bitch didn’t even come to his goddamn funeral. She breaks his heart, gets him sent to fucking Baghdad, and then spits on his grave. Time to defend de family honor, bredda. “She’s joining some kind of witches’ thing along with that new chink chick. Christy told me.” Christy Walker, the sheriff’s younger daughter.
“Christy gonna be there?” Carl asked, sounding like he couldn’t have cared less.
“She wasn’t sure. Suze’s going.” The older sister, the one Jason had played grab ass with forever. More like grab dem everything, mon.
Jason and about half his team squeezed into two cars and tore down the old lake road, which led along rolling hills before they roared onto a dirt track and raised a huge cloud of dust that tailed them past the Empire Campgrounds. If not for the drought, the campsites would have been packed with every kind of suck-ass city shithead, but since the lake started looking like a burned-up biscuit the place had been practically deserted.
Jason slowed, turning off Shabba Ranks’s reggae rap because now he had to focus. (“Make yuh choo-choo like a train…”) This is where it gets tricky as shit, he thought. He pulled over; the second car followed closely. Jason kicked open his door and hopped out. “We’re gonna hafta huff it for about a mile up to Pointer Ridge.”
“Shit, man, I don’t want to hike all that way,” Carl complained.
“You know what?” Jason stuck his head back into the car and stared as Carl tried to crawl out of the Camaro’s tiny backseat. “You really are a fucking faggot.”
“Fuck you,” Carl muttered for the millionth time. “I’m just tired’s all.”
“Get out so Bert can move. You’re no faggot, are you, Bert?”
Bert was a lineman, a body crusher; and he’d be a lineman the rest of his life, near as Jason could tell. Always staring at girls like he was Lurch from The Addams Family. Not that any girl would go near him. Jason figured Bert was storing up the sight of legs and tits for later use. A goddamn squirrel thinking only of his nuts. Well, not only de nutbag, mon.
“Everybody,” Jason said after the guys emptied out of the two cars, “shut the fuck up when we get near the ridge. You want to see some fucking ass, you shut your fucking pie holes.”
“I’m planning on a whole lot more than seein’ some ass,” Ryan Petress said. The team’s split end.
“Yeah, Ryan, what’re you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinkin’ we’re raidin’ their hot witchy asses.” That set off a cheer.
“Yeah, nobody ever recognize you.”
“It’s dark.”
“Ain’t that dark, bro. Full fucking moon. Let’s just get up there, see what happens. Hey, they may be rapin’ us.”
They set off like they were possessed, except for Carl, dragging ass like always. Got de moves of a potted plant.
The team settled down, but the trees went off like .22s every time an arm or a shoulder caught a branch.
“Watch your goddamn step,” Jason hissed. “You want them throwin’ on their panties before we get there?”
“Long as we get to tear the fuckers off,” Ryan said.
Carl laughed, but like he had to.
Jason scrabbled up to where the trail fed onto the ridge, and crept to the overlook.
Holy fucking boom dogs, mon. They were all starting to stand, turning this way and that, really showing off their snatches. Giving him a crotchful, thanks to Mr. Moon. Couldn’t be more than a hundred, hundred fifty feet away down in the clearing. Twenty of ’em, at least.
Shit. Some were guys, including the one with the butt that had caught Jason’s eyes.
“Hey, Carl, check it out,” he whispered. “There’s your boyfriend,” he said, pointing to the dude Jason had wanted to ream till he figured out the owner of that firm round ass had a goddamn dick.
Now he could see the girl who’d fucked his brother, moonlight splashing all over her tits and tattoos. Fucking whore. Killer whore.
“We got to get closer,” Jason said, drawn in by the raw excitement of so much willing pussy. Beside him, Ryan was panting and Bert was almost drooling, staring like a starving squirrel.
* * *
Forensia brushed bits of dry grass off her legs and bottom, more conscious of her nudity now that she was standing and could feel eyes on her. Richtor’s, yes, but other Pagans, too, about half of them witches. She didn’t blame any of them for looking—she would have, in their place. Still, all those eyes on her … it felt like a million. Not that she was self-conscious