Page 29 of The Trailer Park Twink

Here’s the thing . . . I will abide by many things in this life.

What I cannot— will not —abide is the violence.

Trust and believe, abuse is nothing new to me.

Mom has dug her nails into my skin more times than I remember.

She’s taken a belt to my backside even more.

I could forgive all that, because if push comes to shove, I know how to defend myself.

But then she hit Dallas, and Dallas Johnson would never, ever hit a lady.

When I saw the red mark on his porcelain cheek, it took everything I had to hold myself back.

I wanted to launch myself into their bedroom and ram her like a bull.

Instead, I settled for sedation and forced seclusion.

After she hit him, while Daddy was showering away the soda I poured on him, I was packing a syringe and carrying it to Mom’s room.

Mom’s on her own journey now with twenty bucks in her pocket—if it hasn’t been used for meth already—as she tries to navigate the wilds of Oklahoma, confused, and probably a little antsy.

Don’t. Don’t even think of judging me, because I’m not sorry.

It’s not like I pumped her full of heroin, for God’s sake, I just injected a bit of liquid Benadryl into her system, tucked her inside the extremely long toolbox in the bed of Daddy’s truck, and then I set her free outside the IHOP in Oklahoma.

It’s basically catch and release, and the ASPCA fully supports it.

As Daddy ordered unnecessarily carb-heavy pancakes, I opened the toolbox and stared down at my mom resting on the plush pallet I made for her before we left. I handed her twenty bucks and said there was a meth house down the street, and they were having a lovely little BOGO sale.

Joyfully, she skipped down the road, away from the IHOP and out of my life. Preferably permanently. Daddy doesn’t know yet, and I have a feeling he’s gonna be really mad at me when I tell him, so I don’t plan on telling him. Not yet, at least.

My mother, my choice .

We don’t say much for a while. Daddy just holds me against him as we drink in the scenery.

I’m so used to our dirt-road trailer park, it’s hard for me to believe we’re staying somewhere so pretty.

I feel out of my depth, because places like this aren’t meant for people like me.

I’m just poor white trash with a missing moral compass.

That’s all I’ve ever been, and it’s probably all I’m ever going to be.

I’m okay with it. I came to terms with it long ago.

As long as I’ve got Dallas, I’m perfectly fine leading a mediocre life.

I’d sacrifice luxury for a love story any day.

“Do you want to go see the cabin?”

“Yeah.”

He carries me up the porch steps and sets me down so he can fish the keys out of his pocket.

Once the door is unlocked, Dallas switches the lights on, and I’m met with gloriously glossy wooden walls, the same red hue as outside.

I mean, I guess they would have to be considering it’s a log cabin.

It’s not as if they’re going to cut two trees in half and glue the mismatched parts together, just so the scenery would change inside.

There’s a layer of dust on most of the surface areas, and it gets me a little giddy, because I love to polish wood.

Not just cocks, obvi, though I hope I get the chance to polish Dallas’ wood tonight, but that’s hardly the point I’m trying to make.

I just love dusting. It makes my heart happy. Fucking sue me .

“It’s always a little dirty when we first get here. I like to give it a good scrub-down right off the bat, just to get it out the way.”

I have to steel my expression so he doesn’t see my scowl. I’m very happy to be here with him this year, but the comment is just another reminder of the two weeks he would leave me alone each year, bringing Mom up here while I sat sobbing into his pillow, missing him like crazy.

“Ah.” I should probably say more, but how can I? The initial joy I felt about cleaning the place up is gone, replaced by deep-seated bitterness. I know he’s choosing me, but he chose her for years. He chose to bring her here without me.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my forehead, reading me like a book, apparently. “I didn’t know how much you cared, or how deep your feelings ran.” When I look up at him, he’s blushing. “I didn’t know how deep mine ran either. I never meant to hurt you.”

Sniffling, I wipe my eyes so he doesn't see the tears slipping out. “It's okay,” I say, trying to put a bit of cheer in my voice. “I'm here now. That's what counts.”

He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze., guiding me through the house, showing me the bedroom and bathroom before heading into the kitchen.

“I’ll need to head into town later and grab some groceries.”

I point at the bedroom. “Are we . . . ”

He nods. “We can share if you’re okay with it.

Or if you don't want that room, we can take my mom and dad's old room.” He points at the door opposite the one he walked through with my mother God knows how many nights.

He fucked her in there. He must have. It triggers something in me, but it isn't something I expect.

I'm not angry or jealous or unhinged with rage.

My chest is swelling, because I finally fucking won.

This is my Dallas. My Daddy. My happily ever after, not hers. Not anymore.

“I'm going to fucking claim you, Dallas,” I whisper firmly. "You're going to fuck me in the same spot you fucked her, and I'm going to make you come twice as hard.” I grip his chin, though not tight enough to hurt. “You've always been mine. Say it.”

He blinks slowly, his lips slightly parted. “Jesus, Austin.”

I lick his bottom lip. “Say it.”

“Yours,” he breathes. “Always.”

We share a kiss, my fingers twisting through his hair as I pull him flush against me. His stubble tickles and the brim of his hat knocks against me now and then, but it just adds to the experience. When we pull away, his cheeks are rosy red, his lips twice as dark from use.

I bite my lip and look up at him. “Can we get new sheets too? If it’s too expensive, it’s okay, I just—”

He places a finger against my lips. “I’ll get them in pink. I know it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not too girly for you?”

He laughs like it’s the silliest question he’s ever heard.

“I wore those pink jammies you got me for over a year. Do you really think I care about a sheet?” He cringes once the words are out, because those pajamas are a sore subject.

Mom knew how much Dallas loved them. She knew I bought them special, just for him, and she still ruined them with bleach and threw them in the trash.

I could tell how much it hurt Dallas at the time, because they were a precious gift from his precious boy, but he didn’t say a single word to her, probably wanting to placate my unhinged mother so she didn’t unleash holy hell on me after the fact. “I’ll even get a pink comforter.”

“Daddy, no. That's too much money. I can wash the blanket, I was only worried about the sheets.”

He shakes his head decidedly. “You're worth every penny.”

When Dallas leaves for the store, I get to work, putting my playlist on shuffle and fluttering around the cabin like a fairy, tidying up a year’s worth of dust. It only takes about half an hour before the place is sparkling, because it’s not a very large space.

I kind of like that it’s smaller in size, because cleaning the trailer fucking sucks balls.

Big, sweaty, hairy balls, much like Dallas’.

I can picture them in my head so clearly after seeing them up close, and the memory gets me half-hard in seconds .

I haven’t ejaculated in what feels like ages, and I really need to rub one out, but I’m saving this load for Daddy, because I kind of want to drench his entire face when I finally blow.

I head into their room, being nosy. Well, it was Dallas' room first, back when his parents were still alive.

It holds traces of the boy he was. Blue walls with little baseballs scattered from floor to ceiling.

Bedding that looks like something 1993 projectile vomited it across his mattress with triangles placed at twisted angles, making shapes out of shapes in a faded neon color palette. Absolutely atrocious.

The room is mostly empty save for a dresser, the bed, two bedside tables, and a desk in the corner with children's books stacked at the end.

On the bedside table by the door, I notice a picture that sends my blood boiling.

In it, Mom and Dallas are getting drunk by a fire in front of the cabin.

He doesn't look exhausted, but she's staring into the camera like she's staring right at me.

Like she knew we would always end up here, and this picture is meant to lay claim to a man who doesn't belong to her.

Well, we can't have that, so I walk the picture frame into the kitchen and throw it in the trash, out of sight, out of mind.

After two hours of endless waiting, I get antsy, which leads to me getting tipsy when I find four unopened bottles of pink champagne in the pantry.

I’m on my second glass when Dallas pulls into the driveway.

Being the angelic stepson I am, I meet him at the door with the bottle I’ve been swigging out of, and a quick kiss to the cheek to celebrate his safe return.

He stares down at the bottles and snorts a laugh.

“I keep that hidden from Shelly. Did you go snooping?”

I nod proudly. “I always go snooping. It’s what I’m best at.”

“And I see you’re enjoying the fruits of your labor.”

“Yeah, but just a little bit though. I’m not passout drunk or anything. I think I’d like to be, if that’s an option.”