Be My Punk 5

Be My Punk

By
Araddion

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Story Code - MM/anal

A month. I took cock up my shitter -- cock down my throat -- that first month in Ogden. Morning. Afternoon. Night. In the showers. In the cell block. In the laundry room. Even outside in the prison yard. Jungle drums beat twenty-four by seven, and no nigger was deaf to them.

Pain? Nah. You toughen up, or you die. Breathing? Well, that was a problem, because those shafts were thick as telephone poles. You had to get your breathing done on their outstroke. Or you died.

I eyed the weights Joe Bell had set up in the prison yard. Nothing fancy about them. Chipped concrete blocks hanging from bent iron bars. But the black guys owned the weights. Bailey. His cronies. Even Johnson moved amongst them. There were a few whites -- big men, not scrawny kids like me -- but if you watched them carefully they deferred to the niggers. The one time I tried to work out, two huge guys in sweaty do-rags warded me off.

I approached this big, bulked-up skinhead, figuring maybe he'd help me out. I'd punk for him, if he wanted, if he'd only team up with me to fend off these Ashanti spears. Turned out that, for all this wanna-be Heinrich's posturing, he was whoring himself to those donkey donged subhumans. Trading his ass to animals -- his word for 'em -- for cigarettes and time on the benches.

I was a scrawny, hot-assed white kid. Alone. They were mighty men. Rulers. Kings. Black skinned, oily, rapacious, charged with muscles. What choice did I have? I was an Ogden punk. I dripped cum from my hole every moment of every day. When I burped, I smelled jism. From alpha to punk, all because of a chick with bed teeth and a fixation on my big dong and my drugs.

"That snot or jizz on your face, cracker?" Johnson asked around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

I snickered. "Jism."

"Wipe it off." He sipped his lukewarm coffee. It was breakfast, and I already had a load down my throat and two up my butt.

I shrugged. "Why?" I set my tray on the table and took a seat. "Gonna have some more on me ..." I scanned the cell block. We were eating in a rec area, eyed by guards toting shotguns. I counted leering faces. "'Bout ten minutes from now, give or take."

"So, you wanna be a punk?"

"Fuck no!"

"It makes you look like a punk."

"Fine! Fine!" I grabbed his napkin, scoured the jism off, balled it up, and whiffed my toss.

Johnson smirked. "Didn't work. You still look like a punk. Scrawny. Pretty. You strut when you walk, you know. Everyone can see you're a punk."

I laughed. "Punk? Punk, fuck yeah! Jesus. I've been fucked so much I don't have blood no more." I tapped my forearm. "I got nigger spunk flowing in my veins." I shrug. "Kinda a step up, if you think about it."

Johnson glowered. "Don't use that word, cracker."

"Whatever."

"So, you wanna be a punk?"

"Fuck no!" I slammed my fist on the table. Trays jumped.

"Well then, kid, if you don't do something, you're gonna stay a punk. Now listen. Deep down inside, you ain't a punk. You're a real man. I saw that the first day. So, if you don't change things around, you'll hang yourself. You got 'bout two months till it happens. Don't argue. I seen it before."

"Change? How?"

"You got two things you need to do. One. Bulk up. So, you can fight. Two. Get an ally. So you can win."

"You're nuts. Joe Bell runs this joint and he's got the nig- you blacks running the weights."

"Yep," said Johnson quietly. "That's right, punk." Johnson's chair creaked as he leaned back. "I can help you with both."

"Yeah?"

"You gotta pay me, though."

"No shit."

Johnson grinned. "You give your ass to me, baby, and you got an ally for life."

I stared at him. This made no sense. Johnson could take me whenever he wanted. "Man, don't play games. Just pull a Frank Bailey and get it out of your system."

"I don't do nothing like Frank Bailey, cracker. Listen." He leaned forward. "I want your white ass. Wanted it since I first laid eyes on it. But I want it this way. See, I wanna hear you bitch and moan and scream when I slide in. then, while I'm fucking you, I wanna hear you whimpering and murmur. Whispering sweet nothings. I want you out of your dumbass white punk mind. Then I want you to look over your shoulder at me. And I want your eyes to go all soft. I'll nut right then. You do that, I'll get 'em to let you work out. Maybe, if I go sweet on you, we might even move in together. Deal?"

I said nothing.

"You'll be my little white boy. It'll be like Nigger Jim and Huck Finn, except for the buttfucking"

I said nothing.

Johnson wiped his lips. "You don't take me up, then you're looking at two months of solid buttfucking them a few days in the morgue."

"Fine. Fine. I'm crazy enough to do ... oh, Jesus."

Johnson winked. "You be sure and do what the guards tell you. No sass mouth. Got it?"

"What the fuck ever."

Just after lunch, I was pushing a stinking trolley full of jumpsuits and skivvies towards the laundry. My guts bubbled like someone had emptied a milk jug full of spunk into it. You could've tapped my butthole like a beer keg and I could've filled seven or eight mugs with foamy spunk.

A guard intercepted me. "Change of plans, inmate. You're working outside. Cleaning detail."

"But --" I started. His eyes flashed, and I shut up, and I trotted behind him.

Johnson and a few of his buddies comprised the outside cleaning detail. All their wolf-whistling was just more of something I'd gotten numb to. I was a beta. I knew my lot in life. I had this feeling that, after Ogden, I was going to end up being one of those faggots who hung out in truck stops, sucking off fat truckers for two bucks a load.

"Easy, boys," Johnson said with a grin. "This pullet's mine."

That didn't quieten the wolf-whistling.

I got issued a broom, heavy gloves, and a big Hefty sack I hooked over one shoulder. The sunshine felt like a warm cape draped over my shoulders. The sky was cornflower blue. We swept and picked up trash in the yard. Johnson idled up to me.

"You look sweet in them overalls, cracker."

"For fuck's sake, just get it over with!"

"You don't sound like you're sweet on me."

I sighed. "I thought you were supposed to be buttfucking me when I go sweet on you."

"No talking, inmates!" barked a guard. He was grinning at us, however.

"You play nice, Rex, and I'll cut you in for a piece."

"He your new punk?"

"You betcha."

Johnson unzipped his jumpsuit a few inches. He flexed. If you split a bowling ball in two and blued the halves to armor plate, that'd be Johnson's chest. Johnson laid a heavy palm on my shoulder.

"Do what you've been told. That's all you gotta do. Ain't I right?"

The guard nodded. "Yeah. And put on a good show. Joe Bell likes prime livestock." Rex's eyes raked me up and down. "This one ain't prime, though. Some workouts, some 'roids, and some protein, and we might have ourselves a bull."

"No 'roids," said Johnson. His hand slid down my back to cup my butt. "I'm gonna inject the testosterone. And the protein. God's own way. Got it?"

Rex nodded. "Looking to start now?"

"Man, I didn't get him into this detail so I could romance the punk!"

Rex palmed his bulging groin. "Knock yourself out, inmate."

Johnson jerked his head. "Come on, punk."

"Don't take your time," Rex called. "We got work to do." He unclipped his radio from his shirt.

"Five minutes. Give me and my fine young pullet five minutes."

Rex murmured into his radio. "One alpha two niner to central. Some action 'bout to begin between, oh, huts seven and eight."

Static hissed. "Roger. Cameras rolling."

A titter ran through the cleaning detail. I flipped the fuckers off. I wasn't doing this because I liked nigger cock. I was doing it because I hated it. Trotting behind Johnson, I shadowboxed. If the fuckers wanted to pick a fight, I wanted 'em to know I could fight.

We rounded the corner of a nearby hut. There was a narrow space, littered with cigarette butts, between it and another hut. No privacy. Both eaves sported the black plastic blistered that concealed cameras.

"The pigs," growled Johnson, "want us to do it their way. But we ain't gonna do that, are we, pullet? No porn show. Got it? We're gonna do it Johnson's way. Right?"

"Yeah. Whatever."

" Palms against the wall. This one. Right here. Butt out. Good cracker. Nah, don't spread 'em. I gotta get your jumpsuit down."

I felt Johnson's eyes raking me from neck to butt. And lingering on my butt. Goddam, what the fuck is it about my butt? Was it just because it had a hole the niggers could spurt in? Or was there something about the shape -- you know, the same way Bobby's butt was two teardrops of steel slung in tight cotton? Or do they drool over it 'cause it's white?

"Sweet. Sweet and fine. Unzip."

"Just that? Is that all you got to say? Just unzip?"

"This ain't no honeymoon, so fucking unzip! "

"You said you wanted to see my eyes go --"

"Drop 'em you cracker cunt!" Johnson's roar echoed off the big cell block and I heard laughter all through the prison yard.

I unzipped. My stomach buzzed like I'd OD'd on coffee. I let drop. The jumpsuit bunched around my feet. His hand snatched down my skivvies.

"Fuck boy. Smooth as glass. You sure you're eighteen?"

"Motherfucker, I'm twenty-two!

"Shhh, pullet. You listen. You gotta understand me. I like my prison pussy, but, just like you, I ain't no faggot. I got a wife and a truckload of girlfriends waiting on me. We gonna do this and, maybe, if I like it, I might let you move into my cell. But when we walk outta here, I don't wanna see your ass ever again. I wanna spend my life munching on pussy. Plugging pussy. I wanna die surrounded by pussy. You hear me?"

"I hear you, brother."

"This ain't love. This is buttfucking. Got it? Don't go queer on me. "

"I hear you, you dumb nigger!"

Johnson's zipper slowly ripped south. My buttcheeks, sweaty and twitchy, squirmed. I felt his eyes. Not kidding. I felt his eyes, and I understood why little girls seem preternaturally nervous around child molesters.

Johnson spat. I heard him working it into his cock. He grabbed my left hip. His slimy cockhead pushed between my cheeks. I waited.

"What'd I tell you, pullet?"

"I can't take that, man! Goddamn, motherfucker, don't stick it up me! Shit, you'll kill me!" I wasn't really faking it. I hadn't seen it. But I felt it. Johnson's meat was thick as a fencepost. I twisted. "Game over, man, game over, I'm not --"

"You ain't going nowhere, pullet!" His voice was hoarse and quivery.

Johnson grabbed one of my wrists and yanked. I struggled. His breathing grew heavy. He snorted against the back of my neck.

"Tell me what I wanna hear, pullet!"

"Don't kill me man. Fuck, go easy!"

Precum slimed my hole. Johnson pushed. I thought it'd slide right in, but I was wrong. The pressure built. I groaned. More laughter from the other side of the hut. The pressure grew. I gave up. My hole collapsed. He slipped in.

"Goddamn, man, take it out! Take it the fuck out! Jesus Christ, get it out of me!"

That wasn't faked. You feel your hole spreading and spreading and spreading like it's never going to stop and you, too, will know how crazy fear can make you. When the flared rim of his cockhead plugged my socket, I screamed. Laughter rang in my ears. Everyone in the yard had heard and had something to say about it.

"Cracker bit off more than he could chew, huh?"

"Yeah, do him, nigger! Make him bleeeeed!"

"Get him wet for me, man!"

Johnson snarled, "My pullet! Mine!"

Johnson puffed like a locomotive. That shaft came on. Holy fucking Christ, it was long. It felt like he was stuffing a coast-to-coast interstate up me.

"Slow down! Go easy -- ahhh!"

His prong twisted its way out of my rectum, slithering into my colon. I watched the bulge of his cockhead distend my stomach. It was going to pop out of my mouth before he got it all in me.

"Jesus Christ," I hissed. "Are all you niggers hung like horses?"

"Yeah, little white pullet, we are!"

Even before I felt his pubes bristling against my ass, Johnson started slamfucking me., racing hard, bouncing me off the clapboards. His cockhead rammed my sternum from behind. My asshole was a ring of red fire ... but everything else? You remember, as a kid, lazing on a merry-go-round, and some dickhead creeps up behind you and gives it a surprise spin? Remember how you swore you felt your eyeballs spinning in your head? You remember the sky looking like someone was swirling white paint into blue? That's what taking Johnson's cock was like. No wonder he had a harem.

"Oh Jesus, man," I gasped. "Oh, sweet Christ!"

Johnson began beating a martial tattoo on my buttock. "Yeah. Come on! Squeeze it!"

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck!"

"You like, pullet!"

"Fuck yeah."

Laughter rang out again on the far side of the hut.

"Yeah, do 'him, Johnson! Make the cracker moan!"

"Squeeze it, pullet!" Johnson moaned in my ear. "Squeeze it so I can feel you!"

"Damn, nigger, I'm trying!"

He cupped my balls, cinching his hands round my sack and stretching it. I howled.

"Yeah! That's it! Nice prison pussy you got, pullet."

His teeth sank into my neck. He did me like a stallion does a mare. No romance. No love. Just a powerful alpha in his blazing, glorious moment. I bounced on the balls of my feet. I rolled my hips. The harder he tugged on my nuts, the faster my cock soared skyward. I jabbered. Babbled.

"Sounds like some cracker's going sweet on some nigger!"

"Yeah, Big John, show him who's da man!"

"Make the punk squeal!"

"Get him pregnant, man! Breed him! Give him a gutload of dead babies!"

My mouth hung open. I drooled. I was stoned on him sawing away in me. My hard shaft drummed against my belly. I was Johnson's jerk-off toy, his cracker Fleshlight, and I purred like a kitten.

"Now, pullet! Now! Look at me!"

I looked over my shoulder. There was no hiding what his cock made me feel.

Johnson howled and nutted hard. It felt like a depth charge going off in my guts. All the cum injected into me that morning blustered down my leg. It was Johnson's load I was going to be carrying in my belly. No room for anyone else's. I whimpered and took his load.

By God, I felt like a real man again.

When he pulled out I feared I was going to deflate.

"Zip up. Done with you." Johnson tucked his weapon into his jumpsuit.

"Yeah. Sure." I bent to reach for my skivvies. My guts churned with a gallon of spunk.

"Hang on, inmate," called Rex. He stood at the end of the narrow space. Sunlight silhouetted the guard. His hand went to his zipper. "I want sloppies."

"Sure, man." Johnson nuzzled me. "This afternoon. We work out. You just come over to the benches. Hear me?"

"I hear you."

Johnson and Rex high-fived as the exchanged places.

So, I made my acquittance with the weights. I sucked at it. For every ten pounds Johnson took off the barbell, I got a contemptuous laugh. Not just from him, but from the other black guys. Even some of their white punks.

But I was back the next day, and the day after, and two weeks after I started lifting I cornered one of Frank Bailey's cronies and put the shithead in the hospital. After I got out of solitary, they put me in Johnson's cell, and you bet I spent hours face down in my bunk, getting 'roided up my butt with the biggest, blackest cock on planet Earth.

"You awake?"

"Well, yeah."

Bobby shuts off his buzzing phone. Stretched on the couch, I listen. The bedsprings are silent. I picture him pulling the sheet down. Jockeys. Fucking Jockeys. Bulging with morning wood. The only thing caressing it is dawn. I've been awake at least fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I emptied my bladder as soon as I woke up. And that jack off session on the porch had drained me. Whew. I feel human. Normal. How weird.

"Ya remember how to make coffee?"

"Kinda." I stand, stretch, and head for the kitchen.

"Good. 'cause I gotta piss like a racehorse."

I bet you do, Bobby. I bet you do.

Footsteps pad across the floor. I grin at him when he appears in the bedroom doorway. Just a friendly, buddy-to-buddy grin. A snowy ridge stretches from his groin all the way to his hip. His cockhead bulges like a tennis ball. His nuts are two white domes, each big as an orange. His equipment's so heavy the taut waistband sags. Man, this sight greeted Heidi every morning she slept in that bed with him. I wonder how she felt about it. Huh. I know the answer. She got wet. Heidi's a smart girl. She's a woman who appreciates dong.

Bobby sees me staring, and we both start sniggering.

"Is that a rocket in your Jockeys or are you just glad to see me?"

"It's a rocket, but it ain't gonna be in my Jockeys much longer." As he flashes into the bathroom, Bobby calls, "And it ain't glad to see ya!"

Wow. Weird. I feel ... cool. Cool with a straight guy. I had just acknowledged the fucking obvious and hadn't been labelled queer. Who'd turned back the calendar? Jacking off had been like a baptism. A cleansing. Oh yeah! Padding into the kitchen, I smile. It is over. I would, like I always had, continue to appreciate Bobby's studly looks. But ache for him? That is over.

Bobby uses one of those ancient percolator pots you set on a stove. You can blame Bobby's grandmother for this. I make a best guess as to how much water and how much Maxwell House it wants. When it boils, it makes a sound like an upchucking baby.

How long is it going to take Bobby to piss? I swear I've been hearing urine splattering on porcelain for a damn half hour now.

The pot begins to urp. I fold my arms and stare at it.

"So, uh, Mitch. You wanna hit a club tonight?"

"You want me to tell ya you're all talk and no action."

"I know this place. It's a drive. But you'll get laid."

"We'll get laid. Hear me, cuz?"

Bobby grins. "I hear ya!"

Bobby shuts off the stove, rises on the balls of his feet and fetches a cup from the top cabinet shelf. Man, that butt is so hard it barely flexes. He pours himself a cup. He drinks, frowns, then spits.

"Holy shit, this is battery acid! Christ, how much coffee did ya use?"

"Hell, I dunno, I forgot to count scoops. Run some water in it."

"Nah. Here." Bobby, grinning, extends the cup. "Drink it up. You gotta have some."

"Nah," I say. "I ain't crazy. Besides. Gotta shower."

"Don't use all the hot water. And, Christ, if you jerk off, clean it up!"

Yeah, I get hard as fuck in the shower. That is the fault of the water, caressing my body, and not because I thought of his taut butt working like pistons in his Jockeys. But I don't jerk off. I try for a cold shower but the night had been so hot even the cold water was tepid.

"Done!" I call, toweling off.

Footsteps thunder across the floor.

"Get your ass outta my bathroom! I'm running late."

Shit. Still hard. I lunge for my boxers. I only got 'em halfway up my thighs before Bobby rips the door open. He bursts out laughing and slams the door.

"Ain't room for all three of us in there."

I snigger.

"I got some hand lotion if ya need it."

My shirt covering my groin, I open the door. "Mitch needs pussy galore. Not hand solo."

Bobby claps me on my shoulder. "Wow. Who's this guy? You look like my ol' buddy Mitch, but you ain't sounded like him. I like this. Glad yer back. Now get the fuck outta my way." Bobby tugs me out of the door. It slams shut behind him.

What do you wear to your first meeting with your probation officer? Well, suit and tie's out of the question. I don't own any. Yesterday's sweat-smelling clothes probably aren't right. So, I pull out some shit I got crumbled in my bag. Baseball shirt that shows off a good two inches of flat midriff. So tight you can see my nipples. The cleft between my pectorals. Basketball shorts. No clean underwear, so I go commando. Maybe someone'll notice my big swaying dong and, just like the old days, ask Mitch Grant if they can have a ride.

Bobby's left a bit of coffee in the percolator. Too warm to think about drinking. In the freezer, under three bags of green beans that got frozen like in the '90s -- thanks, Aunt Janice -- I find an ice cube tray. Three of those, the dregs of coffee, a half a cup of milk, and I got a decent breakfast.

The shower cuts off. The bathroom door creaks open. Moisture boils out. A toothbrush churns. Spitting. Hiss of shaving cream. Scraping.

"Ya know, if I had Kathleen, the babysitter'd be pullin' up 'bout now."

"How the fuck would you pay a babysitter? Hate to break it to ya, cuz, but ya ain't rich."

"I'd make it happen. Work another job. Shit, if she lived with us, I wouldn't be payin' child support. Heidi would."

Bobby shaves at the sink, start naked, staring into the mirror. Muscles move. Biceps. Chest. Man, Bobby's nipples remind me of the raspberry kisses they peddled at the county fair when we were kids.

Fuck, what a slugger. Cuz is a player in the Mitch Grant league. My pubes are thicker than his, though. My balls are bigger. Manlier. He's not top in the rankings.

I pause. Is that true?

Which of us is a daddy, and which of us is an ex-faggot? I shrug. Well, maybe that'll change tonight. Maybe I'll knock up whoever I pick up.

"Cuz, paying a babysitter for all day ... man, that's expensive."

Bobby's eyes flick to mine. He grins. "Then I'd sell dope."

"Um. Maybe yer not thinkin' this through, cuz. What let 'em take Kathleen?"

He shrugs. "They took her away 'cause Heidi's got connections down at the courthouse. That's all. She's as big a pothead as me and you. Well, used to." Bobby rinses the razor under the faucet. "God, I miss her. You wanna see some more pics?"

"Nah. I saw 'bout ten thousand last night."

He beams into the mirror. "When I get to hold her, she just grins up at me. Just grins. She grins like you." He snickers. "Who knows, Mitch? Kathleen might be your little girl."

"Nah. She's yours. I can tell."

While Bobby raves about Kathleen, his dong grows, stretching over his balls like a snake waking up in the lazy dawn. Down and down, swaying between his lanky thighs, until it almost reaches his knees.

I can't breathe.

What's making him swell? Thinking of the night he fucked Heidi and made Kathleen?

Or is he thinking about fucking his daughter? When she's old enough? Or close enough?

Wow. My head spins.

Bobby doesn't sprout a full hardon. He remains swollen, engorged, rubbery, and slack. I think I pick up the right message. He doesn't want to fuck his daughter. He's in love with his Kathleen. But he loves her with all his heart, and with a man, the love flowing from his heart will always swell his cock.

"Fuck Heidi!"

Bobby charges, dong swaying one way, balls another, out of the bathroom into the bedroom.

"Fuck that cunt! Shit, cuz, ya know what? I'm gonna go down to her damn credit union and I'm gonna have it out with her! I got rights!" Bobby rips a drawer open so hard it goes spinning into the bed, spilling socks and underwear. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

I swallow. "Um. Let me talk to her, Bobby."

Settling another pair of creamy white Jockeys into place, Bobby turns. "Huh? You?"

"Yeah. Me." A surge ripples up my spine. Blood thunders in my rod.

Bobby finally wins his struggle with a tank top. "Why?"

"I wanna see her. And, you know, maybe I can lay some of the old Mitch Grant moves on her."

I grin. Bobby knows what this grin portends, and I think it takes him aback. Let him deal with it. For me, the world's been shifting. I'd been trying to look at it through a wall of misaligned glass bricks. Everything I saw through that wall was twisted. Distorted. Unreal. Now it was like someone had tugged one brick and they'd all fallen into perfect alignment. Everything is perfectly obvious.

"Yeah. It'd work better. For you. And Kathleen. I'll play up the sob story. Mitch Grant, just out of Ogden. I'm trying to, uh, make amends. So I'm with you, now, and you've cleaned up, and we're gonna make a new start, and all that. Heidi's a blond. She'll buy it."

Bobby doesn't move a muscle while I lay out my plan. Even his eyes are unreadable. I can't tell if he's suspicious. Then his jaw thrusts to one side and his expression twists. Now he's thinking. Thinking mighty fast.

"OK. Yeah. That'll work. You do that, cuz." Bobby sniggers. "Promise me somethin'."

"Yeah?"

"Don't pay no visit to our ex-girl like that."

When Heidi's name passed my lips, my cock started to put on a show. I didn't feel any need to hide it, because, hell, Bobby knows just as well as me the way Heidi Bolton can get a man going. This hardon isn't a faggot hardon. It is a straight hardon, and we're both used to them. It throbs against my shorts the same way Bobby's had. Boxers, though, aren't a cock containment system. It leans from my groin at a forty-five-degree angle, a thick tentpole dancing and straining behind the fly. Brazen. Arrogant. It feels like someone's stoked a bonfire in each of my balls. I fold my arms and rock back on my heels.

"Nah, cuz. Can't promise that. She's gotta remember Mitch Grant in all his fucking glory." My boner twitches. "It'll be like an acid flashback. To this." I grab my rod through the boxers. "She'll moan and butter'll run down her thighs and Kathleen'll be in your arms before the week's out. I promise."

High-five.

"That's my cuz!" Bobby shimmies into jeans. "Welcome back, Mitch!"

"You mind if I, uh, fuck your babymama?"

"That'd be hot."

"Wanna watch?" I tilt my head towards where the knothole used to be.

Bobby grabs his wallet. His eyes flash the devil's fire at me. "Ain't ya da man? Hold off 'till I steal an augur from Carruthers." Bobby charges out the bedroom. "Come on. Where I gotta drop you off?"

"Courthouse." I follow him out. Halfway to the truck, though, temptation grabbed me by the balls again. "Hey. Cuz. Give me the keys."

"Fuck you."

"I'm serious. Let me drive."

"What part of fuck you don't ya get, Mitch?"

"Christ, Bobby, it's been two damn years!"

Bobby settles behind the wheel. "Yeah, well, this truck ain't paid off and it ain't insured, so that's why you ain't drivin'." He fishes a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment. "Get in or I'll leave ya here."

"Fine." I climb in. "Let me bum a cigarette."

"Since when did ya smoke?"

"Cuz, a guy's gotta try new things."

Bobby backs out, grinding gears before he gets us into first. We snigger. By the time he gets it into third, we both have cigarettes hanging from the corners of our mouths.

"You need wheels, cuz. And a job."

"No shit. Wheels, cuz, wheels, especially since I'm livin' out in Poducnk." I sigh. "And, yeah, a job, too."

"I can get you in at the shop."

I snort. "Carruthers hates my guts. Ain't gonna happen."

"He knows yer good. When yer not stoned. He likes me. I can butter him up."

"Fuck Carruthers! I almost 'beat the shit out of him yesterday."

"A job's a job, and assholes are everywhere."

"I'll think 'bout it. But, I'll tell ya up front, it sounds stupid as shit."

"I'll get Carruthers to hire ya back. Then I'll take ya over to that auto auction"

"Cuz, I ain't buying no car that sat underwater three days during the last hurricane."

"Hell, I saw a '78 Trans Am with fuckin' T tops go through the auction a few months back. Come on. We can make a project out of it. You can get parts wholesale through Carruthers. Maybe we can find an ol T-bird. Cut it down. Make a convertible. Shit! They got these rims --"

He drives. We fantasize. Even if the radio is playing "Highway to Hell," I know for a fact we're on our way to paradise city.

Once upon a time I thought Peachville wasn't so big. Back in the day, with my wheels, I could get from the downtown courthouse to the edge of town in about five minutes. Ten, if I paid attention to the traffic lights. That's not the case if you've got to walk. Peachville seems at least ten times its former size.

I remember old neighborhoods as I pass. Houses where I got blown by bored housewives. Nooks where I peddled dope and ice. Not much has changed. I earn a few honks from passing cars on the way. Either acquittances or chicks who wanna fuck my new boss bod.

By the time I get to the Slate County Credit Union, sweat drenches me.

Eyes paint me with various misperceptions the moment I push through the door. The rent-a-cop is suspicious, because I look like the kind who robs banks. Curiosity emanates from some customers, who think I'm a desperate clod here to open a new account. Sullenness from a girl I think I refused to date either in high school or after, who still deludes herself that her disapproval wounds me.

But Heidi's eyes read me perfectly. Still leaning over one teller's shoulder, she stares at me with naked lust. Naturally. My sweat molds my clothes to my body. Heidi, like all preacher's daughters, always resented being shoved into the goody-two-shoes category. At first, her expression is a little vague, because she doesn't recognize me. Suddenly her eyes light up.

"Mitch!"

Her tone almost bowls me over. All through that long trudge from the courthouse, I'd been stealing myself to hear ice clinking in a chilly glass. Shouldn't have underestimated her.

The best thing about Heidi Bolton isn't her sweet cooze -- though don't underestimate that flavor -- but her sweet soul.

Heidi emerges from behind the tellers' counter. She wears a charcoal gray business suit. The skirt bowls me over. Fuck, those thighs. If you'd been between her creamy thighs like I've been you'd know exactly how much she reeks of sex. Lust. Sin. She takes my hand and gazes up at me.

"I told Bobby to tell me when you got out. He didn't say a word."

Her perfume makes me dizzy. I don't like perfume because it covers up someone's real scent. I'm a dog, man, a hound. I need scent to know who you are. But Heidi is subtle, choosing something that heterodynes with her. Heidi Bolton's scent is a blend of, I don't' know, fine whiskey and cognac.

She grins. "Mitch. You there?"

"Um. You know Bobby." I tap my temple. "Got a lot of free space in his attic." I twirl my finger near my ear.

"Your cousin," Heidi says firmly, "is not dumb. He's just mad at me because of Mom."

Her eyes inch across my chest. They would've gone all the way to my south pole if she hadn't caught my sly grin.

"You look good, Mitch." Her voice is breathy and sincere.

"Yeah. Well. You know." I puff up for her. Stand straight and tall. Man, this feels like I'm slipping into an old shirt still warm from the dryer. The great days of Mitch Grant, champion pussyhound, are back. "You're looking good. Real good."

"Don't start it," Heidi whispers. Her eyes twinkle.

"Can I talk to you?"

She whirls. "Shaniqua, help Joan," she calls. One teller begins to move to help the girl Heidi left. "This way, Mitch."

Glass walls let her supervise everything out on the floor but her office door, once shut, blocks all sound. Heidi sits behind the desk. She comes to the point.

"My manager's a bitch and a half, so pretend you're a customer. Have a seat."

I sit. Cross my legs. Scratch my chin. It's ogling time. She preens as I ogle.

"How long you been back, Mitch?"

"Got into town yesterday."

"Probation?"

"Yep. Talked to him this morning. Man, I gotta be the straight arrow. I gotta get a job. Bobby's helping me with that. I may get on at Mac's."

Heidi snorts with laughter. "You? And Carruthers?"

"Yeah, well, I gotta feelin' I'll be hackin' him up with a rusty machete before the end of the week."

"Don't be cruel. Use a sharp machete."

"You married?"

"Engaged." She sounds bored.

"Anyone I know?"

"Yep. Bob Hazeltine."

"What?" I stare. Hazeltine's got the Toyota dealership on the bypass. Hazeltine isn't old money. He's mega-money.

"The way I figure it," says Heidi, "if I marry a workaholic for his money, I get to have a lot of fun on the side."

"Clever girl."

"You here to talk about my sex life?" She doesn't' disguise the look in her eyes. It's rut. The look women get when the first warm whiff of spring blows up their skirts.

"Kathleen."

She deflates a bit and the lust-light flickers out.

" I don't particularly care to leave Kathleen with Bobby. He's stoned too much. But I don't mind him seeing her at all. With supervision. Me. Bobby's parents. Someone who's sober." Heidi sighs. "Mom's not so open minded. She's the bitch. Not me."

"Yeah. Well. Bobby's pretty pissed about it. We've been talkin'. He tells me he's up on his child support --"

"He is. He always is."

"So, I'm thinkin' 'bout tellin' him to get an attorney."

"If he'd done that when Mom started this --"

"Hey, um, your Kathleen's mom. Would it hurt you to put your foot down? It's not --"

Heidi's eyes fling stilettos at me. "Don't be dumb, Mitch. Mom's in thick with every judge and every lawyer. Every string that can be pulled she's got in her hand. She's got us all boxed in."

"Look. I don't wanna fight --"

"I know. Neither do I. But. You're right. Bobby's got the law on his side. You tell him to go talk to this guy." She pulls her purse out of a drawer, fishes for a card, and hands it to me. "This attorney. He once told Mom to go fuck herself, so he's not a string Mom can pull. I bet if he files a writ, or whatever the hell lawyers do, I'm gonna have to obey ... and Mom can't stop me if I'm doing the law's bidding, can she?" She grins. "You tell Bobby I told him to put down his fucking bong and do that for his daughter."

I eye the name on the card. "Hmm. Clever. Will do."

"Till then," says Heidi, "Kathleen needs to see her Dad. So. We need a scheme."

"Yep. Sounds like."

"You guys still like rafting?"

I grin. "I know I do. You, uh, wanna come with us?"

She stares at me levelly, eyes blazing. "Yeah. I would. But." She holds up her ring finger. "But. What I'll do is this. You come by the house. Mom'll freak but fuck her. I'll follow you down to Choctaw. You leave the truck there. Then I'll drive you to the drop-off. I'll bring Kathleen. Bobby can see her."

"That's, uh, pretty decent of you."

"No, it isn't. I got my price."

"What?"

"Dress for it. Both of you. You, especially. Man, prison changed you, Mitch. For the better."

I smile. "Done. Speedo?"

"Nah. That's not you. Cutoffs. Or briefs. Now. I need your phone number?"

"Ain't got one. Not yet."

"Get one. The only way I'm going to have a happy marriage with that fat old fart is if I cheat on him with a hot young stud."

"You're the greatest, Heidi."

"I know. Call me. Please. Now come on. The bitch is on the prowl."

I don't know what happened, but the walk to Mac's seems to take about fifteen minutes. Maybe it's because of my whistling. Who knows?

Bobby intercepts me in the lot. Before I can say a word about Heidi's scheme he propels me into the office. Carruthers grumbles, and grumbles, but he finally gets to the job offer. Minimum wage, take it or leave it. This is robbery, because I got experience, but I'm boxed in. I got a probation officer breathing down my neck about dope and jobs. So, I take it. I figure I can compensate myself by lifting some parts for my new wheels, whatever those turn out to be.

The greatest moment of my life comes when I tell Bobby that, real soon now, he's gonna see his daughter. The expression blazing on his face must be what Jesus Christ, if he ever bothers with a Second Coming, will see if he points a finger at a decent and modest guy and says, "You, come with me." Bobby babbles and babbles and babbles, even after Carruthers bellows at him. I just grin.

We pile into his truck when he gets off.

"Look, Mitch, you need clothes. You ain't gonna have a paycheck for 'bout a month, so I'm buyin' 'em for you. Don't go puttin' on airs, 'cause most of what I'm gonna get you is gonna be down at Goodwill. But tonight, we're partying, so we gotta look good, so we're going to Walmart. Got it?"

"I'm with ya, cuz."