...Fuck you, John Junior…

...fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuckyoufuckyouFUCKYOUFUCKYOU...

...fuck you...

Becca’s foot caught on a dried palm frond on the side of the road. She kicked it dramatically toward the scrub and kept walking. Highway 1 was fairly deserted here, where it curved away from the coast, especially at this time of night.

There was something off about Florida in the dark, something disconcerting. In a place built for sunshine, where citrus and tourism ebbed and flowed with the daytime temperatures, nighttime was for the inside; for rest, for cooling off, for getting drunk, or getting laid. There was no dull roar of constant cars and rumbling trucks, no heavy machinery or backup beeping, no incessant drone of lawnmowers and leaf blowers. With the birds quiet and the palm trees motionless against the black sky, Florida felt like a place without function; a closed amusement park or a playground after school.

Another car passed, slowed, honked a couple of quick beeps, sped off. “Yeah, and fuck you, too,” Becca replied half-heartedly. But she tugged her shorts down in the back all the same. They were part of the gig: short shorts, the tighter the better, the kind where your ass peeks out just a bit in the back; and a too-small bra that pinched under your arms, but shoved your tits up just right under a tight, v-necked t-shirt, knotted in the small of your back to show off your midriff. Tits meant tips. And tips meant the cell phone got paid. Tips meant food, and beer, and daddy’s meds.

She quickened her pace as she passed the hulking, derelict Strawn/Green citrus packing house. Even though some conservation group was trying to save it, she thought the place was creepy. Weeds and blown sand had practically turned the pavement to a field, and the stacks and stacks of wooden pallets- some more than two stories high, were in more danger of falling over with each passing day.

Some of her older customers talked about how the packing house use to hum with activity night and day. “There were days…,” they would say, that the flatbed trucks would be lined up down the street, waiting their turn in the docks to be loaded with crate after crate of oranges, grapefruits, and tangerines. “There were days…” when you could stand and watch hundreds and thousands of oranges whiz by on the wire-wrapped conveyor belt that punched out near the roof and traveled nearly the entire length of the huge building before taking a sharp turn and punching back in.

Two doors further down was the Treasure Coast Inn, one of the thousands of tiny mom and pop “motor hotels” that sprung up along US 1 in the sixties and one of only a dozen or so still in operation by the original owners. In its day, it had been a charming stop for travelers making the long trek from New York to Miami. “Free Coffee! Home-Made Cookies!” read the hand-painted sign, just above the looping, cursive neon “No Vacancy” which had spent more time on than off. Now, the potted palms were long dead and the sea-foam paint was faded and cracked. A muted gold 1970 Ford Mustang with three wheels had been parked outside room six since the early nineties.

And in between was Tilly’s, a rambling old clapboard house that had at some point declared itself an eating establishment, gutting most of the first floor for a main dining room and bar. Over the years, a new kitchen and walk-in freezer, three new large dining rooms and a wraparound porch that only wrapped around three-quarters of the place had been tacked on wherever it had seemed possible and convenient, adding a haphazard feel to the ramble. The result was a hodge-podge of mix and match clapboard with old black shutters on modern picture windows, no identifiable architectural style and only a passing resemblance to what it professed to be. Which, depending on the decade, was a restaurant, a tavern, a roadside eatery; even, during the comparative high tone of the boom years, a banquet hall.

The boom years were the late eighties, when citrus was gold on the Treasure Coast. Round the clock workers would pour out of the packing house and into Tilly’s to spend their just-earned money on liquor and beer and, if they were lucky, any woman who happened to be around and who happened to be thirsty. And if they were very lucky, from Tilly’s to the Treasure Coast MoTel for sex or sleep, or both. For years, every crate, every table, every room was full.

Until the Christmas Eve freeze of ‘89. The oranges died, the workers packed up for bigger cities further north, and the citrus growers were forced to sell off acreage just to break even. The couple that owned the Treasure Coast stopped making cookies, drew down the shades and learned to subsist on just a few customers per week. Tilly’s owner, whoever he was, packed up and headed for the west coast, to Tampa, leaving his restaurant/tavern/eatery/banquet hall to fend for itself. Where the death of the packing house had come overnight, Tilly’s and the Treasure Coast lingered, waiting for time to finish the job that the frost had started.

Now it was just a rambling old house with tables and a bar, white walls and black shutters sandblasted to a weathered gray by thirty years of coastal storms. Most of the larger rooms had been closed off, and the wraparound porch was disused and crumbling, missing boards in places and half-buried in sand in others.

Becca headed for the porch steps, scanning the parking lot as she went. She knew a few of the cars, and of course, the vintage red bicycle with the American flag taped to the seat leaning against the wall. Enough regulars for some decent tips, she reckoned.

After the day she’d had, Becca was unusually happy to be at work. The cold glow of the neon beer signs in the windows felt somehow welcoming. It was a bit of normal- a place where nothing changed. There would be the same old people drinking the same old drinks, saying the same old things about the same old topics.

Sure, sometimes the looks and comments directed her way were… less than polite, ranging from awkwardly endearing to downright offensive. But Becca brushed that off. These people weren’t drinking for fun. They drank because something itched inside, and they were just trying to scratch- trying to remember something they never had or trying to forget what they couldn’t get rid of. Becca got it. That was life in Central Florida. And as long as they kept drinking and tipping, she was more than happy to let them try to scratch.

Besides, she thought, these people are fucking gold compared to that stupid piece of shit...

She rounded the building, dodging the loose boards and rusty nails by instinct, to a small disused outside eating area right off the kitchen. It was broken down and cluttered with old crates and a few forgotten trash cans. Beyond the railings, the man-made sandhills (which idiot tourists often mistook for dunes) were overgrown with wire grass and scrub palmetto. If it weren’t for the lone bare bulb over the back door, it would seem completely derelict, a wasteland, as abandoned as the packing house next door.

She sat down on one of the rough built-in benches and took a deep breath, trying to soothe the roiling thoughts in her head before heading into the bar.

But when she closed her eyes, she couldn’t stop replaying the entire scene...

...the high-pitched, strident, whimpering shrieks as she stood outside the rocking trailer...

...the gagging mishmash of Victoria’s Secret perfume and pot smoke and sex when she opened the door...

...and those fucking pink shoes with the price tag still on the bottom, bobbing back and forth, back and forth…

FUCK!!!

Becca stood and spun in a jagged circle, struggling to contain the torrent of emotions flooding through her. She wanted to lash out at something, wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, wanted to cry.

But she couldn’t do any of those things. She had to work.

She wiped at her dry eyes and scooped up her bag from the bench.

Fuck you, John Junior.

In the kitchen, she threw down her bag in a corner and snatched her usual metal spatula from its hook, holding it up to the light so she could see her reflection. She poked at the corners of her mouth, smudging her lipstick back into place, stealing a glance over the spatula at Camilo, the enormous Cuban fry cook flipping burgers at the grill. He never spoke to her or, as far as she knew, anyone. Why can’t all men be like that?

She pushed through the kitchen door and stepped behind the bar, nodding hello to Mary, the older waitress who also got the bar started earlier in the evening. The darkness was easy on her stinging eyes, the coolness soothing after the hot Florida night air. Becca took a deep breath and drank in the smoky-sour atmosphere. There were a few people at the bar, all regulars, and a handful of tables occupied.

“Heeey! There she is!” Darryl always sat at the end of the bar, by the kitchen door. He was a retired police chief from Jupiter- or maybe Vero- Becca could never remember which, and it was his red bike outside. Every night, he rode seven miles over the bridge from his place on the beach to Tilly’s. And every night, significantly impaired, he rode it seven miles back. Becca knew he had lost his license somehow, but had never worked up the nerve to ask.

“Darryl, ain’t there any good bars out on the beach?” She asked, not for the first time.

“Well, sure! But I guarantee none of them have bartenders who could fill out that shirt the way you do!”

She smirked, also not for the first time. “Such a charmer. Another round?” She collected his nearly empty glass of domestic and wiped up the condensation it had left behind.

“How was your day, gorgeous?” he asked. She could feel his eyes on her ass.

“Honestly? Pretty shitty.” She tilted his glass and pulled open the tap.

“Oh, is Bill okay?”

“Daddy’s fine. It’s just…” Becca wasn’t sure if she should be opening up to Darryl this early in the evening. “Just Junior being Junior.”

Darryl was finally looking her in the eyes. “Kid’s trouble, you know.”

“I know, I know.” She put his beer down on a fresh coaster. “But it’s all done now. For real, this time.”

“Hope so.”

Yeah, me too, she thought.

Sitting in the dead center of the bar, ancient, leather-skinned Vivianne, clad in one of her usual fluorescent bikinis and a faded floral cover-up that reeked of years of stale smoke, was halfway through her gin and tonic. She’d been coming to Tilly’s for years. She had seen it all and done it all- and talked about it all on a nightly basis. Becca often laughed to herself about how there were just two things about Vivianne that were younger than Becca was: the half-crumpled pack of cigarettes she’d bought on the way over here; and her tits, which stood out from her chest, strangely smooth and many shades lighter than the rest of her.

Further down, just before where the bar curved back to the wall sat overweight, curly-haired Joey. His eyes darted quickly from her boobs up to the baseball game on the TV and back down to the scorecards spread out on the bar in front of him. He was a math geek and a space freak. Want to know about the latest launches up at the Cape? Buy Joey a beer. Want to stop Joey from going on and on about the relative differences between electromagnetic thrusters and electrothermal thrusters? Too bad- you shouldn’t have bought him that beer. Unlike Darryl, who spoke his mind- and his libido- freely, Joey rarely said much to Becca. But the way he looked at her creeped her out far more than anything Darryl had ever said.

All in all, it looked like it was going to be a quiet night, which was exactly what Becca needed. She took a breath and finally felt a bit of peace. Just let things be calm, she prayed. Nice, simple routine. I’ll figure out this mess in the morning. She patrolled the length of the bar, pretending to understand whatever Joey was saying about the starting pitcher’s ERA, making sure there was a steady stream of Seagram’s for Vivianne, and deflecting Darryl’s constant barrage of corny innuendo. Business as usual.

The heavy wooden front door scraped open, and two younger men walked in. Becca didn’t recognize them, but she knew in an instant that they were from out of state. They walked to the far end of the bar, shrugging off huge weather-worn daypacks and setting them against the wall along with a guitar in a fancy padded case.

Becca headed over and set a couple of coasters in front of them. “Hey guys, what’re we drinking tonight?”

The taller one with the scraggly, sandy-blond hair smiled at her. “Depends. What’s cheap?”

“Two for one Red Stripes tonight.” Becca reached under the bar and grabbed a couple of squat brown bottles from the fridge. She popped the caps off and set them down in front of the men.

“Perfect.” The blond was cute, she decided instantly. Kind of a boyish face, but tanned and thin, with bright blue eyes that popped out, even in the dim lighting by the bar. His friend was a bit shorter and more thickly built, with close-cropped brownish hair and a few days of stubble. Also good-looking.

Hmmm… who would you rather…? Becca smirked at her thought, and at the unusual tingle that came from even entertaining it. Well, I am single after all...

“Down from up north?”

“That obvious, is it?” asked the shorter man.

Becca laughed. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Well, Vermont originally, but we just came down from Cocoa Beach today.”

Joey’s head popped up from his ledger. “Oh, did you stop in at Canaveral?”

Oh god- not now, Joey!

“Uh, nope. Maybe next time.”

“Just passing through, then?” Becca put one hand on the bar to remind everyone that their conversation was with her.

“Dunno, probably,” said the taller, after taking a long drink from his bottle. “Haven’t decided, yet. Is this a good place to learn how to surf?”

Becca laughed. “I have no idea. Maybe? Wait, you don’t know where you’re going?”

“Nope. Just following the coast for a while. See where it goes, see what happens.”

“I did that once,” croaked Vivianne, with a voice that sounded like rocks in a blender. “Made it as far as Boca. What a shithole.”

“Viv!” Becca really wished everyone else would stop talking to her customers. “Boca’s nice!”

“It’s a shithole.” Vivianne couldn’t let it go.

“You’re not gutter punks, are you?” Darryl leaned in from the far end of the bar and asked the question in his way-too-loud, official police voice.

“Darryl!” Becca chastised. The two men looked at each other and laughed. She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He used to be a cop.”

The shorter man leaned around her. “Nope! Not gutter punks, sir!”

The taller man smiled sweetly at Becca, “Washed my hair this morning and everything, I swear!” She smiled back.

“He seems… nice,” said the shorter. “Lot of crusties down here or something?”

Becca shook her head. “Every once in a while. And him, he’s harmless. Just gets a little overprotective is all.”

“You don’t seem like you need protecting.”

“It’s just kind of his thing. Plus, he knows my Daddy from way back.” Becca rarely had trouble telling when someone was flirting with her. Hell, most of the people who flirted with her were far from subtle. But these guys were different. They weren’t openly gawking at her tits. They weren’t working dirty words into the conversation just to see how she’d react. And when they smiled at her, it didn’t feel like they were trying to get anything from her.

But whether they were flirting with her or not, they were easy to talk to, nice to look at, and a welcome distraction from… what was his name?

“Well, we’re not homeless, but we are looking for a place to stay tonight,” said the sandy-haired man. “That place next door- the… Treasure Coast? Is that place even open?”

“Oh God!” Vivianne rattled her empty G and T glass on the bar. Becca went to get her another. “Don’t stay at that place unless you want bedbugs! Now, back in the day, the place was nice. You could get a r-”

“Okay, Viv, okay!” Becca interrupted. “Not sure anyone wants to hear about bedbugs. Or ‘back in the day’!” She poured Vivianne’s Seagram’s in front of her to distract her, stealing a glance over at the two men, who smiled, chuckling, back at her. She wanted to make sure nothing interrupted her little flirtation. Again, her mind drifted back to a happy game of comparisons. She pictured both of the men without shirts, the first long and lean, like a swimmer. The second had muscles, she decided. Muscles to trace with her fingers. And her tongue. She felt herself blushing as she twisted a slice of lime over Viv’s glass. There was no way she’d be able to choose between the two.

The heavy wooden front door scraped open, and another young man walked in.

He was wearing a pristine white oversized Miami Heat jersey and baggy shorts, along with a bright blue Florida Gators baseball hat pulled sharply to the side. He stood in the doorway as if expecting to be noticed, nodding slightly at no one in particular, scratching the patchy bit of facial hair under his chin. His eyes lighted on Becca behind the bar, and he threw his head back with a huge grin.

Oh fuck, no, no, no, no, why, why- “What the fuckin’ hell are you doing here?” Becca felt a white-hot ball of anger deep in her gut. The mood- the temporary respite she had found with the cool darkness of the bar with her regulars, and especially with the two Vermonters- came crashing down in an instant as John Junior sidled up to the bar.

“There she is! There’s my girl!” he said too loudly, jabbing both fingers in her direction. He pulled out a stool beside Joey, who angrily shifted a third of his baseball ledgers further away.

“Not your girl, Junior.” She stalked away and snatched up Darryl’s half empty glass. She put a fresh one under the tap.

“Naw, baby! That ain’t right! That’s no way to talk to your boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend!” She grabbed a stack of paper napkins and delivered them to a slightly confused Vivianne.

“C’mon, Bec, why you gotta be acting like this?”

“Acting like what? How do you think I should be acting right now, Junior?” She was trying to keep her voice under control, but she could feel herself getting louder.

“Well, you don’t have to be pitchin’ a fit, for one thing!”

“Do you really want to see a fit?”

“I just want a chance to explain, babe!”

“Ain’t nothing to explain, Junior!”

“Well, if you hadn’t stormed off in a huff the way you did...”

“You were fucking her on my couch! In my living room! In my goddamn house, Junior! Of course, I’m gonna storm off!”

And with that, the temperature in the room changed. Joey looked up from his ledgers and Darryl swiveled in his chair to face Junior.

“Oh, god, I need a smoke.” Vivianne grabbed her crumpled pack of cigarettes and headed for the door. Becca didn’t dare glance at the two travelers. So much for a peaceful night now. So much for a distracting flirtation with a couple of hot strangers.

“Well, see, babe, we just went over to your place to talk to you!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Junior smiled like he had just gotten away with something. “You remember Key West, right?”

“What about Key West?”

“‘Member what you said when we were down there, at that parrot bar place?”

“Do I remember what I said during the three days when we were drunk out of our minds the whole time? No, Junior, I don’t remember. Was it, ‘hey, Junior, why don’t you fuck Justine Foley on my couch’? ‘Cause I think I’d remember that!”

“No!” Junior laughed, “Well, not exactly- but yeah, you remember! I asked you about the whole three-way thing, and you said you’d consider it!”

Joey’s pencil scratched across his baseball ledger. “Wait, you did? I mean, you would?”

“Not now, Joey!” Becca snapped without breaking her glare at Junior. “I was drunk when I said that, Junior!”

“Yeah, but you were really, really into the idea! So, this morning, I run into Justine outside the Subway- the one over by the new Walmart, not the one by the bridge- and we got to talking, and you’ll never believe it...“ Junior held his hands out for dramatic effect. “Turns out, Justine’s totally bi. And I was like, ‘holy shit! Becca’s bi, too…’”

“That is not what I said!”

“...and then Justine was like, ‘seriously? I would totally get with Becca!’ So, that’s when we thought we’d just go over to your place and tell you about it, but you weren’t there.

Becca’s mouth dropped open when she realized that was the end of the explanation. “So, let me get this straight: you bring Justine Foley to my place to talk to me about having a three-way…”

“Exactly!”

“But before I could get home and hear about this amazing, wonderful, super-romantic idea, somehow, both your clothes fall off and you two get to fucking in my goddamn living room?!”

“Well, I mean, we got a little excited just talking about it, that’s all!”

Becca sucked in air slowly through her nose. “Get the fuck outta here, John Junior, or I swear to Jesus, I will call the cops on you so fast!”

John Junior laughed, incredulously. “For trying to have a three-way?”

“Public disturbance, public inebriation, public indecency! I haven’t decided yet!”

“But I haven’t done any of those things!”

“Which one of us do you think they’re gonna believe, you fuckin’ wannabe?” Becca took a step to the back shelf of the bar and picked up the phone.

“Okay, okay, ease up! Shit!” Junior stepped awkwardly off the bar stool and took a step back. “I can see you’re still a little hot about it, so I’ma let you cool down.”

“Ain’t no cooling down from this one, Junior! We’re done!”

“Nah! You’ll come around, baby. You always come around.” He smiled his big toothy grin and walked across the room to an empty table. He slid into a chair and waved at Mary to bring him a menu.

No one spoke. No one moved. Everything seemed frozen in place. Becca tried to calm her breathing. When she closed her eyes and squeezed, she could almost remember the calm, quiet refuge the bar had been just a few minutes ago.

Vivianne broke the spell when she came back in from having a smoke. “What’d I miss?”

“Becca’s trying to have a three-way,” Joey said, eyes glued to Becca’s tits.

“Oh, god! Don’t get me started! Back in the day…”

“Gaaaah!” Becca interrupted, slamming down the phone. “Please, Viv, I love you, but right now, I don’t think I can handle any back-in-the-day three-way stories!”

“Later, then, remind me.”

Becca sighed to try to ease the tension in her chest, filled up a fresh highball glass with ice, and picked up the Seagram’s. “As if I’d touch Justine fuckin’ Foley with a ten-foot pole full of penicillin!”

“Well, it’d have to be a ten-foot needle, technically,” said Joey, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt.

“Yes, thank you, Joey, very helpful!”

“Say, gorgeous?” Darryll gestured from the end of the bar.

Becca turned to Darryll, bracing for his off-colored contribution or at least an I-told-you-so. “Yes, Darryl?”

He just laughed and pointed to his beer glass, still empty under the tap. She went to fill it and brought it down to him. “Sorry ‘bout that, Darryl.”

“Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about that idiot, either, gorgeous. He’ll be in Okeechobee Correctional before he’s thirty.”

“Well, you always know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you?” She did her best to smile. He was only trying to help, she knew.

Becca took a deep breath and headed for the guys at the end of the bar. “You guys didn’t know there was gonna be a floor show, did you?”

“At this point, we just assume every place in Florida has a floor show,” said the shorter man.

“Yeah, well, sorry you had to see all that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sounds like a shitty situation.”

The taller man’s eyes sparkled. “Well, listen, if you’re that desperate for a threesome, we’re not doing anything later. We could get a room over at the Coast…”

The subtle sarcasm in the joke took a moment to get past Becca’s anger, but when it did, she blurted out a half-snorted laugh.

“Or if you know of a place that doesn’t have bedbugs…”

She laughed again, and she was sure that Junior heard. “You guys are too sweet, aren’t you?” She liked these guys. There was no posturing with them- no sense that they were trying to get anything from her that she didn’t want to give.

She glanced over at John Junior. Mary had brought him a plate of French fries, which he had piled onto one half of the plate to make way for the lake of ketchup he had poured onto the other half. And he was talking to someone on the phone, gesturing in the air with fingerfuls of fries. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess who was on the other end.

Time passed. Joey’s baseball game was over, and he was trying to tell Vivianne about the latest probe to go up from the Cape, and Vivianne was trying to pretend like she cared about it. Darryl had pivoted all the way around on his barstool, elbows resting on the bar by his nearly untouched beer. Becca knew he was keeping an eye on Junior.

Junior’s phone call- twenty solid minutes of loud laughing, quiet whispers and lots and lots of grinning- was done. He was sprawled almost horizontally at his table, poking at the remaining swipes of ketchup with an extra long French fry. He seemed broody, almost thoughtful. It made Becca nervous. She had no idea what he would do next.

She found herself hanging out near the end of the bar with the two out-of-towners. The tall one’s name was Evan, and his friend was Kyle. And to her surprise, the subtle, easy-going flirtation from before did not go away. In fact, the pair seemed to take it on themselves to keep her laughing, keep her distracted. They understood that she was in an uncomfortable place, and they were doing what they could to help. She thought it was sweet. And she also knew they were both watching her ass when she walked to the other side of the bar. And she knew that she liked it.

The atmosphere was still tense, but as long as Junior kept his distance- and as long as Evan and Kyle kept flirting with her, she felt a kind of uneasy happiness.

The heavy wooden front door scraped open again. In walked a skinny girl in a too-tight, too-short denim skirt and plunging black tank top and the same high-heeled, peep-toe, pink espadrilles that Becca had seen bobbing above John Junior’s head earlier that day. Justine Foley spotted Becca behind the bar, smiled mid-gum-chomp and waved with both hands as she headed for John Junior’s table.

What... The… Fuck...

...whatthefuck, whatthefuck, whatthefuck… Becca turned and gripped the back counter, rattling a few bottles of bourbon, repeating the mantra to keep from throwing up. She looked at her face in the mirror behind the bar and saw a crumbling mess about to burst into tears. And beyond, the reflection of Junior and Justine sitting together, laughing together, him feeding her cold French fries and her acting like it was some twenty dollar crudites.

It was obvious what he was doing. He called her, told her to come. But he didn’t tell her that Becca was angry, that she had said no, that she’d broken up with him. No, he told her she was in, that she was excited. It was his way; corner you, put you on the spot, wear you down until you say yes, even if just to make him stop talking. Next, he’d be buying drinks, whispering in Justine’s ear, sending her up to the bar to flirt awkwardly in front of Joey and Darryl and the two out-of-towners.

For a brief moment, she thought about giving in, and the thought brought a tiny hint of relief. Just get it over with. Just let it happen. Get plastered… get drunk enough, and with any luck, you won’t remember a thing in the morning. But in the morning, you’d also be back together with Junior… Same as always...

She glanced over at Evan and Kyle and saw the concern on their faces. They had pieced together what was happening- they knew who it was who had just walked in- and she could tell from their pursed lips and sad, sympathetic eyes that they understood just how fucked up it was. In that moment, she loved them for it.

And that’s when she decided. She grabbed a towel, dabbed at her eyes with it, and threw it towards the sink. She marched over to the travelers and leaned over the bar.

“How serious were you about that offer?”

“Er, what offer?” Kyle asked.

“You and you and me. How serious?”

“Oh, I was just trying to lighten the mood- it was a joke!” said Evan. “I’m sorry if I offend--”

“Well, how serious do you think you could get in, like, five minutes?”

Their eyes widened as they understood what she was doing.

“Oh! Uhh… very?” said Kyle.

“Yeah, very serious.”

“Good. Out back. Five minutes.” She pushed away from the bar.

“I mean, we could actually go over to the Coast, if y--”

“Out back. Five minutes.” And with that, Becca headed for the kitchen, waving at Mary to get her attention.

-

In the kitchen, she stopped and snatched up her shiny spatula. She poked at her lipstick before throwing it back down in disgust. Who am I kidding- this ain’t about that. She brushed past Camilo and pushed through the back door into the night.

The guys weren’t there. What the fuck am I doing? She paced around in a nervous circle, dodging broken boards and built-in benches. What if they don’t come? This could all be a joke to them. They could be still sitting at the bar, laughing… But what if they did come? Could I really…? Shit, Becca, this was a stupid, stupid…

She heard boards creaking on the side of the restaurant. Evan and Kyle appeared from around the corner and all three of them froze. She tried to read their faces in the moth-flickered light from the bare bulb over the door. They weren’t laughing. She felt their eyes move from hers to wander over her body, from her plunging t-shirt neckline to her tiny denim shorts and along the length of her legs. She saw hunger in their eyes, and it brought a warm flush between her thighs. She felt it, too.

She took a small step. It was all the signal they needed. They both stepped toward her and, in an instant, Evan’s lips were pressed against hers. He kissed her hard, his tongue immediately pushing past her lips. He tasted of far away- like clove and coffee and smoke and Red Stripe. It was the first time she had kissed anyone other than Junior in years, and she relished the strangeness of it almost as much as she relished the thought that the bastard was only twenty feet away with a plate of soggy fries. She returned the kiss hungrily, feeling the goosebumps sweep all the way down her body.

And then she felt something new. Another pair of lips on her shoulder, just where her skin disappeared under her t-shirt. Another pair of hands crept along her hips from behind, grazing over the exposed skin of her midriff and reaching upwards. She moaned into Evan’s mouth as Kyle cupped and squeezed her breasts. It was almost too much pleasure all at once. Kyle’s hands and lips, Evan’s lips and tongue, the taste of them, the scent of them- she felt overwhelmed, like she couldn’t catch a breath. She had to fight not to flail, not to flee. And then… and then… she let go. She felt her body go liquid and she suddenly didn’t need to breathe. She writhed between them, reaching around to find Kyle’s hard cock through his denim.

She twisted and dropped to her knees and began unbuckling Kyle’s pants. His cock was hot in her hands as she stretched her mouth wide over the tip and pushed herself down on him. She moaned as she filled herself with it, took a deep breath as she pulled off, and then moaned as she filled herself again. With her free hand she groped blindly for Evan. She heard him undo his pants, and in another moment, she felt the warm, smooth, skin of his cock against the palm of her hand.

It was Evan who eventually pulled her roughly to her feet. He pressed his naked cock against her ass, running his hands over her breasts before reaching lower. Kyle took a step back and pulled his pants further down, tugging at his cock as he watched his friend caressing her between the legs. Being seen like this made her feel a little giddy. Being watched was intoxicating.

She was only vaguely aware of Evan’s fingers at the buttons of her shorts. She felt the downward tug as he worked them over her hips. She felt them slide over her thighs and heard them fall to the sandy boards of the porch. He peeled the tiny teal thong down her legs and she was suddenly aware of the relatively cool Florida night against her exposed pussy.

Evan’s cock pressed against her bare ass as he awkwardly tried to push her shoulders down. She bent at the waist and spread her legs a bit, catching hold of a nearby bench for balance. His cock slid against the underside of her pussy. She stood on tiptoe and guided him in with her hand. As he pressed further and began to fill her, she instinctively arched her back and bent at the waist in order to grip him better. He slid in until his hips were pressed against her ass, and she let out a low moan that was much louder than she had intended. “Fffffffuck!”

Evan slid slowly in and out of her, but Kyle was stroking his cock faster and faster. He smiled at the faces she was making as she tried to stay somewhat quiet. He took a couple of steps and bent his knees to position himself in front of her. Oh, god! She thought. I can’t...

But when it came, she opened her mouth and instantly swallowed half of Kyle’s length with a muffled mmph. She was amazed at how easy it was- how natural it felt- to find that see-sawing rhythm between the two men. Her hand worked Kyle in and out of her mouth while Evan slammed into her cunt again and again.

Sex with Junior was always the same; drunk, high, porn blaring from the living room TV, Junior hammering away like a jackrabbit. Always him on top. Always on the couch. Just like with Justine.

But Evan was good, she realized. Really good. He slowed his movement and straightened his knees to bend his cock a tiny bit downward, hitting a spot that made Becca pull off of Kyle and gasp and shriek at the same time. Every thrust slammed against that spot, and Becca felt a brand new sensation building, tensing, tightening like a spring inside her. She put her mouth back on Kyle’s cock and let Evan’s thrusts push her onto him. She craved more- needed more. She was aching for every part of her to be filled, to have everything else pushed out, forgotten, discarded, replaced by the pure thoughtless sensation coursing through her now.

The orgasm caught her by surprise. It was deeper than she was used to, more intense. Her legs started shaking before she realized what was happening; so much so that Kyle grabbed on to her shoulders to steady her. Every thrust brought a fresh wave of spasms deep inside. She couldn’t moan. She could only hold on until Evan slowed to a stop and gingerly eased out of her.

She looked over her shoulder at him, panting. “What the hell… I’ve never cum like that before.”

Evan chuckled. “Awesome.”

“You want some more?” asked Kyle.

“Hell, yes.” Becca moved over to one of the old tables and leaned over it, sticking her ass up as high as she could. Evan took a seat on a bench, cock sticking straight up, still glistening with Becca’s wetness. She locked eyes with him as Kyle lined up behind her, and held his gaze as she felt Kyle’s cock spread her lips and push into her. Evan smiled and wrapped his fingers around his own cock, sliding his hand slowly up and down as Kyle slid quickly in and out.

She gave up on any pretense of being quiet. She didn’t care if the whole bar heard. Junior was long forgotten. For this night, at least, she would do what she wanted.

She kept her eyes locked on Evan as he watched her. He was oddly expressionless, save for the odd squint around his eyes or the sudden sharp intake of breath. But she could see with every stroke of his hand how much he wanted her.

“Ahh! I’m gonna cum!” Kyle put a hand on her shoulder.

“Do it!” She said over her shoulder to Kyle. She looked back at Evan. “Do it,” she said to him.

Kyle moaned and gripped her shoulder hard. He thrust again, and again, shoving himself against her, emptying himself into her. She gasped as she felt the hot liquid filling her. But Evan didn’t cum. He just continued to slowly stroke his cock, smiling as his friend came inside her.

And then she realized: he was waiting for her. She went straight over to him, dropped into a crouch between his legs and took his cock into her mouth. He wasn’t far. She pumped his cock with her hand once, twice… he gripped her head and held it in place as his hips bucked and he let out a low, growling moan.

She felt Evan’s cum filling up her mouth just as Kyle’s was dripping from her pussy onto the sandy boards beneath.

-

She pushed through the kitchen door and walked behind the bar like nothing had happened.

Darryl’s beer was empty. She grabbed a fresh glass and positioned it under the tap, taking the opportunity to finally glance around. Darryl was staring straight ahead at nothing. Vivianne was chewing on her ice- which she always did when she was done drinking for the night- and gave her a wink. Becca smiled back. Joey was bright red and staring down the neck of his beer bottle. Evan and Kyle walked sheepishly back into the bar and reclaimed their seats. Becca smiled to herself but ignored them.

John Junior and Justine were nowhere to be seen.

She finished Darryl’s pour and set the glass down in front of him before grabbing a couple of Red Stripes. She popped the tops and walked them down to the guys.

“On the house,” she said simply. They smiled at her and clinked the two bottle together. She just rolled her eyes and walked away.

She glanced in the back mirror at the table where John Junior and Justine had sat. Nothing there but a plate of soggy fries and ketchup smear.

She fished through the whiskey bottles, looking for that one with the funny name she couldn’t pronounce- the one Mary had told her was the last good bottle in the house.

There it is! Dusty and still half-full. She put a shot glass on the bar and poured. She lifted it toward the empty table and the plate of fries, tapped it back down on the bar, and downed it in one go.

It burned her throat so bad that tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought the urge to cough and slammed the shot glass upside down on the bar.

“Fuck you, John Junior!”