by Bijou Hunter
“Are you trying to make me hard?” he asks, and I hear the humor in his voice.
“No, but you’re a guy, so it’s bound to happen.”
“No arguing with you there. So how do you think you’d do if stuck alone on an island?”
“I’d be dead in two days. I don’t know how anything works or how to find edible food. The only times I’ve gone camping were more like that glamping where we had the fancy fucking tents with a TV and a mini kitchen. What about you?”
“Skill-wise, I could survive for a long time. Mentally, I’d go insane quickly. I’m not a loner. If I was on an island with other people, I might do okay. Of course, I was away from home for three days and got stupid homesick just like a little kid away at camp for the first time.”
I hear the frustration in Poet’s voice and know he needs to prove himself as a man—kill threats, provide a home, satisfy me sexually, know the answer to every conceivable question. Hayes acts the same way sometimes, desperate to prove what he’s already proven a million times.
“Your homesickness proved to me that you’ll be a great father. Some men are good with women or friends, but they suck at being a dad. It’s not in their DNA to care for someone who can give them very little in return. My bio-dad is that way. Hayes isn’t. You aren’t either. You missed your damn dog. That’s probably the sexiest thing you’ve ever done, and you’ve been sexy since we met.”
“Thanks for stroking my ego,” he says, and I feel the warmth of his words through the phone.
“If we were in the same room,” I murmur, “I’d stroke your dick.”
“I’ll be back this weekend. Tonight, Aunt Journey suggested I drive to White Horse every weekend for a month. Then in a month, we make it a three-day weekend. By the time the babies are born, we’ll be accustomed to me spending all my time in White Horse.”
“Didn’t you think I might want to have a say?” I ask coolly. “Don’t you think every weekend is asking a lot?”
The silence from his end is painfully funny, and I nearly burst into laughter. Somehow, he senses my con, and I nearly feel him roll his eyes.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry, but you fell for a roadwhore bitch, and I’m too old to change.”
“You’re twenty-one.”
“Exactly. I’m too set in my ways.”
Poet chuckles. “You’re going to fricking hate Tumbling Rock.”
“Maybe not.”
“Oh, I have no doubt, but people are supposed to hate their in-laws.”
Gasping, I ask, “You hate my family?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh, well, then I’ll pretend to like yours until you admit to hating mine. I really feel us being on even footing is important to a healthy relationship.”
Poet chuckles louder. “Man, I cannot wait for you to meet them and then pretend you aren’t awkward. It’ll be fricking epic.”
“You need to say ‘fucking’ more,” I say while poking Wheeler so he’ll stop licking his butt.
“In my family, we say ‘fricking.’”
“You sound like a schoolmarm afraid to use bad language.”
“You sound like a dirty biker bitch,” he says in a rough tone that announces he’s dealing with a hard dick.
“Yeah, fuck is sexy. Frick ain’t so much.”
“Except I’m a schoolmarm who only seems very prim and proper until she lets her hair down and takes off her granny glasses. Then I’m a downright freak.”
Giggling, I find Poet’s analogy not so far off. When we met, I thought he was just another redneck mouth breather wanting to drool on me. Sure, he was sexier than the ones before, but looks aren’t everything. Poet surprised me by being smarter and cooler than I assumed.
Now I’m wrapped around his sexy pinkie. Sure, my craziness gave that finger a minor fracture, but we’re still good. In a few days, Poet will be back in White Horse, and we’ll both know what to expect. No more big surprises—like learning of twins—next time around.
BITCH SLAP INTERLUDE—POET
Over the next two months, Cricket and I fall into an easy routine. I drive to White Horse on Friday evenings, and we have dinner out somewhere new. She gives me info about everything from the crimes to the love lives of the locals. Then we return to her house where we bounce on her bed in various positions until she falls asleep in the middle of a story about her dogs.
Saturdays involve spending time with her family. They come to her house, or we got to her parents’. I watch the twins share secret looks, and Bianca Bella gets drunk off her ass so she can finish the night passed out on the living room couch. Then I’m back in bed with Cricket who claims she loves everything about me.
On Sundays, Cricket wakes up wary of my constant need to be around her, and I’m missing my trailer, dog, and family. In the warmer weather, we swim. In cooler weather, we sit outside with the dogs and a hung-over Bianca Bella. Finally, I get ready to leave for Tumbling Rock.
Each week, Cricket is less wary of my constant presence and clingier when it’s time for me to leave.
Each weekend, I’m less homesick when I arrive and edgier when it’s time for me to return to West Virginia.
We’re slowly—oh, so, fricking slowly—becoming one rather than two. By the time I’m leaving on Monday mornings, I’ve begun worrying about the logistics of Jimmy’s living situation and my position in the club. With the twins coming in a few months, Cricket and I know this arrangement can’t last. As much as I need to be with Cricket, I still can’t seem to let go of Tumbling Rock and everyone there who matters to me.
12—CRICKET
Chipper walks into the living room, picks up Redondo from the spot next to me on the couch, and rests the dog on the floor. Once he sits in the vacated spot, he sets his feet on the table. I glance back toward the kitchen, wondering if the food he claims to be cooking is finished.
“I’m hungry,” I hint.
“I had trouble making something that wouldn’t make your ass huge.”
“Too late. My badonkadonk is the size of a normal person’s house. I can’t even imagine what it’ll be by the time I deliver.”
“Are you planning to manually push the babies from your hoochie mama or will you get shivved to have them removed?” he asks with his head back and eyes closed.
“I probably get more drugs with the shiv option. I’m really looking forward to being out of my mind on the good stuff.”
“Can I come into the operating room and watch them cut you open?”
“Sure, but I don’t think you can bring popcorn.”
“Nothing’s perfect.”
Smiling, I snuggle closer. “Do you miss Chevelle?”
“Sometimes, I miss the fantasy I had about me and Chevelle, but I don’t miss actually being together.”
“You know I love Chevelle, but I never thought you were right together.”
“Why is that?” he asks, turning his head to look at me with partially open eyes.
“Don’t get your thong in a bunch.”
“I’m only curious. No drama from me. I’ll just stick a few more pins in my Cricket voodoo doll. So why didn’t you think we’d be good together?”
“She’s too normal. You know, sweet, low-key, mature. Those qualities are all wrong for you. What you need is a basket case with a nice rack.”
“How do you figure?”
“I don’t think I’m telling you something you don’t already know when I state you’re a weirdo.”
“If I’m weird, why would I want a weird woman?”
“No, not weird. You need a fucking mentally unwell hottie. Someone who can’t fully function in the world without special treatment. You would so fucking excel with a train wreck like that.”
“I don’t know. I already have you to deal with and Bianca Bella and Mom. Seems like I have enough high-maintenance women in my life.”
“Wrong. See, you’re like Poet. You’re a high-functioning weirdo who grew up around high-maintenanc
e psycho women. You need someone who can fit into that level of wacko.”
“Wrong.”
Tossing a pillow at his head, I mutter, “No rebuttal? Just ‘wrong’ as if that’ll win the argument.”
“We’re having an argument? I thought we were just shooting the shit until your man calls or you get the urge for a nap.”
“No, we’re arguing. Now join in and have fun with me,” I say and tug playfully at his arm.
“Fine, then you’re an idiot who drove her man away and now only talks to him on the phone. Why in the fuck should I listen to anything that comes out of your fucking mouth?”
“Well, I’m a woman in love, and he visits me every weekend.”
“He spends more time away from you than with you.”
“Most dating people spend more time apart than they do together.”
“Did you read that online? I only ask because you say a lot of dumb stuff based on internet lies.”
“Hey, we were attacking your bad love choices. Not mine. Stick to the topic, toilet stank.”
“Well, you’re fucking wrong. My dream is to find a nice girl.”
“Yeah, a nice girl would do just super in this family. She can knit and talk about rules while we kill people for getting too close to Candy’s ass.”
“It wasn’t that he was too close,” Chipper growls. “He was reaching for it.”
“Mock squeezing it, not actually reaching for it.”
Chipper rolls his eyes, once again remaining way too concerned over the safety of our mother’s ass. “Point is we kill people for good reasons. My boring wife will understand.”
“You’re Michael Corleone, and she’s that chick who got the door shut in her face in ‘The Godfather.’ Not a happy ending there. I mean, I assume it didn’t end happily. I fell asleep halfway through the second movie.”
Closing his eyes again, he mumbles, “I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.”
“Remember that blonde chick from the country club that was always flirting with you?”
“Which one?”
“Ugh, I don’t remember her name. Let’s just call her ‘Roadwhore.’ So, she was always flirting with you because you’re hot and rich and she hadn’t paid for those fake tits to snare a poor ugly guy. Remember how Roadwhore creamed her panties whenever you came into the club. It was gross. Then do you remember what happened?”
“I don’t even know who we’re talking about.”
“Stay with me, Chip. You had Roadwhore in a thigh-quivering frenzy until she saw us playing Marco Polo during our tennis match. That’s when she realized you were a weirdo. That gold-digging fake-boobed bitch walked away and never looked back. That is your future with a boring Corleone hag. Don’t you see? You need an unstable diva. Preferably with real tits because I’m slightly horrified by the fake ones. They don’t move like real ones, you know?”
“Yeah, I noticed. There was a walking stick of sex at the country club who had fake boobs. She and I played a game of tennis once, and I nearly puked at how static her tits were.”
“That’s Roadwhore!” I cry, startling Redondo nearby. “She was so gross for a really attractive woman.”
“I’m still unsure what we’re talking about.”
“Your pathetic love life.”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t care. I’m really great at masturbating. Like my hand is fucking unbelievably talented,” he says, lifting his right hand as if to show off its power. “I don’t need to chase pussy when I have something so damn sweet waiting for me at home.”
Laughing at his smug expression, I pat Chipper’s head as if he were a dog. “I’m proud of you for loving yourself so fabulously. Too many men manhandle their poor weenies.”
“Men’s violent dick love makes me ashamed to have a dick of my own.”
“I feel your pain, Chip,” I mumble and then add, “I wonder how often Poet loves himself.”
“He seems too relaxed not to do it at least twice a day.”
“I’ll ask him next time we talk,” I say, rubbing my swollen stomach where feet currently try to kick their way free.
“Why do you like him? I mean, really. And don’t say because you have babies roasting in your lady oven.”
“He never reacts like a douche,” I explain. “When I’m wild or crazy or lame, he just rolls with it. That coolness comes from growing up around insane women and a motorcycle club. I don’t have to pretend our family business is legit or that Hayes is a normal man with normal temper levels.”
“So, all you need from a man is acceptance?”
“Did Chevelle accept you?”
“Yes.”
“Not really. She wanted you to be more.”
“More what?” he asks while trying to balance a bowl of peanuts on my belly.
“Sane or normal. I’m not sure really. We never talked about you.”
“Never?”
“Of course not. Like she could really tell me how you’re bad in bed or fart a lot after fucking. I mean, shit, I’d never recover from hearing that. Plus, I’d grow to hate her for trash-talking my twin. Yeah, I’d want revenge. Nasty, bloody revenge too. Chevelle was too good a friend to want to harm that way, so we just didn’t talk about you.”
Chipper kisses the top of my head and then sniffs my hair like I smell weird. “Change your shampoo.”
“Maybe.”
Standing up, he walks to the kitchen to check whatever he’s cooking. “I like Poet. He always seems very chill. At the casino, he didn’t want the expensive booze. He even claimed his stepgrandfather made better moonshine. Now I want to drive to West Virginia and try it.”
“You’re all about the booze.”
“Someone has to be.”
“I want to drive to Tumbling Rock to meet Poet’s family. You can come with me, and we’ll try the moonshine.”
“You can’t drink when you’re baking babies,” Chipper says upon returning to the living room.
“A sip won’t matter. Booze hurts when it’s constant. Besides, it’s moonshine. Who’s gonna want more than a sip?”
“Poet said it’s high-quality shit.”
“You sound like Bianca Bella when she talks about her cousin’s weed.”
Chipper again walks to the kitchen. I watch him turn off the heat on the stove and fill two bowls with something that smells like dirty feet. I sit cross-legged and pretend to be excited to eat the gourmet turds he cooked for us.
“It’s hot so don’t eat like a pig and shove your face into the bowl,” he says, handing me my dinner.
“I’ll try not to, but you know how much I love dirty feet food.”
“It’s goulash with veggies for your stupid babies, you dumb roadwhore.”
Laughing at his fake anger, I sniff the food. “Thank you for feeding me, you anal prolapse.”
Chipper gives me an odd look that sends me into hysterics. I have to set down the bowl to keep from spilling since I’m laughing so hard. Every time I think my laughter is under control, I glance at Chipper, see his frowning face, and burst into another round of giggles. I swear he has to do nearly nothing to make me lose my shit. Only a guy like Poet can understand a relationship like the one I have with Chipper. A Corleone wench would think I’m too close to my brother and that we laugh about stupid stuff.
This is why we totally need a special kind of person to love us.
POET
Like most evenings when I’m in Tumbling Rock, I talk to Cricket for a few hours while we watch TV together. Tonight, we enjoy “Quantum Leap” while talking about losing our virginities. Cricket’s first sex apparently involved a lot of booze and a non-disclosure agreement.
“Tell me about your first kiss,” she coos into the phone. “Sex is gross. Let’s get back to sweetness and light.”
“Our sex isn’t gross.”
“Of course not. Shh, don’t cry. You’re great at the intercourse, and no one said differently.”
Laughing at her teasing tone, I can picture the lo
ok on her face while she plays her game. “Fine then. My first kiss was with a girl named Tamilyn when I was fifteen. We kissed behind the gym after school. After the kiss, she asked if we were dating, and I told her sure. We stayed together for a few months.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“She accused me of being insensitive when she tried to blow me and kept gagging. I told her to stop trying to shove it down her throat, and she claimed I was coldhearted. Tamilyn was a little bizarre.”
“Why was she shoving it down her throat anyway?”
“It’s how she thought blowjobs worked. I don’t know what kind of pornos she was watching, but they must have been brutal.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Yeah. We dated again a year or so later. That time, I dumped her in another blowjob-related incident.”
Giggling, she asks, “Really?”
“Tamilyn had gotten braces, and she wanted to show me that she could still blow me. I saw that mouth full of metal and checked out. No way was I chancing my dick with all those sharp edges.”
“Women are replaceable. Dicks aren’t, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“Was she blonde?”
Rolling my eyes at her question, I ask casually, “No. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Are you trying to figure out if I have a type?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t. No woman ever made me crazy before you.”
“Crazy is good,” she murmurs, and I miss her lips that are most definitely smiling right now.
“Now tell me about your first kiss.”
“I don’t remember his name. He was just some neckbeard from the country club who asked if he could kiss me. I thought I might as well get my first kiss out of the way. Then he went from normal kissing to French kissing. Ugh, did you know that involves a stranger putting their tongue in your mouth?”
“I had heard something about that, yeah.”
“Well, I tried pushing him off because I had no idea where his tongue had been. The beef fart wouldn’t let me go.”
