I can already hear all the guys chanting when I finally manage to stumble out of the bathroom. I wrap my arms around myself for comfort and warmth, and make my way back over to the crowd, only teetering a little bit. The group has doubled in number, the other guy obviously bringing his friends as back-up as well. They've all formed a ring around the fight, making it to where I can't see what's going on because they're all so bulky and tall, and I'm so damn short.
I find Blake's truck and clamber back up onto the tailgate. After almost falling twice, I finally manage to stand steadily enough so that I can watch the action above the crowd's heads.
Blake is standing in all his glory like a Greek god with his legs shoulder width apart and his fists down at his sides. I've seen him fight before and he's good, so I'm not too worried about him; that is until I see the other guy, Jax. He's fucking huge, almost twice the size of Blake, and could probably crush me with his thumb. He looks like the total opposite of the blonde boy, with dark hair and dark eyes, handsome in his own way, but nothing compared to Blake. Jax is pacing back and forth like a caged tiger and has a crazy look on his face. I wish I could see Blake's expression, but his back is turned towards me. Even though I can't see his face, I know Blake is calm and collected; he's always in control and that's what I like about him.
They're exchanging words, putting on a good show for everyone, but I can't hear what they're saying over the roar of the other boys egging them on. Suddenly Jax hurtles towards Blake, aiming to tackle him, but Blake evades his attack, managing to step to the side just in time, moving to where I can see him better. Everyone on Blake's side is screaming that Jax is playing dirty and yelling other various things about foul play, while Jax's buddies are all yelling back that Blake's just a pussy and can't hold his own. It pisses me off to hear them talk about him like that.
Jax lunges for Blake again and manages to catch him in the jaw with a particularly hard punch this time. Blake stumbles back, wiping his bleeding mouth across his sleeve and glaring at the other boy. Seeing the mouth that was just kissing mine so passionately a few minutes ago bloodied makes me feel an odd pang in my chest and I hate that. I'm so hopelessly in love with the guy and I can't even admit it to myself. I'm so fucking pathetic.
For a few tense moments they glare each other down, and even from where I'm standing I can see the fire in Blake's glare. The look in his eyes makes me shiver in a weird sense of excitement and fright; I have the urge to make him angry more often just to see that intense spark...
Then they both smash into each other. It's a flurry of punches, fists connecting with flesh. The sounds make me cringe; I hate that noise because I know the pain that comes afterward all too well.
At first the two boys appear evenly matched, but it seems that Blake might be gaining some leverage. I find myself cheering for him inwardly, a small smile on my face, feeling a sense of foolish pride that a guy like him actually likes me in a weird way. I wonder if Brittany feels that sense of pride and if she feels special knowing he's out here defending her honor; I know I would give anything to have him defend me in that way. I hope she appreciates him as much as he deserves, if she doesn't she's an idiot.
The fight continues and it seems like Blake is going to end up being the champion, but in the next second Jax delivers a horrible sounding punch to Blake's head and the blond drops to the ground heavily. Jax is on him immediately, wailing on him like he's going to fucking kill him. My hands fly up to my mouth, muffling my gasp of horror as Jax's fists collide with Blake's head and body repeatedly. I feel sick watching and I have the sudden urge to run and try to stop the huge guy, but I know better than to do that even in my drunken stupor. I look away, unable to see what's becoming of Blake's handsome face, and that's when I see the headlights of a car on top of the hill pointing in the direction of the lot: a cop car. Shit.
No one else notices it, too wrapped up in the fight to see anything but the brutality in front of them. It seems like time has slowed down in my inebriated mind as I try to think of something to do. My eyes dart back and forth between the vehicle and the crowd. I try to yell and wave my arms to let everyone know the impending problem, but my quiet voice is lost in the roar of the guy's hollering and I almost lose my balance from moving too quickly.
I make the idiotic decision to jump off the tailgate to get closer to the group to try to get someone's attention. I leap off, expecting to land on my feet gracefully, completely forgetting I'm drunk off my ass. The jump reminds me of one of those old cartoons when a character hovers in the air for a moment before they plummet off a cliff holding up a sign that says "help". Except I know I'm not in the air for more than a millisecond, then I land face down on the old, cracked asphalt, knocking the air out of me. I manage to catch myself on my hands, luckily avoiding slamming my face into the pavement, but my body takes most of the impact. Fuck that hurt!
My thoughts of alerting the guys are completely gone as I struggle to drag in a normal breath of air into my burning lungs. I cough and gasp, rolling to my side and struggling to sit up. I vaguely wonder if Blake is still alive, it seems like it's been such a long time since I was watching him get his face beat in, but I know it's only been seconds. I start to push myself up, intent again on letting everyone know what lies waiting for them in the darkness behind them, but a lance of pain shoots through my left wrist and all other thoughts go out of my head other than that horrible throbbing. I grasp my arm, starting to panic because it feels broken, but I try to move it and it cooperates stiffly; probably just sprained, nothing I haven't had to deal with before. That's when the cop makes his move.
A flash of blue lights illuminate the parking lot and the loud blast of a warning siren silences the thundering bellows from the boys. They all seem to freeze for a second, turning towards the noise and lights, then it's a fucking stampede. I've never seen any of the football players move so fast, not even in a well played game. I feel like a bug on the ground as they all come barreling in the direction of where I'm still sitting.
I curl up into a ball and throw my hands over my head, my eyes closed tight, as if that will somehow protect me as they go thundering by; luckily I don't get trampled. They're all jumping in their trucks and each other's truck beds, screaming at one another to hurry up. I look over to where the fight was taking place to see if I can catch any sight of Blake to make sure he's okay, but the truck I'm sitting behind suddenly rumbles to life and peels out of the parking lot with the others, spraying me with loose gravel.
Blake's truck. My ride.
I turn around and watch it disappear down the road with the other vehicles, feeling a horrible mixture of betrayal and abandonment that makes my chest hurt. The sound of squealing tires and loud rumbling engines fade into the night and I look around at the now deserted parking lot, stunned into shock. He left me. He fucking left me... Well, at least I know he's okay...
I feel like I'm in a daze when I hear the sound of tires crunching slowly over gravel. I look over my shoulder to the see the cop car slowly pulling up closer to me. Apparently instead of chasing after the group of at least ten or more cars, he decided to go after an easier target: me. Shit.
The car stops a few meters away from me. The door opens slowly and I watch as one shiny shoe appears below the door and then the second. The cop takes his own sweet time getting out, obviously not afraid of me running since my dumb ass is still sitting on the cold ground.
A clean-cut, good-looking man with dark hair and bright eyes, in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, finally emerges from the vehicle, glaring down at me with his hand resting on the gun in his hip holster. He begins to walk over to me as slowly as he got out of the car. He stops a couple feet away and just looks at me for a moment with his head tilted to the side slightly, but then he finally speaks.
"Alright, son, go ahead and get up nice and slow, don't do anything stupid," he says in a smooth, pleasing voice.
I look up at the man and just stare at him blankly for a second, wondering how the hell I'm going to manage to get out of this without getting arrested, even though I know there's no way in hell that I will- I'm obviously drunk and clearly underage. My dad's going to fucking kill me when I have to call him to pick me up from the police station. I can't believe Blake left me...
I finally do as the cop said and struggle to my feet, staggering, falling, and ultimately ending up back on my ass after three tries. He's watching me with one raised eyebrow, a mixture between an amused and stern look on his face.
"How much have you had to drink tonight, son?" He asks, taking a few steps closer so that he's right beside me. His accent is different from the southern drawl I'm used to hearing around my town.
I shrug, finding that I'm so nervous I can't even make a sound leave my mouth, let alone my voice. He glares at me and leans forward, close to my face.
"Smells like you've been sitting in a tub of vodka, boy," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
I stare at the ground, feeling ashamed and terrified, already imagining getting shipped off to juvey and all of the shit I'll go through at a place like that. I wonder how many years I'll get...
A big hand is suddenly on my arm and I'm yanked up to my feet quickly. The world around me goes spinning and I almost fall, but his firm grip keeps me upright. He hauls me over to his car and pushes me against the hood and glares down at me with his arms crossed over his chest. Then he turns me around and pushes me forward some, making me lean over the hood slightly.
"Hands on the car and spread your legs," he orders, like he's said those words a million times before.
I do as he says, feeling myself begin to tremble slightly at the realization that I'm about to be frisked by a real cop who will probably be arresting me soon. His hands are on me a few seconds later, traveling up and down my body. I know it's done to every person who's arrested, but I wonder if every other criminal out there feels so violated when this is done to them. Probably not, since I doubt many people are molested by their own father a third of their life; it's probably just me.
He finds my slightly crushed box of cigarettes and my vodka filled water bottle in my jacket pocket, and then my knife in my pants pocket, pulling it out and murmuring something about carrying a concealed weapon. Shit. He sets everything on the car and continues to feel for anything else I might have. His hand suddenly comes up between my legs, grabbing my crotch slightly, and I jump, letting out a pitiful whimper.
"Relax, kid, this is just a routine procedure," he says softly from behind me, his hands patting my ass now.
I know that, but I can't help but feel that his touch lingers too long and that he's being a little too thorough. My father has fucked me up so bad. I hate this.
He finally finishes and grabs my arm to turn me back around, pushing my shoulder so that I'm leaning my butt against the hood of his car. He stares at me for a moment before turning to my belongings. He starts by picking up the water bottle first. He opens the lid and sniffs the liquid, scrunching his face up at the strong smell of alcohol. He glares at me, then turns and pours the vodka out on the ground near my foot, spattering my sneaker and pants leg. Then he tosses the bottle away, surprising me slightly by his actions. What an asshole.
"How old are you, kid?" He asks, looking me up and down again slowly.
I blink up at him, momentarily forgetting my age, but then luckily it clicks in my head.
"F-fifteen," I mumble quietly, looking down at my feet. I'm starting to feel sick to my stomach. Why the fuck did I drink so much?
"Fifteen, huh? You look younger than that," he informs me as if I didn't already know this fact.
I simply shrug, deciding not to explain to him that he can blame my small stature on a father who thinks starving his son is a good punishment.
He glares at me some more, titling his head to the side slightly as if he's examining me from a different angle. He turns back to my stuff and picks up my cigarettes, holding them up.
"Aren't you a little young to have these? You know this stuff gives you cancer, right? It's not healthy for you," he says condescendingly. Then he drops them to the ground by my feet and steps on them, grinding them into the gravel with the toe of his shoe.
What the fuck. I watch with dismay as the tobacco squeezes out from its white sleeves, remembering the blow job I performed just to get that fucker outside of the gas station to buy me that pack. They were the expensive ones Blake likes and I made sure to ask for those. Why would he do that?
The cop picks up the knife next, which was a gift from my now dead maternal grandfather who I was very close to and the only family member who was ever kind to me, and my stomach lurches at the thought of what he might do to it. I bite my bottom lip in anticipation, hoping he doesn't break it. He opens it and turns it over in his hand, admiring the intricate designs on the handle.
"Very nice," he murmurs, then tucks it into his pocket.
What the hell!? He can't do that! Can he?
Before I can say anything he grabs my arm again and pulls me away from the car, turning me so my back is to him. My arms are suddenly yanked behind my back forcefully, making me gasp, then I can feel him snapping handcuffs around my wrists, hurting my sprained wrist some with his roughness. He pulls me over to the side of the car and pushes my back up against the backseat door roughly. He stares at me for a few seconds, looking me up and down like before, making me feel uncomfortable.
"What's your name, kid?" He finally asks after a tense moment of silence.
I sigh softly, hoping he doesn't hear me. I'm so very tired; I wonder how long this is going to take.
My eyes widen when I cut myself off by suddenly doubling over and barfing all over the man's nice shoes. He quickly steps back out of the way, but not before I spatter him with droplets of stomach bile and vodka. Shit! How much deeper of a hole am I going to dig myself into tonight!?
He surprises me by laughing at me instead of yelling, but it's a cruel, mocking laugh that makes me feel worse than I already do. I look up at him hesitantly, straightening and wiping my mouth across my sleeve on my shoulder the best I can.
"Feel better?" He asks, smirking at me and shaking his foot to rid his shoe of the mess.
I nod weakly, because I do feel better now, but I feel so embarrassed my cheeks seem to be on fire from my blushing. What is wrong with me? I hardly ever puke when I drink, it must be because I'm so nervous.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, barely above a whisper.
He nods and chuckles softly, seeming to be getting some kind of entertainment out of my suffering; I hate cops like him.
"So, let's try that name again," he says, watching me carefully.
"Skylar Yancy," I tell him, keeping my head down.
"Full name, son," he orders.
"Skylar Kris Yancy. Kris with a K," I murmur quietly.
He pulls out a notepad and writes my name down.
"So your initials are SKY and I'm assuming your nickname is Sky? Clever," he says nonchalantly, looking at me with another smirk.
I nod, resisting the urge to roll my eyes since I practically hear this from everyone. Thanks a lot Mom.
"Okay, Skylar. May I call you 'Sky'?" He asks.
I shrug, not giving a shit one way or the other. My name is constantly changing at my house so it's not like it matters any: faggot, bitch, pussy, etc.
"Good. So, Sky, what is a young boy like you doing out here with a group of boys older and bigger than you at this late hour?" He asks, making the question sound like he doesn't really care, just asking because he has to.
"Jus' hangin' out, I guess," I slur, hating how drunk I really am; Blake's right, I am going to kill myself.
"Looks like there was a fight going on," the cop says, stepping closer to me.
I gaze up at him and shrug, not willing to get Blake and his friends in trouble.
"And who were you out here with? I would like some names," he says menacingly.
I swallow hard, feeling sick again. I only know a few of their names and I really don't want to tell him. Blake would hate me if I ratted him and his friends out.
"I-I don't know them," I mutter, looking away, wondering again how Blake could just leave me here like this.
He chuckles lowly.
"Not willing to squeal on your friends, huh?" He asks.
I shake my head, making the decision to keep my mouth shut, even if it causes me more problems. I don't want to be known as a rat too along with all of the other stereotypes I've been pegged with.
"You know you're in a lot of trouble, son," he says quietly, stepping even closer to me. "Underage drinking, public intoxication, carrying a concealed weapon... Not to mention anything else I can think of..."
I look back up at him, unable to hide my glare at his last comment. What a jerk.
"So I guess if you won't tell me who you were here with, I'll go ahead and bring you in. Unless..." He pauses, looking at me again, his eyes focusing on my mouth. "Unless, you want to work out a little deal..." He finishes slyly.
I stare up at the familiar look in his eyes, his words slowly sinking into my foggy brain, sobering me up some. Is he saying what I think he is?
"Wh-what do you mean?" I ask hesitantly, feeling sick again for an entirely different reason now.
He chuckles and steps even closer, standing so close now that his body is almost pressing me into the car. He leans close to my face, making me press myself against the window to distance our faces. I can smell the sharp, crisp scent of mint on his hot breath.
"I mean, maybe I can just let you go if you do me a little favor. I remember what it was like being a kid, and it looks like all your friends just abandoned you; I'd hate to ruin your night even more by having to lock you up. And you sure are a cute kid, pretty face and so tiny; I wouldn't mind knowing what it felt like to have that little mouth on me..."
I stare up at him in disbelief, feeling uncomfortable under his bright eyed gaze; his eyes are bluer than Blake's. I can't believe a cop is bribing me. Who the hell is this guy? Is he for real!? He'll let me go if I blow him? Fuck, I've done more for a pack of cigarettes before. And I really don't want to have to wake Dad up to come get me from the police station, he'd beat the shit out of me so bad I probably wouldn't be able to go to school for a week.
"You'd seriously let me go?" I ask softly, having a bad feeling that this might be a trick, that he'll still arrest me even if I do suck him off. I decide if it is a trick then I can always claim he forced himself on me when he brings me in. It's worth a shot.
He grins, almost seeming surprised that I'm considering his proposition.
"I'll even give you a ride home," he says charmingly. "So is that a yes? We have a deal?"
I swallow hard and nod, hoping this "deal" will be worth it.
He suddenly pulls me away from the door and opens it, then shoves me into the backseat roughly, almost cracking my head against the doorframe. The door slams closed behind me and he gets into the driver's seat, cranks the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. I stay still and quiet, wondering if he lied and is taking me to jail anyway, then wondering why he would even say that in the first place if he was just going to take me in anyways. He speeds down the deserted roads of our small country town, taking turns sharply and slinging me into the door several times, bruising my shoulder.
Finally the car slows down and he pulls into a small cemetery, hidden from the road by some huge oak trees, a place I recognize because Blake has taken me here several times to fuck in his truck. I sort of feel like I'm cheating on him in a way, even though I do stuff like this all the time for alcohol and smokes. He doesn't know I do and I really don't want him to find out though. I guess I'm a bad person. But it's not like we're in a relationship, so I guess I can do what I want. It still makes me feel guilty though.
The cop stops the car, kills the engine, and gets out, then opens my door and pulls me out. He walks me around the car and opens the passenger door, pushes me in and slams the door shut. Then he climbs back into the driver's seat. It's so dark inside of the vehicle I can barely see him, but the glow from the lights on his dash board illuminates his face some. He turns to me and looks at me for a few seconds before speaking.
"I'll take the handcuffs off, but I'm warning you: if you try to run, you will regret it," he says patting his gun.
I stare at him, a little wide eyed from his threat, but nod slowly, not planning on running anyways since I'd probably just fall flat on my face as soon as I tried.
He grabs me and unlocks the cuffs. I rub my wrists, the sore one aching painfully. I glance up at him and see that he's watching me with an odd look on his face that I can't place.
"You've done this before, haven't you?" He asks suddenly.
"What do you mean?" I ask quietly, wondering if he means with another cop.
"Given a blow job. You're a little faggot, aren't you?"
His words make me angry and I glare at him. I hate that word. Dad calls me that all the time, as if it's my fault I am the way I am, when it's actually his. At one time in my life I believe I was straight, but I was ten when Dad started messing with me and it screwed me up really bad; it warped my self-image and who I was. Now I can't even imagine being with anyone but a man; I will always be a submissive bottom. And besides, how could a girl want to be with me after everything I've done and that's been done to me? I'll stick with guys, guys like Blake.
"So what if I am?" I snap, finding that my dislike for this man has increased tremendously since our meeting.
He chuckles at me, making me feel even more pissed.
"You're a feisty little thing when you get mad, aren't you?" He says teasingly, grinning like an idiot.
"Fuck you," I snarl, which just makes his chuckling turn into a full out laugh. Ugh, I hate this guy!
We sit in silence for a moment, me quietly steaming with my arms crossed over my chest and him watching me again with that weird look. Finally he scoots his seat back and tilts his steering wheel up to give me room.
"Well, come on, we don't have all night," he says, patting his crotch.
I glare at him, but position myself in the middle seat so that I'm kneeling beside him. I undo his belt and open his pants, wondering how many fucking times in my life I've done these actions for someone else. His cock is rock hard, straining against his boxers and I pull it out, vaguely thinking that he's bigger than Blake. He hisses when my cold hands touch his warm skin and I get a small sense of satisfaction in his momentary discomfort.
I gaze down at his impressive size for a moment, feeling like a complete whore, and wondering what Blake would think if he saw what I was doing, but then I close my eyes and take him into my mouth where so many dicks have been before. He groans in pleasure, leaning his head back on the seat as I begin to bob my head up and down, taking him into the back of my throat with ease.
"Shit," he sighs, his big hands snaking into my hair, making me tense slightly, because I expect to be forced down until I gag and choke. But he just slides his fingers through the thick strands; it sort of feels good in a weird way.
I try to give the best blow job I've ever given, just so he'll come faster, but he still takes a long time, so long that my jaw is starting to ache. My legs are starting to cramp from my position and my back is hurting, but I don't stop, having done that one too many times and had to face the consequences, which usually involved being choked with the cock I stopped sucking.
"Damn, kid, it's like you don't have a gag reflex," he groans, starting to pant, finally showing signs that he's close. If my mouth wasn't preoccupied I would inform him that, yes, I very much do have a gag reflex, but, you know- practice makes perfect.
Finally, after twenty or thirty minutes he orgasms. I swallow his hot load and quickly pull away, moving back to my seat to lean against the door, wanting to get as far away from him as possible now, like I always feel with every other guy I do this to; except Blake of course.
I can feel the cop watching me as he fixes his pants, but I don't look over, instead choosing to stare out the window with my head pressed against the cool glass, the icy surface soothing my nerves and my clammy skin. I really wish he hadn't destroyed my cigarettes, I need one really bad now. We sit in silence for a long time, too long, with him staring at me and me trying really hard to ignore him, not wanting to have anything to do with him anymore.
Just when I'm about to say something, he finally cranks the engine and puts the car in reverse, backing out of the hidden driveway and back onto the street.
"Buckle up," he orders, looking over at me.
I do as he says, feeling strange wearing the seatbelt since I never do in Blake's truck; I figure if I die in a wreck it'll just put me out of my misery. He's watching me again and I decide I can't take it anymore. As much as I hate being there, I want to go home, or anywhere for that matter- anywhere but in this car.
"You said you would take me home," I mumble, unable to keep my voice from shaking when I look over at him.
His gaze is unnerving and it makes me wonder what he's thinking; his bright eyes look scary in the dim lighting of his dash.
He's quiet for a moment, but then chuckles lowly.
"Alright, kid. A deal's, a deal. Where to?" He asks.
I let out a sigh of relief, having really expected him to screw me over.
"Serenity Acres, off of Brookside Road," I tell him, relaxing back in the seat some as he punches in the address on his GPS device before he takes off down the dark street.
It only takes about ten minutes to get to my house from the cemetery with the way he's speeding, and I'm glad he ended up driving me because the walk home from the parking lot would have taken me over an hour. It's also really cold and already four o'clock in the morning, which would have put me at risk of getting caught sneaking in by Dad. I still can't believe Blake left me...
"This is it," I tell him, pointing to the house, and he slows to a stop in front of the place I'm forced to call home.
The outside of our house is actually pretty nice, as is the inside, since Dad expects me to do chores all the time; I do everything from laundry to mowing and all the stuff in between. It looks like a normal home. But what goes on inside this house is the complete opposite of its appearance; it's like a book with a pretty cover, but a really shitty story hidden within the pages.
"Thanks," I say, already unbuckled and opening the door before he even comes to a complete stop, ready to get the hell away from this guy.
"No problem, Sky. Thank you," he says with a sly smile. Asshole.
I jump out of the car, the cold air hitting me and taking my breath away slightly. Right before I shut the door he calls out to me.
"You stay out of trouble, kid. Wouldn't want to see a cutie like you end up hurt."
I slam the door in his face and start up my driveway with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, beyond thankful that I managed to get out of that predicament without having to wake my father up. I definitely have a few select words I'm going to say to Blake tomorrow at school, most of them bad enough to make a nun faint. This is all his fault... But I know for certain that I won't stay mad at him; as soon as he apologizes and kisses me I'll forgive him. I'm so pathetic.
I hear the cop pull away from the curb before I reach the porch and I breathe a sigh of relief. Some cop he is, letting me off for a measly blow job. But it worked out in my favor so I guess I shouldn't be complaining. I'm so fucking lucky.
I walk up the steps quietly and as I pull out the spare key from under the welcome mat I suddenly realize with heart breaking dismay that he never gave me back my pocket knife. Fucking asshole! I also realize he never told me his name. I don't remember seeing a name tag or anything either, but I'm also wasted, so that doesn't mean shit; I don't remember a lot of things when I'm drunk. I almost wish I did know it though so I could report him tomorrow and tell his captain what an asshole he is and that he stole from me and maybe get the knife back. But then he would probably come arrest me like he should have from the beginning. I'll probably never get it back, but I guess that's my fault for drinking in the first place; I deserve to be punished.
I just hope I never see that guy again, he made me feel weird. And I have a bad feeling that if we did ever meet again I wouldn't get off so lucky...
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