Page 32 of The Trailer Park Twink
I click the lock back into place, and when I turn around, Aussie is headed my way, holding his bag and a small box of treasured keepsakes. I peek into the open box and smile when I spot the framed picture of us he usually keeps by his bed. I put his bag next to the tote, then close the bed cover. There’s no lid on his keepsake box, so it’s going to have to ride in the back seat. Once it’s secure, I turn around and hoist Aussie up into the front passenger seat and strap him in his seat belt.
Once we’re on our way, we don’t talk much. He put his hand on top of mine about twenty minutes into the drive, and it stays there for the next five hours until we make it to Tulsa at five.
Pulling into the first restaurant I can find—IHOP of all places, which I know he’ll pitch a fit about—I look over at him, expecting to see a scowl, because I know how he feels about the International House of Pancakes. I can’t count the number of times he’s lamented about the one back in Tallulah wheneverwe go out driving, just to get out of the house. “But, Dallas,” he always whines, sounding adorable each time. “It’s where white trash goes to die.” I don’t have the heart to tell him thatweare technically white trash. We live in a run-down trailer park, surrounded by tweakers and people who let their toddlers roam around the trailer park unsupervised. It don’t get much trashier than that. I’m okay being trash, though. It’s how I was raised. It’s how my boy was raised, too, but Aussie ain’t ever gonna be trash. He’s a diamond in the rough, sparkling bigger and brighter than every single one of us combined.
His sleeping face is probably the sweetest sight I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even realize he nodded off. His tummy’s been growling for the last hour, so I thought he was just hiding his hunger from me, but Aussie’s been napping. Good for him. I kind of want to keep driving, just to make more progress before I have to wake him, but his stomach rumbles again, so I turn off the truck and squeeze his hand.
“Baby?” I call out softly, brushing my thumb across his knuckles. He stirs, blinking a few times to get oriented to the fluorescent light beaming in from the IHOP sign overhead, I guess. “Your stomach’s growling. We need to get some food in you.”
He nods sleeping, patting his tummy. “I’m a hungry, hungry hippo,” he sing-songs playfully. He’s got this youthful, carefree look on his face, just like he always does when he first wakesup. Like the filter he sometimes hides behind—dimming the innocent side of him so he doesn’t come across as soft—is down, and I can see the man he truly is underneath. My silly boy. My sweet boy.
Mine. Always.
I tickle his neck, right below his chin. “We made it to Tulsa. Once we’re done here, I figure I could probably make another eight-or-nine hours before we’ll need to stop at a motel to get some rest.”
“I can keep driving while you sleep in the back seat,” he offers, but I quickly shake my head, because it ain’t so much the sleep I’m ready for. We still have to pick up where we left off. I want to show him my party trick. I want him to see every inch of me, and I kind of like the idea of him filming it for his OnlyFans. I figure, if my Aussie looks at me on camera the way he looks at me when we’re alone together, maybe these perverts with their monthly subscriptions will see he’s taken. That they can’t have him, because he’s mine. My son. Maybe more.
“You . . .” I swallow, feeling a little nervous, if I’m being totally honest. “You said you wanted to see my trick. Said you wanted to show your fans.”
His eyes bulge, and he rapidly nods his head. It’s bobbing up and down so fast, it’s a wonder it hasn’t taken to flight. “Yeah. I want to see it.” He looks out the window, and the smile on his face fades within seconds.
As much as I know myself, I know Aussie, and I know exactly what he’s about to do. The oncoming rage. The flash of disgusted flames in his eyes. My boy is about to unload his sassy side on me, and I can’t fucking wait. I love him like this. Wild. Unhinged. Motherfuckin’ precious.
“Dallas,” he says, blinking slowly.
I can’t stop the smile from spreading, and I know that’s only going to irritate him more. “Yeah, buddy?”
He closes his eyes and whispers, “I inhale love, I exhale light.” When his eyes open, there is neither love nor light in his eyes. He looks bloodthirsty. “I don’t want to scream because you’re taking me on the trip instead of her, but . . . How fucking dare you?”
There’s my boy.
“Huh?” I’m playing coy, but I don’t think he’s buying my innocent act.
“IHOP? God dammit, Dallas Johnson. You know how I feel about this place. It’s where dreams and destiny go to die. Every one of these godforsaken establishments should be shut down. It’s an affront to all things dignified.”
Knowing it’s going to piss him off even more, I point at his crop top and arch an eyebrow. Right in the center, there’s a picture of a rainbow-colored rooster, and below, the words,I Love Cock. “You’re hardly a beacon of decency.”
He narrows his eyes. “This shirt is a declaration, not a deviation from my strong moral compass.” I open my mouth to ask about this alleged moral compass, because it ain’t ever revealed itself to me—not like he revealed his pretty little cock to me last night—but there’s a loud bang in the back of my truck, sounding like it’s coming from the bed. I glance over my shoulder toward the back, not that I’d be able to see anything under the bed cover, but still, it feels like the right thing to do in the moment. I guess Aussie don’t agree, because he grips my chin with his fingers and tugs until I’m looking at him, growling, “No,” at me like a dog who’s just been caught hiking his leg up at the Christmas tree. Worry and rage battle for dominance on his face, but I don’t know what’s got him so worried and angry.
“Pancakes.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Pancakes,” he repeats, like it will somehow make it make sense. When I continue staring at him, confused, he sighs. “Go inside and order me all the pancakes.”
I shake my head. “But you don’t eat carbs. You always say they’re the devil.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m well aware, but . . .” He winces like he’s tasting the words as they form on his tongue, and they must be absolutely revolting. “I’m feeling peckish.” I’m pretty sure his face is actually turning green, but, again, it could justbe the fluorescent sign. “I’m peckish, Dallas, and I would like pancakes. Be a good Daddy and go order a plate for me. There’s something I need to check on in the back.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Is that what the banging was?” I try to put two and two together and figure out what the hell he’s worrying for, but another loud bang sends me jolting in the seat. “What the hell was that?”
“A surprise,” he says, pointing frantically at the door to IHOP. “Please? You need to trust me. Please, just go inside, order pancakes, and wait for me.” Another loud bang, and I’m on my feet, reaching for the door handle. Before I even get it open, I stall, because his hand grips my wrist, and then there’s pressure in my lap. It takes a moment for me to realize what’s just happened. Austin has climbed over the center console, and he’s scurrying into my lap, pinning me in place. “Trust me. Please, Dallas? It’s important.”
I swallow, because he’s wearing these tiny, impossibly tight shorts, and his entire shaft is on display. Fuck. It’s even prettier this way.
Pretty? Is it weird that I think my son has a pretty penis? Do I even care about being normal anymore?
I swallow, gulping down the last of my resistance. “Promise me,” I say, my voice cracking as his bulge comes into contact with my stomach. “Promise you didn’t pack explosives back there.”
