Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

Misty gave me an amused look and I suddenly realized what that had sounded like. I giggled nervously. “I mean, you need a pad … or something … to, uh, put on the ground,” I finished lamely, sweeping my hand out to indicate the rough gravel.

She handed the rifle to me. I carefully laid it out on the tailgate, examining the scope as she opened the door. Misty came back and set a balled-up blanket next to the gun, saying, “Will this work?”

“That’ll work, uh, just fine.” I shook out the blanket, trying to ignore the slightly musky smell, and it fluttered out to the ground. I smoothed it down and grabbed the rifle, kneeling on the blanket. Misty dropped to her knees next to me, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Fat Ernst’s toilet , I kept reminding myself, and managed to focus on the rifle instead.

“Okay. Go ahead and lie down,” I told Misty. She gave me another bemused snicker and leaned forward until she was on her stomach. “Get into, uh, a prone position. Okay, good. Prop yourself up on your elbows there, at an angle, and”—I almost said and spread your legs a little , but caught it just in time, choking out—“and, and there you go.” I handed the rifle to Misty, desperately trying not to look at how the fabric of her jeans clung to the ripe, curving cheeks of her ass. Fat Ernst’s toilet …

She settled into position, left elbow forward just a little, right arm out to the side.

“Okay good, good. Now, when it feels right, go ahead and take a shot.” I had barely finished the sentence when she pulled the trigger. A distant puff of dust, just about five inches over one of the barrels. She jerked the bolt back, then slammed it home.

“Give yourself a sec, then take another.” Again, the rifle cracked before I finished. Another little burst of gravel, this time off to the right of the barrel. “One more time.” The bullet whizzed above the barrel once again.

“Okay, hang on.” Still kneeling, I bent over the scope, and gently inserted a dime into one of the two adjustable knobs. I counted four clicks as I twisted the dime counterclockwise. “Try it again.”

The first round was off to the right, but the second shot nailed the can, crumpling the top half and sending it flying. “Nice shot,” I said, reaching for the box of shells just as Misty pulled the trigger once more. A dry snap; the gun was empty.

I inserted the dime into the second knob, twisting it clockwise for two clicks. Then I loaded the rifle, handed it back to Misty.

She hadn’t moved; her eyes were still focused on the cans at the far end of the quarry. As she concentrated, I couldn’t help but steal a quick glance at her behind. I ripped my eyes away and handed the rifle back to her. She fired off the five rounds in rapid succession and missed every time, throwing the bullets all around the can.

They weren’t landing in one area, so I couldn’t tell if the scope was sighted in. “Let me try it real quick,” I said, and added quickly, “if you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s okay. I’d like to watch you shoot,” Misty said, and scooted over on the blanket.

I eased myself down next to her, grateful that I was lying on my stomach and could hide the growing bulge in my crotch. I loaded the rifle, then pulled it up tight into my shoulder.

“You’re putting the crosshairs right in middle of the can, right?” I asked.

“Of course.”

Through the crystal clear Zeiss scope, the red and white can looked enormous. I settled the crosshairs right into the center of the huge “B,” let my breath out slowly, and squeezed. The gentle snap of the trigger was like touching a DaVinci sketch.

The can rocked slowly, but it wasn’t hit. I searched through the scope until I found the bullet hole—directly under the can, about a foot down, a small fresh hole in the barrel. I brought the crosshairs back up and fired again. Same thing. The bullet struck the oil drum just to the left of the original hole. A third round. This time, the bullet nicked the edge of the first hole, nearly grazing the second. All three holes could have fit inside a dime. Okay.

The rifle was sighted in. It was shooting low for me simply because the drop was different. In other words, when my cheek was settled on the stock, my eye occupied a different point in space than Misty’s, but it should work fine for her.

I found the can in the crosshairs one more time, then raised the barrel until I was pointing somewhere above the can, about the same distance from the can to the holes in the barrel. I squeezed the trigger, and the beer can popped off the oil drum, spinning end over end until it disappeared behind the barrels. I’d hit the bottom edge, and that had knocked it into the air.

“Nice shot,” Misty said. She sounded genuinely impressed. “Now let me try.”

I loaded the rifle and handed it back to her. “Just breathe nice and easy. Squeeeeeeze that trigger, real gentle like.” I propped myself on my elbows, bringing the binoculars up.

Her first shot was low, second shot high, but the third shot sent another can bouncing off into the gravel. “There you go.” Misty nailed two more cans, whispering, “Fucking A plus, you little cocksuckers,” then reloaded.

There was something sweet, almost delicious in hearing her smoky voice wrap around a word like “cocksucker.” It was almost more than I could handle. I thanked God again for being able to lie on my stomach, hiding an erection that would not be denied.

A sniggering voice floated out across the Quarry to us. “Well, well, isn’t this just cute as a goddamn button.”

My erection died faster than if I’d seen Fat Ernst naked. I’d heard that voice all night, in my nightmares. I glanced over my shoulder and saw them. Junior and Bert, standing in front of their truck in the middle of the road at the top ridge of the Quarry, silhouetted against the gray sky. Bert waved.

Oh, shit , I thought. The goddamn Sawyer brothers found me again .

“Don’t stop on our account,” Junior hollered. “Just pretend we ain’t here. I gotta say, though, I’m downright impressed here, Archie. We been trying for years to get some of that sweet pussy, and you just slid right on in there. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Yeah, Archie,” Bert echoed. “Way to go, man.”

Something flared in my chest.

“Go back to fucking chickens, dipshit,” Misty called out, still concentrating on the remaining beer can.

Junior ignored her. “Hey, Archie, you mind if we get sloppy seconds?”

I got a bad, scared feeling about all of this, overriding my anger. We were out in the middle of nowhere, hidden even from the highway. If Junior and Bert took it into their heads to really give Misty a hard time, nothing was going to stop them.

“You don’t mind, do ya, Archie? You sure as hell ain’t gonna satisfy a woman like Miss Misty Johnson. I think me and Bert might just have to help ourselves, show this cunt what a real man can do.”

“I think we’d better get out of here,” I whispered to Misty, but she was already pushing herself to her feet, handing me the rifle.

She stepped forward, hands on her hips. “If you pencil-dick motherfuckers think you’re man enough to try it, then you just come on down.” Misty’s voice sounded confident, tough. I was close enough to see the apprehension in her eyes. It wasn’t fear exactly, but Misty wasn’t as clueless as I had thought. She knew exactly what kind of mayhem and cruelty the Sawyer brothers were capable of inflicting. Still, she yelled out, “You couldn’t satisfy a fucking flea, cocksucker. Go on home and let your mama suck you off if you’re in the mood.”

I wished she hadn’t mentioned Pearl. The air sparked and crackled with charged electricity and the almost playful nature in Junior’s voice sharpened into something far more serious. “So. The cunt’s got a smart mouth. Let’s see how fucking smart your mouth is with my dick in it.” I couldn’t see the exact expression on his face—they were too far away—but I could tell that Junior meant it. He turned, heading back to the driver’s side of the truck.