by Dylan Heart
Chapter 15
What is the difference between an illusion and a magic trick? An illusion never exists in the first place. An illusion is a beautiful lie, a trick that affects your mind. A magic trick, however, is oftentimes tangible and real. Whether it’s a twist of fate, or a twist of a knife from an unknown attacker.
Magic tricks—like the best yogurts—aren’t just for kids. Some of the greatest acts of magic one is likely to ever witness are for adults only. This is one of those tricks.
Cece—I imagine—was a nun in her former life, if you are to believe that reincarnation bullshit, that is. If she wasn’t a nun, then I’m certain she was at least in attendance at some musky convent.
After I’m done with her, and the transformation is complete, she’ll be a clone of me. If that’s not the magic trick of the century—worthy of a televised special—then I don’t know nothing about anything.
It’s a beautiful spring day, where the cool wind blows against my warm skin under the light of the afternoon sun. There’s not a cloud in sight—a perfect rendition of the Carolina sky.
Cece sits in a stitched-back patio chair across the table from me. She’s dressed less modestly than before, with a tank top exposing the top of her breasts, layered over a pair of faded jeans. Her hands are folded over her lap. She’s out of place and nervous, and it shows.
I had offered a drink, but she insisted she desired to head into the night with a clear mind. So, once again, I seem to be drinking alone. I take a sip of mimosa.
“Are you nervous?” I ask her with a purposeful tone of concern.
“I haven’t been on a date in years.”
“This isn’t a date in the literal sense,” I remind her. “This date has nothing to do with matters of the heart.”
“Ugh,” she groans. “Why can’t I just meet someone on Craigslist?”
“Because the internet is full of creeps, Cece. Do you want to be on Channel Ten News as a breaking story as you are carried out of a crazy man’s basement, rescued after ten years of torture?”
“That’s… oddly specific.”
“Just remember a few things.” I rest my elbows on the table and lean close to her. It’s imperative that she hears what comes next. “I like to call them the rules of innocence.”
She arches her brow. “You mean like that trashy reality show.”
“No,” I huff. I’m still a little testy about the existence of that show. Brick and I were basically the prototypes, and yet, we earned no credit. “Have I told you the rules?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Fuck who you want. Fuck when you want. Keep your heart protected, and never, under any circumstances, fall in love.” I throw myself back in my chair, proud of myself for my perfect delivery.
“I love Rafe.”
“Well…” I stutter. “It’s alright to fall in love with him.” I want to continue, to drill it into her head that it’s a little creepy for her to love someone she has hardly said a word to. For logistical reasons, I don’t. I say all of this, knowing it’s all bullshit. Cece is going to fall for Brick harder than the hammer of Thor. It’s the rules I choose to live my life by, but I’m stronger than her. Her heart is going to snap like a twig.
“What if I can’t do it?” she asks while fiddling with her thumbs and biting into her lip nervously.
“Do you want Rafe?”
She nods.
“Then don’t ask that question again. Doubt is a powerful tool of the devil.”
“What does he look like?”
“He looks like an asshole.”
“That’s promising.”
“He’s tall and handsome. Muscular, but not too big. His eyes will pierce right through your soul, and his tattoos are a beautiful tapestry—“ Dear God, I sound like I’m in love with him…
“Tattoos?” Her eyes almost bulge out of her sockets while she shakes her head. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Really? Tattoos are going to be the thing that breaks the camel’s back. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculous, Cece? Not to mention, judgmental.”
“I’m sorry,” she shrieks. “I’m not used to this sh—stuff.”
I reach across the table and grab her hands in a comforting gesture. “Everybody starts somewhere. The tangled world of intersex relationships is a ship sailing on rugged waters. It’s complicated and often difficult. I’m trying to make it easier for you to navigate.”
She sighs and chews into her lip. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I would fuck everyone that I could.”
“You do that, anyway.”
“Point taken.” I tilt my head and ponder her question. “I guess I’m built this way, no matter the external components around me. If I were you, I’d really just be me. I always will be.”
“How are you so strong?” Her eyes glaze over mine. “How do you do it?”
“I have faith.”
“You’re religious?”
“My faith is the theory that men will be men, and women will be women unless they take control of their own stories.”
“My mom says that women have a place—“
“I’m sorry, Cece.” I wave a hand at her.” I’m going to have to cut you off. Your mother is an idiot.”
“So you’ve said,” she says and reaches for my now-warm mimosa. “I’m not saying I agree with her—“
“Good.”
She chugs the remainder of my drink and sits the glass onto the table. “It’s just hard to reconcile my upbringing with the realities of this world.”
The doorbell rings in the knick of time, because I’ve had enough of this damn conversation. I smile and jump to my feet. “Okay, he’s here.”
She looks toward the patio door and blows out a stream of nervous air. “I don’t know—“
“Everything is going to be fine.” I reach for her hand and assist her to her feet. “Just remember what we talked about.”
“Quick dinner. Avoid beans. Netflix. Condoms. Sex. Don’t fall in love,” she says, running down the list of things I told her. “I think that covers it.” She smiles nervously and slides the patio door open as the doorbell rings again.
“You’re going to be fine,” I promise her and stroke my fingers through her hair. I can say what I want to say, but I care for this girl. It makes this easier, but it also makes it harder. Perhaps she stands a chance on her own, without my interference. I’ll never know, she means too much in this game to let her escape now. It’s too late. “You’re going to be fine.”
The familiar ding of a doorbell rings through my ears.
I am giving Brick fresh pussy on a fucking silver platter, and he has the nerve to be impatient about it? God, help his sorry ass because I want nothing more than to shove a shovel up it.
“You should go,” I say through a forced smile and pat her on the shoulder.
“Yeah…” she mumbles to herself and slides the patio door shut.
I watch her walk away and take a deep breath as she approaches the front door.
Ding-dong. The doorbell rings again, and I imagine a beautiful scene in my head: My hands around Brick’s throat.
The hours tick by and I haven’t received a fury of texts or a panicked phone call. I’ll take that as a good sign that everything is falling into place, but I’ve had one too many mimosas and I find myself drifting off to sleep.
I force my eyes open and catch the scene on the television. Much has happened in between the time I last closed my eyes and now. It would seem as if the sweet girl, Summer has been influenced a little too much by the queen bitch of the show, Tamra. It’s called The Rules of Innocence, and it’s the greatest brushstroke of reality television since Big Brother first premiered when I was a toddler.
As I told Cece earlier, I’m still waiting for my royalty checks to come in from the producers of the show. It’s like an investigator followed Brick and I around campus, catching us in all of our devious glory, then reported back to the network e
xecutives and made a show about us.
Meh. Whatever. My lashes fall over my eyes…
Chapter 16
I fumble with my fingers to place the cap on the back of my hoop earring as I trip over a random shoe and stumble out of my bedroom and into the bathroom. When I flip on the light switch, I give my reflection on the oversized mirror an approving nod.
Damn, I look good today.
That’s what a ten-plus hour nap will do to you, I guess. I’m clean, refreshed and prepared for war. By the time Jensen pulls back into my driveway Sunday evening, I will have him on a leash so short he will be begging to move in with me by the end of the week.
That’s a trade I would almost go for. Lydia for Jensen? Lets run down the pros and cons:
Pros: Sex when I want it, Lydia will be gone
Cons: It could be difficult living with a man after his heart has been ripped out of his chest.
Maybe that’s not such a good trade after all. I lean close to the mirror, purse my lips and apply a thin layer of cherry lip gloss. When I’m done, I smack my lips, grab a bag full of makeup and flip off the light switch as I exit into the living room.
I drop my makeup bag into a larger duffel bag and scoop my phone off the arm of the couch. No new notifications, which annoys me. I want—need—crave—details about last night. I don’t care who the fuck spills the beans, Brick or Cece, but I need to know what kind of shitfuckery went down last night before Jensen arrives to pick me up.
Ding Dong.
Too late.
I reach down and zip the duffel bag before straightening out my white tank top, and adjusting my short denim jeans. When I pull the door open, Jensen smiles and takes a quick glance at the silver watch on his wrist. It glistens and sparkles under the harsh sun.
“You look… different,” I say, taking stock of the man before me. Dark sunglasses shield his eyes. A cutoff university shirt drapes around his neck and shows off his impressive shoulders. The holes on either side of his shirt are ripped down to just below the line where black gym shorts cuts against dark skin. He looks like a fucking fratboy and I want to jump his bones. I would ride him in the fucking streets.
“I’m incognito.”
“Why?” I ask, my eyes squared on his spectacular pectorals.
“I heard it’s not kosher to take your students on weekend getaways to the beach.”
He has a point there. I leave the door open and turn to retrieve my bag. I take precise measures to give him the best view possible as I bend down to grab the duffel. My shorts hitch up my thighs, and I give him a purposeful and playful peek of my ass cheeks.
“Quit showing your ass. We’re going to be late.”
I snap my attention toward him to discover him checking his watch again. I push my bag into his arms, causing him to flinch backward. “Do you think I’m your slave?”
“Oh, please,” I huff, shut the door and turn my key in the lock. “So, the beach, huh?”
He nods and drops my bag into his hand. “Carolina beach.”
“Great,” I groan. “That’s what? A four hour drive?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How fast I drive.”
My hair blows in every direction imaginable as we cruise down the highway. His hair does too, but it’s short and manages to stay out of his eyes. It’s a warmer day than yesterday. It almost feels like summer has arrived a month or two early, and I have no complaints.
When I grow up, I would love to trade my Civic in for a convertible like Jensen’s. I’ll cross that bridge after I graduate and find a job. Even with a marketing degree, I envision a rough road ahead. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t end up back at the same trailer park I grew up in.
I take a peek at the speedometer and notice the red hand swaying over the sixty mark. “You know the speed limit is seventy, right?”
He glances at me and shakes his head. “I’m aware.”
“Then step on it.” I throw my arm over the side of the door. “I don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”
He laughs and presses his foot lightly against the brakes. “Do you want to drive?”
“Nah.” I wave him off and lay my head against the seat, taking in the view of billboards stitched between collages of trees.
“We’ll be there in a little over two hours.”
We begin to speed up, but I know without looking we’re still not traveling at, or above, the speed limit. If Brick were in the driver seat, we’d be pulling into the hotel in about thirty minutes. But, he’d also make me blow the patrolman when we’d inevitably be stopped.
My mouth waters when I see a billboard advertising Cook Out, the greatest fast food chain in all of existence. Their cheesecake milkshakes are to die for. Seriously, like full-on cardiac arrest. It would be almost worth it.
My stomach drops into my gut when I see the next billboard: Hell Is Real. I have enough problems to worry about without this bullshit. Real or not real, I’ll figure that shit out when I die—probably the next time I sell my soul for a blueberry cheesecake milkshake.
The next billboard—advertising an adult store with a woman with luscious lips—steals Jensen’s attention and we find ourselves perilously close to the edge of the road as tires spin against gravel. “Jesus, Jensen,” I squeal and throw my hand over my pounding heart. “Does the mere display of sex turn you on to the point it’s worth killing the both of us?”
The next billboard wages full-on war against the last one: Sex Is Sin. At this point, I’m hesitant to disagree.
I look over right on cue to see Jensen adjusting an erection through his shorts. His cock pushes against the fabric, drawing an outline that makes my mouth water. No, I tell myself. Bad Apple, I reprimand myself. I’m going to make him earn it, I promise myself.
“I’m going to need you to stop playing with yourself and focus on the damn road.”
He’s his own man and is going to do what he’s going to do. He makes that much clear when he steadies the wheel with one hand and pulls his shorts down in the front. His cock springs free, resting against his cut-off tee.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs. “It’s uncomfortable.”
I crane my head around my seat to peer behind us. No cops are in sight. “You’re going to get us both arrested.”
“Relax.” He places his other hand on the wheel and focuses on the road ahead. “I’ll put him away when he goes down.”
“And when will that be?”
He shrugs again. “Who knows.”
I remove my sunglasses and fold them before tucking them into a pocket in the side of the door. When I reach my hand over and edge my fingers along his cock, both his body and his erection jumps.
“Aww,” he chuckles. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Shut up,” I bark and grip the width of his cock, squeezing it while glancing nervously at the highway around us. There aren’t many cars on the road, but all it takes is one bored officer in an unmarked car to spell disaster.
I relish the weight of him in my hand, smack my lips and lower my head into his lap. I plant short kisses along the shaft, and swirl my tongue around the head. His palm travels to my head as he tangles his fingers in my hair.
“Fuck…”
I look up to him to find him looking down at me, when his eyes should be focused on the road. “Eyes on the road,” I scowl.
“Fine,” he groans and readjusts his hold on the wheel.
I wonder what it says about me that I only started liking popsicles after I first began sucking cock. There’s a reason why many men would prefer to be blown than to engage in intercourse—it requires no work from them. It’s women who do all the work. Maybe that’s why so many of my sex complain about oral sex.
I don’t, because it’s not work to me. I have an oral fixation and I have no shame. My hand pushes into his underwear and curls underneath his balls. I give them a hard squeeze as I wrap my lips around his head.
Ther
e is nothing sexier than hearing a man moan, and knowing you’re the reason for his verbal pleasure. It’s a win for all parties involved. He’s reminded that he needs me, and I’m also reminded that he needs me.
He applies pressure to the top of my head, and I oblige him. Further down his shaft I go, relishing the silky smooth skin of his impossibly hard shaft. They have dick-shaped lollipops, but I’m still waiting on dick-flavored candy. I’d be broke every time I walked into Food Lion.
“God,” he moans. “I want to watch.”
That’s too fucking bad. I raise my mouth from his spit-covered dick. “Eyes on the road.” I wrap my fingers around him and begin long, slow strokes. When I reach the top of his head, I swipe a finger against his wet slit before barreling back down to the bottom of the shaft.
His breathing intensifies with every stroke. His stomach chokes on contractions and his foot pressed against the gas becomes irregular. A quick glance at the speedometer and I realize we are traveling at speeds between fifty-five and seventy, and they’re never steady.
“I want to suck your cock, Mr. Moon,” I say with a pout of my lips. “But I’m afraid you’re going to kill us.”
“Yeah?” He shifts his head to me, ignoring the road. His eyes are a dark shade of wild His cock spasms in my hand. “You’re going to kill me if you don’t.” His hand crawls behind my head and he pulls me back to his cock.
No objection here.
I swallow the entirety of his hardness in one go, pressing my lips against the base of his pelvis. His legs snap inward and he hollers in ecstatic glee, “Wow!”
A little trick I learned along the way: I push a finger up against the crux of his ass and balls. His foot presses hard against the pedal and we speed up.
I continue to make love to his cock, but focus my lips on the top half while my hand begins to stroke the bottom half. I’m all over him.
My tongue flicks precum from his cockhead.
My hand pumps the base of his cock.
My finger slips into his ass.
Oops.
“The fuck?”
I speed up my stroking, and twist my head around his cockhead. My finger pushes deeper into his ass until I’m knuckle deep.
