Burn Down The Night by Craig Kee Strete Read Free Book Online

girl in
back, momentarily resurfacing. "We know where there's a party down by Sunset off Laurel
Canyon."
    "That's right,"
says Gail. "Let's go there. Okay with you guys?"
    "Sure," says
Morrison, speaking for us both.
    A traffic light
turns red and Gail lets go of my lap to handle the gear shift. Thank God for small favors and
manual transmissions!
    I seriously
consider jumping out of the car and run­ning like hell. I get my hand on the door handle but the
light changes and we start rolling again. Damn! Missed my chance.
    Maybe just as
well. I haven't told Morrison my one special secret about this car. Don't want him biting the
bullet. The chicks could go hang but I kind of admire him. He is crazier than I am. But with more
style.
    Morrison says
something. I think it's French. I turn around, thinking he's talking to me, and see a tight
T-shirt disappearing over a honey-blond head.
    Squeals of
delight. Throaty breathing. Clothes com­ing undone. Oh flaming frigging frying flying
horseshit!
    I face forward,
quietly bash my head against the dashboard.
    Sounds of
struggle, clothes resisting. Lip sounds, hip sounds. Rip-her-zipper sounds. Inhibitions leaving
and hot breathing.
    I open another
cream ale, warm as piss by now, and down it all in one gulp. Tastes like donkey whiz. Open the
window and throw it at a parked car. Miss the windshield, bottle smashes against the
roof.
    This is gonna be
one of those nights. If I want decent action tonight, I'm going to have to take advantage of
myself.
    Fat chick driving,
still shifting, thank God. She's got one eye on the road and the other eye on the action in the
back seat. She's getting hot, licking her lips ner­vously.
    Heading down
Laurel Canyon, a mean twisting snake of downhill road. Beginning to whip down some steep turns.
Soft pleasure moans from the backsexcy­cleseat.
    A pair of black
lace panties drifts out of the begin­ning of a nudist convention in back, landing on my left
shoulder.
    My fault, I tell
myself. Shouldn't team up with this kind of guy. He gets more ass than a toilet seat.
    I can smell the
sweet girl smell on those black pant­ies. In sympathy, my lap begins to ache, my tight pants
getting too tight.
    Gail beside me is
panting like a dog sitting on a hot plate. Getting hotter all the time too.
    I slide as far
away from Gail as I can get without ac­tually falling out of the car. I open another Shoenling
Little Kings Cream Ale. Rim of the bottle breaks on the edge of the ashtray. Get glass in the
beer. Shit. Drink it anyway.
    Like a horror
movie that follows you home in your nightmares, I see Gail's hand begin creeping across the seat
toward my crotch.
    I think about
opening up the window and diving out. I'm beginning to sweat, half frightened, half fren­zied.
Glance in the rearview mirror. Everybody back there has gone horizontal and parallel. Two of the
nic­est girl legs I've ever seen. Look like two swizzle sticks made out of pearl. Wicked-looking
legs thumping against the car roof.
    I have to look
away, resist the impulse to dive into the back seat and mingle like a mad dog. My blood is racing
like the Grand Prix. Soft pleasure sounds come from the back.
    Gail is so excited
she's gunned the accelerator. We're flying. She's just barely watching the road. Big hills coming
up and tricky curves.
    I can see us at
the bottom of a hill, a tangled mass of bleeding meat. Me on the bottom, flatter than a circus
strong man's paper drinking-straw and the Betty the Boop blimp stretched out atop me like a
beached whale. Morrison and the beach baby on top, still fuck­ing like bandits.
    "Watch what you're
doing!" I yell, batting her hand away. We glide into a curve marked thirty-five miles an hour
doing about seventy. Gail hits the brakes, hard. My head smacks into the dashboard. I say
some­thing obscene, collapse back against the seat.
    Gail's got her
hands off me, concentrating on getting us through the curve in one