DYLAN'S VACATION BACK HOME
Chapter 28
by Donny Mumford
It was mostly luck spotting the asshole's van, but we were searching in the right area so it wasn't all luck. The sicko drove from the block of houses we were going to check next. After running a stop sign Chubby's two cars behind the pervert's van. Glancing at Charlie in the backseat, he looks tense, so I ask, "You doing okay, Charlie?" He nods his head, "Uh huh, except my ass is starting to sting again." I go, "There's more of that pain relief creme back at the house. I'll put more of it on your rear-end when we get back." He points at the van, asking, "What will we do when we catch-up with, um, him?" Chubby says, "Right now we mostly want to know where he's staying. We'll figure out what to do about him after that." I don't blame Charlie for being apprehensive; not after what that guy did to him. Hell, I'm a little apprehensive myself although I know from past experience Chubby and I will come up with a plan for revenge that has minimal chance of us getting caught. Rule number one is don't make a bad situation worse.
We have no problem following the van down Ocean Drive because there's no red lights or stop signs until we're four blocks from the boardwalk in the center of town. Now there's a light at every corner, as well as pedestrian cross walks. Our half-assed political correct society decided some time ago that pedestrians have the right-of-way on the streets, and not motor vehicles that the roads were made for. Our concern is getting stopped at a red light, one that Lee goes through, and we lose him. Chubby barely makes it through the first light on a yellow, and then at the second intersection the lady driving the car in front of us appears determined to let every pedestrian in Wildwood cross in front of us even though we have the green light and the pedestrians have the 'DON'T WALK' sign. Chubby blows the horn and gets a nasty look from the lady driver in front of us, but that's all we get as the light turns yellow, then red. Chubby slams his hand on the steering wheel, yelling, "That bitch!" I'm keeping my eye on the van, then say, "He turned right two blocks up."
When we get the green light again Chubby lays on the horn and the car in front does a jack rabbit start and then stalls. Fuck! She gets it started and we make it passed that intersection and the next one too, then Chubby turns right and we see the van in the drive-thru at a McDonalds restaurant.
Backing into a parking spot, we sit with the Jeep idling as Chubby mutters, "I guess even perverts need to eat." As soon as the sicko gets his take-out order Chubby drives off the parking lot and butts into the line of cars, hearing horns blowing. Chubby mutters, "Fuck you," and now we're one car behind the van. For something to say, I mumble, "I hope he goes home to eat."
The van makes the first right, then the next right and the next. Then waits at a red light with his left turn-signal blinking. Charlie says, "He's going back the way we came, up Ocean Drive." That's what he does with us following him. We passing by the intersection we were at when we spotted him and continuing on this road takes us right past the road that leads to the wooded area he took Charlie. Three blocks later the van turns onto an alley and Chubby pulls over. He looks at me, "The alley's behind that row of attached condo's, so he's probably parking at the back of his place." Charlie mumbles, "Gee, he lives here year round, huh?" I shrug, "Yeah, it looks like it."
Chubby and I get out of the Jeep, telling Charlie, "Wait here." We jog to the side of the end condo, then peek around the corner, looking down the alley. The van is parked on a sloping driveway three condos down. Pervert-Lee is already out of the van and walking in the back door carrying his McDonalds take-out bag. I whisper, "Good! He didn't park in the garage." Chubby goes, "Yeah, I assume he's planning on going out later." We take a last look, then walk back to the Jeep. Chubby drives us back the way we came with me telling Charlie, "We know where the sick fuck lives now and we'll deal with him after dinner." Chubby adds, "Yeah, after dark we'll return with a plan." Charlie goes, "I'm scared. Um, maybe we should just call the cops anonymously." We discuss that, but it's a horrible idea because Lee hasn't technically broken any laws that we know of. He has pictures showing Charlie putting two hundred dollar bills in his pocket making it appears he's a male prostitute getting paid for kinky sex, which isn't against the law if it's between consenting adults. I say, "When cops are involved you lose total control of the situation." Charlie whines, "He has pictures of me getting beaten and fucked. What if they end up online?" Chubby says, "Calm the fuck down, Charlie! Dylan will think of something."
We're on our way back to our place to shower and get dressed for the Barns' farewell party. When we're stuck at the same traffic red light we were stuck at following the van, I say, "I got it! We'll fire bomb his van."
Charlie goes, "How will we do that?" Turning to look at him, I go, "We'll get ourselves a couple of Molotov cocktails and burn the van inside and out.
Ideally we'd also like to do serious bodily harm on that sick fuck, and if we get the chance to do it without any danger of getting caught we will. In the meantime we can ruin his van and all the expensive photography equipment in back, plus destroy pictures of you and anyone else he's fucked with."
Eliminating pictures of Charlie should be our first objective. Chubby drives through the intersection, saying, "My mastermind brother does it again!
Good plan. The guy probably has insurance on the van, but it's unlikely he has it for the cameras and other stuff in the back." I go, "Yep, the fire will bring fire engines, and the cops always come with the fire engines." I hear Charlie swallowing noisily, as in, "Gulp!". Then he says, "He's got my cell phone number." Chubby says, "So what? How's he gonna prove you have anything to do with his van getting fire bombed. I'm betting he's fucked-up others, so it could be anyone getting revenge."
Looking at him in the back seat again, I say, "The pictures he took of you will be ashes, Charlie. Him having your cell phone number doesn't prove anything." He looks pale, then Chubby says, "Yeah, and the pervert will be questioned by the police and, sure they'll be suspicious of him wanting to know, 'Why would someone fire bomb your van, sir? Who do you know who'd do that?' See, he'll now be a person of interest to the cops where before they didn't know he existed, and Lee will want to return to being an unknown.
What would the cops find on his cell phone, huh? You think he wants to mention cellphone numbers? I don't think so." Charlie nods his head, asking, "And we won't even need to see Lee to fire bomb his car, right?" Chubby says, "That's right as far as it goes, but it's a fuckin' shame we can't inflict some pain on his ass." I go, "I don't see any safe sure way to do that. He knows what all three of us looks like. Fucking his truck up, he can't prove anything, but if he sees us as we break a couple of his bones he might put the police on our asses." I add, "Yeah, no way do I want my name on any police record. Destroying his van gives him tons of mental anguish, create a lot of inconvenience for him and hopefully cost him a lot of money." Another nod of his head from Charlie as he smells the back of his hand again. I don't blame him for being nervous. Hell, Chubby and I are nervous too, but we can't let the sick fuck get away scott-free. Huh, I wonder who Scott was, and what he got away with for free?
At our condo we're out of the Jeep huddling at the bottom of the steps. I tell Charlie, "You need to act as if everything's cool. You're parents will almost certainly ask you about the photo shoot. Tell them it never amounted to anything. The guy snapped a few pictures, then decided you weren't right for what he needed. Some vaguer bull shit. Basically you don't know why he changed his mind." Chubby adds, "Yeah, and when he dropped you off you ran into Dylan and me and we had the frozen daiquiris. You got the popsicle headache and laid down. That corroborates the story Dylan told your parents earlier on the beach." Charlie rubs his face with both hands taking a deep breath, muttering, "Yeah, I got it covered, but listen guys, um, the most important thing as far as I'm concerned is my parents and sister never find out what that guy did to me. It'd be humiliation I'd never live down.
That's more important to me than getting even with Lee." I pat his shoulder, "We know, Charlie. It'll be between the three of us forever, but that prick needs to know there are consequences for his sick behavior."
I run upstairs to get the pain relief cream, then bring it down to Charlie, saying, "After your shower spread a coating of this on your ass. We'll see you at your place in an hour or so." Charlie goes, "Thanks, um, can we talk more about the fire-bombing later?" Chubby says, "Sure, just remember to act like nothing happened, okay?" Charlie goes, "Yeah, I can do that. See you guys in a little while." We watch him walking across the alley as Chubby's asking, "Whaddaya think, Dylan? Will he fuck this up?" I go, "I don't think so." We walk up the steps as I'm telling him, "Charlie's understandable
messed-up in the head after that horrific experience, but he's strongly motivated to keep it a secret. As far as him helping with the, um, pay-back to the sicko, I'm not so sure he'll be an asset." Standing on our deck looking over at Charlie's deck, Chubby mumbles, "We'll bring him with us if he insists, but only as a lookout, ya know?" I say, "Yeah okay, but man do I ever want to do bodily harm on that sick mother fucker, Lee." Chubby goes, "Yeah me too, but I agree with you we probably can't get away with it." I shrug, and Chubby adds, "I was thinking Charlie should probably talk to a therapist or something about the traumatic shit he went through." I shrug, muttering, "Yeah, I guess, but he isn't inclined to discuss this with anyone, so ya know..." As we go inside Chubby's saying, "For now he wants to keep it to himself, but maybe he'll feel differently in a week or two."
The Moms both come out of their bedrooms at the same time we walk inside.
Big smiles and hugs from them, then, "You boys are late. The party starts in fifteen minutes." Chubby says, "We like to be fashionably late, Dee," and my Mom says, "Yes, Jeff, so do we actually. Our guys are coming over any minute now and we'll probably have a cocktail here before joining the party." Nobody mentions Charlie so apparently they all believed what I told them on the beach. If Charlie follows through with the same vague tale, then the photographer saga will simply fade away as far as they're concerned.
Chubby showers first while I sit on the side of my bed with my laptop Googling 'Molotov cocktails'. Huh, they're simple enough to make. Seeing an email from Robby makes me smile. It's an awesome email packed full of sweet sentiments. I read it twice, then spend ten minutes typing a reply slipping into maudlin-mode because I have an aching feeling of love in my heart for him that makes my silly fling with Charlie seem frivolous. Chubby's out of the shower just as I'm finishing my email, so I'll check my text messages later. Then, for the hell of it, I take a quick glance at the text from Ryan: he simply states: I'm missing you, babe. See you soon. I do a quick reply: Same here, Ryan. After I send it I wonder if maybe I'm misrepresenting my feelings. Yeah, I probably am but I don't want to be mean to him. I do have feelings for Ryan, although not the kind he wants. I'll need to have a face to face conversation classifying our status. Oh man though, the sexual trances Ryan can sometimes get me into were really something. And the sizzling hot and sexy fetish-heat I'd get during his fucking specialty haircuts, whoa! That's a love/hate thing right there; Ryan giving me haircuts. No more of that though because I've moved on and his dominant haircutting will have to be just another one of my hot sexy memories.
Chubby's standing in the bedroom naked, drying his hair, asking, "What are you thinking, bro? You have a faraway look in your eyes." I go, "Oh, nothing. Do you still feel good about the fire bomb plan?" He drops the towel on the floor, kicks it out of his way, and begins searching through the bureau drawer looking for clean underwear, saying, "I never feel especially good about our revenge adventures. Always nervous about them, but, um, fire-bombing his van, yeah it's a good, relatively safe way to do some payback on the sicko prick. Why, are you having second thoughts?" Shutting down my laptop, I go, "No, but I get butterflies in my stomach too. I just Googled Molotov cocktails and they're pretty simple to make." Chubby puts on a pair of my boxer shorts, saying, "I figured they were, and there's a lawnmower in the shed under our deck, so there'll probably be a can of gas/oil mixture for the mower we can use. Some rags or whatever too." I take a deep breath, muttering, "Nerve wracking, huh?" Chubby finds a pair of cargo shorts that aren't too wrinkled and puts then on, saying, "Sure it's nerve wracking, but sometimes we gotta do what we gotta do, nerve wracking or not. Charlie gets no justice otherwise. " Muttering, "You're right, Chub," I go in and take my shower wishing Charlie never went with that asshole, Lee. I let myself be a little pissed-off at Charlie for putting Chubby and me in a position we can't ignore. Charlie should have listened to me, or maybe I should have been more insistent about going with him. Woulda, coulda, shoulda, ya know?
Well now we gotta deal with it. But man, I can work up a rage thinking about people like that fucker, Lee, who feel entitled to do whatever hideous thing they want just because they can. Well, you're not getting away with it clean this time, asshole!
When I'm done with my shower and dressed, I find Chubby on the deck smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. He points to a can of Coors beer on the table, saying, "I got one for you, Dylan." Popping the top of the can I sit down taking Chubby's cigarette and dragging on it before giving it back to him. He says, "Look over there at Charlie's deck. There's already twenty people." I go, "Yeah, and there's Ronny Tarleckie talking to, I assume, his parents. Not surprising they'd be invited considering they're neighbors of the Barns family." Charlie's talking to two girls who look alike. For the hell of it I call him on his cellphone and watch him fumbling it out of his pocket. I say, "Who are the girls, Charlie?" He looks over and waves at us, telling me, "My twin cousins," and then he says something to them that makes them look over at us. We do a little wave, as I ask, "You doing alright?"
He says, "Um, yeah, pretty much." "Your ass feeling better?" He looks at his cousins, then over to us, muttering, "Much better, thank you." I go, "We'll be over shortly," and end the call, saying to Chubby, "He seems okay.
He's talking to his twin cousins." Chubby goes, "Oh yeah? Oh, and there's Jessica and Tyrone coming out on the deck." I mumble, "Good thing it's a big deck." Chubby squinting, mumbles, "Where the fuck's Ellie though?"
We finish our beers and wander over to join the crowded deck. There's pre-poured strawberry daiquiris lined up on the windowsill so we grab a couple and hook up with our Moms, Rider, and Bud. They're doing quite well, and looking good for their ages. Mom wants to know what we were up to this afternoon after leaving the beach. Chubby makes up an elaborate lie telling them we were playing hoops at the 39th street basketball courts with Charlie and three guys who said they played for the St. Joe's College basketball team.
He makes up odd names for the fictitious players as I concentrate on not laughing, then drift over to talk with Charlie and his cousins. The girls look about our age and are kinda cute in a giggly way. Charlie introduces me to Faith and Hope, so I naturally ask, "Where's Charity?" to which, Faith says, "Oh, we've never heard that before." I shrug, mumbling, "It's the best I could come up with off the top of my head." Hope says, "Pretty cute head too," then she adds, "Charlie's been telling us about how cute his boyfriend is, and he didn't exaggerate." I go, "I think that was a compliment, and if so, thanks, although we're not boyfriends." Charlie mutters, "Yes we are."
The twins take turns telling me a couple of semi-embarrassing stories about them and Charlie growing up. Tales along the lines of the kid thing where you go, I'll show you mine if you'll show me your's'. Charlie blushes cutely and it's obvious both girls like him a lot. Faith says, "Hope and I had monstrous crushes on Charlie as preteens, which we think is why he decided to be gay." Charlie goes, "I didn't decide to be gay," and Hope pinches his cheek saying, "You're so cute, Charlie." They point out their parents, who are talking to Charlie's parents, then four guys in their late twenties from the condo under this one join the party. Good! Lots of people will make it easier for us to sneak away on our arson run. Jesse and Tyrone come over and I get introduce to sexy Tyrone. Up close he's even better looking than I first thought. Beautiful smooth tan, clean-shaven face with a killer smile. I learn he's was born in the Bahamas and grew up there until age fifteen. I'd sure like to get to know him better, but Charlie pulls me away saying we need a fresh drink.
Making our way to the bar set-up at the far end of the deck close to the gas grille with Mr. Barns and another man in charge of that. At the bar I glance to my left and see Chubby huddled with Ellie in the far corner, so he's occupied for the foreseeable future. Charlie and I get bottles of Heineken beer and sit on the steps while I smoke a cigarette. Charlie says, "Being honest with you, I'm nervous as hell about fire-bombing the van. Do you think you can talk Jeff out of it?" I look around frowning, telling him, "Will you please keep your voice down!" Taking a drag off my cigarette, in a hushed voice, I add, "I don't want to talk him out of it, but you don't need to come with us." He whispers, "Have you and Jeff done this kind of thing before?" I go, "No, not fire-bombing something, that's new, but we've had a few occasions when we needed to get revenge on evil-doers who fucked with us." He grins, "You and Jeff are a couple of bad-asses, huh?" Shaking my head, I go, "Not hardly, but on rare occasions we did what we had to getting even with some people. It's not something we talk about though." Charlie goes, "Ya know, Lee gave me two hundred and fifty bucks altogether, and then you fixed my ass with ice and that creme, so maybe we shouldn't do anything.
I've been fucked with a dildo about fifty times by Geoff, so it's not like it was something I haven't experienced before." I shrug, "And the beating with the belt? That something Geoff did fifty times as well?" He mutters, "No, of course not. That was the worst part and I was scared shitless. My ass was bleeding and I hate that mother fucker with a passion, but I'm scared we'll get caught and everything will be known."
We both think about that for a bit, then I say, "Well, Chubby and I can't let the bastard go unpunished, and that's all there is to it. It's a matter of principle with us. What he did to you he's likely done to others and he'll continue getting his rocks off hurting young guys if there's no consequences for him. But, as I said, you do not need to come with us. You've been through enough already." He's smelling the back of his hand, which makes me smile about us having the same habit. I picked mine up from Dougie Hamilton, the kid I first met in Stop & Shop, who's a year behind me at Merrimack. Cute guy, Dougie. Charlie finally says, "No, I want to come with you guys. I'm not gonna punk out on this and thank you for helping me get even. My self-image has taken a hit because I couldn't stop crying and I didn't fight back." To change the subject, I ask, "Have you talked with Ronny since he's been back?" He shrugs, "Just to say hello. He hasn't called me faggot since the three of us had our little talk, so that's a step in the right direction." Behind us there's bustling around on the deck and I hear someone say, "Dinner's served. Help yourself in the kitchen." Charlie says, "That's my
mom." We wait until the initial rush is over, then make our way to the kitchen where the food is set up on the table. Getting plastic plates we fill them with barbecued chicken, baby back ribs, potato salad, green salad, barbecued baked beans; the usual cook-out fare. Some people are eating standing at the kitchen counters, but we take our plates outside and set then on the wide top deck railing. Charlie gets us both another beer and some eating
utensils. The food's damn good and we do little talking while concentrating on eating. Arsonists needs a full stomach, ya know.
Someone finally gets some rock tunes playing; songs from our parents generation that are pretty damn good. After eating we wait around for the dessert tray. Dusk settles in and the lights strung above the deck come on. Lots of chatter and laughing from this group of good people, all happy to be on vacation. As the night gets darker my thoughts turn darker too. It's almost time for the task at hand and my nerves start acting up again. For Charlie too I suppose as neither of us has much to say, and then Chubby taps me on the shoulder, asking, "What do you think, Dylan, time to get the show started?" I nod, "Yeah, lets do it." Charlie makes his noisy swallowing sound again, "Gulp." Chubby says, "Charlie, grab a couple of empty whiskey bottles from the trash in the kitchen and take them down the front stairs. We'll meet you in front. Um, obviously don't let anyone see you do that." Charlie goes, "Yeah," and, looking pale as a ghost, he drifts into the kitchen. It won't take us very long to do this now that we've started. Chubby and I exchange 'looks' like, 'Lets get this over with', going down the steps separately, Chubby first and a minute later I follow. No one asks, Where are you guys going or says anything to either of us, so that's perfect.
We meet Charlie in front. He has an almost comical tight expression on his face, so I smile, saying, "We haven't done anything yet, Charlie." He shrugs, not saying anything, so I go, "It'll be find, don't worry. We'll be back here in twenty-five minutes." Chubby's looking around, then mumbles, "We can't just blatantly walk across the alley to our place; we need to walk up a couple of house and cross the alley up there." Which is what we do while discussing what we'll need to make the Molotov cocktails. We have the empty bottles and we know where the gas/oil mixture is. The only other part of a Molotov cocktail is a rag soaked in a flammable liquid. Coming around to the front of our condo, Chubby says, "You two should probably change your shirts. Put on something dark. I'll take the bottles around back and fill them. In the dark no one from Charlie's deck will be able to see me even if they're looking over here, and why they'd be looking here I can't imagine."
I go, "Right, and I'll get a couple of those gallon storage bags. Well meet you here in front, Chub." He nods and we go up the steps with Charlie asking, "What's with the plastic bags?" I explain we'll use them to cover the rags stuffed in the top of the bottle. The rags will be soaked in gasoline and we don't want that smell all over us.
We're in my bedroom taking our shirts off; mine a gray Polo pull-over golf shirt and Charlie's is a button-down white Oxford dress shirt. He says, "This is the only clean shirt I could find." I'm like, "I'm pretty much out of clean clothes too." Looking through the clothes worn earlier this week there's a black t-shirt that I put on, and then a dark blue Polo pull-over for Charlie. After I grab two plastic storage bags from the kitchen cabinet, we head for the front steps with me asking, "You doing okay, Charlie?" He goes, "Yeah, and would you please stop asking that every ten seconds." I stop, putting my hand on his shoulder, sarcastically asking, "Really?" and he's like, "Um, I'm wound-up a little tight right now, Dylan. Sorry I snapped at you." Patting his back, I say, "No problem," and we continue down the steps finding Chubby waiting for us at the Jeep. I smell the gasoline right away. After covering the rags with the plastic bags, I get in the driver's seat while Chubby tucks the bottles in the back making sure they're secure.
Charlie gets in the back seat, Chubby's hops in the passenger seat and I start the engine without turning on the lights.
As I'm backing out of the driveway, Chubby asks Charlie, "How's your ass, dude?" Charlie mumbles, "Better than it was and much better than I expected it to be too. Getting ice on it right away like Dylan told me to do, plus the pain creme and the Aloe stuff; it's worked miracles." Halfway down the block I turn the lights on and drive barely over the speed limits. It wouldn't be cool being stopped by the cops for speeding and trying to explain the fire bombs in back. None of us has anything to say during the uneventful drive to the sicko's neighborhood. We're all obviously tense and there are definitely butterflies in my belly. I'd be worried if there weren't. This isn't something to take lightly, and there's no way we can to be too cautious. I park the Jeep a block up from the row of attached condos and leave the car idling in 'park'. Chubby flicks his Bic and gets a flame, saying, "Okay, that works. Both of you try thinking really hard what we're missing.
What haven't we thought of yet?"
None of us can come up with anything we've forgotten so we get out as Charlie's doing a long breathy exhale. I glance at him while Chubby's pulling the Molotov cocktails out of the back, then passing one to me. Last thing he gets is a tire iron, mumbling, "I'll probably need to break the driver-side window." Charlie takes another noisy breath and the three of us walk down a block to the condos. On the sidewalk in front of the condos, I say, "Okay Charlie, you're our lookout. Act like you're waiting for someone and if you see a cars or a human being on this street, whistle. Can you whistle?"
He goes, "Of course," then, "How long do you think you'll be?" Chubby says, "One minute, tops. Dylan and I are gonna come out of that alley running our asses off, so you be ready to go like a bat outta hell." Charlie yawns, then shakes his shoulders like he's getting loose... probably nervous ticks.
Giving Charlie's shoulder a squeeze I follow Chubby down the side of the end condo, then peek around to look down the alley. The van sits where we last saw it. We both take a deep breath, and staying close to the houses, we walk quickly down to the van. We're close to the back of the houses in case anyone happens to look out the window. They wouldn't be able to see us, and why anyone would want to look out I can't imagine. There's the alley, then a chain link fence on the far side of the alley, and on the other side of that is a strip mall parking lot. Not much of a view. At the van we look all around one last time, seeing nothing moving. Before Chubby hits the side window with the tire iron he tries the door, and it opens. Chubby glances at me, surprised, his eyes big as saucers. Leaving the door wide open, we pull off the plastic bags, put them in our pockets, Chubby flicks his Bic lighting both torches, we hold them two seconds to be sure the fire's spread, then together we throw the bottles at the van as hard as we can. Chubby's bottle breaks against the inside of the windshield and mine shatters on the side of the van near the back, a foot from the gas tank. The fire spreads quickly, then it goes, "Swoosh!" as the interior burst into flames. We h eard the 'Swoosh!" but didn't see it because we're already running our asses off. In a flash we're around the end unit where Charlie starts running too.
It's a hundred yard dash to the Jeep, all of us breathing hard. We're inside the idling Jeep ninety seconds after we got out of it. Chubby and I expected an explosion, but I guess that only happens in movies. The van was engulfed in flames even before the 'Swoosh" sound, so it's totally fucked-up.
None of us says anything as I drive away from the curb making sure not to lay any rubber or have the tires squeal. We don't want to attract attention. Glancing over at Chubby, he still looks tense and in the back seat Charlie's got a worried expression on his face as he smells the back of his wrist. My mouth is dry, my heart's beating too fast, and I'm breathing in short bursts. The need for speed is strong, but I resist the urge and make myself drive just slightly over the speed limit. When we get to the congested area four blocks from the boardwalk we run into a traffic jam and meld into it, finally feeling safe. We're almost to our place before we hear distant fire engine sirens, then the distinct siren sound of a police car or two.
Chubby and I glance at each other with a little victory grin on our lips.
Not cocky, but feeling confident we pulled it off. We do a light fist bump.
It was almost ten minutes before fire trucks responded so we're no where near the vicinity of the burning van. Obviously the fire wasn't noticed for at least a few minutes after we'd left the scene, then it took three or four minutes to get the fire trucks moving, so it's all good from our viewpoint.
Finally Chubby breaks our silence, "What a dumb ass, huh? The dope leaves his van unlocked." I go, "A nefarious individual could have stolen one of his cameras." Chubby goes, "Yeah, except by now they're all melted," and I go, "I gotta believe anything paper-related is just a pile of ask by now too." Chubby sarcastically mutters, "A shame really." Charlie mutters, "I know you guys are just fucking around, but are we safe?" I'm driving down our street now so I turn the lights off again and coast into the driveway, as Chubby says, "Yeah, Charlie, we're safe. We were safe the second we got back in the Jeep without seeing another living soul." Charlie goes, "That's good to know, but I'm still having trouble catching my breath." I go, "So was I up until a minute ago, but I'm okay now and you'll be fine pretty soon too. It's over and now sicko's got the big problem, and we don't. Our big problem's been addressed." We get out of the Jeep and go up the front steps of our condo. Inside we leave the lights off until we're in the bathroom where we turn on the lights. Our bathroom window faces away from the Barn's deck.
Charlie and I take our shirts off and the three of us start washing at the sink. After five seconds of bumping into each other, Chubby backs away, muttering, "Fuck this," drops his shorts and jumps under the shower. Charlie didn't get near the gasoline, but he worked up a sweat during our hundred yard dash so he continues washing at the sink, but I back away too planning to follow Chubby's lead and take a shower. For right now though, I tell Charlie, "If you want, I'll spread some Aloe creme on your welts." We do that in the bedroom and as I'm spreading creme on his butt cheeks, I'm like,"
Wow, the welts are pale pink now and they've much smaller." Getting ice on his ass was probably was the best thing we could have done, although it was just a lucky guess on my part." When I've used up the rest of the creme he pulls up his shorts, turns around and kisses me, "Thanks, you're my hero."
Grinning at him I mess-up his hair and he yells, "Dammit, Dylan!" He's chuckling though as he uses the comb on my bureau to re-comb his hair.
When Chubby's done his quick shower he leaves the water running for me. I do a fast shampoo, then swipe a washcloth with body gel quickly all over myself. Chubby's dressed by the time I'm drying off. I put on some previously worn clothes and see Chubby and Charlie on the deck in the dark, both guys drinking cans of Coors beer. Grabbing a can of beer, I join them, saying, "I'll bet nobody even notices I have different clothes on when we go back to the party." Chubby passes me the cigarette he's smoking and when I take a drag the red ash glows brightly in the dark, like a beacon. Someone over on the Barns' deck waves in our direction, obviously noticing the 'beacon'. Chubby goes, "Oops, we've been spotted. What's our lie gonna be for why we're over here instead of over there?" I mumble, "How about this: I spilled a drink on myself accidentally and you guys are keeping me company while I change." Charlie looks at me for a second, then says, "You're a really good liar, Dylan." Chubby mutters, "That may qualify as an oxymoron alert."
Silence for a minute, then Charlie goes, "It's surreal we fire bombed a car twenty minutes ago, and now it's like we're blasé about it." I go, "We're not blasé, Charlie. We're coming down off an adrenaline rush, feeling relieved and a little shaky about the whole deal." He goes, "Oh," and Chubby says, "And we'd rather not talk about it. That was some serious shit back there and we could go to jail if caught. That wasn't some college prank. We felt we had to do it, and we did it. Now we'd like to forget it." He mutters, "Well both you guys have some big balls, and I know you did it to get even for me, so that's something I'm never gonna forget." I go, "Or ever talk about, right?" He nods, "Damn right! Me of all people never wants any part of this story to get out to anyone."
Forgetting about it isn't as hard to do as you might think. For one thing, like Charlie said, the entire situation from Charlie's misadventure with the sicko to our fire-bombing his van has a definite surreal feel to it, and even if we're stupid enough to tell somebody at college about it, when we're hammered for example, it's unlikely they'd believe us anyway. They'd think we were bull shitting. Chubby goes, "Whaddaya say, boys, shall we join the normal folks now?" I flick the cigarette butt off Charlie's knee, saying, "Yep, lets go mingle like nothing's happened." Charlie's frowning at me, "Did you flick that cigarette butt at me on purpose?" I go, "Never happen, Charlie! It was a rare mis-flick by me." I get up and exaggerate brushing ashes off his knee. Chubby's walking down the steps as Charlie whispers to me, "If you keep brushing my leg like that you'll give me a boner." I rub my nose thinking, 'huh', then nod my head for Charlie to get out of the chair and follow Chubby down the steps. As we're walking across the alley I'm wondering about the after effects of Charlie's beating and rape by the sicko.
I expected it would put Charlie off sex for a while. It would for a lot of people, but his joking comment about a boner makes me think maybe he's the exception and might not need a therapist after all. Not that he'd see one on his own anyway.
We join the crowd on the deck and now I see the kitchen's a bit crowded now too. This reminds me of a college party in that it starts out okay but as the night goes on word of the party spreads and it gets larger and larger, wilder and wilder, until the cops break it up. Not that I expects cops to break this up. Half the participants here are twice the age of college students, and therefore not nearly as wild. There's some dancing going on.
Three couples are dancing now that the alcohol has reduced their inhibitions.
Glancing around, I'd guess about half these people are drinking hard liquor and the rest beer or wine. I don't see a single teetotaler. The three of us decide it's best we split up, which is probably being overly cautious, but we do it anyway.
Lucky me, I get stuck talking with Ronny Tarleckie who's kind of boring.
He converses in a monotone, mostly explaining intricate details about his model airplane hobby. He tells me he came in second place at some model airplane convention. It's hard to show interest because I'm not really interested in model airplanes at all, plus the conversation of the men behind me is more interesting. I'm kinda half listening to a story one of them is telling the others. They played golf this morning and an older man in their foursome had an argument with his wife before he left the house. She wasn't feeling good about herself telling her husband when she looks in the mirror she sees an unattractive, overweight old woman, and would he please say something nice to her. The guy's tries to come up with a compliment and comes up with, 'For a woman your age you have excellent eyesight' and that's when the fight started. I'd call, 'bull shit!' on that if I was in the conversation. Instead, I ask Ronny, 'How many model airplanes have you, um, assembled by now?" I'm faking interest feeling kind of bad for him. The kid just wants to be liked and he's an okay guy except he's not good looking at all, he loves model airplanes, and he's been known to call people 'faggot'.
That's not a strong base to build a relationship on.
Ronny's telling me about the glue that works best depending on the size of the model airplane. By now I'm looking around hoping someone brought a gun to the party so I can borrow it to blow my brains out when a miracle happens: one of the guys who joined the party from the downstairs condo taps Ronny on the shoulder, saying, "Excuse me, but did I hear you say you put together a Meccano Tactical Copter by Intel?" Ronny says, "Um, yeah. It came in second place at the convention center's model airplane expo two years ago." The guy's like, "Dude, I'm impressed! Oh, I'm Dick Lamar, by the way,"
and as Ronny's introducing himself, I go, "Excuse me guys, I need to get a fresh beer," and make a clean getaway. Gee, and I don't even need to feel bad about doing it. Damn, two model plane, um, enthusiasts at the same cookout! What are the odds?
As I'm getting a bottle of Heineken beer from the tub of half ice and half ice water, a guy says, "Grab me one of those, will ya?" He's another one of the guys from the first floor condo. The guy's in his late twenties with sandy colored medium length hair that receding quickly. He has what's left of his hair on top moussed and arranged to look like he just got out of bed. Passing him a beer, I mumble, "Sure, no problem," then step away to an empty spot against the railing. I take out a cigarette and receding-hairline goes, "Can I borrow one of those?" Why do people ask it that way? Can he borrow a cigarette? When's he going to pay me back? Muttering, "Sure," I pass him a smoke and he puts it between his lips waiting for me to light it.
Maybe he wants me to smoke it for him too. He's a little bit shorter than me with a squarish face and eyes too close together. After I light our cigarettes he holds his fist out, saying, "Lyle Mortenson." I sort of bump his fist with mine, mumbling, "Hiya doing? Dylan Newman," and he nods at my beer, asking, "You old enough for that?" I'm like, "You're shitting me, right?"
He grins, "Yeah, well fuck I don't care if you're underage. Where you from?"
Oh balls! Not this! I go, "Massachusetts, why?" Lyle goes, "Oh, I thought you might be a neighbor of the Barns family. They're from Delaware I think." I nod, "Uh huh," and glance away seeing Jesse and her hot boyfriend, Tyrone, leaving while telling lies about meeting friends at a club in Sea Isle City. That's probably where Tyrone's motel room is and they're going there to get laid. That observation is a typical one from a sex-crazed lad like myself.
Lyle looks in the direction I'm looking, and says, "Yeah, she's kinda hot, huh?" I go, "Jesse?" and he says, "Yeah, the chick, but what the fuck is she doing with that coon?" I say, "Ha! That's a good one, Lyle. You do realize of course that ninety-nine girls out of a hundred would choose Tyrone, the coon, over you every day of the week. Get real, dude," then, "Excuse me, there's my brother," and I slip by him and walk past a few dancing couples to put my arm across Chubby's shoulders, asking, "Wassup, bro?" He gives my waist a one arm hug, saying to Ellie, "Ask Dylan about my bowling trophies." Ellie laughs, then says to me, "Your brother's slightly insane. The word 'bowling' was said for the first time ten seconds ago." Chubby says, "Bowling is the next topic I was gonna bring up." I say, "Chubby doesn't have any bowling trophies." Ellie laughs again, "I didn't expect he would." Chubby
goes, "My downhill racing trophies then," and Ellie looks at me with a grin on her face. I go, "Nope, none of those either." From the looks of their eyes I'm guessing Chubby and Ellie have been doing some shots of something,
but they're having fun so what the hell. It's not like we need to drive anywhere. I'm feeling almost sober, but then I've had a total of like four beers over the last four hours.
A song starts playing, and Ellie's like, "C'mon, Jeff, we're dancing,"
then to me, "Don't go anywhere, Dylan. We'll be right back." I nod, smiling to myself because she made a two syllable word out of 'back'. She's a little high on booze. I'm trying not to think of our earlier activities involving Molotov cocktails, but it's taking a concerted effort so maybe I should do some shots too. Finding another empty spot against the railing I gaze over the crowd on the deck seeing people from age twenty to forty-something and all seemingly having a good time. It strikes me that guys do not become better dancers as they age, and that girls/woman always seem to know how to dance no matter their age. Maybe dancing just looks more normal with the female sex. Then there's Chubby who dances like shit but somehow makes bad look cool. Not many guys can pull that off.
After their dance Chubby's massaging Ellie's shoulders and explaining how he took a six month course for massage therapy. Rolling my eyes I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's Faith, asking, "Dance with me, Dylan?" I smile, "Sure," and put my beer bottle on the railing. As we find an open spot on the deck, I ask, "Have you seen your cousin lately?" She goes, "Handsome Charlie's dancing with Hope over there." I look over and I'll be damned, Charlie's a cool dancer. The thing is, neither Faith nor her twin, Hope, are good dancers. That's unusual for girls. Both twins dance basically the exact same way so I guess they taught each other. Identical twins are, um, different from most of us. Charlie and Hope work their way over to Faith and me and we dance side by side with Charlie staring at me again. It's nice feeling hero worship though, and he's such a cute puppy dog I don't mind him staring this time. When the next song comes on, Hope laughs, saying to her twin, "I do believe Charlie would rather dance with, Dylan, than me." Faith says, "Well, they'll be the cutest couple on the dance floor then," and she moves over to dance with Hope. Charlie and I dance together and, surprisingly, I don't feel self-conscious about it so perhaps I'm feeling the beers more than I thought.
It helps that no one is paying any attention to us as we finish the song dancing together. After that the four of us goof around saying nonsensical stuff, then Faith talks us into shots of tequila. We make our way to the kitchen where Hope pours generous shots in plastic cups, then Faith holds her cup up, saying, "Number six," and we throw the burning liquid down our throats. I assume that was the sixth shot of the night for her and her sister.
It's the first for Charlie and me, and I hope the last. Charlie swallowed his shot with little reaction other than making a face like most people do.
I have my normal watering eyes while fighting the urge to throw-up. The twins laughed at my reaction and we all get fresh beers on the deck again. As we drink Faith tells Charlie and me about a sorority party at college where, during a contest, a girl did twelve shots in a row beating all the guys.
I feel nauseous just thinking about that.
Another couple of dances and some more bull shit stories from the twins, then their parents are ready to leave for the drive back to Margate.
Hopefully one of the twins' parents is more sober than their daughters. The girls give Charlie and me hugs and a kiss on the cheek slurring their 'goodbyes', mostly sloshing their 'S's'. They make their way through the kitchen, following their parents, as Charlie and I exchange 'looks', maybe both of us thinking the same thing, but not saying it. With our half full bottles of Heineken we lean against the railing not saying anything. While I'm not saying anything I'm looking for Chubby and Ellie, then assume they're off doing the nasty by now, so I glance over at Charlie again. He's a very attractive young man, sweating a bit with a little flush on his face, his hair damp and limp, and his pretty eyes shining. He seems to be smiling to himself and the smile tells me he's not thinking about the fire-bombing.
When I've had enough of this crowded deck, I say, "Bring your beer, Charlie, lets walk on the beach." He pats my shoulder, saying, "Awesome idea, but I need to get something from my bedroom first." I'm guessing what he's getting from his bedroom is inside his sweat sock. He's back in two minutes, mumbling, "Okay! Let's see how many rules we can break on the beach tonight." Carrying our beers we saunter down the steps and out to the sidewalk.
He says, "Ya know, it's funny but by now fire-bombing that prick's van seems almost like I dreamed it." I shrug, "It's not something ya do every day, so it is kinda hard to wrap your head around the reality of it. But like Chubby and I were saying earlier, we got some satisfaction against that sicko-prick, and we got away with it, so lets not talk about it. Believe me, I don't like breaking the law if I can help it, but that seemed the best option available to us in a unique situation." He goes, "Sure, I agree with all that wholeheartedly, especially because as far as my parents and sister know, nothing bad happened to me. Nothing humiliatingly bad, and I'm recovering nicely thanks to you." I leave it at that, but I can't help wondering if Charlie feels the same way about taking it up his butt as he did before getting raped.
On the beach we take off our sandals with me suggesting, "Instead of carrying these things lets put them over there under the bench. The chance of someone walking off with them is remote." That's what we do and then walk down near the water to the wet sand. The moon is bright and so are the millions of suns, shining like stars in the clear night sky. There's a warm breeze coming off the ocean bringing with it the smell of the seashore. A very pleasant night. Too bad it's our last one in Wildwood this year. I ask Charlie what he's been doing all summer and he says he worked part time for his dad helping out at the office. He worked in the mail room and also punched in numbers on a computer. Sales report numbers filling in blanks on a computer program. Other than that, he and his best friend, Martin, liked taking long bike rides. Charlie has an aluminum road bike, a Mercier Galazy SC1, which means nothing to me, but he seems proud of it. I'm assuming Martin is straight; Charlie would have said something if he wasn't. He tells me about the latest computer game that he plays with other players across the country and goes into details that fly over my head. Neither Chubby nor I are seriously into computer games like other guys at home and college. We're the exception to the rule in that regard.
We're sipping our beers as we walk with Charlie doing most of the talking.
I'm not especially interested in what Charlie's saying, but unlike with Ronny earlier I'm not bored in the least. When I take out my pack of Marlboro lights Charlie puts his hand on it, saying, "Share a joint with me instead, Dylan." I shrug and put my pack away as he takes a joint out of the breast pocket of his button down white shirt. He's got the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, unbuttoned the top four buttons, and with the shirt tails flapping in the wind he looks very cool. Charlie lights his joint with my lighter and after inhaling he holds the smoke in his lungs, like pot heads do, then exhales passing the joint to me. I don't believe I've had a joint since early in my freshman year when Ryan got into it pretty heavily for a while back then. I quickly drifted away from it and eventually so did he. An alcohol high is good enough for me.
Charlie doesn't seem the stoner type and I'm hoping for his sake he's not.
When I ask him about it he explains he's more of a recreational pot user and not a dedicated stoner. Inhaling the marijuana smoke I imitate Charlie and then pass the joint back to him, saying, "I guess I just don't 'get' cannabis." He shrugs, "I like it occasionally because it calms me and I get mellow." I go, "You seem pretty mellow to me without the pot." Grinning, he looks at me, and with smoke coming out of his mouth, he says, "That's just an act. Inside I'm usually nervous about everything. As a matter of fact, you made me nervous when I first met you. Now there's nobody I know who I feel calmer with than you." I go, "Huh," then, "What do people make you nervous about?" He takes another hit off the joint, holds in the smoke, then talks while exhaling, saying, "I'm never sure why I'm nervous; or maybe a better word is uneasy. Fuck, I don't know, Dylan."
Charlie smokes most of the joint, then says, "Ya know what I'm disappointed about?" I'm like, "No, what?" and he chuckles, saying, "I only got to paint your toenails once. I only got off on my foot fetish once this whole week." I mutter, "Once too often, actually," and he laughs, mumbling, "You prick," but it was an affectionate, 'you prick', said with a playful push on my shoulder. Done the joint he drinks some beer, then puts his arm across my shoulders, asking, "Since you apparently didn't pick up on my rather blatant hint, let me come right out and ask. Can I massage your feet tonight?"
Now it's my turn to laugh, but what the hell, I say, "If you really want to, sure, why not." His arm drops from around my shoulders to go around the back of my neck. He hugs the sides of our faces together, saying, "Thanks! I love you." I mutter, "Uh huh, but lets walk up to the overturned row boat we saw in the sand Sunday night. I'll sit on that and you can massage my weary feet there." He goes, "Yeah, sure, that works," giving my neck another squeeze. I wiggle out of his arm as Charlie, says, "I'm going to make your feet feel so fuckin' good you'll invite me to visit you so I can do it again." I mutter, "Uh huh."
We pass a teenager boy and girl about fifteen years old walking hand in hand. They don't even glance at us. Ah, young love is so powerfully sweet.
The overturned old rowboat is up ahead and when we get to it I'm happy to sit on it, feeling tired all of a sudden. Fire-bombing is more exhausting than I expected. Actually I'm disappointed I don't feel more exhilaration that we were successful doing it. The exhilaration should cancel out the exhaustion in a perfect world. Charlie kneels in front of me lifting my left foot, brushing the sand off it using his shirttail. Satisfied my foot's free of sand he leans forward and presses his nose against the sole, then complains, "It hardly smells like a foot. It would smells a helluva lot better if your feet were encased in sweat socks and sneakers all day playing basketball" I shrug, muttering, "Gross," but having nothing to else add to that.
Charlie snorts out a laugh, then puts my toes in his mouth and runs his tongue over them, looking up at me with his eyes at the top of their sockets, he's grinning at me, probably realizing how silly this is but unable to resist doing it anyway. He sucks on my toes and then gives my whole foot a bath with his bubble-gum pink tongue. I'm shaking my head slowly at fetishes in general, while remembering Chubby doing similar things, a couple of years ago , that Charlie's doing. Chubby hasn't mentioned my feet in a couple of years now. Huh, I wonder if he's plays with his girlfriend's feet. Nah, probably not.
When my foot's damp with Charlie's clear saliva he massages it and that feels as good as the last time he did it. Feet do get ignored and aren't treated with the respect they deserve. Done with my foot he massages my calf, which feels good too. While doing that he's leaning way over with his nose on my knee, so I ask, "My knee smell good too, Charlie.?" Lifting his head, he seriously says, "You smell better than I do, and I smell awesome."
Then he does another snorting laugh, possibly realizing he's getting sillily carried away. It's okay with me though; like I said, it's enjoyable having my feet and legs massaged. It leaves them tingling and feeling good. Halfway though licking my other foot Charlie grunts and presses his hand against his lap, mumbling, "I've got the hardest boner in the world." He drops my foot and sits back making a face like he's in pain. Then looking at me, he asks, "Would you, ya know, help me out here?"
After giving him an expression, like, Really? I wave my finger that he should stand up. He stands and pulls his shorts down; his rock-hard cock bobs up and down once, and only slightly because that thing is really tight.
Charlie grunts taking two steps towards me, then he leans forward supporting himself with a hand on each of my shoulders, his boner near my face. I take it in my fist and Charlie goes, "Mmmm," sucking his lips in. He really got himself aroused, foot-fetish-wise. After licking his cock I suck it inside my mouth and Charlie's hips hump a few times as he drops his head, and groans, "Aaah, oooh," humping his hips, sliding his boner on my tongue a few times. Then another quiet moan, "Oooh," and he lean his hips forward until his crotch is against my face, his cock going down my throat. Charlie makes a low whining, "Eeeee," sound, then begins humping. I'm gagging a little because he's being rough with it only about twenty seconds before he wraps his hands around my head, his boner totally impaling my throat, his prickly pubic hair growth scratching against my face as he humps against it shooting a long stream of cum down my throat, then another. His belly's against my nose blocking my air intake and as he squeezes my face against him I start struggling for air.
Charlie moans again and pulls his boner back, dragging drools of jism in it's wake. His cock sliding across my tongue all the way out. His cum and my saliva drools down my chin as he staggers back stroking his cock. My cock is an iron pole in my shorts. Charlie's face is bright red as he drops to his knees, mumbling, "That felt amazing," and then much louder, with his head back, he yells, "Oh fuck, it felt so fucking good!" Meanwhile I'm not touching my boner as I try to imagine getting a bucket of ice water poured over my head. My boner slowly subsides as I'm sucking on my tongue hoping to discover what makes Charlie's cum taste so good. It's a very pleasant taste, although indescribable.
Pulling up his pants while standing, Charlie says, "You can't know how awesome this is for me. Foot fetish high, then excellent deep throating a guy as cute and sexy as you... it's like a fantasy come true for someone like me.
To you it's probably just some random run-of-the-mill sex just for the hell of it, but for me it's the world!" He sits next to me, saying, "You're so cool about it too. You make me sound like a little kid getting his first two-wheel bicycle." I say, "Or his first model airplane." He goes, "Model airplane? Oh, you were talking to Ronny, weren't you? That's his hobby, ya know." I mutter, "Yeah, I heard about it." Charlie stands stretching his arms out, "That was great, Dylan. I feel so good now! Earlier all I could think about was a cop car pulling up and taking us away in handcuffs." I go, "Jesus! Don't even say that!" He sits down again, jumpy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I heard that someplace, and now I know how jumpy that cat was: as jumpy as Charlie.
He's cuter than a long tailed cat though. He says, "Lets stay up all night together, Dylan. We'll watch the sun come up. Have you ever done that?" I don't want to go into it with Charlie, but I did that the night I escaped from New York City and drove all night to get home. Well, I didn't get all the way to Framingham. I made it to North Andover before falling asleep.
Cory Dunlevy came to my rescue and I slept in his bed most of the day. Huh! Where'd that memory come from? I say, "No, I never have, Charlie boy, and staying up all night doesn't sound all that appealing to me. I need to be up early to pack everything we brought with us. Get everything back in the Jeep and mom's station wagon for the trip home." He's sitting next to me staring at my face again. Then he lifts his leg over mine and sits on my lap facing me with his arms around my neck, saying, "Aww, don't be a killjoy, Dylan. We sneak a few beers from my place then smoke joints and drink beers talking about stuff until the sun comes up. Take turns fucking each other too."
With his face this close to mine it's tempting to get into a hot make-out with him, but instead I abruptly stand up dumping him off my lap but catching both his hands so he doesn't crack the back of his head on the beach.
He ends-up on his ass though. I'm still holding both his hands, so I help him up. He goes, "OW! What the hell did you do that for?" as he rubs his ass.
Shrugging, I mutter, "I don't know," and take a cigarette out of the pack, then light it. We walk on the beach without talking for a minute, then I pat his shoulder, saying, "Sorry I dumped you on your ass, Charlie. I forgot it was still hurting you." He says, "That's okay. It still stings from that belt-whipping he gave me, but I don't even think about it most of the time." I ask, "When that sicko forced himself on you did it make you feel different about being a 'bottom' during anal sex?" He seems surprised I would ask that, "Um, no, should it made me feel different?" Exhaling smoke and watching it drift in the breeze past Charlie's face, I grin to myself knowing he doesn't like the smell of cigarette smoke, then I'm like, "No, it shouldn't necessarily put you off 'bottoming', but it might put some guys off, at least for a while." He fans his hand in front of his face at my exhaled smoke, saying, "It was the beating he gave me that was the worst. When he was fucking me I hardly felt it because my ass was on fire already. And, like I said before, his cock was ugly, but not especially big. Then the dildo fuck, I felt that because he was too rough. It didn't last long though because my ass started bleeding."
That's some surprising reactions from Charlie; to me anyway. I go, "So, basically you're pretty much over the entire ordeal already, is that right?"
He shakes his head, "Nah, I'll probably have a hundred fucking nightmares about it, which is why I want you to stay with me tonight. That was the scariest thing that ever happened to me by far. I thought he might kill me at one point. Then all of a sudden he's the one who seemed scared. It's like he woke up and realized what he was doing. Everything happened fast after that. He put his shit away in the van, hustled me in the front, sitting like I told you, on my knees. Then he dropped the two hundred dollar bills on the seat yelling at me to pick them up. He had his cellphone on video mode photographing me putting the money in my pocket. I just wanted to be away from him so I did whatever he said. That was basically it except for me crying like a baby." I glance at him and see he's very serious. No joking around, so I feel bad for him all over again. It's the crying he admits to; that almost makes me cry. What a horrendous experience he went through. Hugging his shoulders, I say, "I'll stay with you until the sun comes up, then we both get to our beds so we're there when everyone wakes up, okay?" He leans against me, "Okay, and thanks, Dylan." With my free hand I take my iPhone out of my pocket and leave a text for Chubby. 'Don't wait up for me, bro.
I'm giving our friend some needed morale support.'
to be continued... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com
donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are under ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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