Chapter 6

Lil’ Helper - Act 2

It’s not necessary to read act 1, but I highly suggest it. Things in the plot may not make sense.

Opener: Flashback two months ago.

The Rusty Spoon squatted on Wolferton’s Westside, a dive bar hacked from an abandoned freight depot beside a disused train track, its neon sign buzzing like a dying wasp in the late May dusk. Stale beer, cigarette ash, and a jukebox’s warped Merle Haggard moan choked the air, sawdust crunching under Reese Callahan’s steel-toed boots as he slumped into a corner booth. His flannel hung open, soaked with early summer sweat, the skull tattoo on his scarred forearm slick under the bar’s dim bulbs. Rusted loading doors, barely patched, rattled in the evening breeze, a faint echo of the trains long gone.

Reese pushed through the bar’s haze, the bartender, a grizzled guy with a snakebite piercing, knowingly slid a cold beer can Reese’s way without a word. Reese downed half in one pull, the cold fizz doing jack to douse the fire in his gut, a raging mix of stress and unquenched lust that had him chained to the Rusty Spoon’s sticky booths, where he’d first collided with Tara Lynn a year and a half ago. In this very dive, her sultry laugh and swaying hips had hooked him as she leaned over the pool table, her tight skirt riding up, teasing a glimpse of red lace panties, her full tits nearly spilling from a low-cut top. Their connection was a fucking inferno: her nails digging into his back in his pickup’s cab even before last call, her thighs straddling him, riding his cock with a hungry moan that still fueled his dreams, their sweat-soaked bodies fusing in a haze of whiskey and raw need. At 27, Reese was grinding his life away in construction since ditching high school, the last eight years under Vince’s iron grip. This current strip mall job, only two months in to a 3 year gig, was a soul-crushing slog of rebar and concrete, his paycheck vanishing like cum on a bar rag. Tara, 33, was kept away from Reese. A slight promotion had her working late shifts at the Wolf’s Howl Motel, her dishwater-blonde hair framing a MILF’s face—sharp cheekbones, full lips curling into a filthy smirk, and tired green eyes that burned with want, her curvy hips and heavy, swaying tits a goddamn siren call despite years of rehab and scraping by, her sobriety chip gleaming like a taunt against her desperate grind. She and her son Jamie had taken his invite and moved into Reese’s cramped apartment last November, Even with their two salaries, bills were bleeding his wallet dry, forcing him to pull strings for Jamie’s helper gig at the site. The kid, 17, with his small wiry frame and goofy grins, was always fucking underfoot. His chatter a brick wall between Reese and Tara’s skin, her warm, wet heat that he craved to pound into oblivion, her moans a ghost in his cock as he drank to numb the ache of their stolen, frenzied fucks.

Reese’s thumb flicked across his phone, Tara’s nudes flashing—her tits spilling from red lace, thighs parted, that smirk promising a fuck he hadn’t had in weeks. His cock twitched, jeans tight, but then Jamie’s vid popped up, the kid horsing around with a tape measure on the site, all teeth and hustle. Reese’s jaw tightened, the bar’s haze pressing in—truckers and laborers hunched over beers, eyes sharp with want. His tank top hugged his chiseled pecs, sweat tracing his abs, pulling stares he ignored. He nursed his third beer, warm now, flipping back to Tara’s pic, her curves a heat he couldn’t reach. Across the room, the “Dads”—Mickey, Joe, and Dave—sprawled in a shadowed booth, whiskey glasses sweating. They’d rolled in half an hour ago, their pool games with Reese a memory of lost bets. Mickey owned the room, his black polo straining over a broad chest, joggers slung low, scuffed sneakers planted wide. Joe, bearded and thick, and Dave, lean with a coyote’s glint, leaned in, flannels loose, voices rough. Reese caught snatches as the jukebox hiccupped. Joe growled, “Last night’s piece ... Fuckin’ wild ... tight as hell.” Dave’s laugh cut low, “Gotta ... get ‘em ... trained right, ... out of the house.” Mickey’s smartwatch pinged, his smirk sharp. “Little ... nudge ... does it. Makes ‘em hungry ... to please.” Reese’s grip tightened on his phone, their words hitting a nerve. “Fuckin’ cockblock,” he muttered to his beer, signaling the bartender for a round of cheap drafts, sliding them to the Dads’ booth with a nod. “Sounds like you get my problem,” he grunted, hazel eyes glinting, tank top shifting to bare sweat-slick abs.