135. Best. Blow. Job. Ever.
BEST. BLOW. JOB. EVER.
LAYTON
Two mornings later, I wake to a sound that is so out of place, that if the noise hadn’t woken me, the result of the sound would have.
Livy is between my legs with a can of whipped cream making my dick her very own ice cream cone.
I want to fuck her mouth but am too enamored watching her amber eyes darken with dilated pupils as she makes a meal out of me.
“Fuck, you’re sexy.”
“Happy.” Root-to-tip lick.
“Birthday.” Sac-to-tip lick with a flick at the head.
“Layton.” Root-to-tip lick with and swirl around the head and a suck.
There is no oxygen in my body except what’s in my dick, and that fucker is as large and in charge as he’s ever been.
I prop up on my elbows and spread my knees. She wraps a hand around my cock and pulls my sac into her mouth, sucking and fondling. If the universe implodes, I don’t know. In fact, I can’t see or hear. I’m awash in sensation, every nerve ending is pointing a neon sign at the place all pleasure lies.
By the time she wraps her lips around the head of my cock and sucks, I’m gone. I don’t know if I even warn her. I don’t know where my cum ends up. I know that bliss overtakes me, pleasure pulses in my veins, and decadence rides the edge of my flesh like an electric current.
“Best. Blow. Job. Ever.”
She licks her lips and adds another layer of whip cream to my softening shaft and licks it again, swirling the head and flattening her tongue under the ridge.
She kisses her way up my body starting at the scar on my hip, making sure to give attention to each wound before placing a kiss on the center of my chest.
“That wasn’t vegan.”
She holds up the can. “It is. This one is made with coconut milk.”
“My man meat.”
“Tell me you didn’t just call it man meat. That’s atrocious.”
“I’m old. That’s what old people do. They say whatever they want, whenever they want with no filter. Welcome to old man Layton. Where’s my BarcaLounger?”
“I got you something different, but if you want me to return it for a recliner, just say the word.”
“Does my gift come with Metamucil?”
“Nope. I’m going to go—”
She never finishes that line, because my phone buzzes. Her phone rings. Mine starts too.
‘Exton’ flashes across the screen, and I answer, panic replacing the carnal pleasure that was most recently racing through my veins.
“Ex?”
“Turn on the news.”
“Which channel?”
“Hello?” Livy says into her phone and turns to me with wide eyes.
“Any channel. It’s on all of them.”
“Turn on the news,” Livy says calmly.
I flip a switch, and the art above the dresser retreats into the ceiling and a flat screen pops out into its place. I fumble with the remote and turn the volume up as Exton moves in the background. Livy speaks quietly into her phone.
I grab her hand and squeeze as I see the picture of uniformed men leading a handcuffed man to a police cruiser.
This morning, the FBI with help from the Drug Enforcement Administration raided the home and business of Charlie Schmidt, a famed professional sports agent.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my face to see George calling. I’ll have to call him back.
Schmidt and two of his business partners at Tingle, Schmidt, and Associates based in Los Angeles have been under investigation for dispensing drugs to clients and non-clients alike.
A months-long investigation found the trio was sending opioids and other narcotics to players who paid for the service.
In addition, Tingle was also using controlled substances to eliminate prospects who refused to sign with his agency and to blackmail those with rival agents to come to work with him for increased commissions.
Charlie Schmidt is also accused of staging fake health-care workers in hospital settings to have easier access and early onset addiction.
It is a felony offense to prescribe or dispense medicine as an unlicensed professional.
While opioids are heavily regulated, this charge is made all the larger because the agency was using the US Postal Service in the commission of the crime.
This is now a federal crime that can be tried by both the FBI and the DEA.
Anyone who was a victim of this scheme is encouraged to come forward as a witness.
As of five o’clock eastern time this morning, all owning partners and two additional agents were in jail awaiting bond hearings. Assets for Tingle, Schmidt, and Associates have been frozen as have all personal financial accounts.
This is a breaking story. Check back for updates.
“Team Takedown for the win,” I yell to the room.
Exton’s voice comes through the line. “Proud of you, Layton. And that was my boy, Foster, who handcuffed him.”
Livy’s face blanches of all color. She sits with her mouth hanging open, her phone in her hand at her lap. Brighton yells from there.
I reach over and press the speaker button. “Bright, Livy is dumbfounded. Give her a few minutes, and she’ll be ready to go. Y’all come over whenever. We’re celebrating all damn day.”
“Okay. See you in a bit. Happy birthday, Lay.” She clicks off.
“Thanks, Ex. I owe you one,” I offer into my phone.
“No, you don’t, little brother. Just grow old and gray until we’re too deaf to hear the other one yelling about kids on the front lawn.”
“That I can do. See you in a bit.”
He disconnects, and I stare at my fiancée. “We got him.”
“You… he…” Her eyebrows pull together.
I tell her what I know and why it was so easy to make the decision about rehab. And that I refused to have someone else profit on my pain.
“And Team Takedown is you, Eli, and Exton who made that”—she looks at the screen in disbelief—“happen?”
“Well, I didn’t do anything. And none of us committed a felony or four.
That asswipe did.” I pause the television feed, and after burning the image into my brain once and for all, I turn off the TV and get it retracted back into the wall with the art descending to cover the mechanism.
“I was able to validate two of the crimes. Eli knew the law. Exton had the contacts at the FBI and DEA.”
“What else are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing, Pix. I wasn’t hiding this. The timelines just didn’t line up for me to loop you in. For the record, we’re not forming a secret crime-fighting trio to stop every injustice.”
“So no tights?”
“Not for me. Don’t need people ogling my man meat.”
She tackles me into the mattress.
And lucky for me, I get my second orgasm of the day.
The family piles out of the house just before midnight.
I put Livy to bed, promising to be right behind her, and come back into the kitchen to scoop up the last of the trash.
A quiet knock on the door surprises me. It doesn’t get Kyle’s attention, and the vision through the peephole isn’t who I’d expect. I open the door to Pop who holds a black box.
“This isn’t for your birthday. And it’s not yours permanently, but it is yours for as long as you need it.”
“You want to come back in, Pop?”
“No. But I wanted a private moment to give it to you.”
I look at him skeptically and open the lid. It takes a moment. It takes an infinite moment across one thousand lifetimes for me to understand.
I look up into Pop’s watering eyes.
“As long as you need it, son. Have a great night.”
He turns on his boot and heads to his already running truck. The windows are down as usual, and he lifts a hand as he pulls out of the driveway.
I close the door, lock it, and fold to the floor, staring at the contents of the box.
My nose warms, and the stinging tickles. My eyes fill, and without a care in the world, I let them overrun my lower lids.
Mom’s phone.
Fully charged
The picture on the front is Pop, smiling coyly. There’s a gleam in his eye. This must be several years old.
With every moment, I both exhale and hold my breath.
The screen dissolves into a picture of the four of us from Brighton’s graduation from vet school.
Exton was in town from an FBI assignment somewhere in South America.
I hadn’t left for two-a-days yet, and Braxton took the day off and threw on a sport coat for the occasion.
They hold out their rings from A&M while Exton looks to the sky, and I shrug.
Each of us is captured so true to who we are.
I want to look at her pictures.
I want to see every app.
But I need to see her messages.
She didn’t pin any favorites. She left everything in order of last sent or last received. And there I am, third from the top. My picture is from senior day at Oklahoma. Crimson uniform jersey, white helmet under my arm. Mom under my other. She cropped out everyone else.
For some reason, that causes a laugh to bubble up. It comes out as a sob, but it’s a laugh.
At that moment, Kyle tiptoes out and slides to lie by me, rolling onto my left side. It’s not as bad as it used to be.
With a huge breath, I open the thread.
And bawl my thirty-year-old eyes out.
It’s here. It’s all here.
For as long as you need it, son.
I can hear her. I can feel her. I have her back. Not enough, but… enough.
Best. Birthday. Ever.