Fined

  Fined

  Stud Street HOA

  Skylar Sweeney

  One

  Redneck 3-For-All

  DYLAN

  Ten Years Ago

  “Take a picture, guys!” Allin shouts as he points out the window at a ten-foot bronze statue of Robert E. Lee. “That jackass was best buds with my great granddaddy’s Master!”

  Wrecker spews soda across the dashboard and Earl rolls his eyes, jamming on the gas and zipping through the town square before Allin can make another politically incorrect joke. Allin’s not exactly a fan of Old Southern Ways, for obvious reasons, and Stiffy, Texas has enough Confederate flags flying to wipe up a field full of dinosaur shit.

  “Weren’t they were supposed to take those things down? I thought I read an article about taking them down,” Wrecker says, and Allin snorts.

  “That was in Cityscape, California. This is Backwater, Texas. Different universes, bro. Think DC and Marvel.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Earl mutters as we continue to zoom through his illustrious hometown. I smirk, patting the back of my frat brother’s seat.

  “At least you growing up here explains how you ended up with a name like Earl. I bet the town’s got some great Willys and Bubbas, too. Maybe even a Hank Junior or three.”

  The car jerks as Earl attempts to punch me from the driver’s seat, sending us dangerously close to flying straight through the window of the largest store in town: Stiffy’s Hardware, Grocery, and Crematorium.

  It’s a redneck three-for-one.

  “You fuckers didn't have to come,” Earl mutters, stabbing me with his eyes by way of the rearview mirror. “You could have grabbed a bus to Cancun instead of tagging your asses along with me.”

  “I wish we had.” I quickly learn that honesty is not always the best policy when Allin jabs me in the nuts. I scowl at the bastard but make the executive decision not to retaliate. I don’t want my fingers anywhere near Allin’s ball sac, thank you very much. “This is a waste of spring break. Does this podunk town even have a bar?”

  “Ignore that fucker—we wouldn’t ditch you, man,” Wrecker tells Earl, holding a middle finger over his shoulder in my general direction. “It’s only a hundred miles out of the way. We won’t lose more than a day. You’re right to come check on your mom. She sounded really weird on the phone.” He pauses. “But there is a bar, right?”

  “Relax, assholes. We may not have a Starbucks or a McDs in this town, but we’ve got booze and an arsenal of chicks who think that denim panties and a plaid bra are appropriate day to day wear. Your dicks will love it here.” He nods toward the road. “Hell, there’s the bar now.”

  I look out the window, confused when all I see is a church with a steeple that juts into the sky like a heavenly cock, hard and ready for Sunday service.

  “Other side of the road, dumbass,” Allin mutters, and I shift my gaze, taking in what looks like a large chicken coop surrounded by a sea of rusty pickups.

  A bar across from a church. How Southern.

  I sigh and sit back, staring in distaste out the window. This town is a junkyard—literally. You can’t go fifty feet without running into another stripped-down car, and half the houses have couches in their front lawns. Do they have Adirondack chairs and picnic tables in the living rooms? Not that many of these cardboard boxes deserve the title of “house.” At least half the town is made up of mobile homes on cement blocks, and there are more than a few RVs parked in the fields of cow shit and empty beer cans.

  To think I could be on the beach right now, drinking mojitos and sticking my schlong in a well-tanned taco.

  The plan was to celebrate senior year with my three best buddies on the shimmering shores of the biggest tourist trap in Burritoville, but six hours into the drive Earl got a call from his mom and things went nuts from there.

  I was too busy taking a piss behind a roadblock to pay much attention to the actual words being said, but I remember a lot of screaming about pain in her gut, along with some blabber about the evils of hospitals. It seems Mrs. Earl’s-Mom is a strong believer that the Himalayan crystals she bought on the Home Shopping Network can cure anything and is refusing to visit a doctor.

  Wrecker is always up for playing the white knight, and In-the-Closet Allin is too madly in love with Wrecker to protest, so I was outvoted. Farewell, sweet Mexico. Hello, Stiffy, Texas.

  Don’t these guys realize you only get one senior year spring break?

  “Home sweet home,” Earl calls out as he pulls up beside a double-wide trailer that could easily be mistaken for a beachside resort considering the number of plastic flamingos surrounding it, not to mention the rusty metal palm tree threatening to go timber on the doorstep at any moment.

  I grimace. According to my father, who doubles as a real estate marketing god in his free time, gratuitous outdoor decor brings the property value of a neighborhood down by as much as twenty-five percent.

  “Does the Homeowner’s Association really let her get away with that?” I ask, earning a strange look from all the guys in the car.

  “There are no HOAs in Stiffy, idiot,” Earl mutters as he climbs out of the car, tossing the keys to Wrecker. “I’m going to check on Mom. The trailer’s too small for all of us inside. I’ll meet you at Starry Eyed Joe’s. Get out of here and party like you’re in Cancun.”

  I roll my eyes at the name of the bar. “Sounds like a blast.”

  “I’m sure you, of all people, will find something to stick your dick in, Fines.”

  The door to the trailer bursts open, and a woman in a pink terry-cloth robe and a pair of steel-toed boots barrels out. I almost mistake her for Earl, considering they’re the same height and have a similar amount of facial hair, but she definitely weighs twice as much and none of it’s muscle, unlike her lineman son. Her left tit is twice the size of my head and hangs down past her waist. Not that you can actually see her waist.

  “Earl, my little sweet cheeks,” she croons in an accent that makes George W. Bush sound like a New Yorker. “How’s my little boy? Come here, baby, I got some leftover biscuits and gravy for you!”

  Earl goes bright red and we all laugh, grinning as she pinches his cheeks.

  “Go,” he snaps at us, and Wrecker climbs across the car into the driver’s seat, decorating the floorboard with what’s left of his 44 ounce Coke in the process. “It’s Saturday night, so it’s the closest you’ll see to hopping in this town. There’s a motel on Main Street where you can shack up tonight. They don’t have a lot of rooms, so you may have to split.”

  “I’m with Wrecker,” Allin says quickly, surprising exactly no one. Wrecker just shrugs because he’s a doofus who has no idea his gay best bud is crushing on him. Of course, he can’t see Allin’s stiffy from up there in the front—and I’m not talking about the town.

  I wag my eyes at Allin, pushing my tongue into my cheek in a perfect imitation of a blow job. I should know. I’ve gotten a lot of them over the years.

  Allin elbows me as Wrecker waves a hand out the window. “See you later, Earl! Bye Mrs… uh…” He glances back at me, and I shrug. I know she’s not married to Earl’s old man, but I don't know what her last name is. “Uh, Mrs. Earl’s-Mom. I hope you feel better!”

  “Thank you, sweetie,” she calls absently, busy checking for ticks on Earl. Or I hope that’s what she’s doing. Otherwise, we may need to buy Earl some therapy for Christmas.

  “So whaddya say, boys?” Wrecker says as he backs the car out of the drive. “Ready to see some denim panties?”

  Two

  Starry Eyed Joe’s

  CJ

  Starry Eyed Joe’s looms on the horizon like a promise—the promise of another Saturday night spent wing-manning it. Tomboys like me are often allotted such illustrious positions by the girlie
r (aka, sexier) girls.

  “I should really get back to my momma.” My protest falls on deaf ears as the busty brunette force of nature drags me through the dirt lot. “She’s getting worse every day. It seems that healing crystals don’t keep you from peeing your panties. She gushed all over the place today.”

  “You’ve been feeding her soup and washing her back for days.” Maggie pops another button on her pink plaid shirt, adjusting her boy magnets for better viewing. “Earl will be there any minute. She’ll be fine ’til then. You deserve a break, girl! And some hot sausage between the thighs wouldn’t hurt, either.” She wags her eyebrows, and I shake my head. I only wish.

  “The only sausage you care about is Greg’s.”

  Mags tosses her curls over her shoulder as she tugs up the waist of her daisy dukes, revealing half of her butt. Wouldn’t want her titties to feel like they were all alone in the cold.

  “Tonight’s the night, CJ.” The look on her face reminds me of Farmer Jackson’s old bloodhound right before he shot it.

  I’ve heard the same chant every Saturday since Maggie traded her diapers in for thongs, but it’s always the same show on repeat. Mags humps the dance floor, Greg downs cocktails and drools over BSPN, Mags gets jealous and sucks off (insert random redneck), and Greg goes home to jack off to replays of the Cowboys game. Yet somehow her hope never dims. I wish I had her confidence.

  Her tolerance for un-groomed beards and dirt-streaked Wranglers wouldn’t be bad, either. Eighteen-years-old, and I’m still a virgin despite being horny all the time. There just aren’t any men in this town I’m interested in handing my v-card to. The fact that every single one of them buried it in Mags by the age of sixteen isn’t a big plus, either. No girl wants to be second in line to their BFF.

  “I’m not staying late,” I mutter as I follow her into the bar. Resistance is futile; Mags rules this town like a queen. I think that’s why she wants Greg so badly. He’s the only man in Stiffy who doesn’t drop to his knees and beg when she bats her lashes.

  Our local bar is divided into neighborhoods by age of resident, and I scowl when I realize that the area where the over-eighteen-but-under-twenty-one crowd hangs out is packed. The Thirty-Somethings have the bar counter co-opted, standing shoulder to shoulder like a production line as they sip their Shiners and bitch about the factory closing two towns over. The Boomers are guarding the jukebox, making “damn sure” that none of us young folk play anything that isn’t true country (read: produced after 1995), and the Geezers are sprawled out in the far corner, hogging the massive barrel of peanuts as they argue over something that happened sixty years ago.

  “It was Sandy who asked me to the Sadie Hawkin’s dance!” Farmer Jackson roars, flinging a handful of nuts in old lady Lisa’s face. “Not Myrtle! I would never have put my lips there on Myrtle! That girl didn’t bathe!”

  So not sitting over there.

  I head to the bar, leaving Mags to figure out the seating arrangements while I grab the booze.

  “Two Miller Lite,” I tell Joe, who’s already pulling out a pair of bottles. I may be eighteen, but around here us small-town folk work hard to stay afloat. Joe knows that, and he’s not slow to serve us. Uncle Sam can say what he pleases, but I’ve had a full-time job since I dropped out of school to support my boozing momma, and I spend my nights studying for my GED. I’m as much an adult as any other hardworking woman.

  “I’m cutting Mags off at three.” Joe’s eyes narrow, his nose wrinkling up. “Last week she got it on with Billy in my storage room, and I still ain’t got the jizz off the wall.”

  Can you say ew?

  I slap my money on the bar and head for the table Maggie has magically acquired right next to Greg’s.

  “How’d you get a seat?”

  Mags shoots me a wicked grin. “I flashed Phil.”

  Of course she did.

  “So, Greg… how’s life?” Mags croons, sucking on the tip of her beer like it’s a… well, you know.

  “Stop that!” I hiss, slapping her arm. “You look like a desperate whore!”

  She slaps me back. “That’s the point, duh.”

  Greg’s gaze doesn’t waver for a single instant from the TV screen, where the Dallas Cowboys are paying for Jerry Jones’ sins against God with a brutal loss to the Eagles.

  “Maybe it’s time to reel in the line.” I snatch a peanut from the bowl, noting that it looks kind of like a tiny penis.

  What? I have cock on the brain lately. In fact…

  I duck under the table, trying to get a look at Greg’s peen through the skin-tight Wranglers he always wears. He won’t notice—he never pays any attention to us. He shifts a little, giving me a clear shot, and my eyebrows shoot up at the size of the lump. Either he's blessed by Jesus or his drawer is missing a sock or twelve.

  “If you tell me there are plenty of other fish in the creek, I’m gonna kick you in the lady nuts,” Maggie says primly when I come back up for air. “Considering I’ve strung, cleaned, and fried every damn trout in this backwater lake.”

  She has a point. Stiffy isn’t exactly overflowing with eligible bachelors. Most of our men fall into one of three categories: Old, married, and missing teeth. The few winners have already planted Maggie’s lady garden many a time. Greg is the hottest guy in Stiffy with his killer abs, blonde hair, and gorgeous blue eyes. He also takes the time to do things like wash his hair, brush his teeth, and trim his beard--none of which are a given with our current stock of cowboys.

  The mommas of our generation most definitely did not raise ‘em right.

  The bar door swings open, drawing the surprised attention of everyone since the entire town is already in attendance, from Drunk Dickson to Pastor Pete.

  I turn my head, wondering if a coon managed to sneak in again. My mouth drops open and Niagara Falls fills my panties as my wet dream walks through the door—times three.

  “They’re beautiful,” Maggie breathes, reassuring me that Joe didn’t slip something in my drink. “Angels from God.” She glances around, wild-eyed. “Why isn’t the choir singing? Isn’t there supposed to be singing?”

  I ignore her, busy drooling over the three city boys—because who else would come to a two-step bar dressed in linen pants and loafers? I can forgive the Ultimate Prepster look in favor of their bodies, though. All three of them are ripped. The black guy can barely fit through a door! But one of them jumps out at me, and not just because I can see his tallywhacker hanging down his leg through the thin linen from all the way across the room. Though, seriously, the guy could use it for a ruler. His blue eyes seem to pierce through me, staring straight to my soul. And by my soul, I absolutely mean my vagina.

  “Oh my God!” Greg moans, an orgasmic look on his face as he shoots out of his seat so fast it wobbles before hitting the floor. “Is that Dylan Fines?”

  “No way!” Billy, Greg’s best friend who definitely pays Mags plenty of attention (up to and including grafitting Joe’s wall with his swimmers), jumps to his feet as well. “He won a Heisman last year! And hey, the big guy with him is his defenseman, isn’t he? Oh, shit, and the other one is Wrecker Windsor! He’s sure to be a number one draft pick.”

  “What the hell?” Maggie scowls as Greg races across the room like he's being chased by a cougar, the city boys greeting him with shoulder slaps and fists bumps. Her lower lip slides out like a drawer as she crosses her arms over her chest and calls death upon our newcomers.

  “They play college ball,” Billy speaks up, his eyes locked on Mags’ tits. “Fines is a QB. Wrecker’s a running back. The big guy’s on defense. Baker, I think? Something with a B.”

  “I like big guys,” I chirp, eyes still locked on the blue-eyed man with the Ruler Cock. Billy stares at me, and I blush, forcing my eyes away. “I mean, being tall is cool,” I mutter, and Mags snorts.

  “Come on, wingwoman,” she snaps like a general, yanking me to my feet. “We have a Greg to catch, clean, and fry. Maybe we can hook you a big one along the way.
” She cocks her head to the side. “Who knows? The city boys might even groom down there.”

  Billy grabs his crotch, yanking on what little he has and thrusting his hips like Elvis. “As if you don’t love it like it is.”

  I snort as Mags makes a gagging sound and drags me toward the city boys, who are doing shots. Courtesy of Greg, if the cash he's counting out for Joe is any clue.

  “Hello, boys,” Maggie purrs, her eyes locked on Greg, who’s busy memorizing every inch of the biggest guy. “Can we join in on the round?” She jiggles her tits with all the subtlety of a rhino in a big box store.

  “Sorry, outta cash,” Greg replies robotically, even though bills are sticking out of his wallet.

  “It’s on me,” Blue Eyes says, and his eyes lock with mine as he thrusts his chest out, not unlike Mags does when she's flirting. Too bad it isn’t something lower he's thrusting.

  My eyes trail his body, and I have to choke down a moan. He's ripped, with pecs that squeeze against his tight v-neck tee and biceps that bulge against the blue button-down he’s wearing loosely over it.

  Have I seen him in a magazine? He totally belongs in a magazine. Or in a porno. His blue eyes are so bright and his black hair so dark it looks like a Photoshopped combo. His jaw is sharply cut, rough stubble lessening his painfully preppy style, and his lips… Oh. My. God. What I wouldn’t give to have those lips on mine.

  Above or below.

  His big hands take two shots from Joe, and my eyes dip back below his belt without permission. They just about bug out, and I have to swallow a gasp. That linen hides nothing, and it seems that Mr. Sexy Shot Guy is now ready to go. The hint of something very big I saw before is now strongly defined.

  I hope his momma is proud. This guy could win a prize at a county fair. Against a horse.

  “Dylan Fines the Third,” he says as he holds a shot out to each of us girls, his smile informing us that he's a god among men and we should probably get on our knees and suck before he reigns his wrath down upon us.