Read Online The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) by Stan Hayes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stan Hayes
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air accident.” Just like that. A few weeks later I was aboard Striker, circling the prescribed coordinates offshore South Carolina late one summer afternoon, monitoring my VHF and scanning the skies for an airplane trailing smoke, both of its occupants fated to become my lovers.
Sitting in bed, lounging against the pillows, her thoughts drifted to Serena, Jack’s mother, and how much pleasure Moses had shared with her on this big bed. Quite a matrix we have here; he and Serena, now Jack and I, and Moses has had both of us, to say nothing of my mother. I wonder which one he liked best; being the youngest, you’d think that it’d be sweet little Linda in a cake walk. He’s never said much to me about the others, but Jack’s told me more than he realizes about that willful bitch that whelped him, and neither Moses and I, nor Peter and I, ever made quite as much noise as what I remember rattling the walls in Baltimore. Although I did squeal pretty good that morning in Havana, the first time he slid that torpedo up my butt. Made this little cum laude cum loudly. Smiling to herself, she thought about Jack’s reaction when she asked him, down in Coconut Grove, to do her that way. You’dve thought I’d asked him to kiss a cobra; but bless his heart, he is adaptable, and now sliding up my chute’s integrated into his already-admirable skill set.
So a fair amount of above-average fucking, a pretty nice boat, a private pilot’s ticket and a sojourn in Havana among a galaxy of lowlifes the likes of which I could’ve never imagined, brings me to this weird little red-clay town in the company of a boy millionaire. Soon-to-be, anyway. And today I add motorcycling to my ever-growing skill set. Question is, when the fuck do I cash in? I don’t want their fucking money, not without working for it and presenting nice fat invoices for professional services rendered. The hell of it is, I love both these guys. I really do. My mother brought home a novel once, called The Cauliflower Heart. I didn’t read it, but now the title fits my condition to a T. Cauliflower ear, cauliflower heart. All that aside, I’m really not in the marrying mood, even if either of them asked. What I’ve gotta do is start fattening up the Linda Green account, and see what I can do about exorcising the ghost of Moses the mother-fucker. While Pete’s down there, incommunicado, doing God knows what with his new buddy Howard Hunt. Meantime, that little rat’s gonna be in here any minute, wanting a little before breakfast… with any luck at all.
An hour or so later, libido eclipsed by simpler hunger, Linda padded back into the kitchen, switched on the oven and split the bagels that Jack had gotten out of the freezer last night. Dropping them onto its topmost rack, she turned the oven’s thermometer down to 350 and unwrapped a fresh-enough-looking block of cream cheese. She was slicing it crosswise into bagel-sized pieces when Jack opened the back door. “Mornin’, bagel-burner.”
“What there is left of it, Barney Oldfield. Trouble getting the bikes started?”
“Nope,” he said, mentally awarding himself a sharp head-slap. He hadn’t even checked the batteries; he’d simply sat, quite still, astride the Vincent for some time following Nick’s- at least he was beginning to assimilate what had happened sufficiently to start calling him that- departure. And since he hadn’t disconnected the trickle-chargers since leaving Bisque for Coconut Grove, all he really had to worry about was one of them having developed a bad cell. Shit. Who am I kidding? That’s the least of my goddamn worries. “And Barney Oldfield’s a car guy; I’d much prefer being associated in your mind with Glenn Curtiss.”
“Well then, Glenn-baby, how about hauling out the orange juice? You look like you’ve already had enough coffee.”
They sat cater-corner across the kitchen table, spreading cream cheese on bagel halves. “OK, Mr. Instructor,” Linda said,
Sitting in bed, lounging against the pillows, her thoughts drifted to Serena, Jack’s mother, and how much pleasure Moses had shared with her on this big bed. Quite a matrix we have here; he and Serena, now Jack and I, and Moses has had both of us, to say nothing of my mother. I wonder which one he liked best; being the youngest, you’d think that it’d be sweet little Linda in a cake walk. He’s never said much to me about the others, but Jack’s told me more than he realizes about that willful bitch that whelped him, and neither Moses and I, nor Peter and I, ever made quite as much noise as what I remember rattling the walls in Baltimore. Although I did squeal pretty good that morning in Havana, the first time he slid that torpedo up my butt. Made this little cum laude cum loudly. Smiling to herself, she thought about Jack’s reaction when she asked him, down in Coconut Grove, to do her that way. You’dve thought I’d asked him to kiss a cobra; but bless his heart, he is adaptable, and now sliding up my chute’s integrated into his already-admirable skill set.
So a fair amount of above-average fucking, a pretty nice boat, a private pilot’s ticket and a sojourn in Havana among a galaxy of lowlifes the likes of which I could’ve never imagined, brings me to this weird little red-clay town in the company of a boy millionaire. Soon-to-be, anyway. And today I add motorcycling to my ever-growing skill set. Question is, when the fuck do I cash in? I don’t want their fucking money, not without working for it and presenting nice fat invoices for professional services rendered. The hell of it is, I love both these guys. I really do. My mother brought home a novel once, called The Cauliflower Heart. I didn’t read it, but now the title fits my condition to a T. Cauliflower ear, cauliflower heart. All that aside, I’m really not in the marrying mood, even if either of them asked. What I’ve gotta do is start fattening up the Linda Green account, and see what I can do about exorcising the ghost of Moses the mother-fucker. While Pete’s down there, incommunicado, doing God knows what with his new buddy Howard Hunt. Meantime, that little rat’s gonna be in here any minute, wanting a little before breakfast… with any luck at all.
An hour or so later, libido eclipsed by simpler hunger, Linda padded back into the kitchen, switched on the oven and split the bagels that Jack had gotten out of the freezer last night. Dropping them onto its topmost rack, she turned the oven’s thermometer down to 350 and unwrapped a fresh-enough-looking block of cream cheese. She was slicing it crosswise into bagel-sized pieces when Jack opened the back door. “Mornin’, bagel-burner.”
“What there is left of it, Barney Oldfield. Trouble getting the bikes started?”
“Nope,” he said, mentally awarding himself a sharp head-slap. He hadn’t even checked the batteries; he’d simply sat, quite still, astride the Vincent for some time following Nick’s- at least he was beginning to assimilate what had happened sufficiently to start calling him that- departure. And since he hadn’t disconnected the trickle-chargers since leaving Bisque for Coconut Grove, all he really had to worry about was one of them having developed a bad cell. Shit. Who am I kidding? That’s the least of my goddamn worries. “And Barney Oldfield’s a car guy; I’d much prefer being associated in your mind with Glenn Curtiss.”
“Well then, Glenn-baby, how about hauling out the orange juice? You look like you’ve already had enough coffee.”
They sat cater-corner across the kitchen table, spreading cream cheese on bagel halves. “OK, Mr. Instructor,” Linda said,
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