by Teagan Kade
I moan with a deep, guttural vocal heaving, pushing deep into the seat as waves and waves of bliss wash over me, exploding out from within. I’m numbly aware of his hand over my mouth, pressing me hard against the back of the seat, the flicker of light and my hips bouncing up and off the seat as contractions pulse through me.
My hand is pumping his cock all the while. His body stiffens and he grunts, his hips thrusting forward, his cum filling my panties. I hold them tight around the base, feeling the warmth flood through them, a darker patch ballooning at the top.
The movie continues on in Technicolor.
Finally, we sit there silent with the immensity of our actions finally weighing in. Brock wipes his cock, quietly zipping back up his pants.
We watch the rest of the movie in a sort of post-sex haze, the smell of cum heavy and heady in the air around us.
The hero, anti-hero rather, of the movie crashes into two bulldozers, a fiery explosion following.
The lights come on I see my pussy lips raw and red. I quickly scan around, I stand, and in that brief second my cunt is exposed for all to see as my dress falls back into place. I’m flushed, my hair is disheveled, and I have drool on my face, but in the dim semi-light of the cinema I take Brock’s hand, slippery with our act, and we exit the cinema, smiling at each other as we step out to the car, our secret tryst complete.
Brock holds my hand, fingers dry with my juices. Outside it’s still warm. “So, what did you think of the movie?”
“I think that was a fucked-up ending.”
Brock laughs. “I like to think of it as existentialist.”
I actually stop and turn to him. “What did you say?”
“What? I can’t have an opinion, a brain? Clearly, Kowalski drives simply to drive. There’s no purpose. It’s about freedom, over your actions, over everything.”
“Wow, and I thought you dropped out of school.”
“I did.”
He kisses me then, the street lamp watching over us, burning into my eyes, as I take his tongue deep into my mouth.
We break apart breathless.
“Well, call me surprised,” I stammer. “What are you going to do next? Tell me you just got a job at NASA?”
He smiles, squeezing my hand. “Why would a need a job like that? You just took me to the moon.”
I slap his shoulder. “You’re giving Cheetos a run for money in the cheesiness stakes there. What did you do with my panties?”
A breeze runs under my dress. “Shit, my panties.”
Brock just smiles. “You won’t be needing them.”
*
I wake up looking at that damn kitten poster again. I snap to another level of attention, conscious of the thick arm wrapped around me. You’re naked.
Yes, it would appear so.
Not again.
“Brock?” I whisper.
He presses his erection into my back. “Why hello.”
“Was I sleepwalking again?”
“I don’t think it matters. You’re right where you belong.”
I go to move. Here in his actual bed, my old bed, it all seems too real. “I should-”
He holds me tighter. “No,” he says firmly, a hand curling and cupping the hot mound between my legs. “Stay.” So I do.
Afterwards, both of us sweat-soaked and the heavy scent of sex rising around us, I have never felt so content.
I smile at the roof, at the single bulb blinking back in the moonlight.
Brock’s cell buzzes in his pocket.
“Who is it?” I query.
“Hernandez. He needs to see me. It’s urgent.”
CHAPTER NINE
There’s a dull ache between my legs when I arrive at HQ the next morning. Even Lucie on the front desk notices something’s different, the extra spring in my step. “Someone’s in a good mood,” she announces.
I hold up my coffee—extra shot of vanilla.
She shakes her head. “If that’s the coffee, baby, I need one. Stat.”
I drop off the new recordings from my wire at the audio lab.
The last guy I dealt with is gone. Now a young woman with frizzy hair puts everything in order. For some reason she won’t stop smiling.
“Everything okay?” I question.
She winks. “Have fun last night?”
Fun? I wasn’t wearing a wire. How could she… “They’ve got you monitoring my phone as well, probably hear every damn thing through the mic, right?”
“All day, all night,” she says, emphasizing the latter.
“Fucking captain.”
“Oh, come on,” she says, patting the chair beside her. “I don’t blame you. He’s seriously hot.”
I act dumb. “Who?”
“Brock, silly. Your stepbrother?”
I look around in sudden alarm and close the door, face suddenly super-serious. “How did you know that?”
She gestures to the computer in front of her, a series of audio files on screen. “It wasn’t hard to piece together.”
“Are you going to tell them?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course not, but they’re going to find out. I’m just a lowly bottom dweller here in my acoustically perfect cave. I don’t get in on the real op work.”
“Please, what’s your name?”
“Brittany.”
Spears? She certainly looks like she just stumbled out of a trailer park. “Brittany, I really need to keep this a secret for now, for my cover, okay? I’ll tell them when the time’s right.”
She salutes me. “You’ve got it,” adding another wink. “Just make sure you keep your phone on. That shit was better than Fifty Shades.”
*
“Collins! How goes it?” The captain’s in a particularly good mood today. I was going to bring up the phone spying thing, but a happy captain is a rare phenomenon not to be fucked with.
“Another bust?” I offer.
“You bet your heiny. Raided a group of bikers and came away with so much ice you could start a ski resort.”
“Bikers?”
“We think they’re the ones bringing the shit in.”
“And the street racers distribute it to the dealers, move it around?”
“Precisely.” He looks hopeful. “Do you have something new to back that up, Collins?”
“Nothing concrete, sir.”
“But you’re getting close to him, right?”
If only you knew. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He opens his drawer and tosses a flat, puck-like disc across a coffee-ringed desktop.
I pick it up, surprised at how heavy it is. “What’s this?”
“A tracker. You’re going to attach it to his car.”
“I’m not James Bond.”
“The tech guys will fill you in. It’s all very easy, and this way we can get a better idea of what our boy is up to.”
I take a deep breath. “Like I said, I’m not sure Brock is masterminding it.”
“What makes you say that?”
I practically slept with him and now I’m compromised. “I just have a feeling.”
“I have a feeling I need to piss, but that means shit, doesn’t it, Collins? What we need is something a bit more concrete, yeah? You gave the recordings in?”
“I did. They’re just preparing them now.”
“No nasty surprises?”
“No, sir.” I’m just crossing fingers that Brittany, my new BFF, holds up her end of the bargain.
“It’s a lot to handle, Collins. I know that, and you’re young, but you can handle this.”
“Yes, cap.”
“Good, now fuck off. I’ve got work to do.”
*
The captain’s words are still echoing in my ears as I hit the crash mat—hard.
“Collins!” shouts the PE instructor. “This isn’t Miss World. Get the fuck in there and take him out!”
‘Him’ is Officer Lewiston, a human Hulk. I’m all for gender equality, but this is ridiculous. Only in Idaho
do they breed them like this.
Lewiston knows he could crush me with a swipe of his arm, so he sort of plays around and opens up his stance, inviting me in.
I make my move and grab a leg, pulling, trying to twist him down to the mat. He sort of half falls and goes down, no thanks to me.
The PE instructor has bought it. He claps. “That’s what I’m talking about. Everyone else take notice. It ain’t going to be fair on the streets either. No matter the size of the perp, you strike hard and fast. Now, rolls.”
I shake Lewiston’s hand, whispering “thanks.” He winks. “You owe me.”
Seems like I’m starting to owe a lot of people these days.
I don’t even know why we have to go through this whole physical education thing every week. Didn’t we do enough of it at the damn academy? But no, no, no. New commissioner, new overhaul to get the force looking nice and shipshape.
So, we practice rolling. Front rolls, back rolls, side rolls, the plastic gun in my hands feeling about as real as a banana. These skills might come in handy for the next set of Mission Impossible, but I can’t ever see when I’m going to have to get all Van Damme like this out and about. Look out! Police coming through! Side roll, high kick.
What a joke.
The PE guy’s really into it, though he could probably spend a bit more time making sure he packed his scrotum into his shorts next time.
*
Exhausted from the session, I swing by the house, Dad set up in a Snuggie on the couch looking suspiciously like a giant, cuddly tomato.
“How’s he doing?” I ask Michelle, knowing that I’ll get much more of an honest answer from her than I ever will my father.
“He’s being stubborn. Still jamming away the jerky like it’s going out of fashion.”
“I like my jerky!” Dad cries. “Jesus, is it such a crime?”
“Why don’t you tell yourself that when you’re trying to call up from the fires of hell?” says Michelle.
“You think I’m going to hell?”
“In a handbasket.” She shoves a juiced mix of what looks like grass and egg in his face. “Now, drink this. It’s good for you.”
I take a seat next to Dad.
“How’s work, kiddo?”
“Busy.”
“I bet. They got you working late?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, if anyone can handle it, it’s you, my darling. Say, a girl came around to see you before.”
“A girl?”
“Said she knew you from back home.”
“From Rosie?”
“Yeah. Everett—I remembered the name but couldn’t place the face.”
Rosie—The small town I grew up in straight out of a Stephen King novel. It must be almost twelve, maybe fifteen years since I was back. “What did you say her first name was?”
“Alice,” Michelle interjects, a droopy look on her face as she takes a still three-quarters full glass from my father’s hands. “She left her number on the table there.”
Alice Everett. I’ll be damned.
CHAPTER TEN
Brock wasn’t kidding. He can cook. I sit in front of perfectly cooked short ribs he probably spent the whole afternoon slaving over. They melt in my mouth.
I dab at the corner of my lips. “Not bad.”
“Told you I could cook.”
“The last thing I remember you cooking was a Frankenstein pizza made out of month-old cheese and stale bread.”
“I was young. Desperate times, desperate measures.”
“We weren’t that bad off back then, were we?”
Brock smiles. “I remember two things about my adolescence: being really horny and really hungry, all the time.”
“And now you’re just horny all the time?”
“I am when you’re around. What can I say?”
“I don’t blame you. I’d fuck myself.”
“Sounds like some Inception shit.”
“The whole sleepwalking thing certainly feels like it.”
Brock places his fork and knife down, plate clean. If he does the dishes I just might suck his dick. “I can’t believe you’re still sleepwalking after all these years.”
“Believe it.”
“Isn’t it something you grow out of?”
“You mean like wasting money on cars?”
“Wasting? Who said anything about wasting? That’s an investment out there, as much of an investment as bricks and mortar.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Besides, what house do you know that will run Second Bridge to Main in twelve seconds?”
I roll my eyes again. “Not this again. It can’t be done. You’re all in it together, a big pact.”
“What would be the point of that?”
I throw my hands up. “I don’t know. Fuck with Maddy day?”
“It can be done. Let me show you.”
“And break every road rule there is?”
“For twelve seconds. Come on, let’s make it a bet.”
“A bet? Hmm,” I purr, “interesting. What are the stakes?”
Brock thinks on it, his glacial eyes watching me closely, foot weaving between my legs and pressing against the crotch of my panties. “I come in over twelve seconds and I’m yours. You can do with me whatever you like, but if I win…”
“Yes.”
“You race the Camaro.”
“Why would you want me to do that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. I just find the idea of my two favorite girls getting it on kind of hot.”
“Fine.”
We shake on it.
“When do you want this to go down?” I question.
Brock grins. “There’s no better time than the present.”
Great.
*
Second Bridge is a street, not a bridge at all, running perpendicular to Main for a good quarter mile. Running behind the major thoroughfare, it’s quiet for the most part, and flat, which I guess is the appeal for these guys. It’s like the council purposely built it like a dragstrip. Making it from the start and hitting Main at the top doesn’t seem implausible in twelve seconds until you realize it passes through two intersections.
We arrive at the bottom of Second Bridge around nine PM. As suspected, Second Bridge itself is absent of traffic, but I can see cars moving through the intersections ahead. I’ve been down this run countless times before. I know there is no way you’ll get both intersections green. No car is fast enough for that.
Brock sits on the side of the street observing. He doesn’t look nervous at all. “You ready?”
I hold my cell phone set to stopwatch. The screen reads 0:00. My finger hovers over the ‘start’ button. “Last chance to pull out,” I warn.
Brock turns to me. “I never pull out.” One foot on the brake, he brings the revs up sharply, the engine struggling to be let free. I look at the tachometer, RPMs reading three-thousand. I think that’s quite high in the scheme of things considering we’re standing still.
Brock has to shout above the noise of the engine. “And… go!”
I hit ‘start’ and he lets his foot off the brake, no sign of wheelspin at all, the rear tires hunkering down hard into the blackstuff and the front of the car lifting as we fire forward.
“Heeeeeeelp!” I mutter, pushing back against the mighty torque of the motor. There’s a clunk as Brock shifts a gear, the car falling forward and picking up speed so quickly I’m scared my spine’s about to wind up in my mouth.
I’m wedged hard into the seat, wired.
I glance down at the screen and see it only reads five seconds.
The lights go green as we approach the intersection just in time, the Camaro blitzing through and still gaining speed.
Brock’s face is a mask of concentration, one hand on the steering wheel, the other firmly fixed to the shifter, absolutely no relent on the accelerator.
We’re coming up fast to the next intersection—too fast. The lights are still
red.
“Brock,” I warn.
He doesn’t pay any attention.
“Brock!” I scream, harder, the intersection approaching too quickly, the time growing too short.
“Trust me,” he says.
Cars are blurring through the intersection going the other way. We are not going to make it. Still, I resist the urge to protest and grab onto the top of the door, holding myself tight for impact and praying Brock has a plan.
Three.
Two.
One.
The lights are still red.
Brock shifts a gear, the engine soaring in aural agony, the back of the car swinging left and then right just enough to squeeze through the smallest of gaps between two lanes of cars coming in the opposite direction. We come so close to one I can see the shock register on the driver’s face, that look of ‘what the hell was that?’
The car corrects and we power on, the revs growing slower now but still climbing and the end of Second Bridge approaching at lightning speed.
We come onto Main and I hit ‘stop,’ Brock swinging the car in a wide drift until we’re back into the flow of traffic.
I’m actually sitting off my seat, my feet planted onto the floor and my heart a wild horse set free.
I look at the screen of my cell: 11:89. “Fuck.”
Brock’s smiling like a goofy idiot. “Told you it could be done.”
“You almost got us killed.”
“I knew precisely what I was doing.”
“There’s no way you could have equated for that gap.”
The engine has simmered down ahead of us, the heat washing through the cabin, swimming around my ankles.
Brock slowly nods his head. “It’s a gamble, yes, but that’s the rush. It’s just like life. You can’t always prepare yourself for what’s coming. The best you can be is ready.”
“My, my, aren’t we full of wisdom today?”
“Didn’t you even feel the slightest hint of excitement?”
“I think I might have to wash out my pants when I get home is what I think.”
Truthfully, I’m still buzzing. There was something there, the danger, the thrill. I can understand it. The rush isn’t there if the threat isn’t real. There has to be a clear and present danger. That’s what gets them off.
“You ready to race?”
I lower my head and lift my eyes. “You were kidding, right?”
