The Lair of Jack: Long Shot Love Duet (Book Two)

by Aven Jayce

  “I adore you when you take control like this,” I whisper.

  The boisterous couple steps out of the hot tub, scoring a couple of beers from the bar on their way inside.

  We’re alone. We’re actually alone, making love without anyone nearby to watch, listen, or intrude. I can’t believe it.

  “I swear your tits were made for my hands, they’re perfect.” He squeezes them and runs his fingertips around my nipples. “And the pressure with every nudge of my dick... keep clenching your muscles, I love that. I love how slick you are... your wetness coating my cock is like silk.”

  I tilt my head and we kiss, our tongues whirling in an evil tango, sliding over and under, then out with nibbles and tugs of one another’s lips.

  “That warm pussy of yours makes me so stiff... I’m powerless... I’m a damn mess over you.”

  He wastes no time sliding against my clit, stimulating it with his lower body.

  “Your face right now... that must be the spot, right there... your lips are tight, your tits are swollen. I have such a spectacular view.”

  Water splashes out of the pool as my brain shuts down and my body takes charge; a sudden drive linking to his motion. Harder. That’s what I tell him. Harder.

  He grips the ledge and his dick urges forward, driving into me.

  My orgasm’s approaching. I can feel my insides constricting around him.

  “Fuck yeah,” he says.

  He slows... taking a gentle thrust in; a long glide out... sucking and biting my breasts when they break the surface of the water.

  It’s too slow.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Too.

  Slow.

  “Faster,” I try to plead, having trouble speaking. “Fast—”

  “Here we go, beautiful. Do it.” He leans back and pulls my body close to his so I can bounce and be as wild as I desperately want. I grip his shoulders, my tits in his face, my ass landing on his upper thighs, and my wet hair stuck to my neck and cheeks.

  “I love this moment. I love it when you cum.”

  His mouth lands on mine, swallowing my orgasm while basking in the spasms flooding from my clit.

  It’s entrancing.

  Glorious.

  The erotic sensations shooting through my body are a storm spiraling out of control—a strong current with sparks, flashes, and tiny ripples spreading from my clit, down my legs, through my abdomen and around my tits—ending with a “dear God” and a “fucking wow.”

  “You can say that again.” He smiles, still gripping the ledge for stability. “My balls and cock just doubled in size. If you move an inch, it’s all over.”

  He lifts his chin and closes his eyes, consuming the pulsations inside me.

  “I can’t believe what you do to me... I’m so turned on.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Yeah? You want me to cum?” he asks in a suggestive voice.

  His legs shake as he tries to rein in his orgasm so he can continue to play, but it’s too late, my man’s defeated. There’s no turning back. He’s that close.

  “Shit.” He gazes into the water at his propelling cock, a sight I know excites him; he always watches, always loves seeing it slide in and out of my pussy.

  “Fuck.” The first shot fires. “I’m cumming.”

  He tosses his head back with his mouth open and speeds up, in complete rapture as he cums.

  “Oh, Addie.” His ass tightens and he comes to an abrupt stop, letting his release pass into me.

  I clutch his back, closing in to kiss his earlobe, cheek, neck, offering as much affection as I can.

  We enjoy a delicate kiss for dessert, descending from climax while huddled against one another next to the tumbling waterfall.

  I press my forehead to his and say, “You’re amazing, Quinn. I’m so glad we’re together.”

  “Me too.” He takes a jagged breath. “We’re good. Everything’s going to be beautiful from this night forward.” His dick slips out of me, and his red cheeks tighten as he smiles.

  “So you wanna take advantage of our last night at Afterglow?”

  “I thought we just did, what else did you have in mind?” he asks.

  “Liquor... lots and lots of the best stuff we can find at the bar.”

  “Liquor and laundry?”

  “After the past week, the thought of kicking back and getting wasted while watching our underwear mix and mingle would be the most normal thing we could possibly do. Normal, and boring... and I need boring.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he takes my hand and we swim toward the steps, “let’s head to ‘dullsville’ for the rest of night.”

  Chapter Seven

  NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE

  WHAT THE HELL’S going on? My head feels like it’s been hit with a sledgehammer. I can barely lift it.

  Where am I?

  In a car? Is it Jack’s car?

  I smell weed... it must be him.

  And where’s Quinn?

  “Mmmph.” I try to rise to an upright position in the backseat. I’m dizzy. My head hurts... I need to lie back down. Fuck, I’m so wasted.

  I tumble to the seat with a groan.

  “She’s waking up.” Dylan’s garbled voice comes from the passenger side in front of me.

  I squint and notice he’s wearing a horse mask... wait, why does he have that on? Is this real? Am I dreaming or—oh shit... shit, shit, shit, is this what it’s like to be drugged? Or did I pass out? I’m coming unglued. Am I stoned? Where’s Quinn?

  I try to scoop the cotton balls out of my ears so the ringing stops and Dylan’s voice is clearer, but my fingers come across nothing. My ears are open, no cotton balls, no headphones over them, and I don’t think they’re plugged because I’m underwater... am I underwater?

  I’m drowning. She’s gonna drown me!

  I stare at my hand and it stares back. Hold on, why is my hand looking at me? I was the one looking at it; it shouldn’t be looking at me.

  “Hey sis, you doing okay back there?” Jack asks. “The hospital gave you some good stuff to keep you happy for our long trip home. You need another dose?”

  Sis? Hospital?

  “She’s out of it, man,” creepy horse head says, looking down at me with oversized protruding teeth.

  I roll onto my back and raise my feet to the window that once was a cloud of Wade’s blood, now gone. My sneakers are off and the glass is cold and covered in condensation. Are we in Albany?

  My arm slides off the seat and lands on my duffle bag. My stuff. It’s here, on the floor behind Jack’s seat. Am I not going back to the retreat?

  “Afterglow,” I whimper.

  “After what?” Dylan asks.

  “She said Afterglow. It’s her name for the psych ward.” Jack tilts the rear-view mirror and keeps an eye on me while he drives. “Roll another joint, I hardly got a hit off the last one.”

  My legs drop to the seat, feeling like concrete blocks.

  My lips twitch as I talk to myself, but I have no idea what I’m saying.

  Empty words float from my mouth... hold on, what does it mean to speak empty words? What am I saying? Do empty words have meaning? This is me thinking... who am I explaining this to? Am I talking to someone?

  “Mom,” I say.

  “Mom’s dead, remember? Dad killed her.”

  “I can’t believe the doctor released her. Does she even know who she is?” the horse speaks.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck?

  Think back... what was I doing last? Think. Think.

  I touch my heart necklace, remembering Quinn clasping it around my neck when we were in the laundry room. I had to lean against the counter as we folded clothes—too much whiskey. We dropped our stuff off in Jack’s room, then... then what? Think...

  “Quinn,” I whisper.

  “Who’s Quinn?”

  “She’s been saying that name for y
ears. I can’t figure it out,” Jack says.

  Then... then I remember Roxanne had us stand in front of a blue wall to take our photos, only I was goofing off and couldn’t keep a straight face. I stuck my tongue out for the first shot, puckered my lips for the second, and fell to the ground for the third. I remember she finally took a good photo, maybe it was right after that?

  I did pass out at some point.

  I force myself to sit up, using the door as a crutch, becoming nauseated and tumbling back down.

  “Sis, you want a soda?”

  “Nnnneh.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  It’s daytime, cloudy, and the windows are being pelted with rain. From what I saw out the window a second ago, whatever highway we’re on is packed.

  Whizzing cars splatter water against the sides of Jack’s Hellcat. The sound and motion making my head spin. I close my eyes and say, “W-where’s Quinn?” getting no response.

  I’m hungover or still drunk, and they’re being asscats to me. Assbrats. No, that’s not it. Haztats... assrats... asshats. Got it.

  “Dylan, hand her a water.”

  He passes a bottle back, but I can’t grip it. Every time my hand makes contact with the plastic, my palm glides down the side and lands on my bag. He props it next to my chest and pats my head like I’m a dog, saying, “Good little Jameson.”

  “Wha? Nehhh. Neh.”

  “Dude, your sister’s fucked in the head. Why does your dad want her back at the hotel?”

  “He thinks he can care for her better than the doctors in Philly... shit, it was so good to be back in my hometown. I wish we could’ve stayed longer.”

  “Not buying it,” I mutter. “Stop. Stop lying. No games.”

  They laugh, having a blast fucking with me.

  Why does my mouth taste smoky? I’m smacking my lips and it won’t go away. Did I take a drag of a cigarette?

  Smack.

  Smack.

  “Making out with yourself back there?” horse head says.

  Smack.

  And why won’t Jack answer that damn ringing cell? The sound’s drilling a hole through my head, soon, my brain’s going to ooze onto the seat. I just know it. It could happen. And if it happens to anyone, it’s gonna happen to me.

  “Answer it. My brain’s leaking,” I whine.

  They crack up and the ringing stops.

  “What’s up, Daddy-O?” Jack answers the call with a chuckle, then clears his throat and lowers his voice, talking like an uptight aristocrat. “How are you today, my lovely father?”

  “Cut the shit. Where the fuck are you?” his dad says.

  “Why don’t you check your tracking device?”

  “Stop being upset over the goddamn tracker. What if someone kidnaps you? Be happy I installed that device so I can come save your ass when life catches up with you.”

  “What if I want to be kidnapped?”

  “Jack.” He sighs.

  “Dad.” He mimics the sigh.

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “You know I am.”

  “No, I don’t. You’re headed west, but that could be anywhere.”

  “Whatever.”

  I remember... I remember more. I’m waking up, beginning to think more clearly. I remember.

  We were up all night, making plans while getting sloshed. The drinking helped us forget how bad off we are, and it gave us a push to think of some ridiculous ideas to start over.

  The one plan we decided on was taking my college money out of my account and getting bus tickets to Florida to try our luck there. Then we thought of a whole slew of issues that go along with that, like, how do we travel with thirty grand? Would the bank even be able to give me that amount if I walked in out of the blue? How long would it take them to get it together and close my account? Is it cash? A cashier’s check? I’d go berserk traveling with so much money, even in the form of a check. Not to mention the attention it would attract. If the bank asked, I’d say I was moving, and since I wouldn’t want to be found, I wouldn’t be able to open another account when we got to our destination. So who would cash that amount? And where would I put the money? Under my pillow? Oh, and I’d have to buy a pillow to put it under... and a bed for the pillow... and have a room to put the bed in.

  I’d be walking the streets with thirty grand stuffed who knows where.

  I guess any plan for the future when you’re twenty isn’t gong to be a good one, especially when you come up with it while getting wasted on whiskey, but hey, at least we thought to go someplace warm.

  “I saw the news coverage and read the articles you sent. All three of them?” his dad asks.

  “They’re not all connected. Charletta Jones, Trent Byers, and Linnet Moore.”

  “Not the dead, I’m talking about the others. You’ve got all three with you?”

  “Uh-huh. Dumbass is next to me, chatterbox is in the back, and Eminem’s in the trunk.”

  “Quinn’s in the trunk?” I sit up, awakening as if someone splashed cold water in my face, then become dizzy straightaway, falling to the seat with a thud.

  I remember it all now. We were on our way to crash when Dylan waved us into Roxanne’s room to show us the news. Quinn’s photo, the one from his state ID... and his name, not Finn, but Quinn, was on the TV. He’s wanted in connection with “The Hudson River Murder,” as the news reporter called it. He’s being hunted. He’ll be in hiding for the rest of his life unless I step forward and take my chances with the police. And when he saw it and realized his life’s over, he chugged the whiskey bottle then passed it to me so I could do the same. I wonder if he passed out, too?

  “Cops... take me to the cops.”

  “My bro wouldn’t want you do that,” Dylan says, pulling off the mask so he can take a hit of the joint. “We’re not going near any cops.”

  “Just relax. I’ve been in worse situations,” Jack says.

  “Like what?” his dad asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Get home, I’m tired of worrying. Summer’s over and so is your vacation.”

  “Summer’s not over, and this wasn’t a vacation.”

  “Just get your ass home. We’ve got a to-do list a mile long when you get back, plus Emma’s calling Jules every couple of hours bitchin’ about you. Take care of her, don’t smoke and drive, hurry back, but don’t speed, and get all the records from the business organized so you can give me a report the moment you walk through the hotel doors.”

  “I’ll sneak in the back.”

  “Quit it.”

  “Can we also discuss my inheritance? Three more months, right?”

  “Funny... no, just important matters, like Roxanne and the others.”

  “Dad, like you mentioned before I set out, they’re loyal workers, for the most part. Nothing suspicious. The books are perfect and we’re not a penny short, which is too bad cuz I was hoping to fire Roxanne’s ass.”

  “Told you.”

  “I hate it when you’re right. The woman’s a bitch to those kids, but she can run the place in her sleep.”

  “We’ll go over it later. How long ‘til you get here?”

  “A couple days. Three, four tops.”

  “And everything worked out in Philly?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “You’re lying, that’s way too cheap. How much?”

  Jack exhales in frustration and opens a soda, gulping it down before responding with a belch and the words, “Ten and another thirty.”

  “You spent a total of forty fucking grand?”

  “My money.” He taps his chest. “It’s no different than purchasing an exotic animal from a breeder.”

  “They’re strays. I don’t understand this shit. What the fuck are you doing? I’m adding it to the list for our next father-son discussion.”

  “Yo, your dad sounds cool sometimes, but he treats you like you’re ten,” Dylan says. “F
ather-son discussion? Do the two of you sit and read the bible together?”

  “You say another word about me and I’ll pull the rug you’re standing on out from under you, roll you in it, and use your dickhole as a pin cushion for my knife collection.”

  Jack puts the drink in the cup holder and says, “Thanks for accepting my friends, Dad. Your the best.”

  The call ends with a beep and Jack’s familiar band starts to stream from the speakers. Thank God he keeps the volume low. My ears have bugs crawling inside them. I can’t take much noise right now.

  “What’s this one called?” Dylan asks.

  “It’s ‘Monterey.’ A great song when you’re high.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” He turns and swings the joint in front of my face, waving it through the air like an airplane before sticking it in my mouth.

  I inhale, unable to interpret what I’m doing until it’s too late... and I think I’m already stoned. An airplane joint just flew into my mouth. Bizarre. It’s in the song, too. Airplanes or birds, or flying things... people dancing... whoa, and The Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix are with us. I heard the voice mention them. Jack’s voice. Eric Burdon’s voice. Are they the same person? Is Jack actually Eric? Is that why he dyed his hair? I bet he thinks he’s Eric when he’s stoned. I wonder if Eric is high with us. And is he high because Jack is? Can he feel what Jack’s feeling? Do they feel what I’m feeling?

  Dear Lord, what’s happening?

  This is fun.

  I giggle and pull back. “Stop. You suck.”

  “No, you suck.” Dylan laughs, continuing to move his hand through the air while Jack’s head bobs to the song.

  I love the way Eric Burdon just sang the words “electric guitars.” It makes me want to sing them the same way.

  “Eee-lectric. Eee-lec-trick. Electric geh-tars. Geh, geh-tars, Geh, geh, geh.”

  “Don’t give her anymore. I’m the one who’s gonna have to deal with her, not you,” Jack says.

  The car slows and I roll off the seat, landing on my duffle bag as we take a long turn. We’re getting off the interstate... no, we’re off the interstate, paying a toll.

  I lift my body back onto the seat, sitting upright and drawing the seatbelt across my chest, locking myself in place. A gentle rain blurs my window, distorting the tall buildings as cars’ brake lights leave red trails next to me. I watch people dart under awnings to stay out of the rain, some of them carrying newspapers and briefcases over their heads until they find shelter. “Is this Albany?”