Haunted (4 page)

My entire body aches for him.

I bite my tongue, as another strong orgasm rips through me.

My pussy is on fire, my asscheeks clenching as I ride my index finger, and rub myself raw, trying futilely to quench the hot fires in my slit and holes.

Finally, after countless times rising and falling, I drift off to sleep, my lust temporarily sated by my own hands.

I can smell myself in the air, and my tongue licks my dry lips, again and again as I dream of my stepbrother; his wonderful cock; and his intense, blue eyes.

KIM

I have decided to pretend that the entire stairway incident never happened.

I drive my car to the construction site for the State Park, and Brian’s video van and the vehicles of his team are already there.

But, I can tell they’ve not been there very long.

Everyone is just getting organized, and the coffee thermos is being passed around. There’s also a box of donuts or something.

“There you are!” yells Brian.

He looks right past me and waves at some dude holding a great big lamp. All business. Mr. Big Shot tee-vee producer, calling the shots.

That fucker doesn’t even show any emotion at all when he sees me.

I get it.

I’m just another notch on his bedpost.

Fucker.

Just like always.

Too self-absorbed to take anyone else’s feelings into account.

And there I was, frigging myself crazy last night, over this ass!

I decide to put on my professional face and grab my camera and recorder.

After all, I’ve got a show to do, too… and I can be professional.

Just watch me.

*****

BRIAN

Oh, thank God, she came!

I was a bit worried we wouldn’t be able to get the ‘opposing’ view, or would end up needing to add either more local color, which is always risky and usually stupid and boring or more sfx, which is always expensive.

Thank you, Jeebus!

“There you are!” I yell at Kim, waving.

She ignores me like I’m not even here.

Well, fuck!

If that’s how she wants to play it, fine by me!

Cold fish, hot tamale, cold fish again.

“Hey! Watch out where you’re going with that lamp!”

Some dumbass grip nearly clocked me in the head!

He better watch his ass, or I’ll fire it.

*****

KIM

I hear Brian yelling at the crew.

He’s pissed about some stupid technical thing or other.

What an ass… you would think he’d be a bit nicer to the people on whom he depends on to make his show work.

That’s why I prefer a very small crew.

Like only two of us, and sometimes three.

Usually, my producer, Stephanie and I work on the vlog, taking my fieldwork and editing it into something marketable. Jake does the music for us, but we don’t often need a new riff or to change things up all that much. So, mostly he just hangs out and bangs Stephanie when she gets horny enough.

Me, I just do my thing.

I send it to Stephanie for editing and a bit of relevant ‘punching up’. It’s a system we’ve developed over the years for our YouTube channel, and it works just fine for us.

We had 400, 000 views last week, on our segment about comets.

Of course, “Haunted” regularly pulls in about ten million viewers each week.

Maybe I should keep my eyes open and pick up a few tricks from this guy. It won’t hurt to be on the show, and every bit of exposure helps with the ad revenue from my channel!

I don’t know what trick he played on my mind, yesterday, though.

I swear I’ve never felt that before in my entire life.

Not even with poor old Fred. He was the only guy I ever let get close to me since Brian had left.

That sounds stupid, just laying it out like that.

Oh, I had a couple of ‘serious’ boyfriends, but we never got around to doing the dirty.

Fred was the closest I had come, but a drunk driver put him out of my life, forever. After Fred, I just didn’t have the heart to go for a romantic relationship again.

Not until yesterday.

Seeing Brian again did something to my brain and my heart.

It’s not real.

It can’t be.

But, then, what the hell IS it?

I mean, kissing Brian, it felt as though we were the same person, just two sides of a coin, melted together in the middle, and…

Hang on, girl!

There you go again!

Daydreaming when you should be working.

Get your mind focused away from your hoo-ha and onto the job at hand…

Man, Brian’s hands are so, well, clever.

Magic hands, like in that old “Heart” song. They made me so wet and tight and…

FUCK!

FOCUS. COME ON! FOCUS!

Let me see if I can find someone with a script or maybe someone to interview.

There’s a likely looking candidate, that old Chief-looking guy over there, smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and one of those funny string tie things. And a nice suit, with rattlesnake skin boots. Some feathers are stuck in his hatband.

“Excuse me,” I say. “May I ask you a few questions about the State Park project?”

Old Chief just looks at me.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette, a Marlboro!

For Christ’s own sweet sake!

Is EVERYTHING a stereotype out here in the middle of the Wild, Wild West?

“Umm…I am Kim Wilder? I’m here to help the video production company with a documentary” I begin.

“I know who you are, and why you are here,” says he.

“You are the white-devil woman who foretold the End-of-All-Things with your last vlog. The one that went on and on about Shoemaker-Levy, and the possibility that NASA found evidence of an advanced civilization that built a Dyson sphere, but now everyone thinks are comets? Yes, I am much aware of that bullshit.”

I’m stunned and taken aback. Momentarily speechless, which is not me at all. Then, I realize the old coot is just trolling me.

I try to regain a bit of high ground.

“May I have your name, uh…”

“It’s Randy. Randall Mitchum, Esquire. At your service, Ms. Wilder. I am the attorney for the local tribes around this part. Interestingly enough, I am not even one-tenth Native American,” he says.

He holds out a rugged, worn hand, and proceeds to shake hands. His grip is warm and firm, and just right. It feels like I’m holding a beloved heirloom.

I can feel my blush as I had simply dismissed this guy as a rube, or worse.

“My apologies, sir,” I stammer.

“None required, Ms. Wilder. Call me Randy. It’s who and what I am,” he barks.

Sucking in a big draft of smoke, he exhales and coughs fitfully.

“Damned things will be the death of me yet,” he mutters.

I can’t help but laugh out loud.

He smiles, takes another drag, and joins me.

“It’s insane, for sure, but what can I say? Love the taste!” he smiles at me again, and I realize I am beginning to like this rough old dude.

“Mr. Mitchum,” I say.

“Randy. Please call me Randy,” he says, leering at my boobs.

He wiggles his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx, John Belushi kind of way, and it is endearing. He’s funny!

“Randy, what do you make of all this?” I ask.

“Do you mind if I record this for the show?” The red light of my cell-phone camera indicates I don’t care, but I have to ask.

“Why not?” he answers.

“Let me show you something,” he says, and tosses the butt onto the ground, stomping on it with his boot. Then, he walks across the parking lot to the other side of the construction site.

The view is marvelous.

Real wild-west, open spaces, home of the Brave American prairies, with purpled mountain majesties, a river running through it, and even a lone eagle perched high in the bluest sky I have ever seen in my life.

It’s unreal.

A postcard version of what people dream about when they think ‘out west.'

“Do you see that hill over there?” he asks.

Randy points over to a ridge, and I dutifully pan my phone camera over the scene.

The eagle cooperates for a photogenic swoop over the ground. Then, he soars off into the distance. (I need to remember to tell Stephanie to use that in the opening sequence!)

“That hill has uranium ore underneath it,” says Randy.

“The reason the timber people want this land has nothing to do with the lumber rights. It’s the other mineral rights they crave.”

“Well, isn’t that just part of the arrangements they make with the State?” I asked.

“You would think so, if such unscrupulous men did not run the state,” he says.

“You see, the Governor was elected on his promise to provide more land-use rights for loggers, miners, and cattlemen, all of whom are trying to gain control or lease this land,” he continues.

I nod my head, as he goes on.

“The key factor was that Landstroud delivered 100,000 more votes than any other player, and donated significant amounts to the Governor’s re-election war chest,” he says.

“You seem very well informed, Randy,” I say.

Randy smiled.

“No, I am just old. You pick up things,” he said.

“So, again, what’s the problem?” I ask.

He pauses for a moment, to collect his thoughts.

“Many years ago, people lived and farmed here. They raised families, and held games, and fought their neighbors over who would get to live in this place,” Randy says quietly.

“And, after many more years, they finally managed to grab and hold a relatively small piece of this land. They picked one even smaller piece on which to honor their ancestors, and bury their dead,” he says, looking solemn for a moment.

Randy smiles, again. I wanted to grin with him, but there was something behind his eyes, that looked a bit forlorn, or wistful.

“Do you know the legend of the Indian Wells, Ms. Wilder,” he asks me. He nods to himself and then goes on with his thoughts.

“Of course, you most likely wouldn’t. I am not sure there are many left who do,” he says.

He lights another Marlboro, taking his time.

He knows just what he looks like, I think.

He cups the flame behind his hand, and takes a good long drag, drawing the white-gray smoke deep into his lungs. He smiles and looks at the glowing butt

“Absolutely these are going to kill me, one day,” he says, grinning again.

He points again to the hills, motioning with his finger to sweep along the curve of the horizon.

“The legends say that the Great Spirit looked down on the People, and was happy. The People lived lives of true freedom. They ate, and slept and fucked whenever they wanted,” he says. Randy takes a puff on his cigarette and watches for my reaction.

I’m a bit startled by his use of the word, ‘fuck’, coming from this old dude’s mouth, and he sees it. Drawing another deep drag, Randy ignores my discomfort.

“The Great Spirit loves to watch a good fucking, Ms. Wilder. Most old men do, as well,” he laughs.

I blush a bit, but he’s still telling his story.

The tip of the cigarette is reddish-orange, and it’s a contrast with his dark complexion. As he exhales, the smoke rises and disappears against the blue sky.

I watch, rapt with attention and wonder.

“One night, the Goddess of the Moon came to the Chief of the People and slept with him. Their child was born, but it was a Wolf. The Wolf then ate the good feelings of the People and shat out vile evil things. These things made the People sick, and they felt feelings they had never before had. They felt sad, and greed, and worst of all hate,” he says.

Do you know what the People did to the Wolf?” asks Randy.

“They killed it?” I say meekly.

“No, they made it their Leader,” he says, frowning.

“They unleashed it on their enemies, for the power of the Wolf was great, and unstoppable. And then, they saw what they had done, and experienced another feeling alien to them until then – Shame.”

Randy finishes up his story, with a flourish, just as he finishes off the last of his cigarette.

“They put all the dead in that hill, over yonder. Some say you can still see them when the night is very dark, and Moonless. The Goddess of the Moon also learned the meaning of Shame, from Her son. Her tears glow and fall from the sky; some nights they are countless in number. Other times, there is only a single tear on the Sacred Night. But, the fact remains that, on certain nights, that particular hill glows the color of blood,” Randy says.

He throws the almost extinguished butt on the ground, grimacing a bit as he stomps it flat. When it’s completely out, it looks like an insect, burst from within. The brown tobacco spills out of its torn side.

Randy’s boot kicks it away.

Randy looks at me, eyeing me up and down once more.

I feel a bit more ill at ease, now.

His look is intense as if he’s testing me for something.

“I’ll tell you something else, Ms. Kim Wilder. I like your show. As much bullshit as there is in it, it’s honest bullshit. You just present the information as you get it, and your attitude is remarkably refreshing. Now, that asshole over there? Mr. Hollywood Wannabe? He’s going to fuck over every member of the Tribe with his stupid tee vee show. He doesn’t give two hard shits in a brass spittoon about the truth. He’s just into big entertainment. Now, I’m not criticizing a man making hay from the woes of the unfortunate, and selling those to the stupid. That’s just the way of things. What I am saying is that man’s head is too far up his ass to smell the truth, even if it’s right there in front of him,” he says.