Today’s sexy free read comes from Roadhouse Blues by Malin James, to be published by Go Deeper Press on July 11, 2017. The excerpt below is from the first short story in the collection, “Flash, Pop!” Here’s what this short story collection is about:
Welcome to Styx—a blue-collar, American town where people can do whatever they like, so long as they don’t advertise. From a 1950s diner to the back of a rocking Camaro, the stories in Roadhouse Blues reveal sex that is by turns romantic, raw, triumphant, and desperate. Meet two women grieving the same man, a bartender looking for anything but love, and a hot, brash newlywed who knows she married a cheat. The local garage is run by a kick-ass woman who gives as fierce as she gets, and the strip club is a place full of whiskey and smoke, where memories are exposed as easily as skin.
“In the end,” writes author Malin James*, “sex is about people, and people have motivations, and sometimes those motivations surprise them.”
This is Roadhouse Blues. Surprise is just the beginning.
*Malin James quoted by LN Bey at lnbey.com.
Excerpt from “Flash, Pop!” in Roadhouse Blues:
Debi has always dreamed of being photographed by the tabloids. This excerpt opens in the magazine section of the supermarket.
“Hey, baby,” Deke had said one day, looking like James Dean if James Dean had a paunch. “Why’re you reading that trash?”
“It’s not trash,” Debi replied all sassy-like. “It’s culture.”
“Culture, huh? That what they’re callin’ Dolly Parton’s tits?”
Debi shrugged. “Whatever you call ‘em, they’re on the front page.”
“That’s nothing,” he’d said, palming a cantaloupe. “You’re way prettier than Dolly’s tits.”
“Yeah, well,” Debi said, flipping her hair so he wouldn’t see her blush. “Pretty ain’t landed me on no newsstand.”
“That what you want? To be a star?”
“Well, you look like a star to me,” he’d said, fondling a melon while looking
deep into her eyes. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”
Debi rested her hip against the watermelon bin. She could smell his cologne—some cheap drugstore brand, but she liked it. She liked it a lot.
“Deborah,” she said, making the last part stick, “but you can call me Debi. You?”
“Deke, baby. My name’s Deke.”
“Deke? Who the fuck has a name like Deke?”
“A man,” he drawled, “such as myself.”
He’d grinned, big as trouble on Friday night. Debi smiled back—not enough to look desperate. Just enough to show off her dimples. She might not have said it, but the name fit him just fine, from his devil-dark eyes to his broke-down boots. Over the next six months, she’d come to appreciate those eyes, those boots, and every filthy inch in between.
One night a week, Debi’s mama watched the kids so Debi could have some “me time”—something she got very little of since Jack, her fucker of an ex, left her for a stripper like the cliché he was. More than a year later, she was still pretty wound up about it. She thought of Deke as therapy. “Me time,” so far as her mama knew, meant dinner at the Elk’s Lodge with her non-existent girlfriends. In reality, “me time” meant meeting Deke at the Pak ‘n Buy so he could fuck her in his Camaro.
She looked forward to “me time” every week.
One night, a few months into her thing with Deke, (because it was a “thing,” not a relationship, no matter how many times he talked about getting hitched), Debi got a text.
Hey, baby. Get on over here. I want to see your pretty cunt.
Debi rolled her eyes. I’ll see what I can do.
Debi liked to think that she held the reins with Deke—she had kids, after all—but cool as she’d played it, her pretty cunt was soaked. Debi dialed her mom.
By the time she got to the Pak ‘n Buy thirty minutes later, she was so hot to trot she’d run two lights. Deke was waiting for her with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth like a canary feather.
“Hey, baby,” he said, grabbing her for a kiss. Debi pretended to shove him away. She liked to make him work.
“Watch it, Deke,” she said. “I just did my hair. Like it?”
“Yeah, baby. You look good. Real good. Like a wild woman with all those curls.”
It was bullshit, but she loved it anyway so she gave him a kiss for his trouble. Then she gave him a bigger kiss, angling so the bulge in his jeans fit right between her thighs. Goddamn if she didn’t love that …. She pressed herself against him, cunt bare and slick without a scrap to soak her up. Deke ran his hands over her ass.
“You bare under that pretty white dress?”
“How ‘bout you find out,” she purred.
Deke gave her his best Paul Newman smile. Then he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
“Watch it, Deke!” she squealed. “I’m flashing half the Pak ‘n Buy!”
“Shoulda thought of that before you went bare, dirty girl. C’mon. I got you a surprise.”
Debi’s face burned as he carried her into the parking lot, but despite her kicking and hollering, only part of her was pissed—the rest was so horny she just didn’t care. Then she saw the flash. “Deke?”
Deke pat her ass and kept walking. More flashes. Flashes and pops, like a dirty, tabloid dream. Someone had a camera and they were using the hell out of it.
“Deke!? What the fuck?” Debi started kicking for real, but the more she kicked, the more her dress hiked up. She thought of her mama and squirmed ‘til her dress was up around her waist.
Deke gave her ass a playful smack. “Keep kicking, baby! Show ‘em what you got!”
Debi shrieked. “Deke, you bastard! Put me down! They can see everything!”
“Sure can! Smile, baby!” Despite the lazy drawl, Deke picked up the pace as he carried her through the popping lights. By the time they got to his car, she was a mess from trying and failing to kick his ass. He tucked her in the backseat and looked at her with stars in his fucking eyes. “Look at you, baby. You are fucking gorge—”
Debi slapped him so hard her hand went numb. Then she grabbed him by the belt and yanked him down. She should’ve been pissed but she wasn’t, not really, not given the hell she’d catch if her mama found out she was bare-assed in a parking lot instead of “helping a friend.” That didn’t matter, though—not right then. Someone had just photographed her, like she was a person worth photographing. She was horny as fuck in the back of a Camaro, and the look on Deke’s face was her favorite kind of foreplay.
Deke shoved down his jeans. “Come here, baby.”
Debi spread her legs. Then his big cock was deep in her, and she was scratching up his back. To hell with her Gel Tips.
She didn’t expect to come. She almost never did, not from straight-up fucking, but that was okay. Coming almost cluttered the experience. She wanted to soak up as much sweat and salt as she could. She wanted to hear every panting, slick, sloppy squish and bang as they fucked, and she couldn’t do that when she was screaming like a porn star. Except, Debi realized, she kinda was screaming like a porn star. Then Deke’s phone buzzed and he stopped.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” she whined.
Deke checked his phone. What he saw made him grin. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s just your surprise.”
Deke gave her the phone and started thrusting, sweet and slow, while she scrolled. There she was, peeking through her wild-woman curls…there was Deke’s hand, big and strong against her pretty, dimpled ass…and there was her cunt, glistening like candy in that bright, tabloid light. Her face burned as she stared at her body, exposed like a stranger’s, lush and ready to fuck. It was the sexiest fucking thing and it hit her like rum and Coke. Debi started to come. “Fuck. Oh, fuck! Deke!”
Deke grunted and nailed her as hard as he could while she wailed and shrieked and clutched the phone. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt those flashing lights, saw herself through that big, sexy lens.
About the author:
Malin James is an essayist, blogger, and short story writer. Her work has appeared in Electric Literature, Bust, MUTHA, Queen Mob’s Tea House and Medium, as well as in podcasts and anthologies for Cleis Press, Sweetmeats Press and Stupid Fish Productions.
Roadhouse Blues will be available for purchase on Tuesday, July 11, 2017, via Go Deeper Press.