Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road

by Keene, Brian

  Jake had never seen a man cry in his life. Certainly not his brother. The linebacker. The skeet-shooter. The cop.

  Jake just stood there. And listened.

  Lee had just come from Sam Forrestal’s place over on Stirrup Iron Road. He’d been one of the first responders and had seen the whole damn thing. The whole filthy mess. The bloody devastation of a man he’d known all throughout high school and cop school, who he’d had beers with and played darts with at The Bar None Grill, whom he’d kidded about Sam opting for working the pen and not the streets.

  His sergeant knew all this and told him to get the hell home for the day. So he did.

  He’d helped Nicci into the squad car. Nicci raving about puke and cum. Nicci foaming at the mouth like some rabid animal.

  And now he was here in the kitchen with his mother. His mother’s hand on his shoulder. Crying out his grief and shock into the still, baked-bread-scented air.

  They’ll find out who did this, his mother had said. They’ll find out who did this terrible thing. You’ll find out. You’ll know.

  ***

  They never did.

  What happened at Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road—Arrianne’s home now evidently, her car rolling up the driveway—became first the stuff of local news and gossip and briefly a national sensation, and then, for some but not all, gradually faded from memory.

  But Jake remembered that day in the kitchen. Remembered that—at the end of it, the three of them sitting around the table, hands reaching for one another, grasping, holding tight—he’d cried for his brother.

  That he’d cried too.

  And now, sitting in his truck, tuned-up engine purring like a lazy housecat, he lit another cigarette and waited.

  Waited for what?

  Once again he didn’t know.

  Chapter Eight - Jack Ketchum and Shane McKenzie

  Chuck lay naked in his motel bed, the sheet wound around his thighs, and sipped his Deanston Virgin Oak whiskey. The whisky tasted good but the aftertaste was bitter. Or maybe it was just him.

  His three-hour drive to the meeting had taken just an hour. That was because there was no meeting. Instead there was Flavia, who now lay beside him smoking her omnipresent Newport. Her tanned sleek body sighed.

  “I know it’s a cliché,” she said, “but honestly, it doesn’t matter. It happens sometimes.”

  “I know it’s a cliché,” he said, “but not to me it doesn’t.”

  She shrugged. “Lay off the single-malt for a while, maybe. Pop a Viagra.”

  “Fuck the Viagra. With you I’ve never needed a Viagra and you know it. Goddamn it.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette, smiled, and rolled over to him and traced his nipple with her black-painted fingernail.

  “Awwww … Papa’s feeling sorry for himself, is that it?”

  In truth he was. Which was rare. He was a successful, hard-working, happily married man. He enjoyed his work. He loved his wife. There was money in the bank. The new house was terrific.

  He had it all. And maybe he’d seen too many French movies when he was a college kid but to his mind, having it all included having a mistress who was even more beautiful and sexy than his sexy beautiful wife.

  And Flavia was exactly that. Plus she was younger than Chuck by almost ten years. You couldn’t discount that either. But he hadn’t been cheating on Arrianne these past six months out of some malaise or discontent, which he supposed would have also been very French. No. He’d been cheating because Flavia had been interested in him from the get-go, and he would have been a fool to have passed on that interest. And he wasn’t a fool. So he didn’t.

  But now.

  Now his dick didn’t work.

  What the fuck?

  He found himself thinking about Arrianne. About her newfound sex drive. He pictured her bent over, her tight little asshole loosening for the head of his cock. It had been difficult to get it in at first, and when he tried to force it she’d hissed, reached back, and patted him on the thigh.

  “Stay still,” she’d said. “Let me do it.”

  The sound of her spitting into her hand had sent shivers of anxiousness across his flesh. She had reached around, slathered his erection in warm, bubbling saliva, and then backed into him ever so slowly. Once the tight, brown flesh of her anus accepted the full, purple head of his cock, the rest slid in easily.

  And then it was heaven. Hot, deep heaven.

  “Well, what have we got here?”

  Flavia’s voice startled him back into the here and now. And in the here and now, the comma that was his flaccid penis had become one hell of an exclamation point. He wanted to make some kind of comment about it, get the dirty talk going again. But he just sort of smiled, shrugged. Gave Flavia a look that said, “Well, would you look at that?”

  “Papa Bear ready now? Because Mama Bear wants her porridge.” Flavia moaned as she bent down, flicked her tongue over the head of his throbbing cock. It was packed with so much blood he thought it would burst like an overfilled water balloon. Even as Flavia opened wide, let his entire length slide down her throat, his thoughts were still on Arrianne.

  And he realized then how much he missed her. God, he fucking missed her bad.

  I have to imagine my wife to get it up with my mistress? This is fucking bullshit.

  Flavia used one hand to massage his balls, even tickled his taint with the nail of her middle finger. The other hand coasted down to her dripping pussy, and just as she started twirling her fingers over her clit, Chuck pulled out of her mouth.

  It had been pressed up against the inside of her cheek, and when he pulled out, it made a Pbaa sound. He almost wanted to say bum bum bum bum.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked, still working her clit. The other hand went into her hair, fingers combing through the raven-black strands as she closed her eyes, bit her lip, and moaned deep.

  When Chuck sat up and reached for his boxer shorts, Flavia’s lust-soaked expression melted into a frown. Her glistening fingers pulled away from her groin, and she crossed her arms over her breasts, bared her teeth in a way that gave her a slight under-bite. Not a great look for her.

  “Are you fucking serious right now?”

  “I’m sorry. I need to get home. This … I can’t do this shit anymore.” Zipping his pants over his engorged cock was tricky, and he spied Flavia staring at the bulge that ran along his inner thigh. “You won’t be seeing me again. I’m fucking married, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

  Flavia’s expression changed again, this time a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “I don’t believe this shit. You’re going to blow me off for your ugly fucking cunt wife?”

  Chuck was about to defend Arrianne, but he didn’t see the point. He did his best to ignore Flavia as he gathered his things, though her stare felt like an open oven. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

  Flavia smiled then. “Don’t think so, honey. I’ll be seeing you. And if I don’t? You’ll be seeing me.”

  Chuck nearly downed another whiskey for the road but slammed the cup on the end table, shattering it. Blood welled in his palm, and he ripped a pillowcase free and wrapped it around his hand. “You stay the fuck away from me and my wife. It doesn’t have to be like that, Flavia. I’m sure there’re men throwing themselves at you every day, right? Men much younger than me. Go be young. Let me go be old, okay?”

  Chuck didn’t get a response from her as he finished dressing. But her stare never left him, and he felt himself start to sweat under its heat. And that fucking smirk never lifted from her lips.

  Chuck made his way to the door, back slightly hunched because of the still rock-hard erection in his pants. He shot one last look at Flavia, wanted to say something else, something that would convince her to leave him be. But no words would come.

  He turned his back to her and exited the room. Full of guilt. Full of shame. Full of sparkling lust for his wife’s embrace.

  “See you soon, Papa Bear.�
�

  Chuck slammed the door and hurried to his car. The pillowcase was nearly soaked through. Cut must have been deeper than he thought.

  He had no idea what he was going to tell Arrianne when he got home. Didn’t have an excuse handy as to why he was showing up at home early when he was supposed to be out of town on business.

  I’ll just tell her the meeting was canceled. No … I’ll tell her I missed her too bad and blew the whole thing off. Fuck …

  At that point he would tell her whatever she wanted to hear to get that ass back in the air. His foot was heavy on the gas pedal as he sped back toward Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road.

  Chapter Nine - Shane McKenzie

  Arrianne paced the house. She couldn’t figure out what to do with herself. Traces of her explosive orgasm still prickled her skin, and just thinking about it made her want to drop to the floor and kick her pants off. Her thoughts suddenly went back to Jake, and she found herself wondering how long his cock was, what kind of face he would make as he stroked it in front of her.

  What the fuck is wrong with me!

  She plopped down on the couch, reached for one of the pillows, pressed it to her face, and screamed. The release felt good, but unease still filled her head. She felt something beneath her butt. Reaching beneath the cushion, she retrieved her cell phone. The screen was black. She knew she would have to charge it soon, just in case Chuck tried to call or text her, but she found herself scared to even touch it. Just looking at it conjured images of the dirty, skinny women coating each other in ribbons of gelatinous dog drool, and then her mind became a slideshow of filthy flesh and streams of vomit and skinny vagrant cock.

  Her stomach bubbled, and an acidic burp popped out, burned the back of her throat. She scanned her surroundings and suddenly felt very alone, very vulnerable. And dirty. She felt so goddamn dirty that she just wanted to wrap her fingers around her throat again, wanted to rub her clit while she watched Jake jerk himself off.

  If he were here now, I’d do a lot more than watch.

  Her feet carried her toward the front door, and though she couldn’t believe she was having these thoughts—especially after the titanic nut she just busted—it didn’t stop her from massaging her sore, chaffed groin as she parted the curtain and peered out into the yard.

  A pickup truck sat down the road, just close enough that she could make out a male driver. His arm hung out the window and his face was aimed at her front door. Spirals of cigarette smoke drifted from his nostrils, and a smile spread across his face.

  Jake?

  She gasped, yanked her hand away from herself, and backed away from the window. No, she thought. He isn’t really sitting there. It’s my own fucked-up imagination. It’s this goddamn house messing with my head.

  She gave herself a couple of minutes to collect herself, took a deep breath, and then spread the curtain just wide enough for her eye.

  The truck was gone.

  She wanted to feel relief, but instead waves of disappointment crashed over her. She wanted him to be out there, wanted him to come inside and fuck her.

  What? No … no I don’t.

  Her hands were balled into hard fists, and she clenched her teeth as she growled in frustration. She leaned against the door and stared at the ceiling, wanting nothing more than for Chuck to come home, hold her in his strong arms, tell her she wasn’t crazy.

  A walk. That’s what I need. Some fresh air.

  She swung the door open and slammed it, crossed her arms, and chewed her tongue as she briskly walked away from the house and toward the lake. Just across from the road was a beaten trail, and she followed it into the trees, feeling better already.

  ***

  Jake crept the truck through the heavily wooded area close to the house, looking for a good place to park it so it was out of sight.

  When the woman’s face had suddenly appeared in her window only minutes before, he knew he should have been concerned, at the very least embarrassed. But all he could do was smile at her. She was just so goddamn pretty. His cock nudged at the underside of his zipper as he pictured the woman on her back, naked, fingers knuckle-deep in pussy meat. And he knew he had to have her. Nothing could stop him from tasting her.

  The second her face had disappeared from the window, he had backed the truck up and took off down the road. Almost every part of his brain had told him to get the hell out of there, get as far away from this woman’s house as possible, go back to work like he was supposed to.

  Almost every part of his brain told him this. But he didn’t. Because the part of his brain that disagreed with the rest was stronger, and it told him to stay close, wait for the bitch to leave. It told him that once she was gone, he could break into the house, hide out, wait for her to get back. He hadn’t seen her leave the house, but that part of his brain knew somehow. And when she got back, he could fuck her. He could fuck her so long and hard that she would never want him to stop.

  Fuck her? But I can’t do that … I can’t even jack off in front of her …

  But that part of his brain told him he could. He could fuck her in every hole, could fuck her until she bled. It didn’t take long before that part of his brain had convinced him it was right, and he grinned until his cheeks ached.

  I can fuck her. She wants me to fuck her.

  He came across another truck, parked amongst the trees. He wondered if this Arrianne had other admirers, which wouldn’t surprise him in the least. This girl was fine. Damn fine.

  A husband maybe? Boyfriend?

  It wouldn’t matter either way. She was going to be his, no matter who was in the house. If he had to take care of some asshole to get what was his, he would take care of said asshole, no problem.

  After he parked his truck beside the other, he hopped out, stuck his head in through the other’s window, but found it empty for the most part. There were some tools, some empty food wrappers and soda bottles.

  The truck didn’t matter. Only Arrianne mattered. Another cigarette found its way to his lips, and he lit it as he trudged back toward the house on foot.

  ***

  Arrianne couldn’t help but smile as she strolled along the trail. The surrounding trees swayed in the breeze and gave off a piney scent that filled her with calm. Birds sang songs for her and butterflies danced through the air. Her mind cleared and she felt more relaxed than she had in a very long time, and the tranquil feeling only seemed to increase with every step she took away from the house.

  And for the first time today, she felt like she had her thoughts together. Her own thoughts. She wasn’t thinking about fingering or choking herself, wasn’t thinking about Jake’s penis or vomit or high heels or dog saliva baths. She felt like herself, and she took a long, deep breath as she continued her trek through the woods.

  She figured it had to just be stress that was causing her to act out, that was putting all that garbage into her head.

  Things will get better, she told herself. Don’t go losing your shit, Arrianne.

  She stopped for a moment, leaned up against a tree. A squirrel chattered at her from a limb just above her head, pouncing from left to right as if challenging her.

  “What’s your problem?” she said, and then chuckled as the squirrel grew more agitated, squeakily cussing her out in its squirrel language. She wondered if this was a mother squirrel protecting her young, and the mother rat from their old home burst into her mind, yellow teeth bared and blood-stained. A shudder tickled her flesh, and she only stared at the hysterical rodent for another few seconds before moving on down the trail. As the images of the crazed rat began to fade, her mind drifted to the scratching sounds coming from the attic, the chipmunks that were building a well-hidden nest in there somewhere. She only hoped they could find them and get rid of them without having to hurt the poor things.

  Thinking about the rat naturally brought Teddy to mind. The way his eye had been hanging from his socket, his fur all matted with blood. Teddy used to love to climb trees, and she knew if he w
as there now, in their new home surrounded by pines, they would have all sorts of shredded, furry gifts at their doorstep on a daily basis. A tear fattened at the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away, forced a laugh.

  She was almost at the lake now, saw it sparkling through the trunks.

  Should have brought my swimsuit, damn it.

  She thought about going back to the house for it but then decided if the urge to take a dip was strong enough, she’d just strip down and dive in.

  Then something rustled the bushes just to her left.

  She flinched, put her hand to her chest. “Hello?”

  There was a high-pitched sound, and then more rustling.

  Arrianne cursed herself for not bringing something to defend herself with. What if it’s a cougar or something? She searched the forest floor for a weapon, anything she could use. Before she had the chance to bend down and grab anything, the furry body burst from the bush and straight for her.

  The scream that trumpeted from her throat was quickly cut off when the dog limped across the trail. A mutt, dark brown with scattered black spots—male. If the dog had an owner, he hadn’t bothered getting him neutered. The dog whined as he approached her, his front left paw curled up to his chest.

  “What happened to you?” Arrianne asked as she squatted and placed a gentle hand on the dog’s head.

  His tail got to wagging, and he licked her fingers, stared up at her with soft, pathetic eyes. The dog had no collar, no tags. His eyes had a milky film, and his muzzle was graying. Arrianne could tell this dog was old; she guessed twelve years or so.

  She ran her nails along its back, scratched behind his ears. He whined some more, tucked himself between her legs, reached up with his snout, and licked her on the neck.

  “Okay, okay,” she said as the dog pushed forward and continued flicking its tongue at her. She laughed, scratched under his chin with one hand, and inspected his paw with the other, gently wrapping her fingers around the leg and extending it toward her. “It’s okay, boy. You’ll be all right.”