Falling for Colton (Falling #5)

by Jasinda Wilder

  Is she gonna blow me? Shoot me? Or neither? Maybe she just likes driving around with her boobs out. I really have no idea what to expect next.

  She takes me to a Greyhound station in downtown Detroit. The parking lot is basically empty, but she parks in the far back, in a corner, in the shadows. She unbuckles her seatbelt and then turns to stare at me. “Well, here we are. Where are you headed now?”

  Pot makes truth come out, I guess. “Anywhere. I’ll take the first bus I can afford.”

  She licks her lips. Eyes me. “How about I make you feel good, before you go?”

  “Why, Helen?”

  “You want the truth?”

  I nod. “For sure.”

  “I’m lonely. I’m married, but my husband cheats on me. He doesn’t love me, and I don’t love him. It’s a marriage of convenience. He’s rich, which makes me a trophy wife. I don’t know if I want to leave him, because I like having money. I like having a nice car and a big house with a closet full of expensive clothes. I know it’s totally shallow, but…I was a runaway too once, so I know what it’s like to not have anything.”

  “So you’re lonely. You pick up homeless runaways and get them high and blow them?”

  She laughs, a breezy titter. “Oh hell no. Just the really fucking sexy ones.”

  “Oh.” Not sure what else I’m supposed to say. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “So.” She reaches under the steering wheel, raises it up out of the way. Then she tugs the bra down under her breasts, baring them. Damn, they’re nice. “Lean your seat back. Hands off and let me do all the work.”

  Shit. How can I say no? “Okay.”

  I find the button on the side of my seat. I tilt it back as far as it’ll go. I get comfortable and then tuck my hands under my head and watch as she leans over the console. She tugs the hem of my hoodie up and unbuckles my belt. Pops the button of my jeans, and lowers the zipper. She glances up at me, a lopsided smile on her face. She really is getting off on this. So fucking weird. I watch as she tugs my boxer briefs away from my stomach, and pulls them down. I lift up and she works my jeans under my ass. I’m hard, way hard.

  “Damn, Colt. You’re a big boy, aren’t you?”

  “If you say so.” I grin, though, because I most girls I’ve hooked up with have made similar comments.

  She wraps both hands around my cock and flutters her touch up and down. Jesus, she’s good at this and it feels damn good. She doesn’t spend much time using her hands, though; bending over me, her tits brushing my thigh, she takes my cock into her mouth. Hot, wet. Tight—goddamn, this is the best blow job I’ve ever gotten. She sucks hard, then backs away and licks me. She looks up at me, blinking, big green eyes telling me she’s finding something in this. A smile, then she licks her lips, and puts her mouth on me again. Takes me deep, real deep. I’ve never had a girl deep throat me before; high school girls aren’t much for technique so much as eagerness and fun. This is…a whole new level.

  “Fuuuuck.” I can’t help the groan.

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  She hums as she goes down on my cock. I watch and feel myself hardening in her mouth as she sucks and bobs, using tongue and lips and teeth. The humming drives me crazy.

  She backs off and wraps her hands around me. “Tug my hair twice when you’re about to blow, okay?”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  She leans closer, her eyes on me. “And Colt? You can move, if you want. Use your hips. I can take it.”

  With her mouth on me again I have no chance to respond. I can’t help doing what she said, working up with my hips, fucking her mouth. She hums, or maybe it’s moaning. Whatever, it feels damn good. She reaches back and brushes flyaway hair out of her face, but doesn’t lose her rhythm. She’s really going to town, now, bobbing fast and furious. I don’t want this to end, because it feels so fucking good. And, because in the back of my head, I know once it’s over, I’ll have to get out of the car and face the fact that I’m alone in the world.

  But for now, I’m getting my dick sucked.

  And damn, I need this.

  I feel come surging in my balls, and I reach down, gently tug a lock of her hair twice. When I do this, she moans and goes lower. Lifts in her chair and angles her head down, takes me as far as I can go, so deep her nose touches my belly. I can hear her breathing through her nose, groaning a little. Her hands are on my thighs, gripping tight. Bobbing, backing away an inch or so and then back down, she repeats the rhythm hard and fast. My cock has to be filling most of her throat. I almost feel guilty for what that must feel like. But she’s doing it voluntarily. So…

  “Ohhhh Jesus, Jesus-fuck.” I tug her hair again.

  “Mmmmhhhmmm,” she moans.

  She takes my hands and places them in her hair. She’d told me not to touch, so I didn’t. But now she’s put my hands in her hair and I’m going for it, pulling at her gently. Harder, then involuntarily as I get ready to blow my load.

  “Ohhh holy…fuck…” I groan.

  I come, then, hard. So fucking hard. I hear Helen gulp, and then she backs away and takes the rest of my come, swallows it, goes back down, taking me deep, swallowing so I can feel her throat muscles rippling tight around my cock. Fuck, this feels good.

  Finally, I’m done, and Helen is sitting up. Her tits hang and sway.

  “I feel like I should return the favor,” I say. “That was fucking incredible.”

  She runs her wrist across her mouth and licks her lips. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  I lean my head back and sigh. Then raise my seat and adjust my pants, buckle and zip. “For real. Lift your skirt up. I’ll help you out, too.”

  She shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’ll flick my bean later, and think of you. I’ll use my vibrator and pretend it’s you.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure. That was for you.”

  “Why? I still don’t get it.”

  “I can’t do much to help you. Give you a ride; give you some good memories to hold on to. Like I said, I’ve been homeless. I wish I could do more for you. This…was what I could give you. And besides, I enjoyed it too.”

  “Well…thanks.”

  She hands me the bowl, which is just about cashed, but has one hit left in it. “Hit the bowl one last time. For the road.”

  I hit it, inhale, and hold it. I take one more glance at her tits, and blow out the smoke. Reach for my bag; twist the strap in my fist.

  She tugs her bra back up and buttons her shirt. “Remember me.”

  “Couldn’t forget if I wanted to.” I lean toward her, giving her a hug. “No more picking up homeless boys. Even with the gun. And leave your husband.”

  She just waves her hand. “I probably never will. He cheats, I cheat. But I will agree to no more homeless boys.”

  I shove the car door open, step out, and then sling my bag onto my shoulder. “Bye, Helen.”

  “Bye, Colt. Be safe. Watch your back.”

  She waits until I’m in the station before driving away.

  I have a moment, then, in which I wonder if that really just happened. I’m nice and tingly down below, which is a nice reminder that, yes, it did indeed just happen.

  The departure board presents a challenge, since I can’t read for shit and all the words are really tiny. I end up having to swallow my pride and ask a cashier at the ticket booth for departure times.

  The only bus leaving any time soon is for Toledo in ten minutes. Twenty bucks.

  Not very far, but better than sitting around here. Digging in my bag for the cash, I pull out a few extra bills so I don’t have to keep doing this. I pay the fare, then go to wait outside at the bus stop. I think of Helen and her nice tits and her mouth.

  Again I wonder why that happened. I mean, how fucking lonely does a woman have to be to do that? It actually makes me kind of sad, thinking about a beautiful woman like Helen being lonely enough to pick up a random stranger off the side of the road and suck his dick like tha
t. That’s pretty fucking lonely.

  The bus shows up, and I stumble on. I’m high as fuck, and it’s lovely.

  The trip is not long—a little over an hour—and I soon find myself sitting in the Toledo Greyhound station. It’s then that the munchies hit me. I forget about that for a minute and wonder where to go next. I think there are buses leaving for New York, Philadelphia, Florida, Texas…I have to really focus on the board just to make out individual city names, and again, end up having to ask someone to tell me the times and destinations. Here, though, the cashier is a jackass, some cranky old codger who just shoves a printed schedule at me.

  I pull out a granola bar, and then another, and I’m conscious that I should probably be sparing with my food since it’s little enough, and it’s all I have. A thousand bucks won’t last long.

  Instead, I eat an apple and stare at the bus schedule. The letters and words are a jumble to me, but finally I am able to identify the words New York.

  New York. Why not? I mentioned it as a throw-away comment to Mom, but…

  Fuck it. New York it is. I buy a seventy-seven-buck ticket for New York. The guy at the counter tells me the bus is leaving at eleven tonight so I’ve got a bit of a wait. There are a few magazines in the waiting room but, shit man, I can’t fucking read. And that only serves as a depressing reminder about why I am here in the first place. I choose a magazine with a picture of a sweet-ass hypercar on it. I have to focus on the words very carefully and block out the sounds around me, block out the distorted voice on the PA, block out everything. Just to figure out the fucking title.

  Mot—Mot…Motor…Tre…Trend? Motor Trend?

  That only took like five fucking minutes to figure out.

  I flip open the first page and even by squinting and focusing I can’t figure out any of the words I’m seeing. The words are too damn small, and there’s too many of them. The letters distort and twist and then vanish. I turn the page and there’s a photo of a sexy blonde standing beside a sweet custom classic Charger. Man, I could do that. I could build that car. I could polish the body and paint it, I could fabricate brand new chrome bumpers and strip the engine and rebuild it, put in a killer six-speed manual and a custom exhaust, something growly and snarly that’d give that bitch some serious legs.

  I daydream: my own shop. Racks and racks of tools, fucking towers of Craftsman toolboxes, a couple hydraulic lifts, some long benches and big-ass tables for laying an engine out in order…I could do it. If I had the money, I could do it.

  Dad could’ve floated me the seed cash, and I could’ve done it. Started small, and then built it up myself and paid him back. But fucking no.

  Go to college, Colton.

  You’re stupid, Colton.

  You’re an idiot, Colton.

  I must have dozed off, because the next thing I hear is the PA squawking. I make out the words “…New York….” and lurch to my feet, rubbing my eyes. I swing my bag over my shoulder and head for the bus.

  It’s full. I’m lucky to be just barely making the last boarding call. There’s only one open seat, next to a nasty old toothless white guy who smells heavily of booze and cigarettes. I take the seat, settle my backpack on the floor between my legs, and within moments the bus is rumbling and moving. The overhead lights go out, and then the only light comes from the little reading lights dotting the interior. Most people are trying to sleep.

  It hits me about an hour later: Toledo is only an hour from Detroit, and Detroit is only an hour or so from home. It would have been so easy to make it back home without too much trouble. But I’m two hours from Detroit now, and when I get off this bus again, I’ll be in New York City. Turning around at that point won’t be so easy. This is fucking permanent, man. I’m by myself.

  I’m alone.

  I’m homeless.

  Chapter 3: Winners and Losers

  It’s funny sometimes how subtle disaster can be.

  The bus ride is easy. I sleep for most of it. I wake up at one point and drink a can of Coke, and eat another apple, and another granola bar. I’m almost out of food and I’ve been gone for less than twelve hours. I’m down to a package of crackers and one can of Coke.

  The bag containing the rest of my money lies at the bottom of my backpack. I zip the backpack and stuff it between my legs. I keep it near me at all times, zipped up tight.

  I drift back to sleep and wake up as the bus is squealing to a halt. I blink, rub my eyes and pull myself together. It’s late morning, and I’m in New York City. I stand up, grabbing my backpack, and then I notice that the zipper is open, just a little. Not a lot, but enough that I notice. This is weird, because I know I had closed it. And it’s the little things, right? Whenever I close my backpack, I always zip it all the way to one side or the other, because that way if things shift inside the zipper won’t accidentally rip open. I had that happen once in sophomore year. I had all my books with me because my locker was in the farthest upper ass-end of the school and I wasn’t about to schlep up there after every class. I’d gone to shoulder my bag and it had popped open and spilled everything everywhere. Embarrassing. So after that I always zip it closed to one side. Never at the top.

  And now, the zippers on my backpack are up top, in the middle and open just a bit.

  The dude pushes past me and hops off the bus real quick, disappearing into the crowd of the Port Authority bus station. The speed with which he flies past me and off the bus lights a little fire of suspicion. So I sit back down and open my bag.

  I see crackers,

  A can of Coca-Cola,

  Clothes,

  But no cash.

  FUCK.

  “FUCK!” I shout it out loud.

  “Excuse me, young man. No call for that kind of language.” An old black woman, graying dreadlocks tied back by a large rubber band, looks at me.

  “Sorry. But that asshole stole my money.” I gesture at the seat where he’d been. “Or someone did.”

  She gives me a sympathetic look. “I didn’t see nothin’, honey. Sorry.”

  I want to cry. I don’t, I can’t, but if I could, I probably would. “People, man. Fuckin’ people.”

  She shakes her head, her thick queue of hair swinging. “Hard luck. Sorry, honey.” And then she’s gone.

  No one else says anything, or even bothers to look at me.

  I’m broke. Totally broke. I dig into my pocket and find a single crumpled five-dollar bill.

  Alone in New York, homeless, and now broke with five bucks to my name.

  Nothing to do but handle it, I guess. I trudge off the bus and scan the crowd for the old guy, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The crowd of people is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. People of every age, race, and size mill in a never-ending sea, and finding one face, even one I knew well, would be impossible. So finding one man I hardly noticed when I first boarded the bus? Impossible. Besides, he’s probably long gone by now, with my cash.

  I follow the crowd out of the station and onto to the main road, ignoring the hustlers trying to take advantage of kids exactly like me: young, homeless, and scared. I may not be book-smart, but I know better. I push past them, pretend they don’t exist.

  For a second I lose my breath. Reality hits hard.

  I’m in New York Fucking City. The road is a river of cars, many of them the iconic Yellow Cab. The sidewalk is crammed with people. The noise is deafening. Engines, horns, brakes, voices. A whistle sounds off to my right, and I turn to look, see a policeman blasting on his traffic whistle. I follow my instincts and end up at the intersection of Eighth and West Forty-second. I have no idea what that means, or where in the city I am.

  Where do I go? What do I do?

  I’m hungry. I’m used to eating a lot more than granola bars and apples and shit. I work out a lot, so I’m used to bulking up on protein shakes and eggs and meat, lots of protein to pack on the muscle. I have to shit. I’m tired.

  What the hell did I get myself into?

  How the hell am I going to sur
vive? My throat is tight. My chest aches and my eyes burn. I only slept fitfully on the bus, so I’ve been awake for…shit, almost two days.

  I tell myself to calm down. To think. Be rational. I can do this.

  The first thing I need to do is get a job. This is the Big Apple, there’s got to be a garage or something where I can pick up some work. Changing oil, sweeping floors, shit, anything. I’ll clean toilets.

  First thing, though, is to start walking and find a garage.

  One foot in front of the other, I follow Eighth Avenue and just keep walking and watching. I end up in Central Park, which is beautiful and interesting, but not what I need right now. I walk back out to the city itself, along a street I think is called Central Park West. I have no clue where I’m going so I start turning up streets at random and end up on…Sixty-fourth. I stop at the corner of Broadway. The real fuckin’ Broadway. And, for a moment, as I take in the lights and the people and the magic, I forget why I ended up here in the first place.

  At little further up the block I see a sign that, after some puzzling, I make out as “Emergency Auto Repair”, and I go in.

  Leaning thick forearms on scratched counter is a big, bald white guy. He’s got tats, earrings and is wearing blue coveralls. “Help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking for work. I’ve got a lot of experience with automotive repair, I can take apart and reassemble—”

  “Not hiring. Sorry.” He pushes upright and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “For real, I can do it blindfolded. I’ll work the desk, I’ll clean the floors—”

  “Said we ain’t hiring, kid. Fuck off.” His stare is cold, flat.

  “Do you know anybody who is?” I ask, aware that I’m pushing my luck.

  “No. Scram.” He moves as if to come around the desk, which tells me this won’t end well for me if I don’t leave right now.

  I leave and end up retracing my path back south, this time walking along Columbus, where I see another auto repair shop on Fifty-fifth. This place has a different vibe. Behind the counter is a woman with limp dishwater blond hair, a rough-looking lady who’s obviously seen better days.