Short Smut(8)
— On the Road by Jack Kerouac
Dean was the first and last killer I ever fucked. That I know of, at least.
Dean and I weren’t dating. He was just the career deviant from high school that I couldn’t shake. Every few weeks he’d appear at the wrong time and talk his way into my skirt. Did I mention he was hot enough to stop your heart with a look, and alpha enough to start it again with a snap of his fingers? Dean was cleft chin, thick hair, easy smile, and one-hundred percent damaged.
Just a week ago, Dean had found me in a fancy restaurant, slapped me, broke the strap of my dress, and dragged me past the shocked maître d’. He pushed my face onto his cock and peeled out of the parking lot, screaming something about Muslims in government. That was the end of a special date with a very fabulous boy, Jack. Jack and I had a class together and he made me feel like Scarlett Johansson with the way he stared.
Sorry, Jack! I thought, mouth full of Dean’s amazing cock. I wanted this to be you.
Since Jack liked me so much, I expected to be able to salvage things with him at the next class. It turned out to be supremely uncomfortable:
“Where’d you get that black eye, Lorelei?”
“Violent sex games,” I said.
It went downhill from there. I’m the only one who gets Dean.
* * *
On the weekend of our final adventure together, Dean rolled up in a white ’88 Chevy Cavalier I didn’t recognize and screamed at me to get in. His eyes were fucking crazy; a girl wouldn’t dare say no.
Dean was tweaking. His skin quivered like hairy flan and he mumbled nonstop. I was terrified until he kissed the fuck out of me. Every kiss from that boy felt like we were jumping off a bridge together.
“Happy twentieth, Lorelei,” he crooned.
He was unbuttoning my blouse even though we were right there in the car.
“Thanks, baby. What did you get me?”
“Three days of guaranteed awesome, Lorelei. Look at this, and this.” He showed me a roll of twenties and then a quart bag of Ecstasy pills—it was more than any reasonable sensationalist could take in a year. Dean didn’t have a job. He didn’t own a car. He didn’t have connections for that much X. There was a 9-mm pistol on the floor between my feet.
“Dean, what did you do?”
“Dayton, Ohio,” he said decisively. “Ali Katz is playing on the Ohiopalooza tour. You like her, right?”
Words could not express how much I loved that chick. I had a hip tattoo that matched hers.
He grinned at my face. He was calming down slightly, which melted some of my reserve. “Three days of you being a sexy counterculture whore. Disappoint your daddy like you always wanted. You see Ali Katz, while I have a permanent hard-on watching you slut around. You’re back on Monday, full of regrets.”
It sounded awesome, but… “I have an assignment due on Monday.”
“The fuck?” I don’t know where I got the cheek to say no to him. He didn’t just hate being contradicted, he gutted conflict with a knife wherever it stumbled into his path. “I told you, college is a fucking waste of time. But it’s your birthday, so it’s your party. You may bring your books with you.”
“It’s a project with another student. Jack.”
“Quiet Jack?” Dean snorted. “He’s in your class? I feel like I saw him at a restaurant recently…”
“Can we take a raincheck?”
“We fucking cannot. This is a limited time offer, Lorelei.”
He flipped open a phone I didn’t know he owned and demanded Jack’s number from me.
“Jack-o,” he said, his voice low. “I’m taking Lorelei on a road trip. No, she doesn’t get a choice. Yeah, I know about your dumb fucking homework. Here’s the deal, you’re coming with us. Yes. Yes, you are.”
Dean rolled his eyes at me and smiled. I wasn’t fooled.
He said this next: “I’ve had a horrible week, and I’m beating the fuck out of someone. If it’s not you, it’s Lorelei.”
He winked at me.
“Right, we’ll see you in five minutes.” Dean hung up. “I got you something to wear.”
My blouse was open anyway, so I pulled it off and watched while he dug behind the seats. The back of the Cavalier was full of kids toys. He pulled out a Niemann Marcus bag, and inside was a shiny dress with the shoplifting tag still on it.
It was a shimmering, short, cocktail thing with spaghetti-straps and a fitted bodice. I let it slide luxuriously down over my breasts. I felt more pleased than I should have under Dean’s gaze.
“Don’t wear anything else with it,” he said, watching me shimmy my jeans down.