ROMANCE: THREESOME : Billionaire Brothers' Party (MFM Menage Romance) (New Adult Contemporary Threesome Short Stories)

by Donovan, Astrid Lee

  An exit sign pointed to a Mobil station just off the highway. “Should probably fill up now while we got the chance. You hungry?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Jesus, you’re just a kid and you’re already all skin and bones. How old are you anyways?”

  “Could you just get your gas please and figure out a plan?” Samantha took another slug out of the bottle as they pulled into the desolate filling station. Despite the welcoming lights beckoning the fugitive vehicle from the highway, the lot seemed suspiciously empty. The stranger waited several minutes before honking the horn. Eventually, a middle-aged, hump-backed attendant shuffled over, a look of extreme displeasure on his face at the interruption. Not even the chewing gum he clacked perpetually was enough to mask the stench of vodka on his breath. The stranger rolled down the window.

  “Hate to bug you, my good man, but wondering if you could help me out here. Mind if I ask where we are?”

  “Where you what, son?”

  “Where are we, sir? What city?”

  “Why, you’re in Vinita, son.”

  “Vinita?”

  “Thassright.”

  “OK. And is there any sort of hotel… motel… anything around?”

  The attendant peered in, catching sight of Samantha in the passenger seat. He leered at her obscenely, loudly chewing his gum and she slumped into her seat.

  “Lessee…. Just take a right at the next set of lights. ‘Bout a mile and a half, you’ll find the 66 Inn. Lil’ bit pricy, but you tell ‘em ol’ Rudy sent ya, and they cut you a discount. You two havin’ fun tonight?”

  “A blast. Can you fill her up, and… you want anything, baby? A candy bar or a Coke or something?”

  Samantha shook her head, and buried her face her hands.

  “Just the gas please. Thanks… uh… Rudy.”

  As Rudy began to fill the tank, the driver stepped outside to stretch his legs. As he looked over the dreary stretch of road, there was a certain calm in his demeanor that hardly befit a potential murderer. Samantha took this as her cue. She knocked on the window pointing at Rudy. He looked over, and caught her eye.

  “HELP,” she mouthed silently but slowly, carefully, hoping that the attendant understood how to read lips. “I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED,” she seemed to plead, with a look of absolute helplessness on her face.

  The attendant simply smiled lewdly and grabbing his crotch, blew her a kiss.

  CHAPTER SIX

  If the city of Vinita had ever seen better days, the 66 Inn was not privy to it. Despite the promise of free coffee, air-conditioning and poolside service, it was and would forever remain an hourly motel where furtive desires were squelched on the vibrating rhythms of barely operating mechanical beds. An aura of cheap sanitizer and water-based lubricants seemed to hover above its peeling stucco facade, and the sounds of drunken carousing could be heard from the farthest edges of the parking lot. But it was cheap; and at half past ten in the evening, it was the only option around.

  As the Trans Am pulled in, both passengers took turns splitting the last remnants of the whiskey. Despite the fact that Samantha herself was never much of a drinker, it seemed to have little effect upon her. Her system was simply too numbed by exhaustion and regret to feel drunk.

  They walked into the lobby, where they were greeted cheerlessly by a squat, swarthy man with a receding hairline. He glared at them, not even bothering to mask his disgust under the veneer of professional courtesy.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’d like a room, please.”

  “Single or double?”

  “Double, please!” interjected Samantha breathlessly. The night-keeper looked at her with suspicion.

  “Nightly?”

  “Yes. Two, if possible. Your phone?”

  “Incoming calls only. Payphone right outside.”

  “I see. Complimentary breakfast?”

  “Coffee from 6 ‘til 10. Other than that you’re on your own.” The night-keep reached underneath the desk and fetched a set of keys. “Room 23. Up on the second floor. Only got one key. You lose it, you pay extra. No parties, no drugs. Any complaints, we call the cops no questions asked. Twenty-five dollars.”

  He extracted an extremely thick billfold from his jacket, and peeled off three tens. Samantha was shocked to see the amount of cash he had on him and was moved to say something, but thought better of it at the last minute. “Keep the change. You can trust us. Any place to grab a bite to eat this hour?”

  “We got a machine. Otherwise, you’re out of luck. There’s Chester’s right down the street. Kitchen closed, but the bar’s open ‘til 2. Don’t take too kindly to out-of-towners, so I’d best behave if I was you.”

  “Thanks. Sounds swell. You’ve been a peach.”

  The manager let out a snort as the couple walked away.

  As they passed by the curb out front, they stopped at the pay phone. “What’s your number, honey? And don’t pass me some bullshit.”

  Samantha sighed. “RI-3… 3749.”

  The stranger paused to light a cigarette before inserting a handful of change into the slot and crooking his bony fingers in the dial. It seemed to take forever for the receiver to even register a dial tone. Eventually, it rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, after nine rings, it picked up. There was a brief pause before the tired voice of Reg answered. “Hull… Hullo?”

  “Reg, it’s me, man. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Awwww… nothin’ much.”

  “Nothin’ much. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Look… We got a problem. A big fuckin’ problem. Any sign of that fuck?”

  “Nawwr, man. Not yet. You know I’d tell you if there was.”

  “Whadya mean, you’d tell me? I’m 70 fuckin’ miles away in Vinita, for Chrissakes. Listen… you been following the news on the radio for the past couple hours, by any chance?”

  “Funny… funny you mention that. There was a shooting over at A’s we just heard breaking in…”

  “Then you know what I mean by trouble.”

  “Was that—”

  “Wasn’t him. Listen… I gotta split town for a little bit. I gotta keep low. You gotta keep an ear out for me. Can’t hang around that dump anymore. It ain’t safe.”

  “But what if I don’t wanna?” Reg giggled, feeling Jill’s head resting along his naked thigh as he ran his fingers through her teased hair.

  “No choice. The girl… the teenybopper. She OK?”

  “Oh, she’s a trooper,” Reg smiled.

  “I think her sister—I mean her cousin—might wanna talk with her. Put her on the phone, will ya?” He handed the phone to Samantha.

  “Hello?”

  “Sam? Is… that… you?” Jill’s voice purred lowly, stoned out of her gourd.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Everything OK with you?”

  “Yeah… Actually,” she giggled, “These guys are kinda fun. How are you holding up? Are you OK?”

  “Well, now that you mentioned it—” she caught sight of her abductor glaring at her. She knew he was ready to pounce on the receiver at any time. She simply rolled her eyes. “I’m doing just fine. I don’t know. I’m absolutely exhausted. Everything’s gonna be OK. There’s just a misunderstanding. It’ll all be over soon. Any word from Randy?”

  “No. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t even know. Listen, we’ll be home soon. I think. I don’t know.”

  “But how can we get a hold of you?”

  “We’re on the road. We’re just gonna have to call you—”

  “Please. Deposit. Thirty. Cents. For. The. Next. Two. Minutes. Please,” an artificial voice interrupted. Samantha reached in her pockets frantically, but found only pocket lint. The call disconnected. She turned around and spoke with an authority she had never felt before.

  “I don’t know about you, and frankly I don’t care about you, but right now I think we need to get drunk. I don’t have a dime to my name right now, but I think given the circumstances, you owe me at least that much. Point me i
n the direction.”

  He took her arm in his hand and proceeded to stroll breezily down the moonlit avenue before she stopped him.

  “And please do NOT touch me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  If the 66 Inn was the benign tumor, forgotten and unloved, on the central nervous system of Vinita, then Chester’s was its ganglia. Few things had changed at Chester’s since it first opened doors some thirty years ago; the same cracked neon signs advertising Hamm’s beer still refused to glow and even the regulars huddled over their drinks at the center of the grime-laden mahogany bar top seemed imported from an era in which time forgot; an era of disparate resignation to an uncertain future untouched by sexual revolutions, brave new deals or polyester hot pants, and an era which had no use for the two young strangers who just walked through its fading green door into a haze of smoke and lamentation.

  Buck Owens warbled through a seemingly endless array of plaintive ballads as the two made their way past a tangled row of truck drivers, pensioners and oil workers, all of whom shared the common bond of mistrust as being the sole constant in life. Particularly when it came to two outsiders encroaching on carefully cultivated territory. If Samantha’s partner could smell the hostility over the high-octane draughts of machismo and alcoholism that were part and parcel to Chester’s, she herself didn’t notice—or at least pretended not to. Samantha’s prime directive was the same as it had been for the past twenty-one years: to forget herself. And what amphetamine and pills were unable to complete, she could only hope that more traditional methods would suffice.

  “Two whiskeys,” she snapped at the bartender, a portly and bearded ball of invective who was more than a little bemused by the sight of a female—and a quite stunning one at that—under the age of 50 at 11 o’clock on a Wednesday night.

  “Can’t serve the hard stuff past 9 without a membership,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “Membership?”

  “Yup. County law. Only establishment-designated membership cards can purchase hard alcohol past 9 p.m.”

  “Fine, then. Three beers—two for me, and one for this jerk,” she muttered, pointing at the guest she had walked into the bar with.

  “You got it. No tabs at this hour.”

  “That’s fine,” interjected her partner, peeling off two dollars as the bartender returned with their beers.

  “To the beginning of—something or another,” Samantha mock-toasted, clinking bottles with her companion.

  “You make it sound so… unsavory.”

  Samantha almost choked as she took a long pull. “Unsavory? And you? Given the events of tonight, I don’t exactly feel like we’re living out a Disney story anymore.”

  “Adaptation’s just part of survival.”

  “Cute. Profound even, Mr. Darwin.” Samantha yawned and went back to sullenly pulling down her drink. “So you… what’s your story?”

  “Just tryin’ to earn a living for the most part.”

  “And so far?”

  “Can’t say that my success rate up until tonight has been shabby.”

  “I see. And I suppose that the past few hours are just standard occupational hazards that come with the territory?”

  “If there was a clearly defined territory in my line of business, we wouldn’t be in this mess now would we?”

  “I see. And what exactly is your line of business?”

  “Survival.”

  “Jesus,” Samantha said, bursting out laughing. “You really think you’re clever now, don’t you? Let me ask you something. Your wife. You mentioned you were married back in the car. How does she feel about your… er… line of business?”

  “We’ve been separated for about a year now.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you all of this is to help support our daughter?”

  “Daughter?!?” Samantha choked. “Daughter…. well that just takes the cake!”

  “Have to do what you have to do. You think it’s easy tryin’ to provide for a family on a dishwasher’s salary?”

  “I been takin’ care of Randy on about as much as the equivalent.”

  “So you see my point.”

  “Touché, sir. Touché.” Samantha finished her beer. “Barkeep! Another round please?”

  Nearby, a coterie of drunken Mexicans began slurring along as “Your Cheatin’ Heart” came on the jukebox. The smell of gasoline and Old Spice choked the air, and Samantha’s nostrils flared in revulsion. Her face, though still courteous in her beauty, felt as if it had aged ten years in the past three hours. Despite the din, the buzzing of the neon signs dimly illuminating the back wall could be plainly heard, and it relieved her. It made her feel somehow less alone; as if the mute vocabulary of inanimate objects were the only forms of reassurance she felt she could still place her trust in. She turned to face her companion. “So… you and your wife. How long were you married?”

  “Before the separation? ‘Bout four years.”

  “Mind if I asked what happened?”

  “Another man. And another. And another.”

  “I see. Not for nothin’, but shouldn’t that tell you something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well… what drives a woman to cheat?”

  “Could be dissatisfaction. Could be her nature. Could be any number of factors.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Oh?”

  “A woman cheats…” Samantha paused, and took a long pull of her fresh beer. “A woman cheats because she’s too insecure to devote her entire self to any one person. She can’t make that sacrifice because deep down, she knows that means giving up some bit of power. She’s frightened to part with it, so she’d rather give away the most obvious thing—her body—rather than give her heart away.”

  “I think you’re thinking in absolutes. And I think you’re thinking based solely on your own experiences than anything else. Fact is, I couldn’t provide for my family… for my daughter… on what I was makin’ as a dishwasher, so she ran into the arms of someone else who could. Simple as economics. The supply met the demand. That was about a year ago.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Not particularly. But I did love my daughter.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “‘Bout six months ago. It was her fourth birthday party. Here… have a look…” He reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a creased photograph. The girl in question looked emaciated, despite a broad smile on her face and nattily arranged pigtails crowned by a yellow birthday hat. A neck brace restrained her as much as the wheelchair she was sitting in. Behind her, a redheaded woman in a perm, once attractive but now a mere hollow shell, forced an embarrassed grin for posterity’s sake. The little girl’s face seemed to look beyond the edges of the picture, even beyond the cue of the photographer, into an undefined space beyond, into… an escape. And when she looked at the eyes of the little girl, Samantha felt she was looking into a mirror.

  “She was diagnosed with cerebral palsy when she was about eighteen months. Doctor gave her six months. That was three years ago now,” he said chuckling and smiling sadly. He slipped the photograph back into his pocket and drank silently.

  Samantha shuddered. Though she rarely drank, she could always rely on a lubricated sense of sympathy oozing out of her when she did. In the same way that others turned maudlin, angry or ignorantly blissful, Samantha felt the pangs of human charity more acutely when she drank. “I’m… so… sorry,” Samantha said, bewildered and more than a little embarrassed of her.

  “Why’s that? Not like you were responsible for anything.”

  “And your wife? I mean, ex-wife…”

  “What’s past is past.”

  “You seem awfully calm for… well, a kidnapper,” Samantha whispered the last word with a confidentiality that surprised her. It was an apt description, no doubt about that; but somehow she didn’t feel it was all that accurate. She wasn’t certain if it was the beer
or his casual and honest revelation, but there was a burgeoning sense of the very word she would have cursed herself for admitting to; respect.

  She eventually decided it was simply the beer. She wondered if something stronger would help her relax more, but didn’t dare approach her companion. God knows she wasn’t exactly about to unconditionally trust a man who just hours earlier had forced her into a car at gunpoint.

  Still, Samantha wasn’t going to fault herself for wanting.

  “Maybe calm isn’t the right word,” she continued. “What I mean is—”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” he snapped, practically hissing at her. He seized her wrist and squeezed tightly. “Don’t make the assumption that tonight was about anything more than a series of mistakes. Major mistakes, I might add. You are—and I don’t mean this as anything more than the truth, now—entirely irrelevant to me. Nothing personal, but you’re just an accessory to me. Maybe we knew each other more, wouldn’t be that way. Could be close friends. Could be bitter enemies. Fact is, you don’t know me. I don’t know you. And given everything about tonight, maybe it’s better that way. But I’m stuck with you, now. We’re both in some pretty deep shit, you understand?”

  Samantha nodded.

  “So like it or not,” he continued. “We gotta find a way out of this; at least for the immediate time being. We figure that out, we can go our separate ways and leave each other well enough alone.”

  “And assuming we can’t.”

  “Well then, missy… I do believe we may be fucked.”

  The cloud of smoke that wafted perpetually in Chester’s was suddenly pierced by a guttural shriek. Samantha turned around to see two of the Mexicans who just minutes ago were sharing the warming common bond of alcohol-lubricated brotherhood tearing into one another with all the fury that wounded hubris allowed. Honor had been slighted somehow; and although she knew not a word of Spanish, it was clear to her that pure animal reaction knew neither cultural nor territorial bounds. It was a shared human trait. To deny it was simply to deny 10,000 years of human conditioning; hell, even human biology itself - the simian mind; fight or flight; belittlement and ego; money and humiliation. It was a sad truth, but an unavoidable one. Was it that much different between this eccentric stranger and Randy?