The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 17
A Slight Complication.
Noon.
His eyes opened slightly, just little slits. In this moment, the first thing he saw was the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe it was his own reflection in a mirror. He imagined it could be. Then, he realized it wasn't. It was his mother.
"Wake up, you cute thing," she purred, giving him light kisses all over his face. His eyes, his cheeks, his nose, her lips barely grazing his.
Responding with soft murmurs, Ozzie began to stretch his limbs.
"C'mon, sweetheart. It's noon. Time to get up. Your father and I are entertaining some friends out on the boat. You're on your own."
By this time, Ozzie was sitting halfway up, supported by his elbows.
"Okay," he yawned.
As Kara Lundrigan de la Renta threw back the thick drapes on the windows, Ozzie admired her form. Narrow hips, a strong back, well-defined bare arms, small breasts, long straight blonde hair, immaculately cut and styled, her small mouth and nose, round eyes. She was a hottie, just like him.
"Please tell me you'll stay out of trouble," she begged with a smile.
"Not a chance," Ozzie responded, rubbing his eyes and yawning some more.
Only after he heard his parents depart, did he nudge the covers off, swing his legs over the side of the bed, and head to the bathroom.
After taking his morning whizz, not bothering to put anything on, Ozzie first examined himself in the floor length mirror, noting that his cock was delightfully at half mast. He rubbed his hands along the smooth skin of his sides and flank across his pubic bone, giving each nipple a little squeeze, and caressing his round butt cheeks.
With nary a care in the world, he strolled down the steps, still completely naked, and into the kitchen. Consuella was there, mixing something in a bowl. The cook's back was to them, her head in the oven, apparently checking the progress of some elaborate baked confection.
Ozzie smirked as he saw Consuella's reaction, eyes open wide, mouth agape, in surprise. He stood for a moment, facing her, one hand on his hip, his cock thickening.
"I'm going to take a little dip," he announced in a light airy voice.
With that, he walked out the nearby door to the zero-entry pool, quickly wading into the water until he was able to dive under the surface.
The water was like silk, a perfect temperature. Ozzie swam a couple of laps, in the process, becoming alert and energized. Boosting himself up on the side of the pool, he looked into the house, barely aware that Consuella was working at the kitchen sink, facing the windows.
Once he hit the water, he lost his erection. Now it was back, stronger than ever. With a quirky smile as he noticed Consuella in the window, Ozzie propped himself up on the edge of the pool, spread his legs and grabbed onto it. First squeezing it and bending the tip upward so he could check it out, then swirling his hand around the shaft. He leaned back on one arm, bending the opposite knee and bringing his foot up to the pool deck. Alternately, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, then directing his gaze toward the house, making sure she was looking. She was looking all right. So was Maria, from a bedroom window on the second floor.
Knowing that they were enjoying the show should have been enough. But, Ozzie's mind was also on that guy he'd met last night. What was his name again? Those wide shoulders, muscled arms, his cute face. Fuck! It would be fun to be taken by that guy!
Eyes clenched shut. Three strong shots, the first one going over two feet across the surface of the water.
As his orgasm slowed, he opened his eyes, watching the goo floating on the surface of the pool. It looked sort of like long swirls of snot. With a chuckle, he slipped back into the pool, his mouth halfway out of the water, and sucked all the jizz right down his own throat.
Nothing better! He looked up at the two women, still glued to the windows, and raised his arms over his head, hands clutched together in a victory pose, a broad smile on his face.
For a moment, Vern thought he was dead.
After he jerked the padlock open and nudged the outhouse door open, Vern peered in to see Jago's body curled up, turned away from the door, and completely inert. It was only after he turned him over that he saw the glare on his face.
"You okay?" He asked.
No answer.
"Oh, I forgot," Vern chuckled. With that, he peeled the Gorilla tape away from Cornie's mouth. For a moment, he regretted doing it, following the torrent of obscenities emanating from the still hog-tied man.
After he struggled to get Jago into a sitting position, Vern started to give him a lecture on fire safety.
"I gotta piss!" Cornish interrupted, in a gruff voice.
"Oh yeah," Vern said, quickly releasing the man from his bonds.
After he hobbled out of the outhouse, Jago quickly unzipped and let it go.
"That's some good pee'in," Vern chuckled, observing Jago's stream. "Coulda put the fire out last night with that!"
After he nudged his zipper up half way, Cornish gave Vern a hard look. "Ya know, I could take ya for doing that to me."
Vern stared back, a questioning look on his face. "Really?" He had to chuckle. Cornie actually looked ridiculous right now. Two black eyes, a cut on the bridge of his nose, bruised cheeks, his underwear sticking out of the half-closed fly of his rumpled pants.
"You look," Jago responded. He went onto explain his convoluted rationale for causing all the trouble. "We can get back what we once had," he growled.
"Well, that's different," Vern finally said, matter-of-factly. "I dunno, Cornie," he finally said, scratching a spot on the side of his head. "You realize you could have burned down the whole island."
"Wouldn't that have been a tragedy?" Cornish responded sarcastically.
"I should turn you in."
"Go ahead! Who'll believe you?"
Vern shrugged. Self-doubt crept in, making him shiver for a moment. "Well, I guess I'll let you go. Just do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"Stay away from Ledecker Island."
Vern took Jago back to the main land in his boat.
"See, I even brought your boat back," Vern yelled over the sound of the outboard, as he pulled back on the throttle.
Cornish kept his boat docked on a narrow strip of land between Bay Lake and Tame Fish Lake. His modest house was buried in the woods across the highway, occupying a small amount of lakefront on Tame, as locals called it.
He jumped out onto the dock just as Vern pulled up. No hearty farewell, he just lumbered off the dock. Vern reversed throttle long enough to pull back, after which he sped away.
Some guy was standing next to a car on the sandy lot adjacent to Jago's dock.
"'Help ya?" Cornish asked as he walked toward the road.
"Not really. Just checking things out," he replied.
"Why don't ya check things out from someplace else?" Cornish said, in an unfriendly kind of voice.
He was wearing a wide brimmed baseball cap, the visor casting a deep shadow across his eyes. A half smile on his face, a punk smile as far as Cornish could tell, almost as if he was mocking him. Lanky, wearing a weathered t-shirt, and some equally worn jeans.
"Sure, gramps," he smirked, starting to turn to go. Then he stopped. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah, what?"
"Do you smoke?"
"Used to. Gave it up. I just chew now. Why?"
"That's good. Smoking can kill ya, you know?"
"Hey!" Cornish growled. "What's it to ya, young fella?"
He shrugged. "A flame can be sorta dangerous, at least for someone like you."
"Like me? Why's that?"
"Kerosene. I can smell it on you. Kind of has a tendency to go 'poof.' Ya know?"
Cornish immediately felt wigged out. The guy put his hand in his pocket, as if he was reaching for a match, lighter, or worse, a gun.
Cornish started to back away, holding his hands in front of him.
"Wait a minute. I don't want no trouble. Just get along, ok?"
The guy smirked again.
"See ya around, gramps."
Without another word, he jumped into his car, peeled away leaving a trail of dust, and was gone just like that.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Cornie muttered under his breath. He realized he was hyper-ventilating, sweating like a pig.
"Don't!"
Thayer wriggled away from Rome. He'd just reached up to grab a kid's orange life preserver off of a nail high on the wall of the boathouse when he felt Romey's hand brush across his back.
"Just tryin' to help!" Rome exclaimed, immediately blushing.
Annoyed and frustrated. Since having his private jerk-off spot discovered, Thayer had no place to do it. And, he needed to do it bad. Worse, Romey's touch brought a mash of emotions into his mind—revulsion, humiliation, and a troubling level of arousal.
Last night in bed, his jerk-off towel creating some welcome friction against the under side of his cock, he relived the encounter with C.O once again. In retrospect, he wished he had let C.O. do it. He wanted him to do it. He wanted to feel his cock inside of him. He wanted to get fucked by him. Somehow, at the last second, C.O. was replaced by the distasteful vision of a naked Rome, boney frame and all, his hand wound around Thayer's cock. Troubling in a lot of ways, that's what pushed him over the edge.
Today, now past noon, he had yet to hear from C.O. He'd been kept running by Ten Ethyl most of the morning. In addition to the usual fishermen, there was now a crowd of curiosity seekers wanting to take boats out to cruise around Ledecker Island. In fact, they'd sold out by 10 a.m. Small groups of people sat around at the picnic tables or stood in small groups waiting for boats to return to dock. It seemed like everyone wanted to take a ride around the island to gape at the site of the murder and, now, Dickie Lee's place. The scorched side of his cabin was clearly visible from the water.
"Who do they think did it?" One of the thrill seekers asked Thayer.
"Gee, ah, haven't heard much," he mumbled quickly, as he stared off in the distance.
Deck and Cutie landed just after 1:00 p.m. in his splendiferous Chris Craft mahogany inboard runabout, eliciting a few whistles and "holy cows." Thayer grabbed the tie rope Cutie threw to him, quickly securing the boat to the dock.
"You comin'?" Deck asked Cutie, as he hopped out. He didn't bother thanking Thayer or even acknowledging him.
Giving Thayer a flirty smile, she turned to her dad. "I think I'll hang around here, if it's okay."
Without another word, Deck charged up the dock, looking all business even though he didn't really look the part, dressed in shorts, Topsiders, white anklets, and a navy polo shirt.
"Wha-cha doin'?" Cutie asked in a sing-song voice.
Thayer immediately blushed, wondering in that moment why in the hell he was blushing.
"Nothin'," he replied, giggling. "Well, working."
"Who are you guys?"
Deck glared at the man sitting across from him. They were occupying a high-top at Croft Kitchen & Bar in Crosby.
The Ghost didn't reply immediately. He was too busy loading his cheeseburger up with mustard, ketchup, and onion. A patented negotiating tactic. Prolong and increase the pressure with silence, pretending to be occupied while busying himself with something trite.
Earlier this morning, Deck had received an alarming call from Fritz Wold at the bank. The Credit Committee would be meeting shortly. If there wasn't some movement right now, meaning that he needed to clean up the past dues and clear the overdraft, they'd have to reclassify his loans as non-accrual, the first step in the direction of legal action.
"Meet with him, please!" Fritz pleaded. A guy who could alleviate most, if not all, of Deck's misery.
"Just some people. We like to invest in situations provocatrices ," The Ghost replied, using the phrase with a perfect French accent.
"What does that mean?"
"You have an interesting problem, at least interesting to us."
Deck smirked.
"Go on."
"A nice little business," The Ghost continued.
Deck bristled at that comment.
"A nice little place over there on that island,"
Nice little place? What the fuck!
"On a very nice little island. Oh, and," he added, "a little problem with cash flow."
"I resent the way you use that word, 'little,'" Deck responded. He looked down at his burger, still sitting there. All of a sudden, it looked very unappealing. He'd completely lost his appetite.
The Ghost just stared at him, his facial muscles twitching. He resisted the urge to break into raucous laughter.
"You're really pissing me off," Deck finally responded. He could feel his blood pressure rising.
"I'll lay it out for you, nice and simple," The Ghost said, becoming more serious. "We'll give you seven-fifty for your property on Ledecker Island…"
"Are you fucking kidding me? I owe more than that on my mortgage. And, I already got an offer for a million!"
"Listen up, Deck. And, we'll give you three-fifty to cover the amount you're behind at the bank, in exchange for a note, of course."
"I'm supposed to live where? In a trailer?" Deck replied, now beginning to get livid with anger.
"Well, no. We'll build you a new house over on Brighton Point. A piece of property just became available," The Ghost said with a smirk.
"The Green's? They're not gonna rebuild?"
"They've decided to, ah, move somewhere else. Maybe back to the Cities."
"I doubt that," Deck said, shaking his head. "That was their dream home."
"We persuaded them to change their minds," The Ghost replied, in a wry tone.
The dust hadn't settled yet on that deal but, earlier in the morning, Clark had put the screws to Ken and Loretta. It helped that he gave them a discount on an apartment Dinwiddie Properties owned in Minneapolis's gleaming new condo tower on the Mississippi.
"How am I gonna pay for a new place if you've got both hands tied behind my back?"
"You'll rent."
If this situation doesn't totally suck , Deck thought. He continued to glare at The Ghost. In return, he stared back, a blank look on his face.
Earlier, Shamus was trying to eke out a few minutes editing a chapter of his book. In it, nineteen-year-old Rory, his protagonist, is lured to the Italian villa of a slimy photographer, Eddie Jones.
" Just your shirt," he cajoles Rory. He shrugs, pulling it off, feeling immediately uncomfortable. The camera zooms in on him, then…
His keyboard tapping was interrupted by an incoming text from Deputy Porter, sent simultaneously to Concannon.
Who is this? The short message accompanied by two photos. In the first, Linnie Lee is standing next to a black Jaguar XF, double-parked in the street. A mostly obscured man opens the door and gets out of the back seat. In the next photo, they're entering the Iron Range Eatery in Crosby. The man's face is clearly visible in this one.
Right out of central casting , Shamus said to himself. If anyone ever looked the part of Italian mobster, it was this guy. Slicked back dark hair, square features, broad shoulders, wearing a black suit jacket, carrying a soft-sided brief case.
I'm on my way, Shamus responded.
"This shouldn't take too long," Tony said, after they were served coffee.
"Good," Linnie Lee replied. "I gotta be somewhere." Unsaid, the itch that was driving her nuts right now was the pressing need for a gin and tonic and the sound of electronic bells coming from the myriad of slot machines.
Tony watched silently as Linnie Lee laboriously read the document.
It took less than ten minutes for Shamus to get from his place in Deerwood to Main Street in Crosby. He pulled in behind Gary Porter's squad car, just around the corner from the greasy spoon. They both peered at the front of the restaurant, noting the presence of the black Jag, still double-parked in the street.
"I'm gonna take a look," Shamus said.
Always seated in a rear booth, his back to the wall, Tony made the guy in just seconds. Cop! It wasn't his physical stature. An older man, thick gray mustache, kind of round shaped, a shock of grey hair, dressed inconspicuously. It was his demeanor. Serious, trying too hard to maintain no expression at all. Likewise, he didn't look around, like most people do when they enter a room, or in this case, a restaurant. He went straight to the counter and sat down, pretending to study the menu.
Just then, he noticed his phone light up with a text message.
Heat , from Neal, sitting outside in the car. Just one word, meaning—cops!
Tony glanced out the window just as a Sheriff's Department cruiser passed by.
"Linnie Lee, babe," he said. "Let's finish this up, okay?"
She was about to raise her hand, the one holding the pen, to start signing, when a thought popped into her head. It was an expression her father used, for as long as she could remember. Stupid, really. It didn't mean anything to anybody other than the people who knew him well. "Shilly-shally." Sometimes he meant it as in hurry up. "Don't shilly-shally around." Other times, he'd use it as a reason to do just that, slow down and take his time. "I'm gonna shilly-shally before I do anything else," he'd say.
Which is exactly what she was thinking.
"Ya know, Tony. I really appreciate you putting this all together, but I think I'm gonna have my lawyer take a look at it. Maybe my brothers, too."
A stunned expression came over Tony's face for a moment. Then he reached over, attempting to retrieve all of the documents. Linnie Lee was a bit faster.
"That's okay, I got 'em," she said, her palm flattened on the table, securing the papers.
Tony was about to rip them out of her hand. Instead, he got up, paused for a moment, looked down at her with a frown, and said, "We'll be in touch."
"Airport!" He said, after he flopped down in the back seat of the car.
As soon as he left, Linnie Lee gathered up the documents, stuffed them into the folder that had been sitting on the table, and threw some money down for the two coffees.
Shamus grabbed her by the arm on her way out.
"Say! Would you like to talk?" He said softly.
Linnie Lee hesitated for a moment, thinking. "No," she replied firmly. And then, she walked out.
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