking. Too late. I’m already done.

  I fucking hate games.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Charlie Makes Love

  March 2003

  MY ROOMMATE and I concocted a brilliant plan. I’m going to tell Elliott I lost my cherry to some fictitious guy.

  If all goes as planned, he’ll be begging me for booty by the end of the week.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Charlie Gets Zapped

  Eli’s Mixtape: BROS, “Tell Me”

  THE STRONG SCENT of static electricity surrounds me in the night. A heavy cloud cover insulates the mountain, making the temperature unseasonably warm. Lightning flashes over the nearby peaks, and thunder rumbles in the distance.

  I take this rare winter thunderstorm as a message from the universe—lightning never strikes the same place twice. I don’t know if we can do this again. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to move on.

  My face burns from his whiskers. Between my legs, I’m raw and freshly fucked. I close my eyes and replay the scene in the pantry. His hands on me. The feel of him inside me. His strength. His need. His cum, drying in my panties.

  The pickles.

  His angry departure.

  I shouldn’t have let him go.

  At the time, a voice inside me said, don’t chase after him. If he doesn’t want an explanation, don’t give it to him. If he’s not going to stick around, then let him go.

  I wish I could let him go.

  It’s like I’ve got one hand desperately clinging to a cliff, trying not to fall. What’s at the bottom? What happens when the last thread connecting me to my childhood disappears? Do I disappear?

  Who am I, anyway? And why am I outside in a lightning storm talking to myself at 1:00 a.m.? I need answers.

  I need help.

  Had Elliott chosen to stay instead of leave, I would have explained why the Alan situation is so complicated.

  For one thing, Alan handles the company’s operations. He has access to all of my bank accounts. He has my passwords and controls all of the money. He has copies of my keys. He pays the bills and the payroll. He’s the one who set up Orion’s firewall. He handles the taxes and client invoicing.

  My business is utterly dependent on him. If I destroy Alan’s trust, he could destroy the only thing I have left in this world—my business.

  Also, he’s extremely sue-happy. Together with my legal team, he’s fought and won dozens of patent suits, copyright theft issues, branding problems, personnel issues—the list goes on.

  When I refuse to fight, he lights the torch and chases after the monsters for me.

  And sleeping with him then firing him a short while later is serious grounds for a lawsuit.

  I have no access to a computer here. I’m in the middle of a pitch. I can’t just drop everything and change my bank accounts. Giving him the heave-ho will take serious preparation.

  What was I thinking, giving a man such control over my life?

  The thing is I’m not even sure I have to fire him. Maybe he’ll get the hint soon or find someone else to obsess over.

  For now, I have to put up with his constant personal space invasions. Besides, it’s not like I’m leading him on. I’m just not turning him off.

  If Elliott can’t stop running away every time a fire breaks out, then I’m not going to put my business in jeopardy by dealing with Alan before I’m ready.

  If he can’t handle the Chicken, he needs to get the hell out of the kitchen.

  Who needs him, anyway?

  Who needs my old best friend, the love of my life, the best sex I’ve ever had, and the only man who’s met the real me?

  For an instant, back in the closet, for one single solitary second, I felt fulfilled. I thought when it was over, I wouldn’t be alone anymore, and that finally, finally, I had someone to share my life with.

  I’m always wrong.

  The wind kicks up and drops of sleet prick my face. The pain feels good. It’s a subtle reminder I’m still alive.

  Drenched and frozen, I hurry back to the lodge, wondering how this bizarre weather will affect tomorrow’s activities.

  Over dinner, my godparents announced we’d be building cardboard bobsleds and racing them in the afternoon.

  I’m not sure I can handle another day of these crazy games. I know I can’t handle another day trapped next to Elliott.

  Please, Mother Nature, shut it all down! Cancel work tomorrow. I need a day off. I need a sick day.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eli Rides A Chicken

  Survival Tip: Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or “the kiss of life,” is fast and effective. Begin as soon as the airway has been cleared. Normal recovery is rapid, except in cases of shock.

  Eli’s Mixtape: Vanilla Ice, “Ice Ice Baby”

  IT’S like the White Witch enslaved Breckenridge in an eternal winter.

  A freak ice storm hit last night and imprisoned everything in frozen glass.

  This kind of weather hits the Northeast all the time, but here in Colorado it never happens.

  Climate change—a reminder that humanity can and will be crushed for its crimes against nature.

  It’s shockingly beautiful, the bright sun reflecting off the crystalline surface. Icicles drip off the tree branches like Christmas ornaments.

  The ground is a sparkly slick dance floor. I’m serious. It’s impossible to walk on that stuff. You need crampons to get around.

  The electricity shut off last night, and we woke up this morning seeing our own breath. Luckily, the lodge has a backup generator, but it only provides enough power for two rooms. So the Orion team is in the living room, and we’re clustered in the game room, building our stupid bobsleds.

  Malcolm, dressed in a Snuggie, arrives and plops a pile of cardboard and a bag of supplies on the floor. “Have at it,” he says.

  Avery pulls a pink box from the sack. “What’s this?”

  “Feathers.”

  “You expect us to build a sled out of feathers?” She lifts another item out of the bag. “And a Bedazzler?”

  He gives her a melodramatic shrug. “Like I told Art, it’s not wise to let a gay man loose in a craft store. I can’t be held responsible for my decisions. Not with all of those rhinestones and tubes of puffy paint and fifty thousand bottles of glitter. It’s like dangling a bottle of Mad Dog in front of a wino and expecting him to walk on by.”

  “What’d you give the other team?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, but I got a sweet Dolly Parton paint-by-number kit on clearance.” He slides me a side glance. “My room is next to the kitchen if you want to come check it out.”

  “No, thanks,” I tell him.

  “Meh, thought I’d ask.” Then he sashays out of the room with his Snuggie trailing behind him.

  Skip presses his palms to his eyes. “Is this really my life now? Crafting?”

  Preeti tries to cheer him up. “We’re tied with Or
ion. We can still win this.”

  That gives him a slight boost. He slides out of his chair and crawls over to the pile of supplies. “Well, at least we have duct tape.”

  With Charlie’s vagina no longer a trophy, my enthusiasm is at an all-time low, and it was never that high to begin with.

  Building this stupid bobsled has really put my compassion to test. Truth is I’m tired of my coworkers. Every single one of them.

  But at least they agree to build my sled design. Mostly because they don’t care.

  I can’t wait to see Charlie’s face when she sees this thing.

  Once the glitter and puffy paint dries, we trek out to the “sled run” behind the lodge. In reality, it’s not so much of a sled run as it is a ninety-degree death drop.

  But who cares if we die? As long as I get to witness Alan slip and fall on his ass a few more times, I’m good with it.

  Charlie’s expression when she sees our giant cardboard chicken also makes our imminent demise worthwhile.

  I wish I could have captured it on film. That, and the adorable Sullivan pathetic-excuse-for-a-surly-scowl that followed.

  To go with her adorable glare, she’s wearing one of those sheepskin hats with the flaps over the ears turned up like a puppy. Her hair is tied in messy pigtails like when she was a little girl.

  I also wish I would have been able to control my sprawling smile. It made it seem like I’m not mad at her. And trust me, I’m mad. Mad enough to go balls out in a bobsled race.

  Jerry and Preeti dole out an adequate amount of trash talking. We all make fun of Orion’s dumb Dead Mobile, which was clearly Duffy’s suggestion.

  Shimura’s game plan for this race is more or less organized chaos. No one’s in charge. It’s a free for all.

  Charlie’s phony laughter is turned on full blast today. Like a hummingbird, she flies around her staff, chirping brightly, laughing artificially—spreading sweet nectar, boosting their spirits.

  What must it be like to work with her?