1. A Scarred Wonderland


    Date: 8/22/2015, Categories: Hardcore, Author: MadMartigan, Rating: 18, Source: LushStories

    I. Giant, multicolored sails litter the rolling turquoise waves of the Pacific. From this distance, they’re like flecks of paper Mache swaying back and forth in the wind, waving little goodbyes as they drift farther and farther out. There’s a hard metallic clank as the hatch locks into place. “All set,” a twanging southern voice calls out. In the mirror, a slim shape in a tank top and a straw Stetson gives a thumbs-up, a radiant smile etched on a heart shaped face. Abigail has this weird ritual for customers. Once the hatch slams shut, you lean on the horn a few times. The dazzling smile she always gave as she narrated a giggling tale of weird nostalgia left you weak in the knees. Abby just had that magic about her. This is the only time since I met her that I don’t answer. My mind is stuck on the spin cycle of chaos and it won’t shut off. I don’t hear her shout my name, or notice her tap on the windshield with her knuckles. I don’t hear the crunch of gravel as she wanders off. But I sure as hell hear the brutal crack of a pistol when she returns. My eyes swim red and I let out a high-pitched shriek of fear. I have a death grip on the steering wheel when I find her, hips cocked, a finger plugging one ear, and a slim arm pointing a cowboy revolver into the dirt. She winces when her eyes refocus on mine. She mouths a regretful apology as she walks back to the truck. “Bad habits from a crazy granddaddy,” she mutters, leaning in over the rolled down passenger window. She pushes ...
    back the Stetson. I try to smile; it comes out lopsided. “You okay, hon?” A sigh whistles through clenched teeth. “Would you believe me if I said yes?” “Sooner trust a coyote in sheep’s skin claimin’ he was born to be white and fluffy. She pops the door open and eases in, cursing as her bikini clad ass hits the hot white leather of the bench. She drops the revolver on the seat, pulls a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from nowhere, and props snakeskin boots up high on the dash. Her legs are long and copper smooth. Makes me a bit jealous. I’m so pale you can almost see my veins. She tries offering me the bottle and I give her a look - alcohol at eleven in the morning? Makes my stomach turn. Her toned shoulders shrug as she unscrews the cap and takes a sip. I remember when she told me that a country girl never stops being a country girl, even after you give her a California tan and put a surfboard under her instead of a horse. She doesn’t push me. She doesn’t say anything in fact. Country charm. Country patience. I’m grateful it. Gives me time. “Ever get that feeling that something inside you is just… wrong?” Abby arches a thin black brow. She knows I’m not the chatty sort, so this means heavy shit. A sigh. “It’s like a scab, I guess. You know something’s off when it festers, but you can’t really see what that something is. Just that it’s there, that it’s eating away at you like poison. And you want to do something about it… but you’re afraid. And then it scars over, trapping that awful ...
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