The morning of July 17 dawned cloudy and warm in Royal Woods. A low pressure system from Lake Michigan had passed through overnight and left wet grass and damp pavement in its wake. The relief brought by the rain was welcome, as Central Michigan had been in the grip of a ruthless heatwave since Independence Day and there were really worries about brush fires in the forests north and west of town. On July 13, a carelessly tossed cigarette turned a grassy field next to Route 10 into a raging inferno that took firefighters from three towns nearly six hours to quell, and everyone was on edge waiting for it to happen again, the old timers whispering lowly about "The Big'un" of 1979. If you asked them kindly enough, they would tell you the story of how a simple house fire turned an August drought into Armageddon, their eyes haunted and their voices sober. They would tell you that dozens of firefighters were killed and that half of Royal Woods went up in smoke. They would tell you stories upon stories...but that's all they were, stories. In actuality, one fireman died, three were injured, and the only building in town that suffered damage was a wooden garage where the highway department stored tools and a plow for winter.
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, they say.
If the fears of another big'un were anything more than idle, time-filling fancy, they were extinguished with the rain. Barely an inch fell between midnight and 5am, but it was enough to stave off the specter of fire - for now.
With the advent of dawn, the town began to come slowly awake like an animal stirring in its den. The diner on Main Street opened at 5:30 and by 6, the counter was host to truckers, factory workers, and farmhands; some were on their way to work, and others on their way home from work. The biggest employer in Royal County was the Tyson plant on the border with Fauquier County and the size of its night shift was legendary. America loves its chicken and the men and women of Royal County worked around the clock to provide it.
Elsewhere, shop owners opened up for the day and the highways filled with commuters; a third of Royal Woods' residents worked in the city where the pay was almost as high as the crime rate. I-69, which lies three miles from downtown Royal Woods - so close that you could hear the whoosh of passing traffic on a quiet day - quickly jammed and those lucky enough to make it to Exit 6 cut through Royal Woods on their way around the impasse.
When they were built in the 1950s and 60s, America's interstate highway system bypassed and subsequently starved countless towns. With the newer, safer freeways, the old main roads became secondary routes that few people ventured down. Royal Woods was not one of those places. In fact, the opposite was true. Before I-69 opened in 1962, Royal Woods was a secluded farming community cut off from the rest of the state by steep hills, dense pine forests, and the Royal River, which swelled every spring and sometimes knocked out the bridge into town. It had been largely ignored since its founding in 1882 and the residents liked it that way. The interstate, however, changed everything. Almost overnight, Royal Woods was a stone's throw away from a major artery of transit and commerce, and by the end of the sixties, a fleet of restaurants, gas stations, and motor lodges had sprung up to service the travellers.
For decades, the highway was Royal Woods' identity and, indeed, its very animating spirit. As the outskirts of Detroit spread out and swallowed more communities, creeping closer and closer, it lost its position as a way station between ports. The restaurants and motels closed down one by one until only a few remained and by the 1990s, Royal County was on life support. The Tyson plant opened in 1996 and was welcomed as a savior. Those who didn't work there made the trek into Detroit. The minority who worked in town owned their livelihood: The barber, the butcher, the guy who still pumped your gas at the Shell station on the corner of Pine Street and High Ave.
On Franklin Avenue, in a nondescript two story house with a red front door and a lush tree in the front yard, Lincoln Loud was sitting up in bed dressed in only his socks and underwear, a hardback book open in his lap. On the page, a black and white photo of a thin blonde man in a prison jumpsuit stared up at him, its eyes cold, dead, and fish-like. Dahmer at court, the caption read.
Lincoln, a scrawny boy of almost twelve, enjoyed reading slightly more than the average Gen Z kid but a whole lot less than his sister Lucy did. His literary fare often came in the form of manga, comic books, and the occasional fantasy or science fiction paperback he picked up from the drugstore, the kind with lurid and colorful covers depicting buff swordsmen, scantily-clad women, and rocket ships blasting off to far and uncharted planets. Yesterday evening, Saturday, he walked past Lucy in the living room and noticed she was paging through the same book she'd been working on for a week. He backed up and peered over her shoulder. "What are you reading?" he asked and slurped his juice box.
"The Serial Killer Encyclopedia by Michael Newton," she said matter of factly. Reading about violent murderers is the most normal thing in the world, lol. Hmu. "It's riveting."
It must be if she was still going over it after a whole freaking week. "You should read it," Lucy said and held it out.
Uhh…
"Gee, thanks, but, uh, I'm not really into that kind of thing."
"B'wok,. B'wok," Lucy said.
"No, it's not that, I just -"
"It's okay," Lucy said and went back to reading. "You don't have the balls. I shouldn't have asked in the first place."
Living with ten catty girls, Lincoln had developed a thick skin over the years, but one thing that still managed to get to him was having his masculinity insulted. Maybe he was fragile, maybe he was self-conscious...but he didn't like that shit at all. He snatched the book out of Lucy's hands. "Give that here." He leafed through the pages, fighting really hard to not show his trepidation. Thankfully, instead of the gruesome crime scene photos he was expecting, he found ordinary run of the mill pictures, mainly mugshots. One picture showed Ted Bundy in a suit and tie sitting in court, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else (like maybe a crime scene) and another showed a black man with an afro being arrested by police. Lincoln studied his face for a long time trying to figure out who the guy looked like, then it clicked. Obama. LOL. Hey, B. "I'm going to make you eat your words, Lucy. I'm gonna read this whole thing."
"Be my guest," Lucy said. She reached between her and the arm of the chair and pulled out a thick hardback. "I have The Vampire Book by J. Gordon Melton to keep me busy." She opened the book and dipped in, legs kicking girlishly back and forth.
You're one strange cat, Lucy.
Taking the book upstairs, Lincoln stripped down to his underwear and started to read.
In seconds, he was asleep.
It wasn't that the book was bad - he barely had time to judge its quality - it was that his sleep schedule was all out of whack. During the school year, he went to bed at eleven and woke up at six. In the summer, with no structure, he fell asleep and woke up whenever he felt like it. The previous night, he stayed up trying to beat Nightmare City, the hottest new first person zombie/Nazi shoot 'em up, and didn't realize he forgot to sleep until it was 10am. Oh well. He got tired and almost fell asleep around 3, but he hit the shower and caught his second wind. He sat down with the book at just 8pm and when he woke up, it was 4am. He started reading again, and quickly became engrossed in the world of bad men and bloodletters. The author's style was easy and conversational, a head-spinning juxtaposition to the horrible deeds he described. One guy cut a woman's head off, put make up on it, and, uh, put his peener in its mouth.
Ugh.
Another dude cut a woman's head off and buried it in the backyard facing the house. He then proceeded to tell his mother, "People really look up to you around here."
LOL.
When the first hints of sunlight trickled tentatively through the window, he was reading about Jefferey Dahmer, the Millwaukie Cannibal who killed scores of boys and young men, ate them, and kept their rotting bodies in his apartment. He even drilled a hole in one guy's head and poured acid inside in an attempt to turn him into a zombie. Jesus, this is dude whacked.
Some of the entries made him sick, others made him mad, but no matter the strong and violent emotions the articles invoked in him, he couldn't look away. It was like a train wreck. Severed limbs, headless trunks, naked bodies in rivers, Ted Bundy escaping jail, like, twenty times.
Were it up to Lincoln, he would have sat right there and finished the whole book, but he had things to do today.
Sigh.
Last month, he helped Lana build a soap box car so that she could enter into a race for a chance to meet her idol, Bobbie Fletcher, the stock car driver. Bobbie wasn't the first female stock car driver, that distinction belonged, if he recalled, to Danica Patrick. Danica Patrick sucked, though. She never won a race. Bobbie had. Many races. It was only natural for Lana to look up to Bobbie Fletcher and Lincoln was cool with it - hey, we all need role models. He was even cool with helping Lana enter the race for a shot at meeting her hero. Lana didn't win, though. That may have been the end of it, but Bobbie, even the chill chick, invited Lana over to her mansion for a meet and greet anyway. The date was set and the only one who was free to accompany the little tomboy was, you guessed it, Lincoln.
He wasn't entirely cool with that.
Look, Bobbie Fletcher was cool and all, but...eh, Lincoln really didn't feel like hanging out at her house all day. For Lana, it would be a dream come true, for him it would be boring, the way hanging at Chuck E Cheese all day so their kid could play would be for an adult. What's a grown man gonna do at Chuck E Cheese? No one else could - or would - do it, though, so it fell to Lincoln.
Story of his life.
At seven, he reluctantly closed the book and sat it on his nightstand. His eyes felt dry and grainy and a sickly pinprick of heat above his left eye threatened to turn into a throbbing migraine; he wasn't used to reading so much in one sitting. The Serial Killer Encyclopedia had pictures, but most of it was text, and every time he blinked, he could see ranks of paragraphs on the backs of his eyelids. Getting up, he stretched, let out a big yawn, and scratched his butt. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad, he thought. Maybe Bobbie had a pool and she'd let him and Lana swim in it. Bobbie was filthy rich and every filthy rich person has a pool, right? He would if he could afford one, one of those sick indoor ones made to look like an underground cavern. Man, that would cool. He'd stay in that bad boy 24/7.
The house was quiet at that hour, the hall standing dark and empty. He used the can, caught a shower, and brushed his teeth. He put on enough deodorant to sink a battleship, then after a moment's thought, put on some more for good measure. He was that magical age where he cared way too much about what other people - especially girls - thought of him and lived in terror of smelling bad, looking bad, making a mistake, or, you know, being human. He wasn't particularly concerned with impressing Bobbie Fletcher, but he didn't want to make an ass of himself in front of a celebrity; for that reason, he put on even more than usual.
Back in his bedroom, he selected one of his nice orange polos and a pair of jeans. What differentiated his nice polos from his regular polos was how they were handled. His regular everyday polos were shoved into a drawer at random as soon as they were clean; the nice polos, which he wore for special events like picture day and meet and greets with famous race car drivers, were hung on the rod that comprised his closet. See, Lincoln already lived in a closet (go ahead, make your jokes, Lynn and Luna already do), so his closet was really just a little alcove with a bar behind and slightly to the side of his dresser; to reach it, he had to turn to the side and lean over. If he wasn't careful, he would scratch himself on the corner of the dresser and jump around the room screaming like a white-haired bullet until the pain subsided.
He grabbed a pair of socks, pulled them on, and then stepped into his shoes. He tied them tight, gave each foot a test kick, and put his hands on his hips; he imagined being outlined in a glinting glow to denote his freshness.
Ready.
Life had begun to stir in the Loud house. In the hall, Luna and Luan stood in front of the closed bathroom door, heads down and shoulders slumped. Their hair was messy and their eyes more heavily bagged than one of Patrick Kearney's victims. Kearney was a serial killer who killed men and boys, cut their bodies up, and put them in black trash bags, which he then left by the side of the -
Why am I making serial killer analogies now?
That darn book.
He should give it back to Lucy before it corrupted his mind any more than it already had.
Downstairs, Lynn stood at the kitchen counter and bounced a soccer ball off her head, eyes rolled up to track its movement and lips silently counting. Lincoln sidestepped her, went to the pantry, and took out a box of blueberry fruit bars. He ripped the wrapper open with his teeth and took a bite. "How many?" he asked.
"Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Sixty-three."
"Sixty-five," Lincoln said.
"Sixty-six, sixty - aw, man." She bumped the ball with her forehead and it shot through the archway into the living room, nearly decapitating Leni, who jumped and screamed. "You almost killed me," she said, a hurt inflection in her voice. "Why, Lynn? Why did you try to kill me?"
Lori walked up behind Leni and stopped with a gasp. "She did what?"
"No," Lynn said quickly, "it was -"
"She almost cut my head off," Leni said. "I've been good to her, haven't I?"
Now Luna and Luan were both there and consoling Leni while scowling at Lynn. "It was an accident," Lynn said, "I didn't mean -"
"You should be locked away somewhere," Luan said.
"Not cool at all, bro."
Lincoln got out of there before he could get involved, and went upstairs again to see if Lana was awake. As soon as he was off the last step, the little blonde was in his face with a big, gap-tooth smile. "Hey, Linc," she babbled, "ready for our visit to Bobbie's house? I'm ready. I can't wait. Can we leave early? I wanna leave early so I can get maximum Bobbie time." In place of her usual overalls, Lincoln noted, she wore a white shirt with Bobbie's face stamped on the chest and instead of her usual red cap, she wore a dark blue one with the number of Bobbie's car on it. She bounced with excitement and stared up at him with eyes big around as dinner plates. She looked like she was going to explode into a dazzling ray of light at any second, and he couldn't help but be infected by her enthusiasm just a little.
"The email said noon," he reminded her.
"But noon is forever away," she said.
"It's only a couple hours," Lincoln said. "You need to take a bath, brush your teeth, comb the knots out of your hair, and put on clean clothes. By the time you do all that stuff it'll probably be time to go."
Lana stopped bouncing.
If Lola was the princess of pink, girly stuff, Lana was the princess of scum, muck, and filth. Have you ever seen that episode of Spongebob where Spongebob and Patrick get into an epic fight over which is better, being clean or being nasty? Swap out Patrick for Lana and the story would play out pretty much the same, except that Lana would have paused in the middle of the battle to eat a dog turd off the ground. She was cute, bright, and generally fun to be around (for a six year old), but she was a grody ass little girl and sometimes Lincoln was afraid to touch her for fear of where she'd been. One time, she came home covered from head to toe in mud; as soon as the stench hit his nose, he realized that actually, it wasn't mud at all.
It was dookie.
"Where have you been?" Mom asked, pinching her own nose.
Lana shrugged. "Hanging out in the sewer. It's awesome down there."
How anyone could submerge themselves in poop water was beyond Lincoln. He thought she did it for attention, but then he'd catch her eating snails and dirt under the porch. If she wanted attention, she'd do this in front of people, not hide away where they couldn't interrupt her.
Maybe she just wanted to be the complete opposite of Lola. They got along well enough, but Lincoln imagined it was kind of discombobulating to have a twin who looked exactly like you. Maybe he was melodramatic, but he kind of reckoned it would lead to identity issues and a compromised sense of self which could possibly lead in turn to an exaggerated desire for being unique. He couldn't recall who developed a distinct personality first - Lana or Lola - or if they developed their personalities simultaneously, but he wondered if Lana didn't look at Lola and try to be everything she wasn't. Then again, maybe she just liked being nasty and it was Lola going to extremes to forge her own identity.
Or maybe he was full of hot air and didn't know what he was talking about.
That was a possibility too.
"I don't wanna take a bath," Lana said. "Baths are for wussies."
"Maybe," Lincoln said, "but you don't wanna be too dirty. Bobbie might kick you out of her house."
Lana's jaw dropped as though she had never considered that possibility. "You think she would do that?"
"Maybe," he said. "No one wants a living dirt cloud wandering around their - "
Before Lincoln could even finish, Lana was in the bathroom drawing herself a bath, looking panicked. She reached for a tub of bleach and started to pour it in, and Lincoln came alive. "Whoa! No!"
She looked at him.
"Not that clean," he said.
"Got it," she replied.
While he waited for Lana, Lincoln went back into his room, grabbed the serial killer book, and dove back in. In what seemed like minutes, Lana was at the door telling him it was time to go. She was dressed exactly as she had been before but she was freshly cleaned and scrubbed; instead of sour sweat and dirty butt, the air around her smelled like *sniff* lavender.
"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" he asked as they left the house.
"I feel weird," she said.
"That's the feeling of not being coated in a half dozen layers of dirt," Lincoln said.
Lana was quiet for a minute. "I don't like it," she said.
Of course she didn't.
Bobbie's mansion was on the far side of Elk Park, the next town over. To get there, Lincoln and Lana had to take two buses and wait twenty minutes at the Royal Woods bus depot, where homeless people, smack junkies, and probably vampires hung out. The final bus dropped them a half mile from Bobbie's house and they had to walk the rest of the way on foot. Lincoln could see it long before they reached the front gate: Sitting high on a hill, it looked like something you'd see in a movie with its spires, vaulted windows, and fountain. At the gate, Lincoln pressed a button on an intercom. A few seconds later. Bobbie's voice crackled forth. Before he could announce himself, Lana knocked him roughly out of the way. "It's me, Bobbie! Lana Loud, your biggest fan!"
"Oh, hi, Lana," Bobbie said. "Come right in."
The gate buzzed and then swung open. Lana bounded through and Lincoln followed. At the top of the horse-shoe driveway, he stopped to catch his breath, then hurried up the steps, getting there just as the door opened. Bobbie Fletcher appeared and smiled at them. "Hey, guys, welcome."
Lincoln's jaw dropped.
When a birthday clown goes home at the end of the day, he (or she) takes his (or her) wig and floppy shoes off. He expected Bobbie to be dressed in jeans or shorts or, you know, something normal, but instead, she was clad in her red and yellow tracksuit. Her long brown hair glistened in the light of the afternoon sun and her eyes twinkled with a mischievous spark.
Maybe she wore the tracksuit for Lana's sake.
Yeah.
Or maybe she wore it around the house every day.
"Hey, Lana," she said, "it's good to see you again." She stooped down and shook Lana's hand, then turned to Lincoln. "You too, Larry."
"My name's actually Lincoln," Lincoln said as they shook.
Bobbie grinned. "I knew that."
Did she, or was she trying to play her mistake off like she meant to do it? Lincoln couldn't tell, and, honestly, he didn't really care. Forgetting someone's name wasn't that big a deal.
Standing to her full height, which was pretty tall for a woman, Bobbie waved them inside. "Come on. Me casa is your casa."
A wide vestibule stood just inside the door, archways opening onto other rooms on either side of them and a grand staircase leading up the second floor. A hallway provided access to the back of the house, the walls made up of rich oak paneling and the floors black and white tiles, reminding Lincoln of a checkerboard. An opulent chandelier hung from the high ceiling like a fat, crystal spider and a vase of flowers sat on an end table, all purple and yellow. "Whoa," Lana ,marveled, "your house is cool."
"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Bobbie said with a grin. Taking the little girl's hand, she led her up the stairs, and Lincoln followed behind, studying the paintings and portraits gracing the walls: Bobbie standing by her car with her arms crossed, one of a Bobbie winning the Tampa 10,000, one of Bobbie with her heroes Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jeff Gordon. Upstairs, a wine colored carpet covered the floor and more oak paneling gleamed in the light cast by evenly spaced brass fixtures. As they walked, Bobbie and Lana talked about their favorite cars and Bobbie told Lana all about her pit crew and the work they did. Lincoln listened with mild interest. Racing didn't interest him by and large, but peering behind the curtain at the inner workings of an industry - any industry was pretty cool.
Their first stop on the grand tour of Bobbie Fletcher's house was Bobbie's memorabilia room, which was crammed with trinkets and souvenirs from her almost three decade love affair with auto racing. There were posters on the walls, bobble heads on shelves, signed photos of Richard Petty and Tony Stewart, flags, mugs, everything you could possibly think of, all stamped with the numbers and colors of famous race car drivers. A life sized cardboard cutout of Darrel Waltrip faced an inflatable Denny Hamlin that looked like one of those blow up punching bags little kids take their wee baby aggressions out on. Lincoln couldn't help being fascinated by the sheer volume of stuff, and brownsed it all while Bobbie showed Lana some of her favorite pieces, including a framed photo of five year old Bobbie - gap tooth, pigtails and all - with Dale Earnhardt Sr. "He was my favorite driver growing up," Bobbie said proudly.
"Was he good?" Lana asked.
"He was the best," Bobbie said.
"Where is he now?" Lana asked.
"Oh, he's dominating that great big speedway in the sky."
Lana bowed her head respectfully. "Rip," she said.
The next stop was the game room. Lincoln's mouth fell open and his eyes widened to take in all the cabinets lining the walls. It looked like Gus's only bigger. He went from one to the other while Bobbie showed Lana around, and was a little perturbed to find that they were all racing games, every single one of them. Lincoln had nothing against a good racing game but there's really only so much you can do with the concept. He played a couple that looked cool. The best was Cruisin' USA closely followed by Mad Max Deathrace 2000. The other ones paled in comparison and in ten minutes, he was walking around with his hands in his pockets while Bobbie and Lana raced each other on Gran Torino. "You alright there, Landon?" Bobbie asked over her shoulder the fifth or sixth time Lincoln wandered by.
"Just trying to figure out what to play next," Lincoln said. To himself, he added: It's not like they're all the same game or anything.
Stop number three was Bobbie's private movie theater in the basement. Five rows of seats faced a giant screen and a full concession stand stocked with popcorn, candy, and soda stood eerily empty, as though everyone had suddenly vanished. Lincoln was amped as they got their snacks and went in, but his delight quickly turned to chagrin when the movie started. Lana was rapt and fascinated by the documentary on pit crews, but the technical details bored Lincoln to tears. He ate his popcorn, nommed his Swedish Fish to death, and then slurped up every last drop of his soda. Done, he excused himself for a visit to the bathroom, where he perched on the edge of a toilet, whipped out his phone, and browsed his favorite fan fiction site for a while. There was a new story from TwistedWriting and Lincoln clicked on it faster than Martin Sheen on the nuke button in The Dead Zone.
He was half-way through when the door to the bathroom opened. "Didja fall in, Langston?" Bobbie asked.
Lincoln's heart jumped. "Uh...no, I-I'm almost done."
"Alright, hurry up, we're going out to the garage."
Lana's excited voice followed. "The garage, Linc. The garage."
Oh joy. More car stuff.
He'd almost rather go to the Michigan University Football Hall of Fame and Museum with Lynn again.
Almost.
Putting his phone away, he made a show of flushing and washing his hands and then went out into the lobby where Bobbie and Lana waited. "That porncorn really did a number on you, huh, Leonard?" Bobbie asked and knowingly nudged his arm with her elbow.
Alright, Lincoln was convinced she was forgetting his name on purpose. Not gonna lie, though, it was kind of funny.
They made their way toward the garage and Lincoln darted his eyes around looking for something, anything to cure his boredom. His gaze landed on Bobbie's butt and he squinted. He didn't realize how tight her jumpsuit was; it clung to her heart-shaped behind like a second skin, and the way her butt wiggled hypnotized him.
She has a nice butt, he thought.
Next, his eyes drifted to her hair. It was silky, glossy, and bounced with every step she took like something from a shampoo commercial. He imagined how it would feel to run his fingers through it and a shiver went down his spine.
The garage was situated about 500 feet from the house. On the way there, Lincoln looked for a pool but didn't see one. He did, however, see a big, oval shaped race track. That was probably where Bobbie practiced. If she was really this obsessed with racing and not just putting on a show for her guests, Lincoln reckoned she spent a ton of time out there.
Bobbie's car, red and yellow and covered in a thousand logos for a thousand sponsors, sat in the middle of the garage, surrounded by forests of tools, wenches, auto parts, machines, and other things that Lincoln couldn't even begin to name. It kind of reminded him of the super secret lab Lisa maintained underneath the house, the one no one else knew about. The surfaces were all chrome and sterile like an operating theater; Bobbie's garage was the same. Lincoln never knew it was possible to keep a functioning garage this clean. You could eat a four course meal off the floor and come out of it even healthier than you were going in. When they stepped through the door from the otherside, Lana's eyes grew to ten times their normal size and her hands went to her cheeks. Lincoln imagined the Hallelujah Chorus playing and a ray of heavenly light bathing his little sister. If only life were a cartoon, it would be so much more interesting.
Taking Lana by the hand like a kind older sister, Bobbie led the little girl around the garage, explaining the name and function of all the equipment. Lincoln checked out the car but quickly lost interest. He put his hands in his pockets, rocked back and forth on his heels, and whistled a tune of his own devising. His mind, free to roam and completely unstimulated, quickly turned back to Bobbie. He conjured up a vision of her from behind, her jumpsuit obscenely tight and her hair burning in the sunshine like amber fire. His heart began to race and his willy twitched in its slumber like Cthulhu dreaming. He pictured himself grabbing her tight, glorious butt with both hands, and in his vision, she looked at him over her shoulder, eyes half lidded, teeth brushing her lower lip. More, she said in a sultry whisper, and he squeezed harder. She threw her head back, hair rustling, and Lincoln -
Something bumped into him and he jumped. Lana arched a quizzical brow and favored him with the inquisitive scrutiny that only a small, uninhibited child can muster. "Why are you staring off into space?" she asked. "Are you gathering wood?"
LOL.
Actually, yeah.
"Wool, Lana," he said, "the saying is 'gathering wool.' And yeah, I guess I am."
Bobbie walked up between them and put a hand on each other's shoulder. "That's pretty much it for the tour," she said.
Oh, thank God.
"But we're not done just yet."
Ugh, why? We've seen your house, we saw your game room, we oogled your memorabilia. What else is there -?
"Now I'm gonna take you guys for a spin around my private race track."
OH HELL YEAH.
Now that got his attention.
Then lost it when Bobbie said, "Me and Lana are gonna go first," she said. "Then you and I can take a ride, Landell."
While Bobbie and Lana went for their solo run, Lincoln, at Bobbie's behest, kicked back in the living room and watched some TV. She told him he could help himself to the kitchen, but at first he didn't plan to take her up on that offer; using other people's stuff made him kind of uncomfortable. After about fifteen minutes, though, he changed his tune and slid on it to see what condition his condition was in.
It was in Pepsi. Bobbie must have had a sponsorship with them because her fridge was absolutely packed with the stuff. Small cans, regular cans, tall boy cans. It was a sea of red, white, and blue, and for some random reason, he thought of Arlington National Cemetery on Memorial Day.
Too much reading about death and pain, he supposed.
God, how does Lucy do it?
No wonder she dresses all in black. He used to think she was a little poser but if that was the kind of thing she fed her brain, he couldn't blame her for dressing all in black and sighing around the house.
Grabbing a normal sized can, he cracked it open and took a long, grateful drink. He didn't drink soda very often but when he did, he preferred Pepsi. It was sweeter than Coke. Coke was abrasive and, he heard, as corrosive as battery acid.
He was just finishing up when the back door opened and Lana and Bobbie came in laughing. "Hey there, Lorenzo," Bobbie said. "You ready for that ride?"
"Sure," Lincoln said.
Leaving Lana in front of Spongebob, Bobbie led Lincoln out back to the race track. The car was parked near a gate, glinting in the sun. "You go ahead," Bobbie said. "I gotta go grab my gear."
What gear she was talking about, Lincoln didn't know. She was already in her tracksuit, and her helmet was sitting on the roof of the car waiting for her. While she dashed back inside, Lincoln moseyed around the car in a big circle, reaching out to poke and prod it when the spirit took him. He was on the far side reading the many logos when Bobbie returned. From his position, all he could see was her head.
He started to walk around the back of the car but came to a crashing halt.
Bobbie wore a tiny yellow and red bikini and a towel draped over her shoulders. She carried a bucket of soapy water that sloshed with every step. Lincoln had spent the better part of the day trying to figure out what was beneath Bobbie's suit, now here it was.
He was wrong.
Aside from her butt and boobs, he thought her form would be fairly plain, maybe even mannish. Boy, was he off the mark. Her stomach was flat and taut, her hips shapely, and her legs long. Her skin was bronze and sun-kissed and her breasts were larger than they looked under her suit. Her butt too. Her shoulder blades flexed and the dimples at the base of her spin winked as she bent and sat the bucket down. Lincoln openly gaped at her, so taken with her body that he was struck dumb.
She took a sponge out of the water and stood up straight, butt clenching beneath the flimsy fabric of her bikini bottoms. "Just gotta wash this bad boy off real quick," she said.
God, I got something you can wash.
"O-Okay," Lincoln squeaked.
Bobbie bent over the hood of the car, breasts smooshing against the metal and butt thrusting out. She made a wide circular motion with the sponge and Lincoln watched with a lump in his throat. His dick started getting hard and he fought it back down again. She bent, twisted, lifted one arched foot off the ground, and lovingly caressed the car with her wet, soapy body. Lincoln turned away and rubbed the back of his neck, face hot. If he didn't stop ogling her, he was gonna bust right out of his jeans.. He was powerless to ignore her. Suds and beads of water dripped enticingly down her warm flesh, disappearing between the fleshy globes of her breasts. Her nipples poked through the material and Lincoln bit his lower lip so hard he was surprised that it didn't draw blood.
Bobbie made a circuit of the entire car, finishing up on the side door. Bent slightly at the waist, covered in soap and suds and looking like a wet dream made flesh, she turned her head to the side and grinned at Lincoln over her shoulder; eyes narrow, mouth sharp. Was his mistaken, or did she know exactly what she was doing to him?
"Come give me a hand," she said.
For a second, Lincoln was rooted in place, unable to move, then he went to her, eyes pointed at the ground. She handed him a towel and he looked up at her. "Dry me off," she said.
Lincoln wasn't sure he heard her right. "Dry you off…?"
"Dry me off," Bobbie confirmed.
Lincoln gulped.
He started on her stomach, trying hard to keep from touching her lest she think he was trying to feel her up. He worked his way up to her chest and she stuck out her boobs to give him easier access. He could feel them beneath the towel, soft and yielding, and one of her nipples brushed his hand.
Kneeling, he dried one leg and then the other. He looked up and Bobbie was blushing deeply, her eyelids fluttering.
She looked as turned on as he felt.
"Now my back," she said and turned. Her butt was inches from his face and he imagined he could smell her excitement.
Lincoln dried her legs and then her butt. Bobbie laid her hands on the car and bent, presenting her rump for his touch. He tenderly ran the towel over and across, side to side, hands shaking, heart pounding. His hand sipped and pressed flat against one cheek. Bobbie purred in the back of her throat and made an obscene uhhhh sound that told him she was enjoying it. He pressed his other hand against her opposite cheek and rubbed her through her sodden bikini bottoms, clutching and squeezing her just as he had in his daydream.
It occurred to him that he might be crossing the line and he stopped. Maybe she didn't want this. Maybe he was mistaken. Hot shame colored his face and he dropped the towel. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "I, uh, I-I don't know -"
Turning, Bobbie took his face in her hands and guided him to his feet. Before he knew what was happening, she was kissing him, her tongue prying his lips apart and plunging into his mouth. Lincoln didn't know what to do, so he put his hands on her hips and swirled his tongue around hers.
The last lasted for what seemed like an eternity and Lincoln lost himself to the sensation. When Bobbie pulled back, they were both panting. "I know you been checkin' me out," she said with a leer.
"A-A little bit," Lincoln said.
"Good," she said, "because I been checkin' you out too." She licked his lips and giggled at the way he jumped. "Let's go for that ride."
Holding his hand, Bobbie opened the door and climbed into the car, pulling Lincoln behind.
They didn't sit in the front.
The back was small, cramped, and uncomfortable, the leather seat hot against Lincoln's back and butt. Bobbie tossed her hair out of her face and said, "It's hot in here."
"You're hot," Lincoln said clumsily.
Bobbie laughed. She turned to face him the best she could, one leg drawing up. "Have you ever done anything with a girl?"
Reluctantly, Lincoln shook his head. "No."
A light twinkled in Bobbie's eye. "So I'm your first?"
Lincoln's dick twitched. He was rock hard at the prospect of having a girl, first or not. "Yeah," he said.
That made Bobbie smile. She put her hand on his chest and his heart raced. "What do you want to do first? Do you want to touch me? Or do you want me to touch you?"
Lincoln's head spun. He couldn't believe this was happening. "I...I guess I want to touch you."
"Okay," Bobbie grinned. She reached behind her neck and undid her top. It came slack, then fell off, Bobbie's full breasts hanging free. She lifted her butt, jammed her thumbs into the waistband of her bottoms, and peeled them off. Lincoln watched, shaky and hot. Now Bobbie was completely naked and Lincoln could hardly breath. She scooted closer and stretched out as much as their confines would allow, her body bared for his eyes...and his hands. "There," she said.
Lincoln hesitated, then cupped her breast in his hand. Her skin was hot and tacky, and he could feel the vibrations of her pounding heartbeat. He curiously brushed his thumb over her nipple and stroked her breast. She lidded her eyes and bit her lip. Laid out before him, she was the most striking woman Lincoln had ever seen and the curves and ridges of her body excited him. He ran both hands over her breasts, exploring her supple flesh, and Bobbie's breathing increased. He traced the dip of her hips and the swell of her thighs, the feeling of her skin against his sending his heart into his throat. Bobbie sighed, moaned, and directed him. She spread her knees and Lincoln's hand dipped between her legs, the wet, sickly heat of her pussy enveloping him. He pressed his hand firmly to her soft, sensitive skin and rubbed up and down, his middle finger slipping between her sticky folds and brushing her clit, making her gasp.
As he worked, Bobbie got wetter and wetter until his hand made a shlicking sound. She tossed her head, pumped her hips, and moaned through her teeth. Lincoln studied her face, captivated by her secret expressions of lust and desire.
Finally, she clamped her thighs closed and trapped his hand. "Alright," she said and pushed him back against the seat. "Your turn."
She deftly unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down. His dick sprang free and Bobbie giggled. "Bo-oi-oi-oing," she said playfully. Lincoln uttered a rusty chuckle. His dick was out in front of a girl and he was so hot - literally hot - that he felt like he was going to burst into flames at any moment.
Biting her bottom lip like a fat girl getting ready to dig into a big meal, Bobbie closed her hand around Lincoln's shaft, and Lincoln tensed. He was leaking clear fluid from his tip and didn't want her to know he couldn't hold his nut back. She didn't seem to notice or to care. She stroked up and then down, spreading and smearing his precum along his throbbing member. "Relax," she whispered. "Just lay back and enjoy it."
Lincoln closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of Bobbie jacking him off. Every time her hand brushed his head, a shiver went through him, and when she squeezed him, he let out a reflexive gasp. He peeled one eye open and relished the sight of Bobbie, nude and kneeling, caressing his cock and looking at it with the plain need of a horny teenage girl.
Letting go, she brushed her hair behind her ear and bent over. Lincoln didn't know what she was going to do until he was in her mouth, His hips bucked and his heart came to a stop in his chest. Bobbie laid a staying hand on his chest and slowly, seductively bobbed her head up and down.
Despite what he had always thought of blowjobs, Bobbie's spit was cool. Her tongue lapped and licked and her lips formed perfectly to his head. Lincoln's butt lifted off the seat and he let out a shivery breath. Bobbie spat him out and licked her lips. "Are you close?" she asked.
All Lincoln could do was nod.
"Good," she said, "me too."
She swung one leg over his and shifted into his lap, her lips skimming his tip. Her heat was indescribable and the gentle weight of her pinning him down made him moan. She grabbed his dick and guided it to her opening, then jerked downward with a gasp. His dick plunged into her body and they moaned in unison. Her insides were wet, soft, and so hot that he could barely stand it. She splayed her hands on his chest, lifted up until he was almost out, then jerked down again. Lincoln gripped her hips and she did it again, bringing him so close to the edge that his toes dangled over the side.
Bobbie swiveled her hips and hovered her face over his, her soft hair tickling his cheeks and her ragged breath filling his mouth. She thrusted again and her eyes rolled back into her head. Sensing Lincoln couldn't take much more, she molded her lips to his, jammed her tongue into his mouth, and kissed him urgently as she started to go faster. The car rocked and shook on its wheels and the musk of sex filled Lincoln's nose like the sweetest purfume. Bobbie's walls molded to his dick and her muscles began to spasm as she came.
He didn't know what it was that put him over the edge - the feeling of Bobbie's orgasm, the rapture on her face, the way she moaned - but Lincoln exploded like a stick of dynamite, filling Bobbie to the brim with his cum. She fell limply against him and kissed his neck, hips pumping as she rode out her climax. She went still, and for a long time they lay together, sweaty and winded.
Finally, Bobbie tossed her hair out of her face, sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, and smiled against his kiss. "How was that for a ride?"
"Awesome," Lincoln said.
"No more hiding in the bathroom and playing on your phone, huh?"
Lincoln blinked in surprise. How did she know he did that? "No," he confessed. "Riding you in a lot better."
That made her laugh. "I agree." She rolled off of him and gathered up her bikini. Lincoln's seed oozed out of her pussy in a whitish river and she moaned. "I'm gonna have to clean the inside now." She pulled her bottoms on and then her top. She looked at Lincoln's flacid dick, bent over, and placed a chaste kiss on the head. "You're more than welcome to come over for a ride any time you want."
"I'm probably going to take you up on that," Lincoln said and started to get dressed.
He wasn't being entirely honest when he said that. There was no "probably" about it. He was definitely going to take her up on it.
When they were both dressed, they went back into the house, where Lana was curled up on the couch asleep. Bobbie laid a blanket on her and turned the TV off. Taking Lincoln by the hand, she led him upstairs to her bedroom. Kneeling, she unzipped his pants and went down on him, her movements slow at first, then getting faster as his excitement swelled. He tried to warn her that he was going to cum but she didn't hear him; she found out when his jizz shot against the back of her throat. She swallowed every drop and looked up at him with those sexy brown eyes of hers. "You taste just as good as you fuck," she said.
Lincoln grinned proudly.
Before Lana woke up an hour later, Bobbie taught him how to stimulate a woman's clit with both his hands and his mouth. They wound up having sex one more time, Lincoln on top and thrusting down into her. This time, he pulled out and painted her stomach white.
That day, Lincoln learned a valuable lesson.
Race cars - and their drivers - can be really freaking awesome.
As he and Lana left, Bobbie standing in the doorway and waving to them, Lincoln realized something.
He couldn't wait for his next ride.