Welcome back to Rusty Knob
Here is a tasty treat: chapters 1&2
*18+ due to sexual content
“If you say so.” With an exerting grunt, the forty-something woman tries to finish a set for the first time. “My God, Brennan, how you push me.”
Chuckling sardonically, I help the woman to her feet, then hand her a towel to wipe away the sweat beading along her neck and enhanced décolletage. I do what any red-blooded man would do, pretend I’m the cloth as it wicks away the moisture.
“Thank you, Brennan.” Mrs. Hoffman blushes a beautiful shade of pink while I flatter her with my appreciative gaze. Breasts swelling more as her breathing deepens, her nipples bud against her sports bra.
“Hard work should always be admired.” Voice light, I can’t help the flirty tone from sneaking in. “You’ve improved since I’ve taken you under my tender loving care.”
“Tender?” Mrs. Hoffman’s lips slide into a smirk. “It’s a good thing my husband is willing to give me a massage after our workouts.” Swatting me with the damp towel playfully, she calls me a beast.
“Mr. Hoffman appreciates the results.” I waggle my eyebrows exaggeratedly and preen a bit when she pats my torso.
“Charmer,” is her parting comment as she sashays her firm ass to the locker room, where Mr. Hoffman is waiting to ravish his wife.
“Playing cupid again, are we?” Tony hops on the Stairmaster, a taunt and a challenge in his actions. My coworker is equally jealous and covetous of me. “That old man is gonna have a heart attack one of these days after you get his wife’s motor running.”
Gazing heavenward, I grab a clean cloth to wipe down the equipment in my area. “You know nothing of marriage, bud.” With a swift kick, I eject him from my machine, ignoring how amazing his calves look. “Most people cheat because they are missing something inside of themselves, not within their marriage. Mrs. Hoffman is crazy over her husband. She just needed her confidence built back up so she felt what Mr. Hoffman was already trying to tell her.”
“Then what’s wrong with your marriage, bud?” To add insult to injury, Tony whips off his shirt, showing off years and years of hard work turned into muscular perfection. Professionally, Tony is a work of art, but he doesn’t even get a twitch out of my dick, which is why he’s perpetually pissed at me.
Working in a gym is a blessing and a curse. As the resident bisexual, it’s my job to make sure everyone feels good about themselves. Surprisingly, even the straight guys ask if they’re looking good enough to date.
Morgantown, West Virginia is like an oxymoron. As a college town, we’re not as backward as Rusty Knob. Most of the clientele of Sweat it Out are students or those employed with a degree. They’re a bit more open-minded than the folks in my hometown, but not by much. The fact that I’m a man’s man who still loves pussy puts their minds at ease. They simply ignore the other half of my persuasion until they ask for advice on what to wear– how the fuck should I know?
I’m the only one who knows Tony wears women’s underwear underneath those tiny shorts and craves sucking dick. His cowardice outweighs his physical strength.
I won’t deny it; the fit women have my tongue dragging on the ground. Roundness: tits swaying in sports bras as they jog on the treadmill and bubble butts jiggling in yoga pants as they tackle the Stairmaster. Don’t even get me started on the visceral reaction I get from camel toe– gross to everyone who doesn’t want to get in those pants.
On the flip side, I have a thing for the geeky guys who look like I used to. Awkward, unsure, a bit insecure, and it makes me feel like the man when they come to me for guidance. But in the end, their hard work makes me proud yet sad when my geeky clients evolve, especially those who turn into muscle-heads. The bodybuilders don’t do a thing for me– it’s not what flips my switch. Even I wish I had backed off a while back. Now when I look in the mirror, I feel like my excess size is trying to compensate for my lack of height.
When I was soft, my wife didn’t want me. Now that I’m hard, she doesn’t want me either.
No shit, right?
Perils of falling in love and marrying a lesbian. I’m pretty sure if I grew a vagina, Jesse still wouldn’t have me. Every time my dad looks me in the eye, he’s biting back, “Son, I told you so.”
I haven’t been laid since we found out our daughter was conceived, since I’ll forever pretend that I didn’t cheat on Jesse the night before we got married. It would take a heinous motherfucker to do such a deplorable thing.
It was a goodbye.
I never talk about Jesse– our relationship is sacred. “My marriage is what it is.” I shrug one shoulder, counting the minutes until the end of my shift. I love my job, just not the cock-measuring politics. “I don’t wear the ring because I have to create an illusion, just like servers–”
“And strippers and whores.” Tony raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to deny it.
No can do.
“For the Mrs. Hoffmans of the world, I’ll gladly put up with being solicited day in and day out.” Tilting my head to the side, I size up Tony. “I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife. I can look my fill and make my clients feel desired and wanted, but I never act on it.”
“More’s the pity.” Tony’s checking me out at the same time, tiny shorts failing to disguise the reaction he has to me –nothing on my end.
Raising an eyebrow like a villain, “Challenge?”
“Fuck, yes!” Tony shouts, startling nearby patrons. “You’re such a fucking cock-tease, Bren.” He snaps my ass with a towel. “If you hadn’t bulked up, you would have found yourself on the wrong end of a bad situation.”
“Laps?” I lope off toward the exit with Tony following me like a faithful puppy. “Is there a right end of a bad situation?”
“Yeah,” Tony answers both of my questions. “Being the assailant.”
“Jesus,” I hiss, feet padding quickly down the stairs. “You’re a sick fuck, bro. A real sick fuck.”
With a wink, Tony brushes by me, making sure too much of his body comes in direct contact with mine. “I’m always up for who can do the most laps, because even if I lose, it’s still a win for me.”
Walking backward, wearing the most devious grin I’ve ever witnessed, Tony terrifies me sometimes. “You. Soaking wet. In nothing but a Speedo.” Laughing evilly, he hammers the final nail in the creepy coffin. “I let you win just so I can watch those powerful thighs and arms move you through the water, and how your round girly ass sticks up like a shark fin.”
“Bro, I’ma drown you.” I warn with a lunge.
It took half a semester before I realized higher education wasn’t for me. I’m more of a guy who likes to work with my hands– use my body as a machine. After this personal trainer gig is up, I’ll be apprenticing at Kennedy Construction. Sitting in lecture halls, discussing things that I’ll never apply in real life, it felt like I had fire ants crawling on my flesh.
I am a married father, a homeowner, with a fulltime job I adore– I don’t need a degree to prove my worth, and I sure as shit don’t need a degree to be happy.
I’m not Kade– Mr. I’m Going to Stay in College Until I have a billion PhDs. My brother is more worried about appearances than just accepting who he is and being happy. Kade was qualified for whatever job he wanted two years ago, yet he won’t go home and stay home.
For the past four years, I’ve been working as a personal trainer and stay-at-home dad. Right after high school graduation, I’d bought a house for Jesse, me, and the baby, with a room for Kade to sleep. It took even less time for Kade to vacate our place, which he was only using three times a week while he worked on his graduate degree, than it did for me to turn college-dropout. By the third awkward night, Kade had found an apartment to call his own. It didn’t take long before Wynn and Jack decided dorm life was too claustrophobic, after having all of Rusty Knob as their domain, before they invaded Kade’s efficiency apartment and made it their own.
Poor Kade– it’s Wynn and Jack’s apartment now, but Kade pays for it, which means I’m actually paying for it.
If it wasn’t for those idiots, I would have moved back to Rusty Knob, forcing Jesse and our daughter to follow me. I’m just biding my time until Wynn graduates next month, then I’m moving home, with or without them.
But not without my daughter.
“You’re late,” is my wife’s barked greeting as I walk in the front door after a ten-hour shift at the gym. “I missed my art class earlier because Becca was sick and couldn’t babysit. Answer your phone next time– it could have been an emergency.”
Sighing deeply, I think to myself how this is exactly what a man wants to walk into when he comes home. But then I remember this was my choice, and I pushed Jesse into it. After how I was raised, I dreamed of a nuclear family.
My mom died, taking my baby sister with her, and then our lives turned to hell when the Probsts set their sights on us. Using extortion to gain control of our family’s wrongful death settlement, the last hope of me ever having a mom, dad, and siblings went out the window. Now my family tree is exactly the stereotypical bullshit people use against West Virginian natives.
Since I didn’t have it as a kid, I wanted it as an adult– a wife being the only person I’d ever touched sexually or loved, with a gaggle of kids who were happy to see me when I came home from work.
I wanted it, yet I failed to give that to myself or my daughter.
‘Treat the wife as if she’s always right, even when she’s wrong’ is not my usual style. If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. A happy wife is a happy life. I don’t subscribe to any of that unbalanced thinking, because it breeds bad behavior I don’t want my daughter to witness. Jesse is my best friend more so than my wife, and we don’t do that enabling bullshit. But, tonight, I’m too tired to argue.
“You’re right, Jesse.” I step into our living room, shutting the front door behind me, then allow my gym bag to drop to the floor with a harsh sound of finality. “A class you attend at the YMCA is more important than the job that’s paying our bills.”
My petty, passive-aggressive bullshit causes fury to radiate from my wife’s cold, blue eyes– I know I’ve overstepped our boundaries. Jesse contributes financially, and her art does matter. I just don’t have the time to deal with her tonight.
“It’s not like–”
“Don’t!” I warn, raising a single fingertip, instinctively knowing my wife will bring up how none of us need to work.
Goddamn blood money I’d give back in a heartbeat if it meant I could bring my mom, unborn baby sister, and granddaddy back to life. They died, and the money we received brought nothing but terror into our lives. At first, everyone had their hand out, saying they were Kennedys so they deserved their cut.
My dad was a shell of a man– a walking zombie –and Uncle Donny was no better. To lose one person, you grieve. To lose the heart, the future, and the patriarch of your family, that is debilitating. I was a small child who grew up way too quickly, because I had a job to do– someone had to take care of my dad and uncle by showing them life was still worth living. Then we had the bright idea to do good with our unwelcome wealth, and we began revitalizing Rusty Knob and educating its natives.
Every time Jesse brings up how neither one of us has to work, I see red– the crimson wash of blood staining my hands. It was only a blink really– a two-second view of an object tearing my dad apart. Dad was larger than life to me until that very moment. A superhero brought down by the villain I thought was an ally. With the scent of terror and piss filling the air, that blink in time will last a lifetime. Blood ran down Dad’s body to pool on the floor around his knees, with Sean’s sated cock laying against Dad’s thigh– that destructive piece of flesh painted with my father’s blood and shit.
Sean, the guy who wanted me to call him Uncle Sean– the guy who would laugh and play with me– he had committed the most heinous crime one human could do to another, with the added torture of doing so in front of the man’s brother, woman, son, and best friend.
It only takes a blink to change the trajectory of your life.
A car exploding into a fiery ball on a freeway, with blood money to erase the loss, as if human life has a monetary value.
The terror of a ‘not a boy, yet not a man’ having to make the decision to leave his father to protect the twins, then run into the night, using the Kennedy blood running in his veins to direct him across their land and through the woods to Gillette Holler.
A sight that can never be unseen, removing all traces of innocence and altering how sex is viewed as a weapon, violence– an act of dominance instead of an act of love.
Every time anyone brings up how much money I have, I remember the metallic flash of a gun butted against the nape of Dad’s neck, and the sheer terror on Uncle Donny and Willa’s stunned faces. White as a sheet is just a saying– one we visualize. But one can’t truly know the horrific impact of seeing a loved one’s complexion turned to a shade of death unless they witness it firsthand.
The loud crack of gunfire next to my ear, where it took seconds in the ringing silence to realize Dad was still a live, and it was just Corbin meting out justice.
For nearly a decade, I’ve hidden the nightmares spawned by the red-wash as the front of Sean’s head exploded outward, painting the sofa, spraying across the floor, and blowing all the way to the kitchen cabinets, with his brain matter splattering Dad’s back and Uncle Donny and Willa’s faces.
Blink– I had to blink dozens of times until my mind brought reality into focus, because at first I couldn’t compute the macabre scene.
The lust and greed of green.
If the Probsts would’ve brought Octavia forward, telling Dad and Uncle Donny how Granddaddy had been naughty by getting another man’s wife knocked up, none of that would have happened.
Kennedys are an honorable people, and Octavia would’ve been given a third of Granddaddy’s money without hesitation. But the Probsts were greedy, violent people, and they didn’t want their own half-sister to have her cut– they wanted it all.
Money is the root of all evil, and even the attempt by my wife to bring it up almost drops me to my knees.
On the verge of throwing up, I issue weakly, “Just go.”
Without a backward glance, Jesse leaves our home, with her blonde ponytail the last thing I see. Slumping down onto the sofa, I stare at the door she just exited.
Passing ships in the night.
I work days at the gym while Jesse stays home with our daughter. Our next door neighbor’s home-schooled foster kid pops in once a day when Jesse wants to run errands or help out during art classes at the YMCA. As soon as I come home from work, I’m a stay-at-home dad. Jesse bolts like lightning, not coming back until the wee hours of the morning just before I head out to work.
Jesse works until last-call at an artist bar. She sets up her easel, along with a few other artists, and they paint while being observed. The patrons drink and eat to make the house a profit. The finished pieces are sold, and the artists are tipped– combined, the tips and the sale of their paintings are the wages. Some of Jesse’s pieces have sold for a pretty penny.
Jesse is damned good, and I’m proud of her, but I miss her more.
I was home late tonight because I don’t have the luxury of a babysitter doing my duty for hours on end during the day. I took an hour for myself to challenge Tony to let off some steam, then he and I just sat in the sauna and stared at the insides of our eyelids to de-stress.
For eighteen years of my life, Jesse was my best friend. Just Jesse, Franny, and me. Jackson and Wynn hovered on the outside, never truly wanting in, with a few of our basketball buddies breaching the surface from time to time.
We lost Francis to California, where he’s finishing his design degree and will never look back. Jesse was just as artistic, but her medium was oils instead of fabric.
I’m not sure what I added to our friendship besides being the one who posed in Frantastic Designs while Jesse memorialized the moment. The weakling is now the brawn, without an ounce of artistic ability, and the only common denominator between us is my purple stripe on the rainbow.
Small town. Small circles. No common threads needed besides proximity. With the distance of time separating us, highlighting how truly different we are, we’ve slowly drifted apart.
It didn’t used to be like this. When we were first married, Jesse and I shared a bed but not sex, many laughs, and a life– a future.
We were closer than close, able to tell the other anything, no matter how damaging it may have been. I’m only faithful in our marriage because of my beliefs, which have nothing to do with Jesse. Never once did I ask her to remain celibate, and this was without judgment or explanation.
I’m Jesse’s husband.
I used to be her life-long best friend and sometimes lover.
I am not her father.
But in the past few months, Jesse has turned into a nag who expects me to be a mind-reader. To read a mind Jesse doesn’t even understand herself.
Just as I told Tony, a cheater cheats because of something within them. When Mrs. Hoffman began training with me, she refused to voice her issues. She felt undesirable, completely blinding herself to the actions of her adoring husband. While training, she would express how he wasn’t attentive enough, but it was her inability to see outside of her insecurity to notice what Mr. Hoffman was actually providing. He could have doted on her hand and foot and she would have been dismissive and oblivious. It took me flirting with her to light a spark, when neither of us truly wanted the other. With the spark lit, Mr. Hoffman’s fire engulfed the insecurities until it was too hot to dismiss.
I’m not blind, nor deaf, nor dumb. Jesse’s the one pulling that bullshit now. I never judged, nor will I ever. Jesse’s resentment, her assumptions of how I feel without asking me or hearing me, that is on her.
My wife is one of the reasons I celebrate my bisexuality, because I can’t stand head-games with people who don’t even realize they’re playing them. Just like Mrs. Hoffman, why should their partner have to solve them like a broken Rubik’s Cube? Most men are exactly what they seem. The ones who aren’t, I don’t plan on fucking anyway. As for the emotionally stunted women, no fucking way. Never again. I won’t allow my daughter to grow up to be like that.
Most fathers worry about having a daughter who is promiscuous, while I’m worried she’ll be a manipulative head-case. I don’t care who my daughter has sex with as long as she doesn’t jerk him around on a leash, mess with his head, and make him feel like a moron.
My dad was my mom’s ‘yes man’, and I will never go down that road. Willa and Dad seem to draw strength off of each other, and that’s what I want out of my partner.
The wife is always right, no matter what, and we’re all to tee-hee and blush and feel guilty, even when she’s dead wrong, because God forbid the wife got upset. Meanwhile, I’m not exactly sure how my wife, who is three months younger than me, who has grown up in the same town, went to the same schools, and has had the same life experience as I have, suddenly became wise beyond her years while I remained an idiot the instant we were married.
I will not raise my daughter to mother her misfortunate husband, unlike how Jesse was raised to treat me. Immediately after we married, I was no longer the friend, but the bumbling husband without a brain in his head, and my friend was suddenly a genius wife who is always right.
I may not have a mother, but I refuse to allow my wife to treat me like her son. It’s been a struggle I’ve refused to relent on, because my self-respect is involved.
Our marriage was supposed to be built on friendship and our mutual adoration for our daughter. Regardless of the bizarre balance Jesse thinks we should have, our marriage won’t crumble because of our sexual orientations, or from one of us finding someone we want to be with instead. It will crumble because one of us refuses to communicate with the other.
To admit my depression is to admit defeat. The end of my marriage won’t be the failure; the dissolution of our friendship will be.
That’s all on Jesse, because Lord knows I’ve tried.
A light thud has me on my feet in an instant. Without hesitation, I find myself down the short hallway, standing outside of my daughter’s bedroom door. Resting my ear to the wooden panel, I listen to her chat animatedly with her doll babies.
All stress dissolves with the sweet cadence of Honor’s voice.
Blue eyes shining with lust, Wynn sits on my lap, grinding my dick into his fleshy behind. “Jack will be home soon,” he reminds me, and not for the reasons one would think. The little shit is an exhibitionist, just begging for an audience outside of little ol’ me.
Remember my Durango? Wynn even came out with spectators.
All activity thus far has been by the cover of darkness, thanks to the fact that we live in a two room apartment. One giant room housing the efficiency kitchen, the couch and TV, and two beds trying to be as far apart as possible– the only privacy is in the shitter, but there’s no lock on the door.
I can’t complain since I split half of my time here and the other half back at my house in Rusty Knob.
Wynn keeps edging closer and closer to the point of no return with Jackson, not realizing what he’s up to until it’s too late. I’m good with whatever, but Wynn’s conscience might not be.
My ex-roommate, Dan… yeah. I’m the voyeur to Wynn’s exhibitionist, so I get it.
I spent three years watching Dan have sex with just about every girl on Penn State’s campus, not realizing he knew I was watching while jerking off. By senior year, Dan unexpectedly fell for a guy– a guy he paid to give me a lap dance. In a burst of jealousy and possession, Dan tore Uriah wide open. Dan became obsessed with Uriah, to the point the scholar almost flunked out.
I was Dan’s best man when he married Uriah, and let’s just say the bachelor party will forever be showcased in my spank bank.
I spotted Wynn as a freak from the time he first sprouted wood– innocently addictive. There’s no way in hell I’m not going to give him everything he desires.
“C’mon.” Fingers wrapping around Wynn’s thick wrists, I try to pry him off of me. He just twists his fingertips into my shirt, getting a better hold. “It’s not fair how we mistreat poor Jackson– he’s not our bitch.”
“You’re the hog.” Wynn leans forward, nipping at the tip of my nose with his front teeth. “This place is spotless thanks to yours truly.”
Chuckling underneath my breath, living with a man who thinks he’s auditioning to be the next Betty Crocker and another who is compulsive, bordering on obsessive about cleanliness, is both a blessing and a curse. It’s like having two witty, snarky, intelligent yet smoking hot wives who take care of everything, but the downside is they are both on the rag at the same time and I fuck neither of ‘em.
The buddies join forces and try to put me in my place on a daily basis.
Filthy fucking pig is exactly what I am. It’s my lease, and they are here under my sufferance. So they can bitch until the landlord complains, and all it will sound like is music to my ears.
Only fifteen pounds lighter than me, and an inch shorter, yet somehow he’s stronger than I am, there is no way I can move Wynn without his consent. “Up!” I say more firmly, when I usually indulge Wynn in whatever the hell he wants. I’m the driver at all times, but the adorable passenger is giving the directions.
“You’re leaving in the morning.” Wynn actually pouts, pale skin pinking beautifully, and it takes everything in me not to throw him on the floor and screw him into the next millennium. “For three whole days.”
“Little shit,” I snap, not enjoying this guilt trip game Wynn plays. He’s a twenty-two-year-old pain in my ass, and waiting for him to grow up is slowly killing me. “We’ve been doing this bullshit for four years, true? So get off of me and deal.”
“I. Want. You.” Wynn’s chiseled features come closer and closer with seductive intent. The little bastard knows exactly how to strum my fiddle, and it’s terrifying to contemplate when he finally masters the instrument. “I want you, Kaden. Now.”
Head jacking backward, I grunt sharply, “Christ!” as Wynn grinds his ass against my erection.
“Fuck me.” Wynn’s heat-seeking pink tongue locates its target in record speed. The reverberation as he speaks into my mouth makes its way directly to my cock. “Or let me fuck you.”
The day Wynn figures out I’m waiting on him to take it, is the day I’ll die and go to heaven. All he has to do is tear open my fly and sit on my dick, or jerk my legs apart and impale me, and I’ll let him do whatever. But the little shit is too selfless and polite to figure it out, so I’m good for now.
I made a promise to myself when Wynn was still a kid, how I’d never take from him– ever. I’d give, he’d give, and we’d both receive.
I’m not taking Wynn’s virginity– he has to give it to me.
Shivering with a mix of anticipation and intense arousal, “Youscareme,” comes out in a jumbled mess as teeth attack my throat, leaving a necklace of marks behind.
Laughter vibrates my damp flesh. “I’m no longer Teenage Wynn, remember?”
“Adult Wynn is way scarier,” I admit without hesitation, while curling my fingernails into the sofa cushion to stop myself from totally annihilating his ass. “Smarter. Stronger. Older.”
“But you’ll always be smarter, stronger, and older than I am, Kade– no fear.”
“Bullshit.” I jackknife off the sofa cushion as Wynn’s mouth travels south, further and further south. The sound of my zipper lowering is deafening in our cavernous apartment.
At least Wynn’s no longer pinning me to the cushions… but his skilled mouth renders me immobile.
“How was school today?” Blue eyes roll up to stare at me through thick lashes. “Good day, I take it?” Fingers wrapping tightly, I’m engulfed in a firm hand, right at the base of my cock, nails digging into my nuts. “Bad day, maybe?” my voice breaks.
Wynn blinks, clearly annoyed by my evasion tactics, but he doesn’t look away. Saliva-slickened lips widen, ruddy skin pulling taut until white, as my flesh passes between and into the seductively evil recesses of Wynn’s mouth.
Brain blanking, just like every other man on the planet, I forget what my malfunction is as soon as lips wrap around my cock. Wynn learned this nifty trick in how to short circuit a guy’s brain via blowjob 101.
As with everything, Wynn excels in oral ministrations.
“Christ!” I gasp out on a laugh, back arching, fingers curling into the cushion to stop from gripping blond waves. “Do whatever the fuck you want, Wynn, but I ain’t gonna last.”
When we have privacy and unlimited time, Wynn works me from back to front, missing no inch of flesh from my tailbone to my bellybutton. But we’re on a time crunch against the clock, because Jackson will be home from the hospital at any second.
Shit quality but still mind-blowing intensity, I pop the instant Wynn adds teeth. “Motherfucker! I’ma punch you for that one day!” I scream loud enough to alert the Thai restaurant beneath us. “Knock all your goddamn teeth out.”
Jerking like I’m having an epileptic fit, Wynn taunts me with maniacal laughter while nicking the head of my dick until blood is drawn. Body beaded with sweat and lit by aftershocks, all I can do is gaze in wonder as Wynn tucks me back into my jeans, and then pats my package like it’s a good boy.
“Something to remember me by as you rub one out while you’re in Rusty Knob.” Wynn rises to his full height, staring down at me sprawled on the sofa like my world just burst into flames at my feet.
Weak, I reach for Wynn, wanting to give him pleasure too… and get some vengeance.
“I’m good.” Wynn jacks up his pant leg, then cups the wet spot growing over his bulge. No doubt, while giving me head, the horny bastard rubbed the heel of his palm on his jeans until he popped. “You gotta get up and cook us supper while I shower.”
Mouth slack, “The fuck?” falls out.
“Don’t you remember? Jack’s not our bitch.” Wynn’s taunting laughter flows as he swaggers across our apartment.
Completely lax, I stare at the ceiling while listening to the shower flowing. It takes me a few more heartbeats before I get it. “Wynn Erastus Gillette! I’m not your bitch!” is bellowing out of my throat just as the front door opens.
“Hmm… somebody ought to explain that to Wynn.” Always cute as a button, especially while wearing scrubs with storks carrying babies printed all over the light green fabric, Jackson smirks at me, knowing exactly what just went down. “Jesus, I’ll have an order of whatever you just had.”
“Be careful,” I warn, then deadpan, “My meal bites back.”