Page 49 of The Trailer Park Twink

“I’m telling you now, Dallas Johnson, if you think they’re rooming with us I’ll cut your fucking heart out. I didn’t sign up for any of this.”

“You’re the one who suggested it,” Daddy points out. “They’re family, baby. Family takes care of family.”

“They’re leeches. Living off my Daddy’s money and land.

Thinking they’re running the show. Do you know that Bubba told me I’m going to have chores?

Chores, Dallas. And then Clint kept telling him different household duties I’d be suited for.

Yeah, well, I’m not taking orders from anyone, least of all that pack of welding pricks. ”

“Dammit, Aussie,” Daddy groans, flicking his blinker and turning onto a country road. As dirt kicks up at our heels—well, our tires—he turns and gives me a stern glare. “That’s a bad boy. How many times do we have to have the talk about being grateful and having a charitable heart?”

“This is supposed to be my happily ever after, and they’ve hijacked it.

Well, I invited them to hijack it, but it’s been hijacked nonetheless.

I’m giving up my sense of privacy so your stupid friends can open a stupid machine shop in stupid Minnesota.

Although, I am happy you’ll no longer have to spend twelve hours a day welding in the scorching Texas heat.

Still. Could you have my back on this, dammit? It’s not as if I ask you for much.”

“You asked me to paint every wall in the cabin pink as soon as we get home today. After making me drive twelve hours straight. And that’s just today. I drove my ass off the last two days.”

I lift a dismissive hand and pull out my phone. “Oh, please. It’ll take fifteen minutes at most. I offered to help and everything. I really don’t appreciate the way you’re making me sound like I’m an unfit stepson. It’s not kind, Daddy.”

I peek over in time to see Daddy scoff as he stares ahead at the country road.

I guess my words have a delayed effect, because twenty seconds later, Daddy’s eyes bulge.

“Fifteen minutes? To paint a whole damn house? Aussie, baby, I know you’re not exactly Martha Stewart, but if you think we’ll be done with this in less than half an hour, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment. ”

God, I love this. Love getting to tease and taunt him repeatedly. You’d think by now he would realize I’m only fucking with him, but Daddy trusts me implicitly, so it’s not much of a surprise he takes me at my word.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “And just what the hell do you mean by saying I’m no Martha Stewart?

Are you calling me a terrible househusband?

Because that’s just about the meanest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

I ought to file a petition for parental emancipation on the grounds that my father just broke my heart.

” I cover my face with my hands and pretend to sob.

To my surprise, Daddy doesn’t console me. Well, unless grabbing my package through my shorts and gently massaging my bulge could be considered a form of consolation. Considering my cock is already half-hard at the touch, I’d say it can, and does.

“You’re fuckin’ with me right now,” Daddy points out. “Daddy can always tell.”

I shake my head. “Daddy can never tell.”

“If that makes you sleep better at night, then keep thinking that, baby, but I can read you like a book. ”

“The worst book of all fucking time,” Ezra says from the back seat, startling both Daddy and me. He’s been so quiet for most of the ride. I almost forgot he’s riding with us.

After our disastrous performance-turned-sex show, Daddy and I ran back home to our cabin, cocooning ourselves away from the world.

The rest and relaxation lasted a whopping eight hours before Ezra called and gave us the news that we’d need to turn the car around and drive all the way back to Texas.

I’m still furious, quite frankly, so he’s lucky I’ve forgotten he’s back there, lest I jerk the steering wheel and make us fishtail into a guardrail, killing my biffle dead.

I’m not a monster, so obviously I wouldn’t do that, but the thought is tempting.

“No worse than that book you found where the sea witch converts a gay man with—and these are her words verbatim, not mine—the power of her magic p-word?”

Ezra shudders. “Okay, maybe the second worst book of all time.”

“Is that Danielle Steel?” Daddy asks.

I roll my eyes. ”Silly Daddy. Anyway, Ezzy, I would love it if you would shut your mouth when you’re slandering me. It isn’t nice. Why must you question me at every turn?”

“You’re the one who just called me and the boys from the machine shop leeches. I did manual-fucking-labor for you two days ago, Austin. Don’t forget that. Do you know how hard it is to upheave a mile-long trailer house? I worked my fingers to the bone.”

“Yeah, serving the real men lemonade. Would it have hurt you to get your hands a little dirty? Christ, at the very least you could have held a box of nails or something, but you just walked around pouting, looking like an absolute slut in your speedo. Honest to God, it wasn’t even that hot outside, you didn’t need a speedo. ”

Ezra clears his throat and looks away. “I had reasons, and they were vast. Next subject.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “What reasons?”

“Next subject,” he repeats, but fuck that. If he has a secret, he has to tell me. It’s in our friendship agreement and everything.

“Baby,” Daddy says, caressing my package. “All the boys from the shop were there helping us, remember?”

“I know. That’s what I’m saying. They busted their ass, and Ezra showed his. It was embarrassing. I was embarrassed for you, Ezra.”

“Fuck you, cum-dump,” Ezra mutters, but I pretend not to hear him, because I don’t wish to catch a felony murder-one conviction.

“No,” Daddy says, “I just mean all the boys were there. Bubba. Clint... Johnny. ”

“Don’t say his name,” Ezra shrieks, making the two of us jolt. I look over my shoulder at him, scoffing, but he’s staring out the window, so I don’t think it’s doing anything to convey my current annoyance. Unaware I’m watching, he whispers, “Fucking hate Johnny. Hope to fuck he dies.”

“Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy,” Daddy sings, and I have to gape at him, because I don’t know how he knows the words to a long-forgotten Paris Hilton album track, but color me intrigued, Mr. Daddy.

Daddy thinks Bubba and Ezzy are destined for domestic bliss, but I just brush it off each time he mentions it, because I know my Ezzy, and he’s never going to be happy being a trailer park princess like me.

He’s essentially a poodle expecting to be pampered at all times, and he won’t get a whole lot of pampering with the new living situation.

I’m pretty sure Daddy’s spot-on in his assessment though, because the jealousy is clear as the water in Clearwater, Florida, and it’s slathered all over Ezra’s face anytime anyone mentions Johnny’s name. Maybe the heart is stronger than what’s in Bubba’s wallet.

I stare at my biffle in the mirror, opening my mouth to blast more sass at him, but then I spot a teardrop dripping down his cheek.

My heart skips a beat, and not in a feel-good way.

I may hate his current behavior, but I don’t hate my Ezzy, and now he’s shattering down to dust. Well, shattering into a puddle.

Or maybe melting? Ah, fuck, who gives a shit how he’s shattering, all that matters is he’s hurting, and I can stop it.

I know he was a jerk by not pulling his weight during our trailer home’s upheaval—and yes, I know.

You’re confused. You don’t understand what this whole trailer-relocation situation is all about.

Well if you would give me a single second to explain and just the slightest bit of faith that I know how to land a metaphorical plane, maybe you’d find out, but here we are, wasting time on this goddamn foolishness.

Trust me. We’ll fucking get to it, okay? —but I don’t ever want to see him cry.

I unbuckle my seat belt and crawl over the center console, trying to climb into the back seat, earning a quick slap to the ass from Daddy.

“What the hell are you doing? That’s a bad, bad boy. Don’t ever take your seat belt off while I’m driving again.”

I simply wiggle my ass at him like a slut and continue my journey. As soon as I’m safely back there, I nuzzle up next to Ezra, ignoring the trash bag resting in the seat on the other side, giving my best friend an unrequested cuddle.

I never should have mentioned Johnny. That asshole was the queer straw that broke my best friend’s back, if my best friend was a camel. Not the best turn of phrase, I know, but it’s true.

After Johnny stopped sleeping over at Bubba’s house, he set out to reclaim his alleged title of—and these are his words, not mine—Tallulah’s Top Pussy Hound.

It didn’t last long, because the second Bubba and Ezra made it back to Tallulah, Johnny came crawling back the day Bubba got home.

Apparently, the girl he tried reclaiming the title with took one look at his cock and laughed him out of the room and out of their new relationship.

Maybe he’s got a small dick. Maybe she just didn’t like the fact he’s uncut.

I don’t know. Either way, he spent a day and a half sobbing into Bubba’s chest, telling him how hard it was to land a date with a woman, because he looks like a Trump supporter, even though he’s a liberal, and they don’t trust him.

I don’t blame them in the slightest, because in this day and age, fuck dating anyone on the bottom rung of God’s preferred political pecking order.

I one-hundred percent understand why women would choose the bear when their only other option is a sea of maga cucks.