Haylee Anna Cummings had never outgrown her tomboy antics, but, by middle school, her fists had settled the issue of her name for good. After graduation, legally emancipated by age, the foster care system washed its hands. She straddled her motorcycle and lit out on a Wanderjahr. Her short hair ruffled, goggles over her eyes and a pistol in her saddlebag, she traveled the country, not so much searching, as simply living day-to-day. To paraphrase the sentiment—wine, women and song—she liked rough whiskey, rougher men and heavy metal.
By the time she turned twenty-one, the rear view mirror had gotten old, but she wasn’t ready to settle down into domestic bliss. Then, he crossed her path.
She first met Lance DuBois at the dive out on Highway 50 halfway to nowhere. Too seedy to be called a honky-tonk, Kribbs was so rundown, even the alkies stayed closer to town. The local bikers kept going rather than risk hepatitis—or worse—by setting boots inside the place. The scuttlebutt around Spar Creek was that the bar had been built on top of an ancient burial ground. Supposedly the spirits of dead shamans possessed those who dared drink too much firewater.
“Helloooo! Anybody here?”
The buzzing neon signs, of brands both famous and obscure, gave off less radiation than Haylee Anna’s scorched hormones when Lance ambled out from the back room.
“What’s your poison?”
“A hard cock. What’s yours?”
“Good thing I’m wearing jeans.”
“Bare bottom only, lady.”
“I’m in love.”
“No you’re not.”
Lance reached under the counter and slapped an oak plank on the bar top.
“Most bartenders keep a bat or a shotgun, not a paddle.”
“I’m not most bartenders.”
“I get that impression.” She glanced around at the empty room, the jukebox and television silent. “Are you even open?”
He didn’t answer right away; instead, he sauntered to the front door, locked it and then flicked the sign over to ‘closed’. Never looking away from her lazy smile, he came back, slid his butt on the stool next to her and drawled softly, “Not now.”
“So I see. Should I be worried?”
Lance smirked and set his elbow on the polished surface. “So? What’ll it be?”
She hefted the wood and tapped it on her palm. “You got experience with this thing?”
“Honey, I wrote the book on paddling.”
“Well, in that case, stud, I’ve a hankering for a shot or two of the best you got.”
Haylee Anna spun the stool around and hopped down onto the tacky floor. Her stiletto boots clacked as she sashayed over to the scarred pool table. The zipper made a loud rasp as her leather jacket came off to be tossed on the green felt. Her braless nipples pressed the thin tank top into puckered peaks. The heavy belt buckle clanked as she shimmied her boot cut jeans down over her hips. The red silk panty shone like a siren in the dim light. Slowly, she turned her back to Lance, and placing her hands on the soft surface, slid her palms forward until her waist touched the rail.
“It’s not bare though.”
“Oh? You want a peek of my pink too?”
“That would be nice.”
“Well, a man’s gotta do what he promised. I guess you’ll just have to take ’em down nice and easy.”
Lance tucked the paddle under one arm, and hooked his thumbs into the strings at her hipbones. As he tugged the soft fabric, she arched her bottom and widened her stance. He left them tautly stretched between her muscular thighs.
“Oh yeah, baby, give it to me nice and hard.”
“Fuck! I’ve missed this.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Damn, that burns like a thirty-year-old scotch.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Keep ’em coming barkeep, this girl needs a fire down below.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Halfway there, darling, you sure you can handle what I can dish out?”
“Ain’t never been a man that can handle this chick.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“You can rev her up and ride her hard into the sunset, but she’ll out-fuck and out-drink you and then break your heart with a smile.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Good thing I don’t have one then.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Every man’s a mama’s boy inside. They can run their mouths longer than they can fuck a real woman.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
“You up for it?”
“Got a condom? Or are you like most men, a whiny bitch afraid to cover her meat?”
Lance threw the paddle onto the pool table and unbuttoned his jeans. He ripped open the package and rolled the sheath over his cock. He grabbed her hips, pulling the flaming hot buttocks up to his waist probing for her opening.
“Hope you don’t need an instruction manual, cause if you don’t fuck my pussy better than you spanked my ass, I’m going to be really pissed.”
“I’m gonna shoot my eight-ball in your pocket, bitch, after I run your fucking table.”
“This, I gotta see. Give it your best shot, motherfucker, either way, I’m outta here in fifty-minutes.”