N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(47)

My eyes shoot open.

“Let me do it for you,” he says, licking his thin lips with his fat tongue. He goes to reach for my dick, but I pull away, slamming my back against the door.

“That wasn’t the deal. Twenty bucks was to watch. JUST to watch,” I remind him, covering my junk with my hand. It’s not like I haven’t done more in the past. I just want to get this the fuck over with and get some food and to get a hold of Pike.

“I tell you what. I’ll sweeten the deal. I’ll throw in an extra hundred if you let me do it,” he offers.

I’m about to say no when he reaches into the glove compartment and takes out a hundred-dollar bill, waving it in front of my face.

I snatch it from him, but he grabs it back, setting it on the dash.

“You’ll get it after,” he says.

I sit back down on the seat and try to pretend I’m somewhere else while my stomach turns at the feeling of his calloused rough hand grab the base of my shaft.

I go soft instantly.

“You ain’t getting paid unless you come,” he gruffs, angrily.

Fuck, I actually have to do this.

I close my eyes again and imagine the same supermodel, only now she’s holding a Brillow pad as she strokes me. It takes forever, but thankfully, I lose myself to my thoughts until I do, in fact, come in the most exhausting grotesque, bile-inducing orgasm of my life.

Before the sinking regret and shame can sink in, I lunge forward and snatch the bill from the dashboard. I yank up my pants as the trucker closes his eyes and licks his fingers clean.

That’s my shot. I don’t have time to vomit, so I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and snag his wallet from the dash. I wait in the shadows for him to pull out of the parking lot before I run at full-speed into the diner.

I’m too hungry to think about what I’ve just done. Or anything. I’ll think about it later, after my stomach is full.

I eat two of my three full-sized meals without even bothering to savor the taste. I pause before I begin my third and look around the diner. The rest stop is buzzing with people and not just truckers. A few of the small tables are overflowing with families. One family of five is wearing matching Disney World logo shirts in varying colors. They’re laughing and smiling while the mom and dad unfold a theme park map and happily point to the different attractions.

My stomach turns, and it’s not because of the meatloaf or the chicken fried steak I just inhaled. Another table nearby has an elderly couple. The man is sipping a cup of coffee while reading from an open newspaper on the table while his wife reads a romance novel. They aren’t speaking, but they’re holding hands across the table. Another couple is arguing while their baby cries until the wife covers her face with her hands. The husband gets out of his side of the booth and goes to her, removing her hands. Whatever he says to her makes her laugh, and they embrace before going back to their meals, staying on the same side of the booth while their baby finally stops screaming to suck on a bottle the man feeds it with his free hand.

Everyone has someone. Even the truckers who live a solitary life on the open road alone are gathered together at the counter chatting about gas prices and politics. I’m utterly alone. Always have been. And if I don’t find my brother, always will be.

I remove the picture from my pocket and unfold it. Samuel Clearwater. I say his name over and over in my head. Maybe, I didn’t miss out by never getting a chance to meet him. Maybe, he was a degenerate asshole just like my fucking mother. But I can’t help but to think What if? What if he wasn’t? What if he was amazing? What if he was funny and genuine, and…I stop. I can’t let myself think that. It makes it all so much worse. I fold the picture back up and shove it into my pocket.

He was probably an asshole.

But he did have a cool last name. At least, it was a fuck of a lot better than mine. Clearwater. My last name is Schmooter. More than likely given to me by our shared mother to honor whatever bastard she let come inside her. I make a decision. Asshole or not, I want to keep a piece of my brother with me, and the only thing I know about him is his name.

From this second on, I’m no longer Kevin Schmooter.

I’m Kevin Clearwater.

I hurry up and finish my third meal. Leaving a tip on the table, I grab my backpack and head over to the adjoining Quick Mart. I purchase a burner phone, and when I get out into the parking lot, I immediately dial Pike’s number, which is the only number I actually have memorized.

No answer.

Fuck.

Logan’s Beach is only ten miles away, and now, with a belly full of food, I’m sure I can manage the walk.

I only make it to the middle of the parking lot when I remember what I’d done to get that full stomach. The trucker. The…

All of the much-needed food in my gut comes back up again in a rush of regret, right there in the parking lot.

After I’m sure it’s passed, I wipe my mouth. Before I can even stand up straight, a thick pair of legs appear before me. I look up to find the trucker from earlier, glaring down at me. “I think you took something of mine.”

“I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about. We’re done here,” I say, stepping around him.

He grabs me by the arm just as another trucker, even bigger than him, comes out of the shadows and grabs my other arm. “This the kid?”

“Yeah, check his bag.”