* As a special treat for all those people who’ve been reading this story I thought I’d post this re-worked chapter up as a thank you for your support of my work. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter Five. Let’s Chat.
~ Brandon ~
Gripping Rosebud’s hand tightly, I work my thumb in lazy sweeping semi-circles over the silky skin on the back of her hand. Fuuuck, she’s so soft. Without letting on what I’m doing and scare her off, I lean in and inhale. So help me, her smell. She’s like my own personal aphrodisiac.
Christ almighty, I’m. So. Fuckin’. Turned on.
Groaning low in my throat I take a deep breath and hold it, before releasing it slowly in an effort to control the rapid tattoo of my heart. The pulse in my neck hammers in time to my ticker which is now kicking crazily like a game of pinball inside my chest, but I know I’m failing miserably when my lips start tingling.
I swallow, my throat working noisily, the sound deafening in my head.
Fuck me, what’s wrong with me?
I’m feeling torn. My thoughts scrambled, and inside out.
My emotions are swaying to and fro like a drunken-cuckoo clocks pendulum. On one hand, the primal testosterone-filled male in me — the one that just wants to take this beautiful woman to my bed and fuck her senseless — is hoping like fuck that she’ll see the bulge in the front of my jeans. She’ll know I’m virile, all-man, her perfect mate.
I growl with lust, the deep rumble tickling in my throat. I can’t help myself. Just having her tiny doll-like hand in mine is making my cock strain against my zipper like a mad-feral-dog at a gate. On the other side of the coin, I’m freakin’ out, and I feel sweat beading across my forehead. I’m dreading the second she looks down and sees the hell’s own war that’s going on down the front of my pants. It’s embarrassing to have your jeans tenting constantly, plus the pocket seam rubs if it’s too hard for too long and a sore dick is so not cool.
Plus, I don’t want her to think I’m a sex-crazed bastard who just wants to get into her pants jump her bones and then dump her. Shit no, no fuckin’ way! She deserves so much better than that. I’d rather chop my dick off and feed it to the crows than do that to her. I feel my erection jerk with my sex-thoughts and I shove my hand in my pocket, discreetly wriggling against it in an attempt to take some pressure off.
I hiss through gritted teeth as the denim chaffs the surface of my sensitive skin and out of the corner of my eye I notice Rosebud glance up at me, a flash of confusion showing briefly in her shining eyes. Christ you’re so beautiful, I tell her silently, feeling myself jumping again as I drown in her eyes.
Friggin’ hell, my dick.
Holy fuckin’ shit-on-a-stick, if the bastard gets any harder the fuckin’ zipper will fly open, showing the whole fuckin’ world what I keep tucked away inside my jeans. Now is one of those times when I wished I wasn’t a religious practitioner of the thou-shalt-always–go-fuckin’-commando look.
My lip curves up and I hope like fuck that no little old ladies decide to putt-putt past me doing 5kmh, ‘cause things could go balls-up if they cop an eyeful of my Rosebud-induced hard-on.
I grin like a loon and my chest swells with masculine pride as we stand side by side at the kerb, and — I smile wider— hand in fuckin’ hand. Rocking on my feet, my control stretches to breaking point. I just have to inhale the sweet scent drifting off of her again or I’ll implode. Shit, it’s so sexy, flowers blend in with the smell of….
What. The. Frig?
I lean in closer and without giving the game away, I take a deep whiff.
She smells of flowers, pies, cake and sex.
Actually, she smells fuckin’ good enough to eat and I can’t help myself, I groan and squirm, my balls throbbing as the scent of her arousal fills my nose, driving me abso-fuckin’-lutely-bat-shit-crazy.
My gut bubbles — like it’s full of exploding popping-candy — with my anticipation and full-on excitement and I shift restlessly from foot to foot. I can’t wait to take her home, slowly strip her bare, lay her down and take my time nibbling, sucking and tasting every square inch of that sinfully sexy body. I haven’t even seen her naked and I know already that her body will make me blow big time all over her luscious skin before I’ve even had a chance to sheath myself balls deep into her hot core.
My eyes close and I lose myself momentarily in that thought, feeling her hand wrapped in mine….
She’s so tiny. So delicate. So fuckin’ dainty.
Unbidden, my head fills with more visions of her, and my eyelids dreamily flicker closed. Technicolour XXX porno-images of her sweating, panting, and screaming my name shimmy sexily through my mind and I squirm uncomfortably because my jeans are strangling me. “Shit,” I snap, this time ignoring her frown because I’m hot, flustered and uncomfortable, my friggin’ jeans are now so tight in the crotch they must look like some eighties rock-star’s pants.
I soon forget about what’s happening down-under as I eagerly retreat back into my Rosebud-fantasy. I bite my tongue — tasting hot-blood, but not giving a shit — because in my head she’s kneeling, hands down before me on my bed and I’m holding her slender waist between my hands as I drive into her from behind with long, slow strokes.
My dick is actually hurting and I shiver and swallow with a low grunt as my mouth waters up as I see….
I see her in her ecstasy, her body trembling with need. I look down and watch as the pale satiny skin of her peachy arse grinds into my groin and as soon as she starts moaning my name, her head whipping from side to side I reach my arms around her slim hips, and slide one hand up over her hot moist skin to cup and cradle one of her fine breasts, while the other skates down towards her wet centre where my fingers are soon hard at work petting and stroking her hot core as I coax her to orgasm with me.
Hard and fuckin’ unforgettable. Or so I’ve been told.
Hearing the growl of a powerful engine coming closer to where I stand a few seconds away from blowin’ in my jeans I snap out of it, my jaw twitching as a familiar midnight-blue Ute slows down, the V8’s deep, throaty rumble pumping out the arse through its chrome-tipped twin exhausts. Through the open window the stereo’s pounding rock slams into my chest like a Titan’s fist, I feel every note deep in my marrow.
In my jeans I feel a slight softening in reaction to this new distraction and I sigh, relieved.
Crawling past at a snail’s pace the driver spies me standing there and double parking, he thrusts his arm out of the driver’s window, pumping his fist in the air.
“’Owthefuckyagoin’ mate? Who’s the chick? She’s a new one, mind iffin I ‘ave a go when ya done with ‘er? I’ve never fucked a red’ead afore, she looks mighty fuckin’ tasty.”
From my peripheral vision I see Rosebud’s head drop, her pony-tail curling forward, its wispy flaming ends curling about her ear. I stare at it, hypnotised by its chilli-heat like colour. I scoff, the sound lost beneath the growl of the rumbling exhaust.
Fuck off Brandon, stuffin’ chilli-heat? I’ve had one fight too many, I’ve officially become a complete brain-dead wanker.
I stare at her shiny hair and grit my teeth. Working my jaw back and forth, my mouth dries up and my suddenly tacky tongue sticks against my palate as a sudden insane urge to touch overcomes me. I want to wrap that silky length of hair around my hand as I ride her, and I feel my hand rising before my brows knit together as I think twice about my decision.
Raising my eyes towards the clear blue sky, my fingers curl up and I drop my hand down by my side again, where it clenches into a tight fist. I promptly discard any and all thoughts of touching and fucking her as a sudden coolness in my palm alerts me to the fact that her fingers have slackened around mine.
I twist to her as I feel the tug of her fingers pulling free and as she turns to walk away, I pull her back. My face creases with concern as she makes a tight strangled noise in the back of her throat, and I watch her mouth open and close as if she’s weighing her words carefully.
“I’ve really got to get back to work. I only had one hour for lunch, and it’s nearly up,” she says in a low voice.
Raising her arm, she shows me the thin gold watch encircling her tanned slender wrist and I growl deep in my chest as I see the hands sitting on 12:35pm like two black vultures perched covetously on a still twitching carcass.
I frown at her watch. “Like fuck you do,” I snap.
Her eyes widen and slowly blink as she flinches away from the irrational anger in my voice. Instantly regretting it, my gut clenches as I rush my words out in an attempt to take that frightened doe look away. “Oh Christ. Rosebud I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like such an arrogant prick.”
Scraping my fingers back through my hair, my mouth twitches as I untangle the clusterfuck of thoughts into words which will make sense to her. “It’s just….”My hands rise palms up, lifting her arm with mine and I tilt my head to the side, raising my brow and shooting her a cock-eyed smile. “It’s just that dumb, smart-mouthed bastards like him fuckin’ piss me off something severe.” I shrug apologetically.
I was so not used to having to explain myself.
To anyone. Let alone a chick.
Another. Fuckin’. First.
I was turning into some form of freaky emotion-spewing prick. I’d need to nip this in the bud pretty quickly or I’d end up with no nuts. And the next time I came up against some tough motherfucker in the circle, I’d get my fuckin’ head rearranged.
Rosebud tilts her head, watching me through her lashes, and I notice her fingers frantically working the bag’s leather strap as she gives me a tiny smile which vanishes so quickly I almost imagine it was there in the first place.
Tugging her hand, I pull her back firmly against my side, my grip deliberately tightening.
Lowering my head I place my lips against the silky skin of her ear, my dick twitching as I feel her tremble against my side. Sneakily breathing in her siren’s perfume, I commit it to memory for future wanking fantasies and for when I need encouragement to get a drunk cock hard after a hard night on the piss.
My muscles tense as I realise what I’m thinking.
Fuck me swinging! I’m turning into such a depraved motherfucker at only friggin’ 27.
I froze, my breaths catching in my throat. I didn’t know where this new voice of conscience had come from, but I wished it would just fuck off back to the black-hole in my head that it’d crawled out of.
I closed my eyes using all my mental tenacity to resist the temptation that suddenly overwhelmed me to suck her lobe into my mouth and taking a deep breath I released it as a whisper, “We’re not done yet Rosebud.” My eyes flung open and I smiled as I heard her breathing quicken as my breath drifted across the side of her jaw, her hair moving with the slight breeze my words stirred up. I felt bubbles pop in my chest as my heart performed a manic tap-dancing routine with the knowledge that she was as affected by me, as I was by her.
I swallowed and continued, my voice low and raspy, “Don’t let that fucker upset you. He’s a fuckin’ moron who doesn’t know any better. I reckon that bastard was most likely pissed and asleep behind the door when brains were handed out.”
Pulling away, my breath whistles out as she glances up at me from beneath those fuckin’ long lashes.
I’ve never seen eyelashes like hers. Never ever.
Her blue eyes are suddenly bottomless dark pools and I lick my dry lips as my breath hitches, my chest expanding rapidly with the force of my breathing. With a start I see the same heat reflected in them that I can feel displayed all over my face; as obvious as a fuckin’ bull’s nuts.
“Hey McAllister, you arrogant prick. Ya neva answered me, can I ‘ave the bitch when ya done?”
I narrow my eyes, my free fist clenching that tightly the skin over the knuckles tingles. Adrenalin swamps me, and breathing heavily through my nose, my heart bolts like a horse in a steeplechase. The pounding sounds like an epic, spaced-out-on-acid-type drum solo in my head, and drawing my lips away from my gritted teeth like a pitbull with a fuck-you-attitude, I take a heavy step towards his car. Dragging Rosebud along behind me.
Protecting her with my body from this dead cunt’s filthy words.
A veil of red drops down over my vision as I glare at him and a snarl escapes my throat, my body quivering with the force of my anger and my new-found need to defend this innocent girl. She’s mine now and I’m not gonna put up with fuckin’ bullshit like this.
Not. From. Any. Smart-fucker.
I usually copped it sweet when arseholes ripped off the chicks I was with, they were generally one-nighters who didn’t give a crap anyway. Pissed or stoned, they all had tunnel-vision, all they only wanted was my dick slipping into them. Hard.
They didn’t give a shit who said what to them.
I tensed as I realised, that until this moment, I’d loved giving it to ‘em. But meeting Rosebud, even though it’d only been such a short time ago had turned my needs fuckin’ balls-up.
Rolling my head from side to side I stopped, and pushing Rosebud behind me, so not one inch of her was exposed to this bastard’s filthy eyes, I squared my shoulders, feeling my body’s fight mechanism switch itself on, preparing me to do battle. Spreading my legs I thrust my chin out, and clenched my hand tightly by my thigh, my lips tingling with my building rage. My innards begin to shake as if I’m a test tube inserted into the rubber cup of a scientist’s vortex mixer and my scalp prickles.
My face screws up with fury as all my carefully held-back constraint begins to rapidly disappear faster than a nympho’s panties at an orgy.
“GO FUCK YA SELF ARSEHOLE!” I roar, my blood boiling in my veins.
How dare this prick talk about Rosebud like that? Arrogant fucker!
“You’d betta piss off right about now, before I come over there and rip ya fuckin’ head off and JAM it that far up yer fuckin’ arse, you’ll need a fuckin’ NASA satellite to find the bastard.” I lean towards him from the waist and raising my clenched hand I uncurl my middle finger and flip him a big-fat-fuckin’-bird before growling, “She’s none of your….”
My breaths are coming quick and fast as his eyes widen and I feel a sense of wicked pleasure as his face blanches a deathly corpse–like off-white, but before I can happily carry through on my threat, the Ute squeals off in a stinking haze of rubbery white burnout.
The rest of my words freeze on my tongue as a rough voice interrupts my tirade, “Hey! Hey Brandon, you left your burger behind.”
Fuck me, what now? What fuckin’ burger?
I tensed, all the muscles locking up and my teeth slam together with a loud crack. Irritated, I exhale in one long hiss through my nose.
Just when I nearly had Rosebud all to myself and was getting ready to pull a few of my charming moves on her, these two fucks go and pop the precarious bubble I had so carefully cultivated.
Lurching around, my face twists and over the roar of the blood in my ears I faintly hear Rosebud’s sneakers slap against the asphalt. But, fuck me, I’m too far gone in my annoyance to check if she’s alright.
“What the fuck do you want Lampson? Can’t ya see I’m busy here,” I snap, baring my teeth at one of the causes of my frustration. In a million years I hadn’t expected Rosebud to knock back my earlier offer of a free feed, drinks and if she was lucky….
The best lay of her life.
No one, not. One. Single. Woman. Ever…had knocked me back or refused me and I stop, closing my eyes momentarily before opening them and raking my gaze over the stunning redhead attached like a limpet to my hand. Instinctively I squeeze my fingers tighter.
I don’t want to let her go.
“Shit. Oh Christ… I’m sorry,” I mumble stupidly over a tongue and lips that feel pumped full of numbing novocaine. I watch her eyes crinkle at the corners as her face winces with the pain of my unintended strength and I swallow, hard.
You stupid arsehole McAllister, I berate myself, she’s not one of the boys.
She releases a tiny kitten-like mewing and my abs grow taut as deep in the depths of my stomach a strange crushing sensation erupts.
My free hand balls up by my side, and I nervously bounce it repetitively off my thigh.
Kerthump. Kerthump. Kerthump.
Who the fuck am I trying to kid?
If I was lucky, I corrected myself, I’d have the best sex of my life.
But judging by the way she’d blown my balls off in the café, I was beginning to seriously doubt my chances. I’d have to pile the charm on good and thick if I wanted to get into this one’s panties. She wasn’t like the other molls that practically clawed their microscopic undies into shreds of ruined lace to save me the trouble of removing them.
Reluctantly I take the proffered wet package from Lampson’s outstretched hand.
“I know the food’s shit, but a man’s still gotta eat what he’s paid for eh? Well you do, apparently. Me? I’m gonna eat some real food. I’m goin’ to grab a steak sanga and a beer at the pub,” he explained, his mouth twisting up into a look of disgust as he looked at the beetroot oozing out of my burger, and now bleeding copiously into the once white paper. Shaking his head he plunges his hand into his pocket and whipping out a set of keys from the depths, he spins them around his index finger like a gunslinger with a Colt.45.
“Catch you later mate,” he said, before jumping into his car and driving off.
♠ ♣ ♦ ◊
As we make our way — still hand in hand, I notice with a satisfied smile — towards the worn public seating which is placed like a dog-turd smack bang in the guts of the empty park; I work my smokes out of my back pocket with my free hand. My mouth twists as I see how flat and crumpled the pack is after a morning spent squashed against my arse. Flipping the lid, it takes me two fuckin’ attempts to get one out with my teeth and by the time I touch the disposable’s weak flame to the end of the crinkled tailor-made now dangling between my lips, my hands are trembling as much as my guts.
What the fuck’s wrong with me? She’s just a chick. She’s got tits and arse like any other ride I’ve ever banged so what’s with this gutless-wonder act? I growl silently at myself.
But I fuckin’ know that, ‘she’s not just a chick’.
She’s. The. One.
The. Fuckin’. One.
My. Fuckin’. One.
I used to laugh at the pussy-whipped pricks at the pub who got shit-faced and then droned on and on into their frothies about meeting the one girl they wanted to spend forever with. I never believed in their friggin’ idea of the magical connection you got when you met her. How the sparks flew, and how your blood felt like liquid sherbet fizzing through the veins at light-speed when you looked into each other’s eyes.
Hell’s bells, I was always the first to shout, FUCKIN’ BULLSHIT in their drunken love-struck faces.
And fuckin’ looky-looky here.
Brandon Fuckin’ James McAllister’s blood has turned to liquid sherbet and his dick has never been harder, and it’s all because of the sexy red-head at his side.
I’ll be fuckin’ damned to hell! I think, shaking my head as I absorb the feel of her skin against mine. Her soft little palm and fingers snuggled up to my larger, harder, fight-toughened fists. She pulls her hand from mine and I mourn the loss of her warmth but I allow her to remove it.
Wiping the seat she sits and stares out across the street, her hands curled up together in her lap. She doesn’t even glance at me as I swing myself up onto the picnic table next to her and spreading my legs, I plant my dirty T-boots on the scarred old wooden seat next to that delicious denim-encased arse and slouch forward. Resting my forearms on my thighs, I suck back hard on my smoke.
She has her back to me, twirling a curl of that silky red hair around her index finger, gazing quietly across to the street front before us.
What are you thinkin’? I wonder, and then frown. I probably don’t wanna really know after my earlier imitation of a Neanderthal with my display of: My-dick’s-bigger-than-yours-fuck-face, so back the fuck off.
I drop my head, shaking it, feeling my hair swish about my jaw and wishing it was her hair brushing over my face, chest, and, fuck me, my cock. My heart stops and then races away with the thought of her plump lips wrapped around me, her warm, wet mouth encompassing my length. Nibbling. Sucking.
I groan with the mental picture and my dick jumps.
She probably thinks I’m a complete fuck-up.
Taking a deep drag I release it as a heavy sigh watching the thin blue stream impassively as the un-flicked ash grows like Pinocchio’s nose before eventually dropping to the seat between my boots, mingling with dried bird shit and the assorted graffiti scored eternally into the aged wood.
“So Rosebud,” I begin, “You don’t wanna….”
She snorts and my brow raises. “It’s Christina-Rose,” she interrupts.
I chuckle. “What-the-fuck-ever.” Raising my arms above my head I stretch, hoping she’s watching as my shirt rides up exposing my lower abs. I want her to look at me and want me as much as I want her. I drag back on my smoke as I see her tilt her head towards me before looking forward as she pretends to not look.
I saw you lookin’ darlin’, I think, and blowing smoke rings I casually drop them back onto my thighs and continue talking as if she hadn’t spoken; deliberately ignoring her snooty attempt to make me use her full name.
Like fuck I will, I tell her stubbornly in my head, you’ll always be my Rosebud.
“Look Rosebud, if you don’t wanna go tonight, that’s cool. We can make it another time. What day suits?” I ask, attempting to keep the rising panic and — fuck me — the desperation from my voice as I flick my smoke away before immediately ripping another one out.
Shit! I groan silently, as I check inside the packet again just in case I missed a couple hiding in the corner, that’s my last friggin’ smoke. I make a mental note to remember to pull in at the servo and grab another couple of packs.
Curling my lip, I allow my shoulder to rise and drop as I light that battered prick up, and closing my lips around the filter I draw back on that bastard as hard as I can; sucking the smoke down deep into my lungs like the greedy fucker I am.
The following interview between the delightful Miss Kieralee Bridge and the sinfully sexy Mr Brandon McAllister is reproduced with the kind permission of Kieralee. You can find her busily reviewing all the latest and hottest reads over at her wordpress page at: http://kbridge89.wordpress.com/
Check it out… you never know…. You might find your next favourite read somewhere amongst her reviews!
~ O ~
Hi there everyone I’m Kieralee the owner of the blog ‘An Aussie Girl’s WILD Book Addiction’ and today I have the privilege to interview a hot and feisty fighter by the name of Brandon McAllister.
Afternoon Brandon I just have a few questions for you, answer them all or whichever ones you prefer.
- What is your full name and how old are you?
Brandon: *winking* Hey doll, thanks for the invite to chat. Okay, my name’s Brandon James McAllister and I was born on the 10th August 1986, so I’m 27. And for the record gorgeous, you can ask me whatever the fuck ya want. I’ve got nothin’ to hide.
2. Describe how people would see your personality?
Brandon: Fuckin’ awesome! Nah, I’m just yankin’ ya chain love. I dunno. ‘Spose they’d see me as a big fuckin’ ‘Danger Ahead’ sign. Ya know, some dude with a quick temper and quicker fuckin’ fists. Neva thought much ‘bout what other pricks think of me. As long as they keep outa my face, and keep their paws off my chick, I’m a pretty cool bloke. So, I guess that’s ya answer.
*flicking lighter* Mind if I smoke sweet-cheeks?
Kieralee: No, not at all. Go ahead. *smiles*
3. Are you a ladies man?
Brandon: *rubbing nape* *grinning*
Oh, you’ve got no friggin’ idea Kieralee. I fuckin’ love the chicks. Everything ‘bout ‘em turns me on: their soft, touchable skin, curvy bodies, long, long legs, silky hair (FYI, hair makes a good hand-grip if you get where I’m comin’ from. Lol) and that girly scent of ‘em. Oh, and of course, tits. Big or small, I’m not fussy.
By the way, I checked your pic out and you’re one friggin’ sexy chick, betcha all the dudes are sniffin’ ‘round eh? If I wasn’t already taken, I’d sure as fuck take ya out on the town.
Kieralee: *Blushes* Thank you for the compliment, but I’m also taken. *smiles*
Brandon: My bad eh? Hey, what can I say, us dudes notice these things. *winking*
4. Do you have any love interests at the moment?
Brandon: Fuck oath! You’d have to be dead to not know ‘bout my beautiful red-haired Rosebud and how I feel ‘bout her. Ya know love, I’d walk over fuckin’ lava for that chick. I’d fuckin’ kill anyone who even looks sideways at her, or, Christ help ‘em, touches her. She’s mine.
5. Do you like to make the first move or do you like the women to?
Brandon: Me. I gotta admit, it gives me the shits when chicks paw at me all the time and ya know, come on too strong. I don’t mind if a girl knows what she wants, equal bloody rights and all that shit, but at least fuckin’ wait until you know if I’m up for a root or not. Save yourself a bit of embarrassment. Although, apparently me and some chick put on a good show down at the pub one night when I got totally wasted. *shrugging* Shit happens eh?
Kieralee: Stuff like that would happen, especially when you drink a lot of alcohol. *smirks*
6. Describe your dream woman.
Brandon: Hmm, she’s gotta have bouncy tits, a curvy arse and not take any of my bullshit.
Shit, um, that didn’t come out right, I sound like a fuckin’ knob. I’ll start again, *flicking lighter*, my dream chick has curly red hair, two of the most un-fuckin’-real blue eyes and a smokin’ hot body that makes showers interesting. If ya know what I mean.
Sorry ladies, I’ll look at ya goods if you’ve got ‘em on display, but I aint touchin’ no more.
7. What are you goals and ambitions for the future?
Brandon: Most importantly I wanna keep winning my fights. I’ve got a big one coming up, some dirty bastard from down south. I’ll kick his fuckin’ arse, no worries. I really wanna save enough money to replace my heap of ratshit car. I want a big fuckin’ supercharged V8 commodore – black, of course – with fuckin’ fat tires and chrome rims. Somethin’ flash to drive my girl around in. I’d like to get a bigger, nicer place. Ya can’t swing a friggin’ rat in my joint and when me and Rosebud shack up, I want her to have room to spread her shit ‘round. Ya know what I’m getting’ at?
Kieralee: You want her to feel comfortable and to mark her territory on you and your house? I get it.
Brandon: Yeah, ya hit the nail on the head Kieralee, but if she starts pissin’ on my furniture I might have to rethink the living together thing. *laughing*
8. Describe for my blog followers what your physical appearance is like?
Brandon: Ah fuck, okay. I’m not real good at this shit. I’m 6ft 2 in bare feet, shoulder length blackish-brown hair with a messy fringe that shits me off ‘cause the bastard keeps gettin’ in my eyes, which are green by the way. My rides used to tell me they were like mint leaves or emeralds or some bullshit like that, so you can kinda get the picture. I like to keep myself fit and in good nick, so I ‘spose you’d say I was muscular. *rolling eyes and shaking head* Jesus, I sound like a fuckin’ ponce!
Kieralee: No, no not at all. I would agree with your description. *shy smile*
Brandon: Ya sure ya taken? *leaning back in chair and stretching legs* Nah, just kiddin’ I’m crazy ‘bout my girl.
9. Do your tattoos have meaning to them?
Brandon: Nah, not really. I just like dragons, they’re fuckin’ cool and the phoenix on my back was inspired by a really cool piece of artwork I saw up on the wall of the tattooist’s joint while I was getting some work done on a piece that only a select group of lucky ladies has ever seen. Hint, it sits just above my favourite body part! *wriggling brow*
Btw, that friggin’ phoenix hurt like all-fuck, but worth every single friggin’ hour I spent under the gun.
10. What do you like to do with your spare time besides fighting?
Brandon: I work out at the local gym — gotta keep in shape — and I’ve got an old yella Suzuki RM 250 that I hoon around the paddocks out the back of town. That way the cops don’t give me any shit. I tell ya, that motherfucker flies like the powers of piss. There’s nothin’ like givin’ her a gutful and feelin’ that bitch take off, mud and shit flyin’ out the arse-end. Near gives me a hard-on just thinkin’ ‘bout it. *laughs*
11. What do you do to keep in shape?
Brandon: Fightin’, gym-work, bike-riding, shaggin’ and just workin’ — I’m a mechanic. Although there’s been less of the bangin’ lately now that I’ve got the hots for Rosebud.
12. What made you start fighting?
Brandon: I was always gettin’ into fights as a kid. Mum and dad decided that I should do something with all that extra energy and aggression before I took some fucker’s head off, or they got sued by some little turd’s uptight parents. So, they enrolled me in boxing lessons and the rest is history.
13. If you could have any one thing in this world, what would it be?
Brandon: My parents back alive again.
14. What is the best and worst thing to ever happen to you?
Brandon: The worst thing, the death of my parents. That fuckin’ messed me up. The best thing, that’s fuckin’ easy: Rosebud.
15. Do you live by yourself, with a roommate or family, if so what are they like?
Brandon: I usually live by myself but at the moment I’ve got a houseguest, my younger brother, Mychael. What’s he like? He’s 21, stands ‘bout 6ft, wears his dark hair in a buzz-cut – thinks he’s G.I Jane or something. Prick. No word of a lie, he’s a little arsehole at times. Always got too much to fuckin’ say. I don’t know how I haven’t give him a fuckin’ hidin’ yet. But when push comes to shove, I’ll belt the shit outa anyone who hurts him. What can I say? He’s my only brother. Fuck, he’s my only family.
16. What is your pet peeve?
Brandon: I’ve got a few love. Drunk drivers are right up there at the top of the list. Bastards!
I friggin’ can’t stand smartarses who don’t keep their fuckin’ opinions to themselves, loathe dickheads who hit chicks – they should have their balls cut off and shoved up their arses, and Brussel sprouts — I can’t fuckin’ stand those little green turds. How anyone can eat those fuckers is beyond me.
17. Boxers or Undies?
Brandon: Neither. I’m a back to nature boy. So commando I guess you’d say.
18. This question is for me mainly. Which football code do you follow and who is your favourite team?
Brandon: Ah gorgeous, you’re a chick after my own heart. I only follow Rugby League, never got into them other codes. I follow the Warriors, there’s something ‘bout the Haka that fuckin’ stirs the blood.
Kieralee: Warriors really? Come on Brandon McAllister, we all know it’s the West Tigers you should be following. *wink*
Brandon: *shaking head* Jesus woman, you don’t follow the ‘Kitty-Kats’ do you? Ya’ll have to fuckin’ hang with me for a bit, I’ll convert ya to a real fuckin’ team in no time! *winking*
Nah, good on ya, it’s cool to see a chick that gets hot for footy!
19. Do you have any pets?
Brandon: Nah. I’m not really a pet-person. I’m allergic to cats – plus I reckon they stink like piss and I got terrorised by some fucked-up crazy dog when I was a kid. The arsehole chased my pushy down the road — *laughing* — I was peddlin’ that fucker so fast, my fuckin’ little scrawny kid-legs were sore for a bloody week.
20. Smoking hot or not in the women you date?
Brandon: At the risk of soundin’ like an arrogant, chauvinistic bastard I’ve gotta say hot. Although, I’ve rooted heaps over the years that weren’t… um… hot. Shit!
*raking fingers through hair*
I’m not proud of that. Not one little bit. I was a bastard, but… um…. Fuck, ya know how it is? Get on the piss and as far as my dick knows, every chick within a bloody 5 mile radius is fuckin’ hot.
Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to answer my questions Brandon, get back out there and kick some ass in that ring :).
Brandon: No worries love, thanks for the invite. *stands, stretches and walks off*
who put her bossy hat on and encouraged me to have a go at writing something different.
And, this is the end result.
~ O ~
Hunching forward, Jarryd crossed his arms over his chest. Cursing, he tucked his hands into his armpits, the feeble warmth found there affording him nowhere enough heat to thaw out his frozen fingers, while the thin tee he wore was no barrier against the chilly bite of the winter evening.
Shivering, he grit his teeth so hard bone crashed against bone and with a frown he swore softly as pains shot up through his jawbone. His broad shoulders rounded further as the harsh caresses of the rising breeze plucked cheekily at him, his exposed skin pimpling.
Raising his head, he squinted as the wind scraped icy nails across his scalp, his severely cropped hair no protection against the chill. Quivers raced up and down his spine as he watched bloated clouds drift elegantly across the dark velvet sky like so many yachts on a lake, the twinkling of stars in the Milky Way a blink-and-you’ll-miss-em affair.
At this devil’s hour of arse o’clock it was tomb silent. The sounds of his knife kit clinking cheerfully against his thigh unapologetically disturbed the hushed atmosphere like a screaming baby at a library, accompanying him back towards the huge metal doors which opened onto the entrance to the kill-floor.
Along the way, his tall muscular frame ducked in and out of the soft puddles of sodium-light cast by security lights. Standing proudly around the abattoir’s fenced peripheries they were like brilliant sunflowers in a field.
With his stride’s easy rhythm his steel rapped out a disjointed tune as it tapped against the plastic pouch which he – like most of the employees – wore attached to a plastic chain encircling his lean waist. Ill-fitting knee height gumboots flapped against his muscular calves with his leg’s movements, their worn slippery soles striking the asphalt with a lonely sound which was soon lost beneath the moaning of the now frenzied wind.
Light, dark. Light, dark.
He was like a ghost as he faded in and out of view with each pass beneath the lights’ uncaring glare, while at the perimeter of his vision, shadows writhed as if in agony. Setting his lips into a grim line he ducked his head, and unfolding his arms he plunged his hands into his pockets, the chill of his thighs evident through the thin material of his work pants.
Off to his right came a long drawn-out yowl followed by an inhuman screech. As his body instinctively reacted on a deep primal level, the fine hairs on his nape, arms and legs immediately rose to attention. The sound abruptly silenced as if sliced off with a knife and he paused, his jaw clenched, a small tic pulsing beneath the skin.
His eyes narrowed beneath dark brows and spinning he stared into the yawning inky maw. Picturing. Remembering how….
In the golden wash of a bright sunny day it was nothing more than benign paddocks permanently dotted with grazing stock. These rolling green carpets surrounded Blackmore’s Meats, the stinking hellhole to which he reluctantly dragged his arse out of his warm bed every arvo – rain, hail or blistering cold and heat – to make a dollar.
Yawning widely, he dragged a hand across his stubbly scalp, scuffing it backwards and forwards, the bristly growth needle-like against his palm.
“Shit, I wish I’d stayed in bed and just chucked a sickie,” he grunted.
Approaching the steep stairway which led to the closed doorway to Hell, he paused as from out of the darkness a blood-thirsty snarling reached his ears. Ferocious, feral and, strangely hungry, it reminded him of the wild African savannah cats he’d seen on animal docos and he shivered, his body doing a strange shimmying movement. Icy blood pumped through his veins, his racing heart making his breath a little harsher and faster than normal.
Shoving his hand back into his pocket, his gaze scooted around the darkness behind and to the sides of him, as he struggled to place the noise’s location.
His brows furrowed.
“What the fuck?”
He’d never heard anything like it before, and without being consciously aware of it, his feet automatically picked up their pace, the doorway looming closer with every step. Just as his boot touched the metal tread of the first step the light above the door flickered, stuttered and like a breath on a timid candle, snuffed out.
Chink. Chink. Chink.
Gripping the frigid metal railing Jarryd looked up at the ticking globe, staring hard as if the force of his will alone would bring back light. Unfortunately the light didn’t get his message and Jarryd swallowed as he saw the glowing red of the filaments inside the enormous globe wink out completely as the remnants of the power leached out of it. Swivelling, his mouth dried up as the lights behind him blinked out one by one like falling dominoes.
Kerplink, kerplink, kerplink.
“Fuckin’ blackout. Shit! I’ll be waitin’ around in the dark for friggin’ hours now ‘till they fix the bastard,” he spat furiously.
Like an eclipse, his world instantly turned ebony, the sounds of the wind howling around the building’s perimeter an eerie accompaniment to the orchestra of blood-curdling primal growling which still echoed crazily around the vast black space behind him.
Despite the strangeness of his situation, familiar cravings unfurled in his gut.
“Jesus, I could do with a fuckin’ smoke,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest as his fingers scrabbled needily in his pockets, unconsciously seeking out the half-full packet that now sat safely in his locker — where he’d left them after smoko — along with his phone and lighter.
“Fuck it,” he groaned through a yawn as visions of placing them into his locker now came to mind. He rubbed his eyes, the orbs squeaking under the assault. “Jesus I must be tired, or my memory’s fucked.”
As his words were uttered, they were immediately whipped away, stolen by the wind’s greedy fingers and flung into the all-encompassing darkness that surrounded him. Surreptitiously, eerie tendrils of mist defied the wind’s demands, slinking like stalking cats along the ground towards him.
Unaware of this anomaly happening in the shadows behind him, Jarryd sighed and placed his other foot blindly onto the step heading towards the non-fucking-stop-madness which lay just beyond the doors.
All of a sudden, every nerve-ending screamed in alarm and the short hairs on his body rose.
He froze, his hand whitening on the metal railing as a sudden pool of arctic air surrounded him. Stealing the air from his lungs, his chest tightened, his exhalations sounding as wheezy as an old mans. He felt his balls scuttle towards the safety of his groin, as slivers of unease settled like stones in the depths of his taut gut.
At the same moment the lights winked back on, the once strong illuminations weak and flickering like rave party strobes. Jarryd squinted against their maddening pulses which were doing fuck-all for his already stinging, tired eyes.
“Hello Jarryd,” a low gravelly voice purred behind him and he flinched as its menacing timbre resonated through his bones, turning his marrow to icy-slush and making his already cringing balls shrink further. He could have sworn they’d shrivelled to something resembling two tight little walnuts. “You’re back from dinner early on this most exquisite evening.”
As the thick foreign lilt of his work mate’s odd speech registered in his brain, he released his breath noisily, cursing himself silently for his wariness.
Shit, it’s only one of the new blokes they’ve hired to fill the nightshift, he thought.
Scuffing his hand roughly over his head he yawned again, his head tipping back with the force.
Fuck I’m so friggin’ tired all the time.
He wasn’t sleeping any more than a few hours and even with the big one he’d tied on last night after he’d got home, he still hadn’t been able to snuff out the fuckin’ nightmares which plagued him.
Every afternoon when he stumbled out of bed and into the shower to get ready for work he was shocked by his deteriorating appearance. He reckoned he’d aged at least 10 years over the last month, turning his usually youthful reflection into a haggard, bombed-out zombie.
He yawned noisily again and dipping his head towards his raised shoulder he wiped his watering eyes on his sleeve.
“Christ, I feel like shit,” Jarryd murmured under his breath.
Dropping his hand he held his breath and turned, his kit tinkling cheerfully at his side.
He blinked. Slowly.
Despite his 6ft 3 frame standing a tread above the voice’s owner he still found himself gazing up into a pair of strange tawney-coloured eyes set beneath a strong, slightly protruding brow. His gaze skipped down, noting the plump upturned mouth, a hint of gleaming teeth showing in the gap between the top and bottom lips.
“Hey man, you scared the fuckin’shit outa me,” Jarryd said, loudly releasing his pent up breath. Smiling tightly, his hand fisted around the fucked paper-party-hat that the suits who made the rules said they had to wear on the kill-floor.
He rolled his eyes. As if his shorn hair would ever fall out.
Jarryd’s gut tightened as his workmate’s eyes flashed with amusement. Across the pallid smooth skin of his forehead creases formed — like an unironed shirt — as his oddly coloured piercing eyes coolly noted Jarryd’s inspection.
It felt as if he were peering deep into the darkest corners of Jarryd’s soul, riffling like a thief through his mind. Swallowing, he briefly looked away as an oily, nauseous feeling sloshed around in the pit of his stomach. He felt like he’d skolled a dozen fuckin’ rums and smoked three pipes – one after the fuckin’ other.
Jarryd’s fingers curled tightly into his palm as the newcomer’s smile grew larger, almost predatory, as he returned his stare.
“Yeah, um…Mike isn’t it?” Jarryd asked, his voice a touch rough. Clearing his throat he gave a lazy shrug, ignoring the waves of danger that were drifting off the stranger like fog off dry ice. “I decided to come back early,” he answered, forcing himself to speak calmly. “Nothin’ much else to do. I can only smoke so many friggin’ cigarettes in 30 minutes before I feel like I’m gonna hack my lungs up.”
Backing up another step Jarryd watched as whatever-the-fuck-he-was-called, tilted his head, his eyes dazzling laser beams as they unabashedly studied him.
Jarryd rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He could’ve sworn there was a flash of red in the depths of those eyes.
“My name is Mika,” the tall stranger answered, his guttural accent thickening, his smile wide. “Waving his hand nonchalantly before him as he spoke, Jarryd caught a glimpse of long glittering nails and briefly wondered how in hell he’d managed to sneak those bastards past the supervisors’ noses.
While Mika had been speaking, others had begun materialising from the darkness. Their tall frames silently slunk like spectres between the puddles of light and darkness and now, they stood silently behind him, their strangely illuminated eyes glittering. Jarryd’s gut twisted, and his scalp prickled as if bugs wriggled beneath the skin, as their feral gazes fell on him.
Ripping the hat from his hand Jarryd settled it over his scalp, his stubbly bristles catching the delicate cobwebby paper, making a scritchy-scratchy sound.
Jabbing his thumb behind him he said, “Um…yeah well mate…I’ve gotta get back onto the floor.” Raising a brow he scrubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. “Youse comin’?” Walking backwards up the stairs, his eyes panned across the foreigners’ hungry faces.
Fuckin’ freaks, he thought, his hand reaching behind him, scrabbling around in search of the door clasp.
“So Mika where’s home usually?” he inquired as he yanked the door open, turned and walked through.
Stepping further inside, the loud, banging-clanking-mechanical sounds of the kill-floor instantly assaulted his ears before settling into a dull hum as he inserted the squishy ear plugs and quickly clocked back on. Washing his boots, he pushed through the inner door, shuddering as a river of ice replaced the hot blood in his veins.
Deafened and with his back facing the foreigners Jarryd missed the broad ferocious smile which creased Mika’s face. Turning to the others who were licking their lips they nodded as one before laughing.
If Jarryd had have turned at that second his survival instincts would’ve had him reaching for his knife which stood honed, erect and, utterly useless in its scabbard.
“We come from your worst nightmare human and we are so very starving,” the rasping voices said as one, before bursting through the door which was still ajar from where Jarryd had pushed through.
The sounds of animalistic snarling echoed through the rapidly closing door’s slim gap. The preternatural sounds quickly overrode the terrified shouting and screaming of the humans trapped inside. Their petrified pleas for mercy and gurgling death sounds slipped out, disturbing the breathless silence of the desolate outer room.
Beseeching prayers in all of Earth’s tongues to Gods of all names fell on uncaring emptiness; before the door finally shut with a final clang, sounding not unlike the chime of the Reaper’s Bell.
The closed door forever silencing the sounds of the frenzied bloodbath within.
I have a very very special treat for everyone today, over the past couple of days I have been doing a character interview with Brandon McAllister. He is from a novel being released early next year by none other then my mother-in-law-to-be Jennifer Crowfoot and its called Pleasure and Pain. She has posted some snippets and chapters on her wordpress page…
Hi everyone, how’s things? Are we getting ready for the silly season?
I must say it’s really tops to be back here on my blog.
I’ve missed these little chats.
Okay, well, as a wee treat for those who are interested – or have just been following Brandon and Christina-Rose‘s story – I’ve posted the revised prologue of Pleasure and Pain. The changes are subtle in some spots and, in others, more in your face. All in all, I think it’s an improvement on the previous version.
*crossing fingers behind back* *smiling*
I’m also in the process of writing another short story which I hope to post up for you all very soon. It’s a *clearing throat* totally different genre for me, and is really cool to write. I won’t say anymore than that — it’s a surprise and I hope you all like it. As all of my previous work, it’s set in the area I know best: a rural Aussie setting.
And, it’s one you’d never guess!!
Ooh, I’m even curious and I know!! Okaaay…Seeing as it’s the Season of Goodwill, I’ll give you….
Are you ready? *bouncing on balls of feet*
THREE. TWO. ONE:
Holy shit! *blinking* That invisible typing process works a treat! Bugger, oh well, I guess that means no clue then…you’ll have to wait.
*grinning like a stoned Cheshire Cat*
♥ ♥ ♥
I’m going to dilly-dally off the beaten track and step off on a completely different tangent here and talk about….Christmas. Or more specifically, my recent near-meltdown as I decorate the fantabulous Yuletide Tree.
Now, as all my family knows I struggle with this simple task. It’s not that it’s too hard to slap a few baubles, smiling Santas, blinking/winking lights and all the bells and whistles that usually adorn trees. It’s just that as someone who suffers from OCD this simple task — so freaking easy millions of toddlers handle it effortlessly — bamboozles me and turns me into a sweating, shaking blithering idiot.
I get what I like to refer too as Bauble-Blindness which then morphs into some mad battle of wits (and sanity and is never a pretty sight to witness, I shit you not)between me — lets just call me The Loopy Housewife — and the totally – not-so-innocent – Christmas Tree.
It’s the same thing every year: my very own personal Ground-Hog-Christmas-Horror-of-Tree-Trimming!
Putting the tree together is a breeze, a delightful walk in the park; it’s the parts that come after that send me into a lather.
Namely, the artful and clever arrangement of the Christmas Bling. You see, each bauble and decoration has to. Have. Its. Own. Place. On. The. Branches.
And, so help me, I will call down the wrath of all the Great Vengeful Gods of Yuletide, if one dares to hang from the wrong branch!
No colour may be too fruitful or repeated overly in one area, they must be arranged evenly throughout the Green Monster. Large baubles must hang from the bottom — to balance out the conical shape of the tree — well in my head this makes so much more sense! *rolling eyes*
Speaking of the colours…what the hell is the go with silver decorations? I mean!! Every man and his bauble is freaking silver!! By this time, The Loopy Housewife is now frothing at the mouth and deep in the grips of an OCD tree decorating frenzy.
This over-abundance of silver in my Christmas box of glittery-tricks makes my head hurt!
Every hand dip into my crate of Christmas decorations produces….
Ta-da! *flailing Muppet arms*
Another. Silver. Bauble!
*gritting teeth* Lovely!
*taking in deep breaths — sighing*
Now as I don’t partake of…let’s say brewed beverages…I couldn’t even have a fortifying mouthful to help me through this trying endeavour. Okay, seeing you asked why? I’ll let you in on a secret that only a few hundred — and possibly more — know of.
I got totally hammered at a wedding years ago and I’m talking completely blotto, sick for a week wasted. In my defence it really wasn’t my fault, I’d had nothing to eat and they kept shoving these posh little glasses of delicious bubbling (what I assumed was apple juice) in my face…how naïve was I?
No *raising hand* Don’t tell me, I’m fully aware. ;-)
Anyhoo, to cut a giggly, staggering and ultimately ugly story short; I learnt my lesson and I’ve avoided alcohol like the plague since!
Well, patient readers, that’s me done for this session of useless babbling. Hopefully I’ll have that short story done for y’all real soon.
Until next I talk and you grit your teeth and listen, I’ll say, merci beaucoup — for reading my blog – et, à bientôt
As anyone who has read my author interview: Interview with author Jennifer Crowfoot (firebladepublishers.wordpress.com) is aware, I have a soft spot for music, and in particular tunes of the heavy metal/rock genres.
I just had to share — or once again, more likely over-share — — my latest musical addiction….
Two songs by Korn.
Now, I have a lot of Korn on my writing playlist but when I heard these I couldn’t buy and download them fast enough. They’re seriously awesome if this music is ‘your thing‘…but totally and eye-bleedingly craptastic if not.
They are…*drum-roll* in no particular order of favouritism:
Now if you’re a fan of Korn I totally recommend checking these out. They are awesome!
Chapter Nine. Brandon.
My dick was twitching and jumping, and my balls ached after my interesting back and forth texts with Rosebud. I hadn’t lied to her about needing a shower, and groaning, I rolled off the bed my bare foot landing awkwardly on the rim of an empty bourbon can. The sharp edge dug into my sole sending me hopping sideways, my foot raised as flares of pain shot up my instep and into my calf.
“Motherfucker,” I shouted as I spun and kicked it into the unholy-black-abyss-of-shit which lurked under my bed. Scowling I limped my way towards the bathroom across a floor littered with a week’s worth of stinking filthy clothes, food wrappers, empty condom boxes and quite possibly a thousand years’ worth of grit and carpet bugs.
Photo courtesy of:
Dear readers, today’s post is about something that’s very close to my heart and even after many years it still has the power to bring me to tears.
I know it’s a picture of — may I say it’s a very adorable one at that — of a ferret. But give me a moment and I’ll explain the reasoning behind it.
Once upon a time, many years ago, I had three of these incredible animals as pets.
My first one was named Sasha and he was such a sweet animal. He loved the company of his human family and would always be up for cuddles. I think he was about 6 or 7 when he died.
His loss devastated me and when the pain began to dull I got two more, two gorgeous, tiny, squeaking stubby-legged lengths of white fluff.
~ ~ ~
I’d had them since they were 6 weeks old and they were so precious. I adored them.
Brother and sister, I called them Bijou and Natassja. They were the same as this little dude above, red-eyed whites…we also had others, black-eyed sables, but they lived outside and were working ferrets as opposed to members of my family.
Well, my furry babies grew up with my kids, they’d sneak into their rooms and steal anything that wasn’t chained down, running away with it clenched between their fangs they’d hide it. They’d chew on anything and everything and they loved to ambush you in the bathroom after you’d stepped out of the shower.
But, I’m pretty sure my kids loved them as much as I did, or at the very least they tolerated them with great fondness.
Natassja and Bijou had a habit of jumping onto beds and slithering down beneath the covers, nipping toes and legs to make you move, so they could steal the warmth of where you’d been laying. I always made sure they wore elasticised cat-collars with bells, that way everyone knew where they were at any given time and they were never in danger of being stomped on.
I can’t count how many damn cat-collars I bought, both of the little buggers had a habit of squeezing into tights spaces and sleeping. Unfortunately they used to rip their collars off as they snuck back out.
I think visitors to our home were a little freaked-out when they stepped inside and were immediately set upon by two mischievous white fluffy sets of teeth. Neither of them were vicious and they never bit — not like a working ferret who will bite you and attempt to chew your whole arm off in the process.
Their bites were more along the line of ‘come play with me’ type nips. Although I did sneak up on Bijou one day as he lay sleeping curled up in the bottom of a bucket. I startled him and quick as a flash he jumped up and sank his fangs into my snout.
That brought tears to my eyes….
I shit you not!
But not once did they ever bite me to draw blood. So when I eventually lost both of them within a matter of months, the experience near broke me.
I, and the wonderful vets did everything, but in the end nothing will cure the big bad-arse C when it sinks its claws into you. And, this is what took one of my furry babies from me….
Natassja had a growth in her little nose which got bigger and bigger and I was told it was cancer. I was devastated after suffering the loss of Bijou, the sooky, cuddle-loving one of the pair. He’d passed from an obstruction in his bowel and that sent me into a tailspin.
I was inconsolable for so long.
Pets are such precious gifts from the gods and they ask for nothing in return except for your time, a feed, water and pats and cuddles. I’d be lost now without my little Maltese, Beau. He helped heal the wounds in his own unique doggy way and now has a special spot in my heart that is his alone, it sits beside the one engraved with the names Bijou and Natassja.