harmless, he thought. Some wedgies. A few black eyes. Tricks and humiliations. But there’d be that one…prank. Something about it had never sat right with him. That girl, he couldn’t remember her name, just what they’d called her after: “Blueberry.” He’d felt bad. Sure, he’d laughed. But something about Rob and Nick, especially Nick, had seemed…crueler that night. Something wrong.
And then, after high school, Nick, Rob, and Greg had gotten…strange. Real angry all the time. They felt the world had betrayed them. They were angry at anyone and everything they wanted and didn’t have. Nick in particular, especially when it came to girls. He didn’t like it if any lady turned him down. Pat didn’t like being around them as much. They’d still pick on the smaller high school kids even though they weren’t in school anymore. Their “tricks” got even meaner. Nick and Rob would hit on women real aggressively. Nick kind of stalked one or two, Pat thought. Scared them.
And then the Coulsons. Nick had taken a special interest in the wife, and it had been…well, Pat wasn’t sure. The way he’d looked at her just hadn’t been right. He’d stood by them because he was their friend, but…it had been wrong. They’d done a bad thing.
He stumbled on some roots and looked up, confused. How had he gotten into the woods? He squinted in the dark, trying to orient himself. Where was he? Behind the old mill? Near the bar still?
Then he saw the stones, and stumbled back.
He was in the old Sweethollow Cemetery. The one that ran along the kill brook and came out near the bridge. It was full of old monuments and creepy mausoleums, many from when the area was first settled, a good century before the Revolutionary War. Somehow he’d wandered right into the middle of it.
Pat put his hand out and touched cold stone. He snatched it back like it had been burned. He whirled, stumbled, twirled, and finally fell, getting a mouthful of grass and dirt. He came up coughing and looked around wildly.
If he could get to the bridge, get to the other side, he’d be fine. Maybe the Rider wasn’t even out tonight. Maybe he had a chance.
He ran in the direction of the bridge as fast as he could, fear sobering him up a little. He kept looking over his shoulder, convinced that this time, he’d see the dark, towering shape of a man on horseback, saber glinting in the moonlight, face a ghastly mask of impending death.
Somehow he made it to the bridge, panting and huffing, breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. He sighed with relief. He’d made it.
And then, from behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, bearing down at full speed.
He looked around, mouth gaping, legs going out from under him. He knelt before the bridge in a kind of prayer.
“Please…,” Pat said, whispering. “It wasn’t my fault.”
The Rider bore down, sword swinging, and Patrick Kelly’s last thought was of how justice always seemed to find a way. The Rider watched this all dispassionately, sword cutting through the night.
A few seconds later, his body fell and his head rolled off the side of the bridge and into the brook. It bobbed there for a moment, before heading downstream, face frozen in fear and a silent scream.
***
Anton was kissing his way down a spine, his hands running along soft skin, resting on full hips. There was a feminine moan as he kissed the sweet spot in the hollow of the small of her back just above the swell of firm, plump cheeks.
He smiled against the soft skin and brought his hands around those hips to a delightfully round belly. He tickled gently, rewarded with a throaty, flirty laugh.
The body shifted, turning over, giving him full access to that splendidly round belly. He kissed around the bellybutton, let his fingers stroke up, grazing just enough to tease. They found plump breasts, claiming them as he kissed up and found a peaked nipple. It tasted sweet, puckering under his tongue. He suckled and licked it
And then, after high school, Nick, Rob, and Greg had gotten…strange. Real angry all the time. They felt the world had betrayed them. They were angry at anyone and everything they wanted and didn’t have. Nick in particular, especially when it came to girls. He didn’t like it if any lady turned him down. Pat didn’t like being around them as much. They’d still pick on the smaller high school kids even though they weren’t in school anymore. Their “tricks” got even meaner. Nick and Rob would hit on women real aggressively. Nick kind of stalked one or two, Pat thought. Scared them.
And then the Coulsons. Nick had taken a special interest in the wife, and it had been…well, Pat wasn’t sure. The way he’d looked at her just hadn’t been right. He’d stood by them because he was their friend, but…it had been wrong. They’d done a bad thing.
He stumbled on some roots and looked up, confused. How had he gotten into the woods? He squinted in the dark, trying to orient himself. Where was he? Behind the old mill? Near the bar still?
Then he saw the stones, and stumbled back.
He was in the old Sweethollow Cemetery. The one that ran along the kill brook and came out near the bridge. It was full of old monuments and creepy mausoleums, many from when the area was first settled, a good century before the Revolutionary War. Somehow he’d wandered right into the middle of it.
Pat put his hand out and touched cold stone. He snatched it back like it had been burned. He whirled, stumbled, twirled, and finally fell, getting a mouthful of grass and dirt. He came up coughing and looked around wildly.
If he could get to the bridge, get to the other side, he’d be fine. Maybe the Rider wasn’t even out tonight. Maybe he had a chance.
He ran in the direction of the bridge as fast as he could, fear sobering him up a little. He kept looking over his shoulder, convinced that this time, he’d see the dark, towering shape of a man on horseback, saber glinting in the moonlight, face a ghastly mask of impending death.
Somehow he made it to the bridge, panting and huffing, breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. He sighed with relief. He’d made it.
And then, from behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, bearing down at full speed.
He looked around, mouth gaping, legs going out from under him. He knelt before the bridge in a kind of prayer.
“Please…,” Pat said, whispering. “It wasn’t my fault.”
The Rider bore down, sword swinging, and Patrick Kelly’s last thought was of how justice always seemed to find a way. The Rider watched this all dispassionately, sword cutting through the night.
A few seconds later, his body fell and his head rolled off the side of the bridge and into the brook. It bobbed there for a moment, before heading downstream, face frozen in fear and a silent scream.
***
Anton was kissing his way down a spine, his hands running along soft skin, resting on full hips. There was a feminine moan as he kissed the sweet spot in the hollow of the small of her back just above the swell of firm, plump cheeks.
He smiled against the soft skin and brought his hands around those hips to a delightfully round belly. He tickled gently, rewarded with a throaty, flirty laugh.
The body shifted, turning over, giving him full access to that splendidly round belly. He kissed around the bellybutton, let his fingers stroke up, grazing just enough to tease. They found plump breasts, claiming them as he kissed up and found a peaked nipple. It tasted sweet, puckering under his tongue. He suckled and licked it
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