by Billie Dale
“A little birthday morning celebration,” Mazric responds, offering me the flaming sweet treat in his palm. “Make a wish.”
Twenty-Eight
MAZRIC
DON’T STARE...DON’T stare. Damn it. Stop. Staring. At. Her. Tits.
Curse you, Johnny, for arriving all Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Okay, so he didn’t stick his head through an axe chopped hole in the door all squirrel-eyed and insane, but he affects my libido the same. She puckers her kissable lips, closes her eyes, and puffs out a breath, dousing the small flame and fanning my face with the minty scent of toothpaste. My brain drives south, correlating the mint to Altoids combined with the heat of her mouth and feel of her lips.
Fuck me, I’m doomed.
“Birthday, huh? Is that today?” Johnny muses, hiding the fact he forgot his only daughter’s birthday under a veil of laughter. “So. The big fifteen. One more year and you’ll be behind the wheel of that beautiful car we restored.”
Are you kidding me? It’s bad enough he gives her crappy gifts but now he doesn’t remember how old she is? The smile my cupcake palooza lit on her face falls.
“No, Daddy I’m sixteen today,” she corrects.
“Are you sure?” His large greasy fingers scratch his scruff-covered chin. I see his brain’s gears turning as he works through the years.
“Certain,” she snaps, and the crinkled skin between her brows, downturned eyes, and frown convey years of disappointment.
Johnny Gentry’s gift buying for his daughter equals the fruitcake you’re given for Christmas. A present you can’t even regift to your worst enemy. Mechanic books, tools, car parts, and my favorite for shittiest offering from a parent, the oil can. Yes, think Tin Man. Perfect for those pesky lube problems in hard to reach places that no fourteen-year-old young woman should ever have. But forgetting this birthday, the one before she leaves for college, is unforgivable.
“What’s with all the cupcakes? Is that Molly Ringwald?” He circles the island, bending to check each frosted top. “Holy shit, eighties movies threw up all over these.”
“Right, well they are—”
“Sammy Lee’s favorites,” her dad interrupts draping an arm over her shoulders. “Along with songs, clothes, and hair. The girl was born in the wrong decade. These fictional characters rate up there with her love for Euclid and Archimedes. I’m more of a Tim the Toolman fan myself. But my girl...” He squeezes her closer. “My baby prefers numbers to most people, a cheesy flick to pop culture and is the smartest, most beautiful woman in the universe. She’s destined for greatness and can rebuild a carburetor faster than any man, including me.”
Sammy’s lips gape on a gasp. Johnny releases his hold to jog in the other room, returning with a gift. “Your ma went in labor during the town fireworks display. Flooded old man Roger’s blanket when her water broke and howled louder than those white flash sonic booms, demanding Demerol or morphine. For forty-eight hours the woman threatened my manhood, the doctor’s spine, and tested the nurses’ understanding. She tried to crush the bones in my hand and more than once swung for my junk, swearing I couldn’t do this to her again if I no longer had the tools. I swear they took her down for the C-section just to shut her up.”
Her hollow laugh opens the dam of her waterlogged lids, sending a tear down each cheek. “She always blamed me for ruining her bikini body.”
“Nah, the scar gave her stomach character. I’ve made mistakes, Sammy Lee, but never for one second believe I’ll forget the day you were born. You’re the greatest adventure of my life and in a few weeks, you’ll begin yours.” He sets her gift on the table before smashing her in a tight embrace with her head tucked under his chin. “I’m proud of you, kid.” He squeezes quick, setting her away and wiping her tears with his big calloused hands. “Enough of this sentimental crap. Open your gift.”
A weak smile tips her lips as she heaves a shaky breath. Her hands caress the newspaper wrapping. To Johnny it seems she appreciates the thought of the present, but this is her preparation for disappointment. She awes and inspires with her ability to feign enjoyment over a hundred-piece Craftsman set of tools, which was what he gave her last year.
He moves to the coffeepot, pouring the last of its contents in a travel mug. “Get to it, girl, I’ve got a million pieces of engine spread around the barn and it’s not gonna fix itself.”
She rips away the paper. “Oh. Oh, OH!” Scuffs mar the white surface but the Apple shines proud in the sunshine.
“Now don’t get too excited. It’s used but Milton down at the Gas and Pawn says it’s what all the college kids are using. Can’t have you at that snooty school without one.”
“Daddy, this is too much, how did you afford it?”
He waves her off while moving to the door. “The barter system is still alive and kicking in Seven Mile Forge. Milton needed repairs; I wanted a Google box. It all worked out.”
“Laptop, Daddy,” she corrects fighting tears.
“Whatever. I gotta scoot before the heat takes over. You kids have fun at the pond, and I’ll see you at dinner. Happy birthday, doll.”
With a nod to me he shoves through the screen door. I cross, wrapping my arms around her waist while she astonishes over the computer.
She sniffles, tracing a finger around the clear fruit in the center. “He got it right for once,” she mumbles, swiping a finger under her eye.
“Yeah, he did,” I whisper against her temple before resting my lips on the soft skin. “Let’s get these cupcakes put away before the sweltering heat melts the frosting, then we have a date at the pond waiting.”
“Coffee first, please,” she whines.
“Your wish is my command,” I respond, prepping another pot.
Twenty-Nine
SAMANTHA
HE DIDN’T FORGET MY birthday. My daddy bought me a computer and told me in his own way how much he loves me. Oh no, I’m leaving for Maryland in a month and a half. How’s he going to survive without me? Strangers, I’ll be living with cookie-cutter people who probably killed the other kids who stayed in their house and hid the bodies in their crawl space. No basement. They have no cellar. Where will I go if there’s a tornado? Does Baltimore have tornados?
“Splinter, you’re killing my fragile male ego.” His husky, low words blend with the chirpy cicadas. We’re lying on a plush blanket hidden in a shaded alcove created by a circle of ancient elms. A cool breeze brushes the bare skin of my breasts, wet from flicks of his talented tongue. “You’re killing the vibe of this whole romantic bungalow.”
Shit, he’s right. I waited for this moment and now my rambling thoughts pollute it. “I’m sorry. You found this great secret spot where the trees block us from the road and far enough away, we’ll hear someone approach. Thick blanket, picnic basket with Carrie’s delicious food, hell, you even pilfered a bottle of wine, and here I’m traipsing through Panicland and sinking in the Worry Swamp. I’m a total spaz.” Out of oxygen from the word vomit, I inhale deep.
“As much as I love you incorporating the board game of Candy Death in our tryst, my mind is on this fine-ass woman spread out before me. If you could see what I see...hmmm pure distraction. It’s quite a vision. Picture it with me. Hair spread out like midnight waves highlighted black and blue by the sun.” His fingertip traces my forehead. “So soft,” he whispers moving down the slope of my nose, “sexy, expressive fox-like eyes, which I’m glad your head grew in to.” I smack his hand away, scrunching my brow. A chuckle shakes his chest. Yes, my eyes were bug-ish for much of my life. Big green blobs protruding from my thin face. When my curves arrived so did the meat of my cheeks, setting those praying mantis beacons where they belong.
“Awe, c’mon you were cute lookin’ all Beaker like. Ya know that red ragged Muppet with the round-headed doctor who wears tiny, clouded glasses? Come on give me a tiny meep.”
“Fuck you,” I harrumph but can’t fight my smile.
“I hope you will,” he winks, twisting those plump pea
ch lips up on one side; pure mischievous coyness hides in his dimples. His index finger circles my pebbled nipple. “You were zoned out when I removed your shirt—thanks for leaving off the bra, by the way. I might be an ass for taking advantage during your distraction, but I’m not about to miss a second of your bare gorgeous tits.” Hand splayed he ghosts down along my breastbone, around my belly button. Teasing the edge of my underwear. “It’s a true crime how you keep these suppressed. Though being the only one who knows the more than a handful of treasures and dangerous curves you hide under your clothes sure pads my ego. God. Damn. You. Are. Perfect.” His lips replace his hand. Soft open kisses with his tongue tasting my skin. Course stubble scrapes my flesh, heating a burning path from the surface through my veins to my core.
Desire weights his lids, as he slips a finger from each hand under my waistband, dragging my panties and shorts down my legs. Hedonistic ants race through my nervous system, leaving me on the edge of flopping my legs open and begging for his mouth. We fumble. I mean teenagers work on needy hormones, making us quick to the jump. We’re awkward, backward, and possess a strict no talking rule. Moans, hums, and hallelujahs with a few praises to God signal when we hit a good spot. Our time together exploring gave me an advantageous learning curve. There’s a lot to be said for trial, error, and determination. For two hot and heavy young adults, we’re excellent at taking one another from cold to boiling in seconds.
My thighs fall open, granting him the access he seeks. Hot wetness slicks up my center. Messy sucks and flicks send me higher until I’m grinding on his face needing release. Right at the point of oblivion he pulls back, keeping a hand on my lower belly to hold me in place. It’s maddening. Amid the surrounding nature he’s chanting basketball stats. It’s his modus operandi when we get busy to keep from being a two-pump chump.
I get it, I do, but enough already. If he doesn’t finish me, I might have to hump a tree and bark burn is no joking matter. Crotch splinters isn’t an emergency room visit I want to explain. My moans turn to whiny whimpers and my hips rock in the air. I’m giving him the universal sign for yes, yes, yes—do it now. Maybe tapping out Morris code on his forehead with my toes would work. How many dots and dashes would it take to spell out f-u-c-k m-e?
Nibble, flick, squirm. I swear you could track my pulse through my throbbing clit. He eases some of my need with one finger slipping in and out. Testing my readiness, he adds another gliding them from my body with ease, thanks to how much he’s turned me on. With the plunge of the third he scissors, opening me until I feel a stretching burn. His licks become wetter, sucks become harder; my abdomen pulls, knotting tighter. A spasm races down, exploding through my nerve endings in pure bliss.
Eyes locked with mine his hand pats the ground. Never pulling his manic, lust-crazed stare, his hand finds the backpack he brought. He pulls a tube free first, followed by a condom. “Preslee said this will help.” He squeezes the liquid on his fingertips before easing two inside me. I feel him curl up and around then everything goes numb. His bare chest moves with rapid breaths as he sheds his shorts, tearing the condom with his teeth and sheathing himself. I barely feel him at my opening thanks to whatever he rubbed on me.
He pushes in the tip. “You tell me to stop if it’s too much?” Eyes on mine, his jaw ticks, breathing through gritted teeth he refuses to move until I nod. Angled above me, his forearms cage my head. Arms shaking, he struggles to fill his lungs, pressing tender kisses to my lips. Our tongues meet and on the second sweep his hips lunge forward. His stiff shoulders relax with a groaning roar of pleasure but other than feeling full of him I’m numb.
Nothing, I feel nothing.
He meant to save me pain, it worked but it blocked all the fun too. Since I can’t enjoy where we’re joined, I revel in him under my hands. Those skinny arms I taught to shoot the best three pointers bulked to toned and hard sinew, from hours of practicing, flex under my grip. Lean muscles tighten his chest, no longer bony and thin but honed with a smatter of coarse chest hair. His firm round butt is his best asset—pun intended—the many squats and suicide runs built powerful thighs and a nice bubbled ass. All the boyish softness is still there but fading.
Though anesthetized, my body reacts to the pleasure, flooding him with enough wetness to wash away the lubricant. His girth stretches my insides and the thrusts burn with more friction than a pair of corduroys on fat legs. Whoever said there are orgasms on your first go with sex is a bald-face liar, who needs kicked in their no-no square. With one last thrust I swear hits my tonsils via my vagina, he moans, spilling hotness inside the condom. We’re both panting as he collapses, surrounding me with his soapy, sweaty scent and this pleasure is worth the pain.
MY ANNUAL BIRTHDAY dinner is full of love, family, and sadness. This might be the last year we’re all together on this day, gloom shadows the happy we created this afternoon. Between supper and dessert, I kicked Preslee in the shin for not warning me how much my first time would hurt—during and after. The satisfaction of watching her hop on one foot faded when she cursed Mazric for forgetting to use numbing oil. I whopped her again on the other side for suggesting he take away part of experience with the goop. “You’re fucking crazy,” she yells, hobbling back to the kitchen.
She accepted my apology, which I delivered while shoving cupcakes down my throat. No one reads me better than Pres; she knew my anger was more hurt and dread than rage. What can I say, sex made me an emotional dive-bomber headed for a crash.
Carrie Lynn rushed us through cleanup, bouncing in her seat as Pappy Joe handed me a silver wrapped gift with a turquoise bow. Mazric would wait until we were alone to give me his gift. After the wish necklace, he’s given something unique and special each year. The presents aren’t expensive or elaborate, hell one year he whittled me a pig. The chunk of carved wood looks more like a creature out of Pet Cemetery mated with a turnip, but I love how he takes the time to make my gift.
I rip away the paper revealing a cellphone. Excited, I tear open the box and power it up. As I check out the features and slide the keyboard in and out, the realization of the gift hits me. “You guys can’t afford this. I love it but can’t keep it.” I shut it down and set it back in the box.
“We’d never give you a present you couldn’t use, girl,” Joe says.
I open my mouth to protest but Carrie silences me by laying a hand over mine, “We added you to our plan. Use it for emergencies during the day, but after seven in the evening, you can talk and text as much as you want. Your daddy gave you the laptop so we can use this program called Skype when we want to see your pretty face, but with this, we can talk to you every day. Johnny even promised he’d come over in the evenings and use mine to chat. Plus, it’ll keep you and Maz close.”
A lump of emotion clogs my throat knowing the ‘don’t even think about refusing again’ set of Carrie Lynn’s eyes means the phone is mine. I retrieve it from the box. “Thank you.”
She kicks us out of the kitchen before we can help with the dishes. Once outside, I grab Mazric’s hand. taking off in a sprint through the meadow. “Where’s the fire, Splint?” He laughs using his long legs to keep stride.
Through the screen door and up the stairs, I lock us in my room and start a thorough pat down of his body. “Gimme, gimme,” I demand. He laughs at my grabbing hands with his chuckles growing louder when I hit his ticklish spots.
I end my police show worthy search, cupping him through his shorts. “Splinter,” he warns.
Despite the hilarity he’s hard as steel beneath the nylon material. “Why, Mister Vortex, what’s this? A concealed weapon or did I just act out your freaky cop fantasy?”
He presses into my palm before twisting his hips away. “Ha, ha,” he mocks, but his cheeks flush pink. “It’s under your pillow.”
I take a minute to decide if I want to explore him more or fetch my gift. A twinging ache between my legs reminds me now isn’t the best time to jump him, so I flop across my bed and fish under my pillows. My hand m
eets a narrow solid surface. Eager, I yank it free.
The Mathematical Art of Skipping Stones.
Blink. Blink. I flutter my lids, hoping the words will change. When they don’t, I flick a quizzical glance to him. His dimples pull deep in his cheeks with a proud smile displaying all his white teeth. The words is this a joke die on my lips.
“It’s great, right?” he cheers.
“Riiiiggght,” I respond, crestfallen and confused. His past gifts were sweet and intimate when we were just friends, so I’d thought with the broadening of our relationship this year would give me a clue to where his heart is. Wrong. So wrong.
He’s proud of this book, so I twist my grimace to a fake gleeful grin, hop off the bed, and kiss his lips in thanks. “Check it out.” He flips open the cover, “All the numbers you love. At Christmas when I come home, you’ll no longer suck at skipping rocks.”
“Yep, it’s great,” I answer pulling my shirt over my head, using my body to distract from how much I don’t want to lie about liking the stupid book.
He’s flipping the pages. “I don’t understand a word of these equa—” Hearing the thump of my clothes hitting the floor grabs his attention. The book joins the pile.
He lunges, tackling me to the bed, attacking my lips. We’re a tangle of limbs. I claw at his shirt and shorts, unsure of which is more offending, thankful when he sheds them both. Sweat slicks our skin from the hot as Hades temperature of the room and the heat of our bodies. My lips taste the salt of his neck, working the flesh of his collarbone. He forces up the tight material of my sports bra, sucking both my nipples to diamond peaks. The weight of his thigh works between my legs and I can’t stop myself from grinding on his leg.
