Peckerwood by Jedidiah Ayres Read Free Book Online Page B

smiled. “Fuck their daughters anyway.”
    As devout and dedicated as they were to the philosophy and discipline of always having a good time, Terry noticed that more often than not, the two of them were likely to clear a party out. The social circle around the eternal pit-fire out front of Darlin’s was crowded when they arrived, but after two quick beers all the johns had moved on save one stubborn old fucker Terry’d seen there before, leaving Terry and Cal the run of the suddenly available stock.
    Terry hosted a pudgy girl with wide hips and flesh spilling out every gap in her clothing, on his lap. He made her to be twenty, as she looked to be in the neighborhood of thirty. She pushed her chest into his chin and it reeked of five-dollar perfume, but smelled better than most other things in his life. He whispered into her cleavage. “What’s your name, girl?”
    “Cinnamon,” she cooed, pressing his face deep into her gland canyon. “Call me Cinnamon, sugar.”
    “What if I wanna take you to dinner, Cinnamon? What would I call you then?”
    “You can’t afford to buy me dinner, sugar.”
    What did that mean?
    Irm Thompson came out of one of the trailers just then. She caught Terry’s eye and he called out to her. “Hey, I’m kindly needin some big girls tonight. You interested?”
    Irm bristled as she passed, muttered, “Lick my cunt, shitbird.”
    He called to her retreating backside. “Take you up on that, sweetie.” He had an appetite this night. He wasn’t interested in one of the stick-girls that looked like they might snap in two beneath him. He thought he’d need every inch and pound of Cinnamon to satisfy him. Recounting his exploits with Eileen Mondale for Cal, after kicking on the neighbor, had stoked a heat inside him. Not yet a flame, but he could tell it was going to burn bright and hot tonight and he wanted to build up to it proper. Cracking his third silver bullet he turned to the gnarly geezer.
    “You sure are one horny old toad, huh? Waitin for that turtle to come out of its shell?”
    The old man wore dingy, once-blue jeans so big on him a new hole’d had to be poked in the leather belt that was cinched up near his armpits. He had a J.B. Hunt ball cap high up on his forehead with long, stringy strands of gray hair poking out the back and he didn’t acknowledge Terry, but kept on staring into the fire, throwing in a plastic bottle now, a pine cone later.
    Cal was having difficulty deciding who, among the professionals, to invest his great aunt’s government check in. He sought guidance from his friend. “What do you think, tonight? I can’t say blonde ever gets old, but y’know there is something a little dangerous about red.”
    “So get both. What kind of cheap bastard are you?”
    “Yeah, I like Vanilla and I like Strawberry and I sure as shit like Chocolate, but I don’t truck with Neapolitan. It don’t seem right.”
    “First time I heard you use that logic to talk yourself out of a thing.” Terry turned to the old-timer, “What do you think?”
    This time the geezer did speak, but he never looked out of the flames. “I think you talk too much.”
    This brought a laugh from Cal. “You got his number, mister.” He turned to Terry. “He’s got your number.”
    Terry admired with his hands the soft roll of skin exploding out between the top of Cinnamon’s jean shorts and beneath her blouse knotted at the midriff. He clutched two handfuls. “The hell you say?”
    The elder poked a blackened pop can in the fire with a long stick and ignored Terry completely. Terry snaked one of his hands into Cinnamon’s jean shorts, but quickly ran out of room to maneuver. He sat there with his hand stuck and turned toward the ancient mariner. “I asked, ‘the hell did you say?’”
    The old-timer turned and looked at him like a mirror, the way his son Wendell did when Terry could establish eye contact. Terry felt punched. It charged the moment in another fashion that he was not