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

by Donovan, Astrid Lee

  “Not particularly. Don’t really want to dredge up what I can’t avoid anymore than I have to.”

  “Well, anytime you do, I’m here for you.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  And the night did wear on, softened by bourbon, memories and Dez’s own tacit charisma. And as the cramped apartment grew raucous with laughter, cigarette smoke and the clinking rhythm of Samantha’s cheap silver bracelets, Charlie could see the omens inside his mind, clear as a blazing sun. He was going to be stuck with them for quite some time. Just how long—and more importantly, where—was a question of fate.

  It wasn’t until 1:30 that morning when Samantha and Dez found themselves on Charlie’s sofa, covered only by a ratty quilt. They tried to cool themselves down in the humid apartment, but even the night air seemed merciless. The cheap bedsheet they used seemed coated in mold and sweat and Dez started to wonder if they wouldn’t be better off springing for a motel for a few more days. But while he slept fitfully, Samantha curled her head up on his narrow yet warm chest, oblivious to his restlessness. One look at her silently sleeping face in the dull night light twelve feet away was enough to lull him to sleep.

  It seemed like Dez had been dreaming when he felt her seeking palm stroke and tease his groin only an hour later. But when he felt her hands gently squeeze and knead his cock, feeling it turn stiff and yearning, he began to spring awake. She had cast off the flimsy t-shirt she wore and was kneeling on top of him naked, squeezing and jerking him. She plunged him inside her and shuddered as she grinded on top of him, feeling the curve of him writhe and rub deep within her. He reached for her thighs as she straddled him, riding him, wanting him to fill her entirely—even if it meant entering her bloodstream. Could she remember the last the time she felt this way? Or even at all? His hands cupped her small, pert breasts as he traced the entirety of her body. She bit her lips. She wanted to cry out. She wanted to scream from the very pit of her stomach. She wanted to roar so loud it would jolt Charlie, his neighbors, the whole fucking neighborhood into waking up with alarm. She wanted everyone to know how shameless she was with this no good son of a bitch. How proud she was of her shamelessness. How this fucking animal could degrade a girl like her. And Dez knew it too. He gave her a playful slap with his palm against the cheek of her face.

  “Do it again,” she hissed. He complied with a slap that stung her just slightly.

  “Harder, fucker!” He slapped her with his palm on the other side, a slap that seemed to coincide with the burgeoning rays of dawn.

  She tilted her head down and fixed her teeth into his bottom lip, so hard it felt as if she was going to bite through. He forced her ass down and felt the sticky pangs of sweat merge their bodies together. His hips crashed into hers to emphasize their union, solidifying it with a smacking thud that grew more rapid, more violent with each thrust. Samantha’s heart was practically leaping out of her skin, and she felt herself dissolve into a liquid gel as she came.

  She tumbled back onto Dez’s chest, blissful and exhausted. She slipped her t-shirt back on as they shared a cigarette and peered outside at the soft grey dawn peeking in through Charlie’s half-broken vertical blinds. Soon, the early morning bakery trucks would be clomping down the wide streets, warily commandeered by wizened but blearily hungover drivers.

  Saturday had come, and neither Dez nor Samantha had any idea what Sunday would bring.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dez and Samantha had only been staying at Charlie’s for less than a week when they realized that there was a little more than seventy dollars in total between them. At the rate they were burning through the meager savings Dez had brought with him, they knew it would be only a week—or two, if they could stretch it—before they’d be flat broke.

  They each wondered how they burned through more than $100 in five days. It didn’t take long to figure out. First was Samantha’s new wardrobe. True, she didn’t require anything too glamorous. But since she came here with only the clothes on her back, Dez felt indebted to purchase her a new ensemble—even if it was fresh off the racks of Woolworth’s. Then there were the late night juke joints and fish fries they insisted on taking Charlie to, out of both gratitude and necessity since he only owned a hot plate and a two-burner stove which barely functioned. But mostly, they drove -downtown, uptown. Late night drives out to Hermann, where they could watch the sun rise up over the Missouri River. It was a luminescence so serene, it almost felt threatening. They’d park the car and fuck along the banks, exploring the strange security they felt entangled in one another, their limbs locked and their eyes scattering to a million different fields of vision without ever looking away from each other. But as soon as they were back on I-44, they’d feel that same alien hostility and dread beaming through their open windows, as if nature itself was inherently uncertain.

  They knew they couldn’t stay in St. Louis much longer. There was a foreboding and unspoken sense they both felt each time they returned to the city, and suffered it in a silent, mutual anxiety. It certainly wasn’t Charlie, who was congenial as always even if there still remained the ramparts of sadness and regret he shut himself in. It was the city itself. It rejected them like a body rejects toxins. But they sure as hell couldn’t go back to Tulsa. And at this point, they sure as hell didn’t want to.

  It was on one of those late night treks that Dez had an idea. They had stopped in a town called Villa Ridge, consisting mainly of ramshackle old houses and the odd silo or two. It boasted the only gas station for the next twenty miles, and upon pulling up Dez couldn’t help but notice the attendant fast asleep inside. Even after honking his horn several times, it took the rail-thin and slow gaited clerk several minutes to lumber to the car. As he did, his blubbery lips good-naturedly drawling out a cheerful “What can I get ya for?” Dez couldn’t help but recognize his eerie resemblance to one of the inbred hillbillies in Deliverance—a film he saw only once when it came out, and still disturbed him to this day. He vowed never to go back to the South, no matter what. But this wasn’t the South. This was, after all, the gateway to the East. Jesus, they must breed like viruses, he thought.

  “Five dollars, regular.”

  “Pay inside.”

  Dez followed him in and handed a twenty at the register, while the wraithlike clerk seemed to fumble for a good minute returning his change to him. “Uh, three fives if you don’t mind.” He peered in while the clerk left the register wide open. He couldn’t believe how stuffed to the brim it was with every denomination imaginable. Dez estimated that there had to be at least four hundred dollars in that register alone; and in all likelihood, much more. “Aren’t you concerned about having all that money on you so late at night?” he asked, pretending to make small talk.

  “What you mean?”

  “Well, I’m from the city. Typically, most stations won’t carry more than fifty on them late at night. Security risks - y’know? Not that I’m trying to frighten you, mind you.

  “Never had no trouble before, and I reckon I been workin’ here for twenty years now. ‘Sides, my daddy says he can only bring it to the banks on Monday morning. Don’t trust me to.”

  Dez couldn’t believe his luck. Out in the middle of nowhere, and this dim-witted sack of missing chromosomes and a first grade education was practically inviting him to come back and rob the place. He didn’t even seem smart enough to carry bright on him; still, he’d have to pick up a few more rounds of bullets just in case. It seemed like taking candy from the proverbial baby.

  “Kid, I think I found the solution to our problems,” he beamed ecstatically to Samantha when he got back to the car. He kissed her deeply and drove through the edge of night on I-44 with a silent smile on his face, refusing to elaborate. The moon seemed to dip down through the cottonwood trees as Samantha felt a tinge of worry for the first time in over a week.

  *****

  It wasn’t until Charlie returned home from work that Friday afternoon that Dez finally revealed his plan. He could barely even sleep
that morning. He simply paced around the apartment like an impatient child, puzzling Samantha. Every time she tried to pry out whatever was on his mind, he’d change the subject. He’d crack bad jokes, launch into bizarre tangential monologues and make awkward attempts at flirtation with her that left her neither aroused nor amused, but concerned. She had only seen behavior like this when she was living with Randy, and his friend John would come over after spending three nights on speed. But Samantha had been with Dez the whole night. Even throughout the morning. She knew he wasn’t using again; and her speed freak instincts told her that outside of the rapidly increasing liquor bottles, Charlie’s house was as clean as clean can be.

  When Charlie finally walked through the door, Dez gave him a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. “The man of the hour! Just the man we’ve been waiting to see!”

  “You been drinking already, Dez?”

  “No, but I got a great idea that can net us all some money. Not a whole lot, but enough to help get Samantha and me on the road for a little bit. And out of your hair.”

  “Aw, you know you guys ain’t been no trouble.”

  “Yeah, well… never mind. Sit down, man. Sit down.”

  Charlie’s face turned almost ashen when Dez revealed his big plan. And he wasn’t the only one. Even though she had only known Dez for a little over two weeks, she knew he had a tendency to fuck things up. He may rebound perfectly, but bad timing and bad luck seemed to follow Dez around like a neglected puppy. And she could tell from Charlie’s furrowed brow, that he registered that sentiment perfectly without even having to say a word.

  “Y’all can go on ahead. But leave me out, man. Leave me out.”

  “Naw, it’s not like that! This is fool proof. I’m telling you when I was in there last night and there was at least four hundred dollars. Probably more. By tomorrow late, there’ll probably be at least another hundred. All I need to do is put a little fear in the dude and I can walk straight out. Easy peasy.”

  “What you need me for then?”

  “Distraction. You’ll ask for directions, I’ll barge in and demand the money and Samantha can be our getaway driver.”

  “I don’t drive,” Samantha reminded him.

  “Even better! He’ll be too distracted by a pretty girl that he’ll be even more likely to just hand everything over. Charlie, you’ll be our designated getaway driver.”

  “And what if this redneck motherfucker happens to be carrying a piece on him as well? Have you considered that?”

  “I’m telling you, the dude probably doesn’t even have opposable digits! Come on, man… It’ll be the easiest two hundred you’ll ever make. We can even go 50/50 if you’d like.”

  Charlie took another pull on his Benson & Hedges. “Y’know man… Ever since you stepped foot in this house I got a bad vibe off you. Something just don’t seem right. And it’s not something I can put my finger on. You always been crazy, Dez… but this time I think you crossed over the line into batshit insanity. Batshit in-san-i-ty,” he emphasized. “And I don’t even want to get into the fundamental moral quandaries of what you—”

  “Moral quandaries?” Dez shrieked. “Moral quandaries? May I remind you that while we were in the rice paddies and the rat fields—against our respective wills, I might add—this perfectly capable redneck was sitting on his ass selling Hershey bars and Ne-hi sodas. May I remind you that when we got back, that pension we were promised just magically slipped out of our hands? And the only thing we had to look forward to was the fucking methadone clinic? May I also remind you that when we got back, you now have the privilege of serving some sixteen year-old kid mashed peas and Jell-o while wearing a sanitary cap? If you’re going to speak of moral quandaries, you might want to consider fair exchange.”

  “It seems like a fair enough exchange that can be handled by two people, not three.”

  “Consider it payback for your hospitality. Besides, $200… $250… That’s what, enough to cover a couple months rent for you, right?”

  “Dez, if I decide to go along with this—and at this point let’s just say hypothetically—it ain’t for the money.”

  “You’re speaking hypothetically, and not in terms of absolutes. That must mean, deep down, that there’s some part of you who recognizes opportunity when he sees it. So, let me ask. Hypothetically speaking, if it’s not for the money, then what would be in it for you?”

  Charlie pressed his palms to his temple. “At this point Dez, I want you to get out. And I don’t mean out of my house. Or out of my life. I want you to get out of St. Louis, or Tulsa, or Kansas or wherever the fuck you’ll find yourself in this, as you once put it, ‘pitiless void of the heartland.’ I want you to start over - a new life. Leave the country, if you gotta. Begin all over again. One of us has to. I don’t have that luxury no more.”

  There was a pause. The smell of burnt black coffee seemed to seep through Charlie’s ceiling from the upstairs neighbor. Outside, two houses down, an engine stalled and indecipherable drunken laughter could be heard through the flimsy plywood front door. The neighborhood outside swelled in through the vertical blinds. The city itself seemed like desire bruised and impractical, concentrated for one single moment in the sounds of an old man singing a lonely blues song off-key to himself.

  Charlie and Dez poured themselves a tumbler full of bourbon each and sat sitting in stony silence. Time seemed to pass by with nothing to account for. The absence of words never needed to justify itself.

  Samantha kissed Dez on the back of the head. They had to forget they weren’t normal people, because they still had something to forget.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was 2:30 early Sunday morning when the bronze Trans Am pulled into the parking lot of the Bluebell Fuel and Convenience Stop. The plan was deceptively simple. Dez was to bolt out of the car and loiter around the side for a few minutes. Charlie would wait in the car while Samantha made her way to the front door, looking distraught and lost. She wore a short, midriff revealing t-shirt on top of skin-tight jeans, and made certain that her hair was just ruffled enough, that she resembled a woman who had just gotten in a fight with her boyfriend and needed directions out of town and a sympathetic ear. With her mascara running and wet and her chapped lips trembling, she looked more like an insecure child actress lost in her own lies.

  They took their time getting there. The tension was apparent and thick as cement, punctuated by Samantha’s frantic toe tapping and Dez’s chain smoking. Only Charlie seemed calm as they meandered down I-44, his thoughts seemingly collected and assured of a horizon far beyond the two-lane interstate explicable only to him. They drove in silence. Only the radio, tuned into a religious station—the only thing they could find on the air at that time—kept them companionship.

  “For it is only in the bounty of life, brothers and sisters, not in poverty or ruination that we see his sacrifices bear fruit. HIS sacrifices! For does it not say in the Gospel of John, verse 10: ‘The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly?’”

  Everyone in the car chuckled at the irony.

  As Dez predicted, the clerk was inside, deep asleep. He took his cue. He didn’t simply stroll out of the car; he oozed, with fluid stealth to the side of the station, one hand on the pistol beneath his jacket as he fumbled with the sheer black stocking around his face. He crouched by the icebox left unlocked outside and raised up his right thumb—the sign that the time was right for Samantha to make her approach. She took a deep breath, messed around with her hair some more and sidled meekly up to the door of the station. To her surprise, it was locked. She had to rap several times on the glass before the clerk, glaring with surprise, feebly unlocked the door.

  “Help ya, ma’am?” he stood in the doorway, blocking her entrance

  “Er, yeah… if I could buy a map and some soda. It’s been a hell of a night. Maybe you can help me out?” He gave a curt shrug and let her inside.

  “I’m sorry to bug you so la
te, it’s just… my nerves are shot. I just broke up with my boyfriend—”

  “Ain’t my problem.”

  “Well, could you at least give me directions? I’m trying to get home… back to Tulsa.”

  “Directions, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. Just directions.”

  “Well… you just go back… the different direction… from how you got—”

  Dez barged in, his pistol waved high in the air and holding a plastic bag. “OK, everybody shut up,” he snarled. “The money. Open up the register and give me the money!”

  “The… the money?”

  “You heard me, slowpoke. The money. All of it… right now!” Dez shot at a refrigerator full of sodas to emphasize his point, the recoil almost sending him stumbling over himself into Samantha’s arms. The clerk fumbled trying to get the register open, his entire body shaking frantically while Dez paced back and forth. “Come on… come on, come on, come on!” he shrieked, his voice now strained in its pitch. The clerk finally got the drawer open while Dez leaned over the counter and began scooping up the bills violently. He shoved them into the bag, never once keeping his gun trained off the trembling jaw of the attendant. Satisfied he finally scooped up every last dime, he clenched the sack and took Samantha by the arm, dragging her to the door. They were almost outside to the curb when she turned behind her.

  “Dez, look out!”

  They ducked just in time. The sound of a buckshot echoed through the store before carelessly cracking one pane of glass and depositing in a metal trash barrel outside. It may have been a lame shot, but they heard the click to reload. In that fragile second, time and matter seemed suspended like a stalactite. Twenty-nine years of rage and disgust sprang up from the marrow of Dez Cawley’s bones. He saw a vivid riot of red flood his eyes and heard a ringing in his ears that descended from another world; a primordial world, bubbling over with vitriol and instinct, seething and burning in his bloodstream. In that frozen moment, he could taste the open throat of finite existence and knew he had no choice. He pivoted on his heels and leaped up, seeing himself born again in the torrid waters of a freedom he leapt into, jettisoning himself of both sensation and ego.