Made in America

MADE

IN

AMERICA

Jamie Deschain

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue therein are drawn solely from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Made In America

Copyright © 2016 Jamie Deschain

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, compiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced to any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the expressed permission of Jamie Deschain.

- PROLOGUE -

Grant

I try and catch the ball but it’s too far over my head, and no matter how much I jump and stretch, it still goes soaring past me, rolling under a parked car along the curb.

“Missed another one,” she sings.

I grab the baseball and scowl at her before chucking it back with as much force as my nine-year-old muscles can muster, but it falls short of hitting her in the face like I wanted.

“You’re so weak,” she laughs.

I love her laugh. It’s so full of life, and when she smiles her cheeks look adorable, but I can’t tell anybody that. All I can do is wish secretly to myself that one day we’ll be able to run away together, far away from the sweaty heat of New York summers. Maybe to Pensacola, or the Carolinas. Somewhere there’s water. Water you can swim in; not that Hudson River sludge.

“So when’s your mom coming home?” she asks.

I shrug. “Probably never.”

Her smile fades and she brushes a strand of golden hair out of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I answer, though really it’s not, but I can’t tell anybody that. “My grandfather said he’ll help us out for a while until Dad gets on his feet again.”

This time when she throws the ball I catch it in my mitt, grinning proudly at the accomplishment.

“That’s two,” she sings.

God, I could listen to her sing all day. She’s got the sweetest voice. The sweetest everything, really. Voice, hair, eyes, cheeks. She’s beautiful, but I can’t tell anybody that.

“It’s so hot,” she complains, running a thin forearm over her damp forehead. “Let’s take a break.”

“What? I’ve only gotten two, you’ve gotten seven.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you can’t catch, or
throw
.”

Rolling my eyes, I run over to the bench on the sidewalk and sit down. She sits next to me and pulls a pack of gum out of her pocket, offering me a piece. When I take it, my fingers brush hers and our eyes meet.

I smile.

She smiles.

“This is good gum,” I muse smoothly, popping a stick into my mouth. “I like peppermint. It’s a hell of a lot better than that Big Red shit.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Big Red is for hookers.”

We both have a good laugh over that one, even though I’m not really sure what a hooker is. I don’t think she knows either, but it sounds grown up, and sometimes we like to pretend we’re grown-ups.

“What’s your favorite song this week?” I ask.

“Say You’ll Be There by the Spice Girls.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” I agree. “It’s a hell of a lot better than that stupid Macarena.”

“God,” she rolls her eyes. “I am so sick of that stupid song.”

We both jump up from the bench and start mockingly dancing the Macarena. I watch her hips sway from side to side, and when she turns around my eyes are drawn to her bum, making me feel funny between my legs, but I can’t tell anybody that.

Spinning around, she trips over her own feet and falls into me. I catch her, holding her steady in my arms while smelling her sweat, her hair, her breath. I breathe it all in as deep as I can.

“Ew,” she frowns. “Were you sniffing me?”

“No,” I push her away. “I thought I smelled a fart, that’s all.”

“Gross.”

“Not as gross as you,” I joke, but she’s not gross. She’s the complete opposite of gross, whatever that is. Beautiful, gorgeous, amazing…anything, just not gross, but I can’t tell anybody that.

“Fart sniffer,” she slaps my arm.

“Goat fucker,” I blurt out.

Her eyes widen and I clasp a hand over my mouth.

“Grant Huffman, you’re the goat fucker,” she screams, and then in an instant she’s chasing me down the street, but while she’s good at playing catch, I’m good at running, and no matter how fast she goes, I go faster, weaving in and out of parked cars, narrowly avoiding the tips of her fingers as they try to grasp and claw at my t-shirt until she tires of this game and stops.

Sometimes I think about letting her catch me just so I can be close to her, but I can’t tell anybody that.

“Come on,” she huffs, “let’s play catch some more.”

“Okay,” I shrug.

Standing in the middle of the road, we throw the ball back and forth. She catches it five more times, and I miss four more times. I suck at this game, but that’s okay. I like being with her. She makes me laugh, and I know I definitely make her laugh, which is why I think she likes being with me, too.

Even though we drive each other crazy all the time.

“Wanna go see a movie tomorrow night?” she asks.

“What’s playing?”

“I think
Twister
is still around, wanna go see that?”

“I can’t,” I admit. “I don’t have any money.”

“Shut up,” she groans. “You never have any money. Besides, my friend’s brother works there, he can let us in for free?”

“For real?”

“Sure,” she nods.

“Okay. It’s a date.”

Her nose crinkles up at the word
date
, and I laugh it off like I was just joking, but I wasn’t joking. I want to go on a date with her, but I can’t tell anybody that.

I throw the ball back, this time using every ounce of strength I have. When she catches it, we both hear it slap into the center of her glove, and she’s so proud of me she runs over to give me a great big bear hug, pressing up against my body and there I go again, smelling all of her.

When she pulls away, I’m kind of sad, but I can’t tell anybody that.

“Okay,” she says seriously. “This is my last throw, so make sure you catch it good.”

“Why is it your last throw?”

“Because,” she sings, “I have to get home and watch
Clueless
with my mom.”

“Haven’t you already seen that?”

“Like, five dozen times, but she promised she’d watch it with me this time.”

“Oh.”

She walks five car lengths down from me and spins. Tossing the ball in the air and catching it a few times, she asks, “Are you ready?”

I take a deep breath and hold up my glove. “Ready,” I nod.

“Don’t miss,” she says, holding up her finger for emphasis.

“I won’t. Come on, throw it.”

“Here it comes.”

She throws the ball.

I miss.

It smacks me dead in the eye and I fall to the ground, writhing in pain. I hear her running over, calling my name.

“Grant! Grant! Are you okay? I told you to catch it.”

“Son of a bitch,” I moan, holding my eye.

“Let me see.”

She pulls my hands away and her mouth forms a small o that she tries to hide, but I see it before it’s gone. Her eyes dart away, looking at the road rather than me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“That bad?”

“You’re going to have one hell of a black eye, that’s for sure. You might even have to wear a patch.”

“A patch?” I groan, heaving myself to a sitting position.

“I told you to catch the ball!”

“I know, I know.”

I can already feel my eye swelling shut, but I don’t care, because she’s right next to me. So close I can see out of my good eye the beads of sweat on her upper lip.

“Can I…can I touch it?” she asks.

“Sure,” I answer, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is beating. “You’re not grossed out?”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I’ve seen worse.”

I don’t know when she’s seen worse since we always seem to be together, but I let it go because her fingers are tenderly brushing along the side of my face and it’s the best feeling in the world and I don’t want it to stop.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “You’re definitely going to need an eye patch.”

“Great,” I moan. “That’s all I need. First my mom takes off, and now this.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

“I know.”

Then she leans in and kisses me, right on the eye, with her lips.

I lied.
That
was the best feeling in the world, and from that moment on I decide I never ever want to feel another pair of lips touch my skin. Only hers, because they’re the best lips in the world, and nobody’s can even come close to beating them.

“What’d you do that for?” I ask.

“Just because,” she giggles, leaning back and looking at my swollen face.

“So I’ll need a patch, huh?”

“Yeah, but I’ll make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“If you let me decorate it with beads, I’ll give you a kiss each day until you’re better.”

“With beads?”

“Yeah, you know, like with my Bedazzler.”

I consider her offer, taking longer than I should to make like I’m thinking it over, when really I could’ve just told her yes straight away. I’d let her Bedazzle my whole face if it meant getting another one of those kisses.

“Okay,” I shrug. “You got yourself a deal.”

“Shake on it?” she holds out her hand.

I take it.

We shake.

It’s unbreakable, like us.

And one day I know I’m going to marry this girl, but I can’t tell anybody that.

- 1 -

Grant

I’m used to having lunch at some of the finest and most expensive restaurants in New York.

Masa.

Kurumazushi.

Jean George.

Places you want to be seen in. Places you can expect to pay $300 or more for a meal that will leave your taste buds feeling every last penny of it.

So sitting here, in some sports bar, surrounded by hooligans drinking beer and watching soccer, has me a little ruffled.

“What gives, Alan?” I ask.

Alan Danziger looks across the table at me. He’s got a glob of sauce on his chin from the hot wings he’s been chowing down on. Guy wears a $3000 suit and has hot wings for lunch. At least he had the presence of mind to wear a bib.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be a nice change of pace.”

His eyes flick to one of the many television screens hanging all over the bar. I glance at one and grunt my displeasure.

“What?” he asks, sucking on a bone. “Don’t you ever get tired of paying $125 for a glass of wine? Don’t you ever just want a $5 beer served in a water-stained mug?”

I pick up my drink and peruse the glass. He’s right. There are water stains on it.

“No,” I say, setting it down atop a coaster, though, why this place even bothers with coasters is beyond me.

There are peanut shells all over the floor, for crying out loud.

“Well, I do,” Alan says, dropping his seventh wing bone on to his plate.

I stare down at the hamburger I ordered. It’s way too big, with too much bread, and the patty is the size of Manhattan. How does anybody eat this much meat in one sitting? Not to mention the fries sitting next to it are cold and covered in burger grease.

“I ordered a heart attack on a plate,” I mumble.

“Come on,” Alan smiles. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Grant?”

“My sense of adventure is back in the boardroom, where we should be right now hashing out that McCreedy account.”

He waves me off. “Plenty of time for that.”

“No, Alan, there isn’t. We still have to go over the numbers and make sure—”

“You guys doing okay?” A voice interrupts me.

I don’t like being interrupted.

Turning, I find myself staring at the biggest pair of tits I’ve ever seen. Two, great big pillowy mounds of flesh hugged tight by a scoop neck green t-shirt. The cleavage on display is enough to make my mouth water. I’m finding it hard to tear my eyes away from them because all I can think about is how much I’d love to fuck them.

Now I understand why Alan wanted to come here.

Raking my eyes away and up, I gaze upon our waitress. I’d been so preoccupied with business when we first got here I didn’t really pay much attention while ordering.

Big mistake.

Large, doe eyes blink back at me. They’re blue, but not just any blue. Spattered with flecks of dark green and black, they look like something the Hubble space telescope would photograph. They’re gorgeous. Flirtatious. Almost as amazing as the tits they belong to.